Being apart can really bring people together
Facebook reminded me that my last in-person author interview was a year ago, in midJanuary 2020. I was a guest on “The Guilty Feminist” podcast, recorded before a live audience at the Danforth Music Hall in Toronto.
I remember it well. Before the event, I had my makeup done by a professional. I nervously chose my outfit, knowing I’d be under stage lights: a dress, pantyhose and a pair of pumps that would leave blisters on my heels.
When it was my turn to join comedians Deborah FrancesWhite and Zainab Johnson onstage, I looked out at the packed theatre, elated.
The audience of 750 people cheered and laughed and clapped when I talked about the links between activism and writing. After, we took photos in the green room before heading to the lobby where throngs of Deborah’s fans waited. I paused to chat and take selfies with strangers.
Fast forward to springtime. I watched my friends launch their books on Instagram and Facebook instead of in bars and art galleries. I squirrelled away virtual tips and tricks, hoping I wouldn’t need them (remember how we thought the pandemic would be over by August?).
When it became clear that I, too, would have to “pivot” (remember when we didn’t hate this word?), I organized Zoom events in the fall and made tentative plans for in-person events in the winter and spring.
For the Canadian launch of “Seven” in mid-September, I wore a pretty blouse with track pants and didn’t bother with shoes. The little icon at the bottom of the screen indicated that more than 140 people were there celebrating with me, and although I couldn’t see them, I was grateful and relieved to know they were there. I managed to have fun with my host Fawzia Mirza, whom I could see. Then, after a Q&A session with faceless audience members, we said goodbye, and the screen went blank. Still on an adrenalin high, I squinted into my ring light, alone in my basement office.
A few minutes later, my partner, Reyan, came downstairs with Maggie, my dog. I whined to them, “Did I just launch my book?” Where were the postlaunch laughs, hugs and drinks? Where were all the people? Reyan wrung his hands, unsure how to console me. Maggie sat on my bare feet.
Fast forward to mid-January 2021. Like most of us, I’ve adapted to pandemic life. I’ve learned to highlight emails containing video conference links so I won’t lose track of them and show up late. I offer other writers my hopeful online tips and tricks (Master IGTV! Find social media influencers! Send frequent event reminders because time is a construct no one understands anymore!).
I try not to complain too much. I count my blessings, grateful for good health, community and invitations to online festivals and panels. I remember that I’m more privileged than most.
None of this has been easy. Anxious thoughts about contagion and new virus variants pop up each day, and dystopic dreams crowd my nights. I know I’m not alone. My nightmares are similar to the ones others are having in these times: We accidentally embrace a friend, forget our masks, congregate, and cause a superspreader event. The other night, I dreamt that a single touch caused my arm to gangrene. How long will it take us to recover after all of this is over?
Since “The Guilty Feminist,” I’ve recorded a dozen podcast episodes about “Seven,” and I’m reflecting on a recent interview with Malcolm Gladwell who hasn’t done a book tour in over a decade. He chooses instead to promote his ideas and books through deep-dive conversations with podcasters, conversations that tend to be fresh and interesting each time, compared with the “same speech” he’d tend to repeat at bookstore appearances. He stopped doing live speaking engagements long before COVID-19.
And ten months into the pandemic, I see some benefits to this approach. Without travelling a single kilometre, I’ve been able to reach across countries, participating in events hosted by organizers in Mumbai, Vancouver and New York. My online book tour has saved time, money and the environment. And most virtual events are more geographically and physically accessible for audiences, too.
A similar thing has happened with family. Since March, I’ve joined many international, multi-generational family Zoom calls, seeing people I rarely get to visit. These meetups are chaotic, with everyone backlit and talking at the same time, and still, we manage to connect. We’ve celebrated births, Eid al-Fitr, Christmas and the new year.
We’ve had the technology to hold virtual gatherings for years, but most of us didn’t use it. The pandemic has inspired us to create events that will include the most time zones, to figure out closed captioning, to learn how to effectively use the mute button. Like so many of us, I wonder which of these changes we’ll keep, forget or discard when we “build back better.” Will we build back better?
But of course, I am also looking forward to the return of in-person events. I hope by the time my next book comes out, we’ll be able to gather again. I miss crowds, carefree hugs, unmasked laughter.
I even miss having to put on a dress, pantyhose and a pair of pumps that will most definitely leave blisters on my heels.