Even though I hate that anticipatory churning of fear in my belly, the transcendent, high-on-life buzz afterward makes it all worthwhile.
Not this time.
Pitching my erotic memoir last night in front of four agents and 150 other writers definitely had my legs shaking. But my first attempt at a pitch fell way short of the plate.
I’m not exactly basking in a confident, sexy glow as I slump over morning tea with my Portland-dwelling friend, Jenna. And I have two, one-on-one pitch appointments with agents this morning.
“Okay, this is so Marianne Williamson,” she says. Her hazel eyes darken with intensity as she leans into her kitchen table towards me. “But your job is to go into that conference and bless everyone you see…”
She was wise beyond her years when we were bunk buddies at our month-long yoga teacher training at Kripalu in 2000. She has since added trainings in massage, integrative nutrition, the psychology of eating and vipassana meditation. Her current passion is helping her clients use pleasure rather than deprivation to lose weight.
“Let go of the fear and defeat. Own the sexy, powerful energy of the woman who wrote this erotic memoir."
I feel my shoulders roll back and my spine lengthen.
"Embody her joy, her hunger and her sense of adventure." She stands and puts her tea cup in the sink. "Have fun with it.”
She goes upstairs to meditate. I transform her futon bed back into a couch and dig around my bag for something sexy and powerful to wear. As I head upstairs to shower, I bump into her coming back down.
“Here,” she hands me a piece of paper with her handwriting on it. “This is from the Mama Gena daily e-mail, the one about pleasure I was telling you about last night.”
It’s not wrapped but I can tell before I even read it, that it’s a gift.
A woman in the act of flirting can beguile the entire world with her enthusiasm. ~Mama Gena
“You are a hot firecracker of a woman,” she says.
I hear a sizzle as my fuse ignites.
“Go flirt with everyone you see.” She smiles, turns and goes back to her meditation room.
I shower and shimmy into a little black dress. The word beguile rolls around my tongue as I adorn with gypsy-sized hoop earrings and smoky blue eyeliner. I mouth the word firecracker to the mirror and glaze my lips in red.
As I saunter out of Jenna’s Portland townhouse, my legs feel solid, grounded, in my knee-high suede boots.
I’m ready to explode into that conference.
Who lights your fuse? Spend more time with them.
Mama Gena’s Daily Fluff e-mail