How does it feel?

Honest thoughts about launching a novel, riding the bestseller wave, and bidding for real connections in a surreal experience.

Three months ago today, Mother-Daughter Murder Night hit bookshelves. THANK YOU for supporting me during this time. Thank you for buying this novel, reading it, and recommending it to others. Thank you for putting up with me as I posted eight zillion videos on Instagram chronicling the whirlwind. The launch has been successful beyond imagining, with Mother-Daughter Murder Night on the New York Times bestseller list for twelve weeks running between hardcover and audio editions. It’s been named a best book of the year by LibraryJournal, Amazon, and Barnes & Noble. Most movingly, the NYT published a beautiful article about the personal story behind the creation of the book. There is no doubt in my mind that all of this would not have happened without your support. (Okay, you and Reese Witherspoon.)

But this newsletter isn’t about shiny achievements; it’s about honesty and vulnerability. So I want to share my honest reflections on one of the top questions I’ve been asked over the past three months:

HOW DOES IT FEEL?

The answer is complicated.

Let’s start with the easy part. How does it feel to have the book out, with hundreds of thousands of people reading it, sharing it, and telling me what they like about it? It feels phenomenal. I feel awestruck every time someone sends me a message about what resonated for them. I feel joy when readers come up to me at events to ask questions. I feel incredulous every time I see it on a reading list alongside books by my writing heroes. That part is sheer delight.

But let’s be honest. The predominant feeling I experienced in the first few weeks after launch was not delight. It was overwhelm.

I spent the fall in a frenzy, trying to do everything I could to help the book succeed: giving talks, signing books, making Instagram posts, connecting with readers. The cascade of coverage, conversations, and reviews was exciting. I loved these messages. I truly appreciated them. But it was too much. I was on a plane every week. My phone was blowing up, and every bomb I defused spawned ten more. Imagine your birthday on Facebook. Then imagine multiplying it by a hundred and having it hit every day for a month on multiple social media platforms. That's what it felt like.

Could I have done less? Probably. Could I have set boundaries? Definitely. But I felt trapped in the hustle. I was honoring my readers. And I was "succeeding." So it was worth it, right?

For a few weeks, it was. But I noticed myself falling into old self-destructive patterns from my highest-stress CEO days. I was productive, efficient, and obsessed. I was impatient. I was distracted with my family. I was not fully present for them or for readers. I was doing the work without letting it sink in.

On some level, I felt embarrassed and a bit guilty that I wasn’t more joyful. I knew I should be slowing down and celebrating. But I wouldn’t let myself do it. It felt like there was no time to celebrate. The wave of energy was unrelenting, and I never let myself soak in it. I just kept bailing water, kept typing, looking up five hours later to realize I had spent all that time hunched over my phone in an adrenaline-fried haze.

When friends asked me HOW DO YOU FEEL? with big smiles and wide eyes, I fumbled to answer. I did not feel as if I were floating above the ground (as one friend assumed) or bathing in champagne (ah, my sweet, I wish). I felt like I was drowning in it.

There was a time when I did feel those magical feelings people were imagining. But it came two months before the book launch, when I got the call telling me Reese’s Book Club had selected Mother-Daughter Murder Night as the September pick. That day, I felt drop-the-phone, heart-surging, flock-of-geese-taking-flight joy. But I couldn’t sing it from the mountaintops. It was a secret. So I lived that blissful moment on my own, with just my husband and my mom in on the astounding news.

By the time September hit, bliss gave way to a sweaty mad dash to make the most of the launch. I felt grateful and lucky the whole month, but I also felt jittery and on edge. I wanted the momentum to keep building, even as it wore me out. I was scared of the opposite, afraid the book might disappear into the night. As a reader, I often read books months or years after they are released. But there was such a HUGE push during those first few launch weeks that I got caught up in the hype. I was scared of how I might feel when readers moved on to newer, shinier books. Then, on October 3, Reese’s Book Club anointed a new book, and I felt… relief. I sent that author a direct message on Instagram to wish her luck with the deluge, with hopes she would enjoy the ride—sheepishly aware that I was adding to her deluge, that the ride was dizzying and I was ready to sit down.

Sitting down has done me good. So has taking a big break. After eleven weeks on book tour, I’ve spent the past two on vacation—a chill family visit over Thanksgiving, then a wild volleyball adventure with friends—putting my phone on the charger and getting out in the sunshine. Now I’m home again, and I finally feel like I’m basking. This book, its journey, its success—it feels surreal. I’m confused and amazed by it. I never imagined something that started as a deep intimate project between me and my mom could grow to reach so many people. I went yesterday to give a talk at Santa Cruz High School, and I found myself spilling over with joy as I talked with young people about my writing journey and their creative dreams. The book is selling well, hitting best of 2023 lists, and entertaining readers, and I no longer feel that it’s my hour-by-hour responsibility to hustle to make that happen. I can finally focus on gratitude and connection—and curiosity about what might come next.

This whole experience made me think about what we really mean when we ask each other “HOW DOES IT FEEL?”

There are so many times I’ve posed this question to friends. How does it feel to defend your thesis? To sell your business? To make a big move? When something amazing happens to someone I love, I reflexively turn to them, face shining, and ask how they feel. What’s that about?

On one level, this is a simple expression of curiosity. You’ve had something intense and presumably wonderful happen, and I want to hear how it’s hitting you. Maybe I’m also curious about it for my own edification. One day I too might retire, jump out of an airplane, or go on the Tonight Show. I’m curious to learn more from someone who’s experienced it. I’m asking for a performance, a report on what it’s like, so I can revel in your (presumed) joy and imagine it for myself.

But here’s the weird thing: when something possibly BAD happens to someone, I ask this question differently. The words might be the same, but they lack the presumption and projection. When your pet dies, or you get your heart broken, I don’t ask you for a full accounting of how you feel to satisfy my curiosity. I don’t ask you to perform an emotion. I want to know how you’re feeling so I can connect with you, and maybe, in a small way, be of help. The emphasis isn’t on HOW you feel; it’s on how YOU feel.

I was thinking about this recently in conversation with a very successful Hollywood writer. I’d just done a 3-minute TV interview, and I thought it was weird that the interviewer wasted the first minute asking how it feels to have the book be successful. The Hollywood writer told me two things: 1. this will almost always be the first question you get asked in an interview, and 2. it is an impossible question to answer, especially from strangers. If you say anything other than “amazing,” you sound like an ungrateful jerk.

This all makes me think back to the complicated reactions I had in September when people asked me how the launch felt. I could sense on some level that they expected something of me. So I gave them chipper. I gave them excited. And I felt a bit fraudulent as I did it. Instead of the question bringing us into deeper connection, it made me feel greater distance. I felt guilty I couldn’t give them what they wanted, and I felt guilty for not being completely honest. It was a double bind.

Going forward, I’m going to try taking a different attitude to this question, both as a giver and a receiver. When I ask the question of others, I’m going to really try to ask from a place of curiosity and care for YOU, not from a place of projection or self-interest. And when you ask me how I feel, I’m going to try to avoid the impulse to perform. I’m going to take your question sincerely and trust that you are asking because you want to connect. I might not take that tack with everyone, especially the media. But I hope I can do that with you.

Love,

Nina

p.s. If you have any reflections or questions to share, please do leave a comment. I’ve always loved digital conversation, and I once again have the brain space to enjoy it.

pp.s. An author friend recently reminded me that signed books make great holiday gifts. If you want a signed, personalized copy of Mother-Daughter Murder Night for a loved one, you can get one from Bookshop Santa Cruz today.