RHYS BOWEN: Who could not love a post with such an irresistible title? I'm thrilled to welcome Lindsey to Jungle Reds today and to celebrate the pub week of her brilliant new book, RESERVATIONS FOR SIX.
It took 800 miles of distance and a jellyfish sting to realize it was time to give up
on the novel I'd been toiling over for the past year. Things had been going poorly for a
while, as much as I denied it. This was my fourth novel, and I reassured myself that it
was expected for me to hit rough patches. I continued dutifully showing up to my
Saturday morning writing sessions—although on Fridays, as most people were
breathing a sigh of relief for the weekend, my stomach would be in knots, dreading
facing that damn document. And the pages kept piling up: 50, 100, 150—halfway to a
draft, I tried to encourage myself, even as deep down I knew I'd lost confidence in the
story.
And the longer I kept up the charade, I understood, the harder it would be to
abandon. When I gave myself the Mother's Day gift of skipping my writing session for a
yoga class, I rationalized that I deserved a break—I don't enjoy writing, I often say, I
enjoy having written; but as I lay in savasana alone with my thoughts, I knew this wasn't
about a break; it was avoidance.
All I needed, I thought, was a change of scenery. I've often done my best writing
on vacation—no day job to occupy my brain, no alarm clock interrupting that rich soup
of early-morning ideas. Luckily, I had a trip planned—a weeklong family reunion with my
in-laws on Hilton Head Island. My husband, Damian, was already in the area for work,
so I'd be flying down from New York alone with our toddler. When I considered the
logistics—one arm to push a stroller, the other to manage our luggage—I knew I could
bring only one suitcase.
So, I streamed a series of flight attendant how-to videos on
efficient packing, then set about trying to cram a week's worth of essentials for me and
my daughter into a carryon: clothes, toiletries, beach things, and of course, my laptop.
Each round of elimination, I eyed the laptop case. But I couldn’t bring myself to leave it
behind—because that would be admitting defeat, an acknowledgment that I wouldn't
actually spend the coming week in a productive frenzy. So, I removed a few more outfits
and a wad of diapers (I could buy some in Hilton Head), topped my brimming suitcase
with the laptop case, somehow managed to zip the thing closed, and set off for South
Carolina.
Upon arrival, I unpacked my laptop into my room’s bottom dresser drawer,
and—this will come as a surprise to exactly no one—there it remained for the duration
of the trip.
Meanwhile, I had a grand old time. We were sharing a condo with Damian’s
two sisters and their husbands, the so-called “JV team”; there were six kids in their
family, and the three older siblings were dubbed “varsity.” We beached, we cooked, we
hung out at Damian's brother Pete’s house and watched alligators pass by in the
lagoon. Once, in search of my elusive goggles, I cracked that bottom dresser drawer
and felt my belly lurch; I quickly closed it again.
In the morning hours when I might have been writing, I instead swam laps in the
ocean. The turquoise water beckoned—so clear and so temperate compared to the
frigid New England waters I was used to. The repetition of strokes was meditative and
exhilarating. I’d been a high school swimmer, and during those morning swims I felt
connected to my teenage self, when the water had been transportive, making me feel
strong and free, long before I began measuring my worth by word count. And
then—sting! I was returned in a snap to the present. My hands burned and itched. I
didn't register what had happened until I saw the strange translucent bells undulating
around me. I fled to shore.
Pete, who'd lived on Hilton Head for decades, asked if I really hadn’t known there
were jellyfish out there. Well, it looked so idyllic, I answered lamely, gesturing to the
winking turquoise surface. Pete laughed goodheartedly. I’d chosen to see what I wanted
to see, and of course things were not as they seemed.
In search of a first-aid kit, I
opened that bottom dresser drawer again. It seemed to stare back at me: the
abandoned laptop. My skin was on fire, like an alarm sounding off in my body. What was
I doing keeping up this pretense of my novel in progress? It wasn’t working, and it was
time to accept it. Luckily, the cannonball jellyfish is one of the tamer species. I endured
a few days of discomfort, and then I was fine. Shit happens, then you move on.
As soon as I realized I wouldn't continue with the novel, I felt lighter, clearer, more
attuned to my surroundings. I started paying attention to what was going on in this
house: our group of six (plus my daughter), the three siblings and their spouses, the
three couples who'd been together a decade or longer, such a close group with so much
shared history.
The next night at dinner, my sister-in-law announced that she and her
husband were separating. She opened up about their marriage, and I was struck by
how ordinary it sounded: the problems she outlined were similar to the struggles I’d
heard about from married friends, similar to ones I’d experienced in my own marriage. It
made me consider how maybe a solid relationship was a matter of degree, things being
fine until they weren’t, endurable until they weren’t, and how different couples might
draw different lines.
I watched everyone at the table take in the news, perhaps mulling
similar thoughts, for sure knowing that this familiar dynamic among the six of us was
over. The end of one marriage would have a ripple effect, also spelling the end to our
tight-knit group.
I didn’t go back in the ocean. The next morning, I woke up, retrieved my
neglected laptop, and started typing notes for what would become Reservations for Six:
three marriages, six longtime friends, the announcement of a divorce. A year later, I’d
written a draft. A year after that, I had a publisher. Six more months, and I held a
physical copy of the novel in my hands, which had long ago recovered from the jellyfish
incident. But I didn’t forget the shock of the sting, and its reminder to see what was plain
in front of my face, to summon the courage to acknowledge what wasn’t working, slough
it off, and move on. Like my sister-in-law had done with her marriage.
And I did start swimming in the ocean again—in Cape Cod, where I’ve recently
moved, where I like to pretend the waters aren’t teeming with great white sharks. 
A little
delusion can be a good thing, I tell myself, or maybe I’ve learned nothing. I’ve also
started writing a new novel, and honestly, I’m not really sure how it’s going.
Have you ever had a sudden realization that shook you out of your denial?
Answer in the comments for a chance to win a copy of Reservations for Six.
RHYS: Lindsey, I loved this post. I know the book is going to resonate with so many people Here's to a great launch week.
Lindsey J. Palmer is a writer, editor, and educator. She is the author of four novels, RESERVATIONS FOR SIX, OTHERWISE ENGAGED, IF WE LIVED HERE, and PRETTY IN INK. She worked in the magazine industry for many years, most recently as Features Editor at Self, and previously at Redbook and Glamour. A graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, she earned a Master of Arts in English Education from Teachers College, Columbia University, and taught A.P. Literature and Creative Writing at a Manhattan public school for several years. Nowadays she’s a senior editor at BrainPOP, an animated educational site for kids, which means she spends her days researching topics as diverse as Alan Turing, Juneteenth, and Mindfulness, and then translating what she’s learned into an engaging, narrative format. Lindsey lives on Cape Cod with her husband and daughter.
Here's the synopsis:Reservations for Six captures a decade-long tradition among a tight-knit group of friends: On everyone's birthday, the three couples gather to celebrate at their favorite New England restaurant. Nathan is the first to turn 40, and when the cake arrives, he makes a shocking announcement. The birthday ritual, and the relationships, will never be the same again. Confessions follow, and secrets get revealed. One couple's crumbling marriage forces the other couples to reexamine their own marriages, and the fault lines that lurk beneath. Will their bonds be strong enough to survive issues like infidelity, infertility, and waning passion, plus a series of crises that push each relationship to the brink? The answers may prove surprising. A year after Nathan's big declaration, as the group gathers for the year's final birthday celebration, every person and every relationship will be fundamentally changed.And here are links:You can find me at lindseyjpalmer.com, www.facebook.com/lindseyjpalmerauthor, and as @lindseyjpalmer on Instagram and Twitter.
