But when I began writing, I had nothing to complain about!
Id written a best-selling novel.
I was young enough, in good health.
I was in a loving, long-term relationship.
We had a delightful child.
What legitimate pain would I have to work from?
What came out was essentially the first page of the novel.
I looked at it and felt nauseous.
Why, when I have everything required for happiness, am I always failing myself and those I love?
[That section] is written in wry, restrained third person, Semple says.
I love the way it turned out, and especially how trickily it fits into the narrative.
And despite Eleanor setting the bar almost comically low for herself, her plans still go awry.
Check out the cover and first chapter below, and findToday Will Be Differenton shelves October 4.
Today will be different.
Today I will be present.
Today, anyone Im speaking to, I will look them in the eye and listen deeply.
Today Ill play a board game with Timby.
Ill initiate sex with Joe.
Today I will take pride in my appearance.
Today I wont swear.
I wont talk about money.
Today there will be an ease about me.
My face will be relaxed, its resting place a smile.
Today I will radiate calm.
Kindness and self-control will abound.
Today I will buy local.
Today I will be my best self, the person Im capable of being.
Today will be different.
Because the other way wasnt working.
The waking up just to get the day over with until it was time for bed.
The ghost-walking, the short-tempered distraction, the hurried fog.
The leaving the world a worse place just by being in it.
The blindness to the destruction in my wake.
Not an inventory to make one swell with pride.
I dont necessarily need to make the world a better place, mind you.
Today, I will live by the Hippocratic Oath: first do no harm.
How hard can it be?
Dropping off Timby, having my poetry lesson (my favorite part of life!
Youre trying to figure out, why the agita surrounding one normal day of white people problems?
Because theres me and theres the beast in me.
If I could swing that, I just might: self-immolate gloriously for the performance art spectacle.
Im irritable and consumed by anxiety when Im with them; maudlin and shit-talking when Im not.
Arent you glad youre at a safe distance, doors locked, windows rolled up?
Aw, come on.
Im exaggerating for effect.
Its not really like that.
And so the day began, the minute I whipped off my sheets.
The click-click-click of Yo-Yos nails across the hardwood, stopping outside the bedroom.
Why, when Joe whips off his sheets, doesnt Yo- Yo trot-trot-trot and wait in abject hope?
How can Yo-Yo, on the other side of a closed door, tell its me and not Joe?
It was once depressingly explained by a dog trainer: its my smell Yo-Yos caught whiff of.
Nope, Im not doing that.
I didnt mean to be coy about Sydney Madsen.
Id just wrapped five wearying years at Looper Wash.
Everywhere you looked it was Looper Wash T-shirts, bumper stickers, mouse pads.
If not, check your nearest dollar store, the two-for-one bin, its been a while.
Joe had job offers everywhere.
We struck a deal.
As everybody knows, being raised Catholic with half a brain means becoming an atheist.
A Doctors Without Borders board member threw Joe and me a welcome-to-town party.
I swanned into her Lake Washington mansion filled with modern art and future friends, mine for the taking.
My whole life, Ive been liked.
Okay, Ill say it: Ive been adored.
I dont understand why, on account of my disgraceful personality, but somehow it works.
(A compliment!)
It was that thing where you meet somebody who tells you they like camping and you say, Oh!
What can I say?
Im terrible with faces.
(Joe has a thing he calls the magazine test.
Its the reaction you have when you initiate the mailbox and pull out a magazine.
Instantly, you know if youre happy to see this magazine or bummed.
Sydney Madsen has turned out to be the human equivalent of Tinnitus Today.
Am I painting a clear enough picture of the tight-assed dreariness, the selfish cluelessness, the cheap creepiness?
A water- stained fork never killed anybody!
Buy the DVDs, how about?
Eat the food at the restaurant, thats how they stay in business!
I was in shock.
Or at least people who are crazy in an interesting way.
All those women with whom Id gladly agreed to go hiking and shopping?
They werent a bunch of women.
They were all Sydney Madsen!
I ran home screaming to Joe.
Me: This is why I love you, Joe.
You just boil it all down.
(Joe the boiler.
Dont we just love him?)
Forgive me for long-hauling you on Sydney Madsen.
My point is: for ten years I havent been able to shake her.
Shes like ALS: you cant cure her, it’s possible for you to just manage the symptoms.
For today the lunch bell tolls.
like know Im aware that lunch with a boring person is a boutique problem.
When I say I have problems, Im not talking about Sydney Madsen.
Yo-Yo trotting down the street, the prince of Belltown.
How poignant it is, the pride you take in being walked by me, your immortal beloved.
If you only knew.
(They work for Amazon, so you know theyre soulless.
The only question, how soulless?)
Outside our building, Dennis stood by his wheely trash can and refilled the poop-bag dispenser.
Good morning, you two.
Good morning, Dennis!
Instead of my usual breezing past, I stopped and looked him in the eye.
Hows your day so far?
Oh, cant complain, he said.
Can complain, but wont.
Today, already a net gain.
I opened the front door of our apartment.
I unclipped Yo-Yo from his harness.
By the time I straightened, my stricken husband had gotten up and disappeared into his office.
Whatever it was, he didnt want to talk about it.
Yo-Yo raced to his food, greyhound-style, back legs vaulting past his front.
He took one step and stared at a spot on the floor.
Timbys light clicked on.
God bless him, up before the alarm.
I went into his bathroom and found him on the stepstool in his PJs.
Look at you, up and awake.
He stopped what he was doing.
Can we have bacon?
Timby, in the mirror, waited for me to leave.
I lowered my eyes.
The little Quick Draw McGraw beat my glance.
He pushed something into the sink before I could see it.
The unmistakable clang of lightweight plastic.
It was nobodys fault but my own, Santa putting a makeup kit in Timbys stocking.
Its how Id buy myself extra time at Nordstrom: telling Timby to roam cosmetics.
The girls there loved his gentle nature, his sugar sack body, his squeaky voice.
Soon enough, they were making him up.
I dont know if he liked the makeup as much as being doted on by a gaggle of blondes.
holding 200 (!)
colors of shadows, glosses, blushes, and whatever-they-weres.
Whoever had found a way to cram so much into so little should seriously be working for NASA.
If they still have that.
You do realize youre not wearing makeup to school, I told him.
I know, Mom.
The sigh and shoulder heave right out of the Disney Channel.
Again, my bad for letting it take root.
After school, a jigsaw puzzle!
I emerged from Timbys room.
Yo-Yo, standing anxiously, shivered with relief upon seeing that I still existed.
Knowing Id be heading to the kitchen to make breakfast, he raced me to his food bowl.
This time he deigned to eat some, one eye on me.
Joe was back and making himself tea.
Dont you look nice, he said.
True to my grand scheme for the day, Id showered and put on a
dress and oxfords.
If you beheld my closet, youd see a woman of specific style.
On most days, too much energy.
Olivias coming tonight, I said with a wink, already tasting the wine flight and rigatoni at Tavolata.
How about she takes Timby out so we can have a little alone time?
Heres who I envy: lesbians.
Apparently, after a lesbian couples initial flush of hot sex, they stop having it altogether.
It makes perfect sense.
Left to their own devices, women would stop having sex after they have children.
Theres no evolutionary need for it.
Our brains know it, our body knows it.
Who feels sexy during the slog of motherhood, the middle- aged fat roll and flattening butt?
Who wants to pretend theyre all sexed up when the honey pot is dry?
Me, thats who, if I dont want to get switched out for a younger specimen.
Alone time it is, I said to Joe.
Mom, this broke.
Timby came in with his ukulele and plonked it on the counter.
Suspiciously near the trash.
The sounds all messed up.
What do you propose we do?
I asked, daring him to say, Buy a new one.
Joe picked up the ukulele and strummed.
Its a little out of tune, thats all.
He began to adjust the strings.
Hey, I said.
Since when can you tune a ukulele?
Im a man of many mysteries, Joe said, and gave the instrument a final dulcet strum.
The bacon and French toast were being wolfed, the smoothies being drunk.
Timby was deep into an Archie Double Digest.
My smile was on lockdown.
Can you yo climb down off your cross and make breakfast without the constant sighing?
I know what youre thinking: what a jerk!
What a sexist thug!
But Joe had a point.
Lots of women would gladly do worse for a closet of Antwerp.
From that moment on, it was service with a smile.
Its called knowing when youve got a weak hand.
Joe showed Timby the newspaper.
The Pinball Expo is coming back to town.
Do you think the Evel Knievel machine is still broken?
Almost certainly, Joe said.
I handed over the poem Id printed out and heavily annotated.
Okay, whos going to help me?
Timby didnt look up.
Ooh, Robert Lowell.
Her sons a bishop.
Her farmers first selectman
Her farmerisfirst selectman, Joe said.
I shushed Timby and continued with eyes closed.
The seasons ill weve lost our summer millionaire, who seemed to leap from an L.L.
Bean catalogue
Mommy, look at Yo-Yo.
See how his chin is sitting on his paws?
Aww, I said.
Can I have your phone?
Just enjoy your pet, I said.
This doesnt have to turn into electronics.
Its very cool what Mom is doing, Joe said to Timby.
Learning and forgetting, I said.
He shot me an air-kiss.
His nine-knot yawl was auctioned off to lobstermen
Dont we love Yo-Yo?
Daddy, Timby said.
Dont you love Yo-Yo?
Joe looked at Yo-Yo and considered the question.
More evidence of Joes superiority: he thinks before he speaks.
Hes a little weird, Joe said and returned to the poem.
Timby dropped his fork.
I dropped my jaw.
How can you say that?
He just sits there all day looking depressed, Joe said.
When we come home, he doesnt greet us at the door.
For Timby and me, there were simply no words.
I know what hes getting out of us, Joe said.
I just dont know what were getting out of him.
Timby jumped out of his chair and laid across Yo-Yo, his version of a hug.
Oh, Yo-Yo!Ilove you.
Keep going, Joe flicked the poem.
The seasons ill, I said.
Weve lost our summer millionaire, who seemed to leap from an L.L.
Bean catalogue To Timby, You.
Are we driving through or are you walking me in?
I have Alonzo at 8:30.
Breakfast over, Yo-Yo got up from his pillow.
Joe and I watched as he walked to the front door and stared at it.
I didnt realize I was being controversial, Joe said.
The seasons ill.
Excerpted from the book TODAY WILL BE DIFFERENT by Maria Semple.
Copyright 2016 by Maria Semple.
Reprinted with permission of Little, Brown and Company.
