Part 2: Wait, Annabelle Got a Book Deal?

You cannot write (a book) alone. And the delicious evolution of Cape Coral.

Welcome back to what I’d like to call WAGaBoD?, where I take you deep down the rabbit hole of “The Mango Tree” and how this book came to fruition.

In Part 1 of this series, I covered the ins and outs of my decision to write a book. Today, we’re going over what it takes to write a book — that is, beyond a deep and abiding sense of doom as to the trajectory of your career/a minor midlife crisis. Though *both* helped me.

I started writing “The Mango Tree” in 2019. As I’ve mentioned, most of what I wrote early on was intended for a hybrid cookbook-slash-essay-collection that never stood a chance of being published. The bulk of the actual book-that-is-to-come was written in 2020 during the throes of the pandemic, specifically from June to September of that year.

Those three months feel like a fever dream in my memory. The News-Press, where I still worked at the time, instituted mandatory furloughs for employees: one week per month that summer. During those furlough weeks, I couldn’t touch my journalism work. No checking work emails. No accepting work calls. I unplugged from that side of myself, and I diverted every ounce of that energy into this book.

I wrote like my life depended on it.

August 2, 2020: Portrait of a writer who’s lost her damn mind mid-pandemic

I started in the morning, tapping out words and sentences on my clunky laptop from my side of the big red sectional in our family room. I broke for quick meals and more coffee, to crack open fresh cans of seltzer and maybe a bottle of wine come evening. I would pause to help the kids, to tend to scrapes and bruises, to feed the dogs, water the plants. I’d stop to help make dinner and help clean up. Otherwise, I wrote. I wrote while everyone else slept. Deep into the night and the early hours of tomorrow. Till my eyes crossed and nothing made sense. Then. Then I stopped, slept and started again the next morning.

I wasn’t exactly alone in my writing during these late-night months. I had scores of brilliant and talented writers by my side — at least virtually. In June 2020, I took a memoir-writing class via Zoom through GrubStreet, a creative writing center in Boston. I lucked out. That summer, almost every writing center made its classes available online. Workshops that would have required airfare and a hotel room could now be accessed through a laptop and decent Wi-Fi.

The literary world was my oyster (for actual oysters, keep scrolling).

In addition to the GrubStreet class, I signed up for classes through The Porch in Nashville, through Catapult, Kundiman, Tin House, Electric Lit. If it was free or cheap, I was there. If it cost a little more, I scrimped to make it work. These classes taught me so much about writing, things about character and themes and plot I never had to consider in journalism. But, more so, they gave me a writing community. Quite literally.

I met my writing group through these classes. Sarah, Asmaa, Shannon and Seth became my readers and my guides, and I tried to return the favors for them. We met each week that summer, fall, winter and spring like clockwork. We held each other accountable and kept each other going. We said what worked for us and what didn’t, noted when someone went on for too long and when they needed to go on for longer.

Were you to tell me that you wanted to write a book and ask me how to do so, I would tell you to get a Sarah, Asmaa, Shannon and Seth. Not my Sarah, Asmaa, Shannon and Seth, but a combo that clicks with you. Writers cannot and do not write alone. Ask any writer, and they will tell you the same. Believe me. I have asked. And asked. And asked again.

From the biggest of bestsellers to the unpublished masses like me, the tie that binds when it comes to successfully pursuing a book, or even simply a writing life, is having some form of writing community. It could be one close friend with whom you entrust your words or a cohort of eager eyes in a post-grad MFA program, the key is what works for you and what works for each project. Some stories need lots of input. Some don’t. But they all need someone other than you.

Books are like children. They require villages.

A great way to find your village is by taking a virtual class like the ones I mentioned above. See whose work resonates with you, whose style clicks with yours and intrigues you. Reach out to those people. Ask if they have the time and space to swap work with you, or if they can simply meet you online once a week to write together.

Be clear with your intentions: I need help cutting this chapter by 500 words; I need to know if this makes any kind of sense; I need to craft *the perfect* ending. And be kind and considerate with your critiques if you’re asked to offer them.

Writing is hard. Getting help from another writer shouldn’t be.

Restaurant of the Week: Sage on 47th

The new Sage on 47th in south Cape Coral feels like an evolution for this side of town. The kitchen-driven creativity that fueled Nevermind and made Nice Guys a household name is also a key ingredient at Sage. But this space is no dive bar. Far from it.

Sage is airy and chic, not fussy exactly but polished, pulled-together. A complete 180 for a space that was once Mugs N’ Jugs.

Chef-owner Ralph Centalonza (previously of Rumrunners, Cork Soakers) and bartender extraordinaire Brittany Bowman (previously at Nevermind, Nice Guys) have made Sage their new home. When I walked in and saw those two behind Sage’s long quartz-topped bar, I knew I was in great hands.

From Bowman’s carefully crafted cocktails, tailor made to suit the weather and satisfy her detail-obsessed, mad-scientist mind, to Centalonza’s knack for taking simple dishes and ratcheting them up a notch or 80, it’s hard to go wrong at Sage.

These aren’t just oysters, they’re cold-water oysters sprinkled in pink peppercorns and champagne mignonette. Those aren’t just fries, they’re hand-cut ones fried in duck fat and laced with poutine toppings. That’s not just risotto, it’s hunks of risotto coated in breadcrumbs, deep fried till shattering, then smothered in creamy, elotes-style street corn.

And this isn’t just some new restaurant. It’s a delicious sign of what Cape Coral has become.