Greer AUGUST 17, 2011

I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A writer, sure, but I had never imagined writing a book. Especially a book about myself. Now I’m upset that I have taken this on. My mother is sick as a dog but trying very hard to hide it, and I’ve signed this damn contract. I mean, sure, I could get out of it or an extension or something, but Dad spent the better part of a lifetime teaching me that we honor our commitments. My name on that dotted line is as good as my blood. I can’t stand the thought of having a book out in the world without my mother getting to at least read the first draft—especially since she has always been my role model and my inspiration for everything.

Between Mom and the company and the newspaper column and the podcast and Instagram and this book, the world feels like it’s spinning too fast. I want to get off the ride, but I also don’t want to disappoint anyone. Not my dad, not my mom, not the 2,167,493 women (as of an hour ago) who follow me. And, most of all, not myself.

This is the one thing that I feel like Parker and I can’t talk about. He just doesn’t understand. He wants to tell me how to fix it, who I could hire, how I could optimize this or automate that. I know he comes from a good place, but this is seriously the biggest fight we have. I’m not a problem to be solved. Sometimes I just want to vent and feel understood.

Of course, I can’t say any of that in the book. I can’t tell people how my relationship isn’t as perfect as it seems on Instagram or how sometimes I feel like I’m falling down an elevator chute. No one wants to read about my weaknesses. And, quite frankly, I wish I didn’t have any to write about in the first place.