Ftrain, by Paul Ford

At one point I felt like putting a sign up on this site that read "I promise never to turn this into a book" so that readers could trust me, could know that this is for the experience, not for the eventual transaction. But that felt unfairly limiting; if I could write the best and craziest memoir ever about weight loss, totally abase and brutalize myself in the interest of the narrative, I should do that.

This came up again last night when, with [Wife], I went to the home of two friends, both of whom work on the marketing side of publishing. They both have the same initials, so I will refer to them as A[husb.] and A[wife]. They graciously ordered us sushi--something they knew we could eat without guilt or terrific concern over portions--and much later, after we'd had a few drinks, we all started talking about turning OHLIH into a book.

"I've been thinking of making the blog public," I said. "Now that I'm below 300." Partly out of perverse curiousity about what people will make of it, and a desire to unleash all the anger and criticism that weight-loss inspires in people.

A[husb.] thought that I should get this done then blow it out--make it public and have the book proposal done, so that, exactly as the blog-O'-sphere picks up on it and it generates buzz and coverage, I am ready with a proposal in the hand of my agent. "You don't want them to have heard about this. You want them to have three days to decide and be terrified they won't get the deal," said A[husb.].

A[wife] thought that making the blog public and building out a community is not a bad idea. She pointed out the difference between web-famous and book-famous (with of course TV-famous and movie-famous beyond those). Assisting in this: My agent is a notable agent.

"This could be a fucking monster," he said. "Literary weight-loss memoir."

"I know," I said. I do. And yet I know that my instincts are all wrong for this stuff. At a certain point asking me to be a success, a real one, is like asking a dog to tie its own necktie.

With my earlier successes every moment in the public eye was fat-kid exposure-torture, but I still love being on stage, in front of an audience--and so if I am thinner I know I will pursue that sort of interaction with more vigor and less fear. This raises the question: Am I doing this to be healthier? To be a better husband? Or to make it possible to claim some modicum of celebrity? This new world is one in which there is so much media that celebrity is now allotted like acreage for pioneers--you just claim a space and make it your own and build your little cabin, and hope it turns into a few dollars in your pocket. What portion of this is done from love, and what from vanity? Will I be able to tell the difference?

"You have to go all the way, though," said A[husb.]. "Like down to 210. Then they get you on Ellen."

"If I am going to do TV," I said. But he's right. (The last time I was on television was 2004; I said to a friend: but the camera adds 160 pounds.) None of this is illusion or castles-in-the-air; if I was dedicated, truly dedicated to writing a book and selling it I could get the package together, come up with the hook, and go be funny on camera. It ultimately depends on the publicist I hire.

"It needs a story, a narrative arc," said A[wife], and A[husb.] agreed. [Wife] and I laughed. The arc is obvious to us; it's whether we can have a child or not. I can see the story playing out either way: slender, I hold the babe in my arms; or: slender, I accept that family is everywhere. That is the boolean branch of my life, and in either case my head is bowed before the reality of the body. I laugh it off now, the arc, but there it is, looming. The story taking over reality again. Always a bad thing. You have to let the story unfold as it will, stop trying to force it.

But I love the advice. It does two things for me. It helps me think through my plans in as informed a way as possible; and it gives me a sense of how the world might see me. Marketing is imagining you are the world, looking at a thing. What will the world make of this thing? How can you get the world to pick up the thing in its giant hands and buy it? This is an important subject (see Mad Men), and one that cultural types have always shrugged off as irrelevant or trivial, but in truth it's essential; it's how we are.

There is also the fact that this is premature. I am just barely on this side of 300 pounds now, and perhaps a year away from being a healthy-sized fellow. I still qualify for stomach-stapling. I could fly to Mexico and get it tomorrow.

My friends are excited for me and infinitely supportive; they're fantastic friends. And having seen me in a state of fucking it up, they want me to not fuck this up. Don't give it away, they say; you have the talent; you have the connections; you have the agent; and now you have the story. You can go big with this thing. They are right. Their understanding of how things actually work far exceeds mine. But let's be clear: I'm going to give this thing away with all the code and the publishers will be confused and the editors nonplussed. My agent will be annoyed. I am going to fuck this thing up; I'm going to do it exactly wrong; and I'm going to spend the rest of my life solidly in the lower middle-class always wishing that I could have just a little time to do the things I truly love to do while I put a pair of slacks in my bike bag to wear at work. Just like forever I'll fuck this up. But I'll look good doing it.

Weight: 298 lbs