The Gateway to Success

An Oz-like moment when Oprah tells the audience to "Read this book"

A Behind the Scenes post on appearing on Oprah, the surreal journey from anticipation to realization and the impact endorsement has on my life and the success of Blackbird

If the goal is to be successful, if the goal is to launch a career, if the goal is to make a good amount of money from your writing, well, then appearing on the Oprah Winfrey Show means you are about to realize all your goals and more.

Even if you get chewed out by Ms. Winfrey, as James Frey did back when she called him out for making things up in his memoir, A Million Little Pieces, you will realize massive success.

I once read that viewers were so loyal to Ms. Winfrey that they would vote for whomever she told them to vote for, buy whatever she told them to buy, and think whatever she told them to think. Her power, absolute. Her influence, unquestionable.

Following Ms. Winfrey into that auditorium confirmed this truth. The people in the risers were still on their feet even after the two of us had taken our chairs and were being wired up with clip-on microphones. Ms. Winfrey had given the crowd a half-hearted beauty queen wave when she first strolled past, but now ignored them.

How? I wondered. How was it possible to ignore people weeping, convulsing, and crying out your name? These people waved offerings of stuffed animals, flowers, and signs written with phrases of adoration. I wouldn’t be surprised, not in the least, if there were people in that crowd willing to part with their firstborn for a moment of Ms. Winfrey’s attention.

“My God,” I said while adjusting myself in the chair across from her. “Is this usual? Or is this some special day?”

Ms. Winfrey was being circled by hair stylists and make-up artists. Any unruly hair sprayed into obedience. Lipstick touched up. “Every single time,” she said, gesturing toward the crowd wearily.

An assistant brought over two glasses of water with straws half in paper wrapping. Though we had been seated for several minutes while the lights and cameras adjusted, the mics tested, and a few seconds of the opening video played to get it cued up, the crowd continued to howl. I looked toward the undulating mass of humanity, squinting against the lights, and was that two people dressed in cow costumes?

I was shaken by it, undone, frightened. How could one do this for a living? How could one bear it? How could you feel like you were normal after this kind of frenzy? I think I leaned forward and asked the question, too. “How do you do it?” But maybe not because as I reach back through time to remember that moment, I cannot recall an answer. What I do remember was that a floor director made a move with their hand, and the noise finally simmered down.

Three. Two. One. Action.

The weary woman vanished, and in her place, the star appeared.

“Jennifer was just asking if it was always like this?” Ms. Winfrey said to the audience, who had finally settled into their seats. Seemingly calm. “And I told her it’s just another day here on the Oprah Winfrey Show.” (NOTE: She might not have said these exact words, so don’t hold me to it. My recording of the program is in my archives on a VHS tape).

The crowd roared with approval once more. And we were off. The taping had begun.

The video segment shot in New York ran, and we watched my life unfold on the big screen behind us. Ms. Winfrey narrated the tale of my past and my journey culminating in the book Blackbird. A few shots were used from my early days as a news reporter, and Ms. Winfrey said, “Nice hair,” ribbing me about the ridiculous style I wore back in the day.

I laughed along with her because, like me, she had had her share of bad hairstyles over the years.

“It looks like a helmet,” I said. “I don’t even know how I got it to stay up that way. I think I had a perm and used a ton of mousse.”

“I remember those days!” Ms. Winfrey said.

Like me, she got her start in local TV news, and so we chatted a little bit about that while waiting for the segment to wrap.

This part was fine. Normal. Easy. As I mentioned before. I wasn’t intimidated by the show, the cameras, or the lights. I wasn’t even that intimidated by Ms. Winfrey, for I could see a person inside the star, a human being with her own journey and plans and hopes and dreams. I wasn’t part of all that. I was a blip on the screen of her massively public life, and I realized that, but I was okay with that, too. Unlike other writers I know (I won’t name names) who claim to be pals with Ms. Winfrey, to be special to her, I had no interest in any of that. Instead, I felt grateful for the opportunity and eager for it to be over so I could return to my quiet life.

The pre-taped bit ended, and it was time to “talk.”

Ms. Winfrey asked me a few questions. I answered them thoughtfully and carefully. And several times, she held up the book and said, “You have to read this book.” And, “I’m telling you, read this book.” She let everyone in the audience know that they had a copy under their chair, and soon people were holding it up, opening the cover, and flipping pages. Right about then, my spirit slipped free of my body.

Every time Ms. Winfrey said, “Read this book,” and “Buy this book,” the PR ladies from Pocket—in some backroom there at Harpo—were telling the folks in New York to print another ten thousand books. Twenty. Thirty. Fifty. A hundred thousand books. I also knew that Kim, likely on the line while those decisions were being made, was losing her mind. I could almost hear her screaming from New York while I sat there in Chicago. Her euphoria would be a true match for anything this audience could generate.

It was at this moment that Ms. Winfrey opened her copy of Blackbird and read a few lines. She was saying something…what? I had no idea. It was all leading up to a question or a point, but I was like a helium balloon released by a child and caught in the rafters overhead. Then, she started reading aloud from a chapter in the book. I think it was an interaction I had with my adoptive mother.

I wanted to push the pause button on this moment and say to the audience, “Oprah is reading my book to me. Do you get it? She’s reading me…to me.”

The book closed, her finger holding to the section she had just read, and she asked a question, but I only blinked. What? What had she said? What was I supposed to do?

I am sure I looked like the subject of an interrogation, mouth open, eyes wide, but then I stammered out a response, and that was that.

“Thank you, and we’ll be back after this break,” she said, and they were done with me.

I shook her hand, the crowd went into hysterics, and some producer or assistant escorted me off the stage to sit in the front row with the other people who would be on the show. I didn’t know them. Hadn’t been introduced. They were “kids who had been abandoned,” which was the title or subject of the show. And they each had their own producer and interviews prepared, just like me.

When it was over, and it was over relatively quickly after that, I gathered up my bag and coat and was escorted out a side door where another driver and limousine waited. Somewhere in all this, I had managed to re-enter my skin just barely.

“Ms. Lauck. Ms. Lauck,” voices called.

People had congregated on both sides of the sidewalk. They held my book and reached toward me with pens. “Can I have your autograph?” “Can you sign my book?”

Ten? Twenty?

I can’t remember, but it was a lot of people and for a moment, I stood there in a state of paralysis. Don’t you realize I’m the wrong person? I almost said. You don’t want me. You want Ms. Winfrey. She’ll be out soon, I’m sure. But they pressed in closer. They had questions. They told me stories.

I nodded and signed the interior pages of the books they offered, smiled for some of them who said they thought I did great on the show, said I was sorry when others told me their mother and father had died, too.

The driver, holding the door to the car, finally eased the people back and got me into the car.

“She’s got a plane to catch, sorry folks,” he said.

And soon, the door closed, and I sat on a leather seat feeling…odd. It was like a dream that had happened to someone else. The car pulled away from the curb, and I turned to look out the back window at the people still there and waving. What had just happened? What would it all mean?

Thank you, as always for being here with me. One more post of the memoir-about-writing-a-memoir and then it’s time for the next phase of Flight School!

Jennifer 🌸

(Go directly to the next post on the Blackbird journey now).