The Countdown Begins
& Jon Batiste on the glorious awkwardness
Hi friend,
Now that April has arrived, I’m officially in countdown mode—not only to the publication of The Book of Alchemy on April 22, but also to the Alchemy Tour, which kicks off the next day!
It’s my first time doing anything like this. My first book came out during the height of the pandemic, so there was no chance of gathering with readers in person. Like many authors who had books coming out at that time, I did my best with those less-than-ideal circumstances, hosting virtual book events while in the standard Zoom uniform (pajamas from the waist down). Looking back, it was nice to baby-step my way into that experience. But for The Book of Alchemy, it was my dream to put together something big, something beautiful, something celebratory and communal—a dream that only grew after I had the joy of meeting so many of you at the opening of my art show last June.
But only a month later, as I was composing the final pages of The Book of Alchemy, I learned my leukemia was back. Once again, uncertainty subsumed almost every aspect of my life, including all my dreams for this book. Would I be undergoing a third bone marrow transplant in the next few months? Come April, would I be too sick to be out in the world? Most unsettling was the question at the heart of all of it: Would I even be around to see the book come to life?
Amid that uncertainty, I thought about how my husband Jon responded when I relapsed back in 2021. We had been planning to get married, had been mapping our future life, and he was adamant that cancer was not going to interrupt our plan. I was so buoyed by his defiance, by his hope, by his refusal to let the grief overwhelm us. When we got married on the eve of my second transplant in a makeshift ceremony in our living room, we were focusing on the light, as Jon put it. We were holding onto the light.
So I’ve been trying to approach this book launch and tour with that same kind of defiance, that same kind of hope. I’ve been pushing myself to dream big dreams, planning for the best-case scenario, knowing that I can adapt if the best case doesn't unfold. I tried not to limit myself to the idea of a typical book tour—because honestly, going on tour solely for the sake of promotion is not a compelling idea to me. To get myself to muscle through the physical fatigue and other side effects of chemo, I needed to produce a show that felt useful, necessary, beautiful, and true, a show that amplifies and enacts the message of this book.
To figure out what that looks like, Jon and I have been having marathon meetings in our living room with friends and creative partners, imagining the shape the tour could take. About a month ago, after three such meetings—after we had talked about music and staging and the stories we wanted to tell—we thought we had it figured out. We had come up with a plan that felt so solid, and we even wrote out a detailed run-of-show. Then just as we were wrapping up, Jon said, “Wait wait wait—I have a question. Is this show a dream or a party?”
I love this question so much—but when he said it, I almost burst into tears. I knew immediately that it meant scrapping everything we’d spent all those hours concocting. It reminded me of writing a book, when you realize you’re not quite on the right path. You think to yourself, “No one would know there’s a better idea out there. Do I really have to kill my darlings?” But once you glimpse the better idea, you have to go with the better idea—and the idea of conjuring different atmospheres was a better idea.
That to me is the hardest and the most thrilling part of the creative process. You go beyond the first draft, and you start to tap into the essential thing. That’s how you get to the there-there of it all.
And that’s what has transpired over the last few weeks: More marathon living room sessions, where we’ve been floating from dreamland to party-vibe with the occasional harebrained lark—like Jon running upstairs, grabbing my double bass (coated in a thick layer of dust, it’s been so long since I played it), and me groaning “absolutely not,” but suddenly we’re there playing together, reveling in the idea of bringing this party-dream to life on stage. For me, that’s where the energy always is—in the discovery and in the surprise.
It’s with this in mind that I want to turn to today’s guest essay and prompt—called “The Glorious Awkwardness” by none other than my husband Jon. Last month, when I was recording the audiobook for The Book of Alchemy, Jon showed up at the studio unexpectedly. I had finished a little early, and we used those last remaining minutes for him to read his essay and prompt, which is one of the very first ones I sent out when this newsletter began five years ago this week. It made me laugh then, and it still makes me laugh now. As you read and also maybe listen (I’ve included the audio!), I hope it adds laughter and lightness to your day.
Sending love,
Suleika
P.S. Below you’ll find info on new dates for the Alchemy Tour—and I hope you can join us! I can’t promise I won’t have my own awkward moment on stage, but if I do, I’ll try my hardest to make it glorious!
Some exciting news!
Tickets to the Alchemy Tour went much faster than expected—so we’ve added more dates!
We’ve added a second show in San Francisco at the Sydney Goldstein Theater on April 28.
We’ll also be coming to Minneapolis—to the Pantages Theatre on May 3.
There are a few seats left in Philly and LA, so snag them while they last!
Each ticket comes with a signed copy of the book. You can find more info here.
Prompt 332. The Glorious Awkwardness by Jon Batiste
A couple of years ago, I crept into Jazz at Lincoln Center to practice in one of the empty concert halls on a massive Steinway—something I’d done since I was a student at Juilliard. I was a few weeks away from embarking on my first piano and a microphone tour, where all the shows would be in the round, and I wanted to get into the zone. That morning I left the house without showering, wearing sweats, with the single-minded purpose of figuring out this new performance configuration, and I ended up playing for several hours in that empty concert hall, losing track of time and space. I was on Mars by the end of it, delirious. I played until I was bleeding sweat—in fact, I had conjured up a good funk, figuratively and literally. I needed some fresh air.
It was night by then, and the British musician James Blake was playing a concert in the same building. It was a solo piano concert, which was atypical for him, so I decided to check it out and see what I could steal. One of the security guards invited me backstage to listen and say hello to James. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll say what’s up.” So I stuck around—still in my stanky sweats—until the show was over.
But to my surprise, when James came backstage, he wasn’t alone. He also brought Beyoncé and Jay-Z. They were dressed up, all Lincoln Center vibes: She was in a gown, and he was clean, and they had that royal energy. And here I was, in sweats, stank, and not even a fresh hairline or a pair of crisp kicks!
I had briefly met them before. He reached out to shake my hand and said, “How you been?” and I blurted out, “I think we met before, at the wedding, right?” As soon as the words left my mouth, it occurred to me—you don’t think you met Jay-Z. It’s not like he’s somebody you bump into at the supermarket, and you’re like, “I think maybe we’ve met before.” But I was so discombobulated, still reeling from my practice sessions, and had momentarily forgotten how to communicate. (In fact, I was seconds away from rapping one of his verses at him.) All I could think was: Wait—what am I supposed to do now? Who am I? Who are you? Oh, you’re that guy I’ve been listening to for like fifteen years. Oh yeah, that’s you! Right?!
Meanwhile, Jay-Z was looking at me like I had a head injury or something.
At that point, Beyoncé leaned in to say hello and hug me. I was still in my head and so caught off guard that I forgot about my stankness. But as soon as I lifted my arms to hug her back, I could feel the whiff of heat emanating from my sweatshirt, and I was like, Oh, no. I done fumigated the Queen.
She didn’t mention it, of course—just pleasantries like, “Good to see you again.” And then there was a pause. The kind of pause that happens when Uncle Ned drops the Thanksgiving turkey. That awkward handshake hello. That hug where we both knew what happened and didn’t want to say anything. It was ground zero of Glorious Awkwardness, but it didn’t end there.
Alas, although our greeting was not fully realized, it was time to move on to the next phase of social interaction. James broke the ice and, addressing the group, said, “Shall we go to the dressing room and catch up?” I started walking with them—still in my head—but after a few steps, I thought, I don’t really know these people. Also: I done fumigated the Queen.
So instead of continuing on, I just peeled off in embarrassment, heading toward a barricade fence for crowd control. It was only when I’d thrown one leg over that I realized I’d neglected to say goodbye. When I turned back—one leg still over the barricade—they were all staring at me like, “Huh?”
I don’t even think I waved, just mumbled, “All right,” and kept on going.
Your prompt for the week:
Reflect on a particular moment in your past when you felt most in touch with your “Glorious Awkwardness.” It could be a cringeworthy moment you’ve replayed a thousand times in your mind. Or something essential about who you are, something unchangeable. Go back there. What did you learn from it? Can you laugh about it? And if not, why?
Today’s Contributor—
Jon Batiste is an Oscar, Emmy, Golden Globe, and seven-time Grammy Award–winning musician from Louisiana. He earned a BA and MFA from the Juilliard School, spent years playing music on subways and in the streets of New York City with his band Stay Human, then served as the bandleader and musical director of The Late Show with Stephen Colbert from 2015 to 2022. He has released eight studio albums, including We Are, which won Album of the Year in 2022, and most recently Beethoven Blues, which reached #1 on Billboard’s Top 100 for Contemporary Classical and Classical too.
The Alchemy Workshop
If you’re unable to attend the in-person events, I’m hosting a virtual workshop on April 21, 2025, at 7pm ET. To reserve a spot, all you need to do is pre-order The Book of Alchemy, then register at the link below. Pre-orders are so important for authors, and I’d be grateful if you got one for yourself or a loved one!
Advance Praise for The Book of Alchemy
“The Book of Alchemy proves on every page that a creative response can be found in every moment of life—regardless of what is happening in the world. It also demonstrates that we can be more creative together than we could ever be alone. This book is not only beautiful but exceedingly helpful. I recommend it to every dreamer, with the highest respect and joy.” —Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat Pray Love
“Brilliant. Gentle. Encouraging. If you want to make your life richer, follow Suleika Jaouad’s lead. She is showing us how to find wisdom in every transition, graduation, and U-turn. This book is the perfect mix of incandescent wisdom and kick-in-the-pants motivation to start your own creative journey.” —Kate Bowler, author of Everything Happens for a Reason
“Beyond her brilliance as a writer, Suleika Jaouad’s greatest offering to the world is her brilliance of generosity, her curiosity, her seeking heart and mind. The Book of Alchemy is an extension and expansion of these gifts. Carefully curated and thoughtfully presented, it doesn’t offer just one answer, or one north star, but an entire galaxy, a path, with many paths springing forth from it, for anyone who wants to write, or chase an idea, or descend into their work with a newfound exuberance. This book is a gift.” —Hanif Abdurraqib, author of There’s Always This Year
“An extraordinary collection of wisdom. The Book of Alchemy is a springboard to new ideas, new insights, and new identities.” —Adam Grant, author of Think Again
Your ability to hold paradox (to dream amid devastation, to create beauty in the shadow of uncertainty) is nothing short of magical in itself. I love Jon’s question — “Is this show a dream or a party?” — because isn’t that exactly what healing asks of us? To throw ourselves into joy, even when the ground is unsteady. To dare to imagine something better, wilder, truer, even as life keeps revising the script.
Your story reminds me of Frida Kahlo painting in bed, body in pieces but spirit ferociously whole. You don’t just endure…. you CREATE. You conjure. You invite us into the sacred mess of it all.
And maybe that’s the idea I’d humbly add: that this isn’t just a book tour, but collective ritual. A way of transmuting fear into meaning, and solitude into solidarity. You’re not just launching a book. You’re launching a reminder that art is what we make when the world breaks, not just before or after.
Thank you for letting us witness the magic behind the curtain, Suleika! We should be holding space for every note, every laugh, every moment of glorious awkwardness that takes the stage.
I wasn’t even auditioning. Not really.
A friend suggested it—said I had a good ear, that I could probably hold my own in a chorus. I said maybe, which in my language usually means absolutely not, then fine, but only if no one’s looking.
So I drove myself there, fully expecting a harmless humiliation. Hair brushed. Mildly underprepared. A little thrilled. Mostly, panicked.
The house was intimidating in that moneyed silence sort of way—columns, gates, gravel that tattled on your arrival. The kind of place where even the trees look inherited. I pulled up, already halfway to regretting everything, when I heard it.
This voice—so loud, so flawless—it had to be a recording.
Of course it was. No one sounds like that in real life.
I paused at the car door, stilled by it. Good grief, I thought, is that even human?
The door opened while the voice was still soaring.
A woman greeted me like this was all completely ordinary—opera bellowing through the halls without apology.
“They won’t be long,” she said, as though I was early for lunch.
I followed her in & sat—awkwardly—on the edge of a sofa that looked wildly unsuited to actual use. The music kept going. It was still perfect. I tried not to fidget. Or shrink. Or scream.
Then the music stopped.
A silence followed that felt strangely final, like the ceiling had taken a breath.
And from somewhere down the hallway, a voice called out:
“Anthony, that was magnificent.”
Magnificent.
The word thudded into the room like a chandelier crashing.
My stomach turned traitor. My heart tried to exit via my throat.
That hadn’t been a recording. That had been live.
That had been Anthony.
A person. Singing. In real time. While I casually sat two rooms away like I was waiting for my dentist appointment.
I stood. Slowly. Light-headed.
Briefly considered fleeing.
No one knew I was here. I could vanish. Slide out the front door, never look back.
But fate—ever theatrical—had already lifted the curtain.
The double doors opened like something out of a dream sequence—just without the part where I wake up. Anthony emerged, glowing. As if singing like that hadn’t cost him a single breath.
He gave me a brief, polite nod. I returned it in the way one might acknowledge royalty or a slow-moving disaster.
And then he appeared.
Alexander. Tall. Unblinking. Impeccably assembled.
He had the presence of someone who expects music to obey him, & the wardrobe of someone who’s never spilled anything in his life.
Without introduction or even a hello, he gestured to the piano.
I followed. Like a sheep. Or a sacrifice.
We did scales.
Well—he played scales. I made sounds that resembled commitment. My voice, to its credit, did its best to pretend it had done this before.
I tried to stand like someone capable. Tried to breathe like it wasn’t my first time meeting oxygen.
Alexander said nothing.
Not a flicker of encouragement. No sign that I was bombing or triumphing. Just clinical silence.
Then, mid-note, he stood.
And walked out.
No “thank you.” No “that’ll do.” Not even a vague grunt of dismissal.
Just… gone.
I remained, mouth slightly open, perched in front of the piano like an abandoned prop.
Then came Marguerite.
She entered like punctuation—sharp, deliberate, & slightly scented with judgement.
She was clearly cast as ‘Woman Who Does Not Share the Stage,’ & had no interest in improvisation.
And then, from somewhere deep within the house, Alexander’s voice rang out:
“Show her.”
That was it. No context. Just a command tossed down like a gauntlet.
A piece of paper was placed in my hands.
Italian. Of course.
Not a word I could understand, but it looked serious—italic font, composer’s name I couldn’t pronounce. The kind of sheet music that doesn’t ask if you’re ready. It assumes you are.
Alexander reappeared, glanced at me like I was a mildly disappointing soufflé, & said:
“Follow me.”
So I did.
Because by then, I’d given up on logic & was simply responding to tone of voice.
Here’s the part that still baffles me.
I wasn’t laughed out. No one patted my hand or gently suggested I take up something more forgiving, like pottery.
They offered me a role.
A mezzo-soprano gal in the chorus.
But before that—
“Brava.”
I turned, assuming it was meant for Marguerite.
She looked like someone who’d be applauded just for existing.
But it wasn’t for her.
It was Anthony.
The Anthony.
He’d come back in. Quietly. Sat down. Stayed.
And he was looking at me.
“Brava,” he said again.
Then, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world:
“You have a voice that needs to be sung.”
I don’t remember what I said next.
I don’t even remember leaving the room.
Even to this day, I still don’t know how I made it back to my car.
All I know is I sat there, white-knuckling the steering wheel,
having absolutely no idea what had just happened—
& a sudden craving for tiramisu to face-plant into.
I’m still sweating as I recount this.
Bemused.
Utterly.
And can I just say—how much I love the word subsumed.
Thank you for using it in your essay today, Suleika.
And for this remembrance.