Five years ago, I had a clear vision of the book I wanted to write. It was supposed to cover various crises and conflicts—like the pandemic, wildfires, and the chaotic nature of California politics. This seemed like the book that many expected from me.
I sent off my manuscript with pride, only for it to be promptly rejected.
I vividly recall a Zoom call with Ann Godoff, the esteemed editor at Penguin Press. I initially thought she’d suggest I cut the personal elements. I mean, who wants to read about my childhood, right? It felt a bit indulgent. So, I started preparing myself to trim those sections.
But then Ann interrupted me. “That’s actually what concerns me,” she said. “I didn’t know anything about you.”
What unfolded was not the policy-heavy book I had envisioned. Instead, it transformed into a memoir—not the one I had anticipated, but one subtitled “Memoir of Discovery.” It reflects my journey throughout the writing process, not merely for show but as a narrative of what I encountered.
I thought I had a handle on my childhood. In reality, I didn’t. I assumed I understood my parents’ stories—how my father’s and mother’s lives diverged. But uncovering the truth was a different story.
My father, William Newsom III, was an intellectual and lawyer, closely tied to Gordon Getty, a wealthy heir. They’d known each other since high school. My grandfather, William II, had a background as a builder and shrewd political operator, often referred to as “Boss Newsom.” In his world, there was influence but not necessarily wealth—merely friendships and minor jobs.
For years, I held onto the belief that with greater effort and clearer explanations, I could shift how the public viewed me. Yet, stereotypes endure because they fulfill a role; grappling with them can become a sort of trap.
During my research, I stumbled upon an old interview my father had participated in at the Bancroft Library at UC Berkeley. It was enlightening—he articulated the reasons he distanced himself from our family. My upbringing was filled with incomplete narratives, and listening to him forced me to reevaluate the memories I thought were settled.
My mother’s background was equally revealing. She rarely spoke about her childhood, which my aunts later described as a “house of horrors.” There were dark stories that she never shared—like the gun her father held to her head or his eventual suicide. These were not minor details; they formed the very foundation of her life. Yet, I never thought to ask about them.
Throughout my childhood, I oscillated between two contrasting worlds—my father’s world full of privilege and influence and my mother’s quieter one of resilience and independence. You could sense the tension, and I was, in a way, constructing an identity to navigate it all.
In the book, there’s a line about plaster crumbling. It’s not just a metaphor; it reflects reality. I crafted a polished exterior that I thought represented strength. Sometimes it worked, but it could also be terrifying.
Mark Arax, who collaborated with me on this project, insisted that if I wanted a real memoir, I couldn’t shy away from the hard truths. He urged me to confront what I had been evading. I realized that my mother’s warnings about politics were not simply abstract notions. I often felt deeply humiliated during the 2021 recall effort. I became aware of how my ambitions affected those around me, realizing I needed to embrace my insecurities instead of hiding from them.
Reflecting on these experiences has reshaped my perspective. Writing the book didn’t diminish my ambitions; rather, it deepened my understanding of how my mother’s grit influenced me. It became clear that my family’s challenges against convention started long before my political journey.
Essentially, sharing my own story means revealing the stories of others—my parents, mentors, friends, and children. That brings a level of responsibility.
I wrote this book for my kids. If it resonates with an audience, that’s wonderful. But if not, I can’t control that. What’s crucial is that Montana, Hunter, Brooklyn, and Dutch understand more than just the headlines. They deserve to see the nuances, the doubts, the mistakes, and the resilience that define me.
I can choose to live with a simplified version of myself or share a more intricate reality. Yes, I’ve been fortunate with incredible relationships, yet hardship and conflict have also shaped my experiences. I’m a culmination of these contradictions.
This book isn’t meant to prove a point or conclude an argument. It seeks to portray a fuller picture, recognizing both the privileges I’ve had as well as the fractures in my journey.
We all have more depth than the simplistic views associated with us. Writing this memoir compelled me to confront my truths and reveal the hidden narratives that lie below the surface.
