Michele M. Feeney

3/8/24

 

Blowout-Girl Meets Writer-Girl

 

"I have a novel coming out in August 2024. It is historical fiction set in the influenza epidemic of 1918. The novel explores themes including a small community's response to an unexpected threat to health and life; foster care and adoption; grief; care of aging parents; feminism; and the tension between religion and education."

 

Yay!

 

Whoa.

 

I now know this means a more public writer persona. Website, Linked In, Instagram, book clubs and bookstores. Like many writers, I am a comfortable introvert. I share nothing on social media. I work alone. Most of my writing—like 98% of it—will never be seen in public.

 

My 2024 project is getting comfortable with being a writer in the world. I have practiced law for many years—decades—and am no stranger to professional marketing. But this is the first time I have used that aptitude in connection with my writing. It is uncomfortable.

 

My public life as a writer started the first weekend in February at a retreat sponsored by Zibby Owens. https://zibbyowens.substack.com/
 
Zibby Owens is a solo marketing machine for authors far and wide, and a big support of readers. She also has her own writing career—she published a memoir in 2022, Bookends: A Memoir of Love, Loss, and Literature, and a novel in 2024, Blank.  
 
At the Zibby retreat, about a hundred people congregated to discuss books and writing.
 

My personal agenda? When asked, "What do you do?," respond, "I am a writer." After a few awkward starts, I nailed it. Only if pressed did I volunteer the other things I do—lawyer, professor, mother of five, grandmother, wife, homeowner, etc.

 

That was February. Once the Zibby weekend was over, I happily went back into my quiet zone.

 

My next foray was the first weekend in March. I attended the Tucson Festival of Books. When my husband asked me what I expected it would be like—I'd attended several years ago—I answered that the TFOB is "like the Black Friday of books and authors." Meaning, I remembered it as an overpopulated zoo where one foraged for a new literary interest or a substantive conversation. Basically, hell for an introvert.

 

This year, I attended as an observer, seeking information about how I could be included on an author panel next year. Zibby Owens, the gold standard of solo marketing, would be there. I wanted to watch what she did. I had a loose connection to her through her mother—I wanted to meet her. My personal agenda—be friendly! See what happened! Don't be so linear!

 

Friday morning, before driving from Phoenix to Tucson, I went and had my hair blow-dried. This may not seem like a big deal, but writer-girl had never had a blowout. (Lawyer-girl and Good-Wife girl had a membership at the blow dry salon. Really.) A blow dry is the difference between curly/frizzy red mop and smooth style. Writer-girl's first blowout was a moment.

 

The lovely young lady who performed this service asked me if I was planning anything special for the weekend. She looked like Emma Stone with sleek black hair.

 

I told her about the Tucson Festival of Books, and that I'd written a novel. She asked, "What's it about?" I told her! I said the words I quoted at the beginning of this newsletter. Out loud! It was a mini rehearsal for the elevator speech that is supposed to roll off my tongue.

 

"That's really cool," she said.

 

Then, I asked her the story behind every one of her tattoos. I heard about Nordic folktales and family lore. The "sleeve" on her right arm took five minutes, and that was just the beginning. I listened. Her stories were wonderful. Like most writers, I was far more entertained by listening to her stories than by the sound of my own voice.

 

I wrote my first story in early elementary school and began taking creative writing classes over twenty years ago. Holding a book of my own in my hands is a bucket-list lifelong dream. I can't wait to revise the memoir I have in progress and to start volume two of the Like Family series; I love the act of writing.

 

But the blow-dry is a beginning of its own.

 

***

 

The TFOB was so much more navigable and enjoyable than I remembered. I attended with my friend and long-time writing partner, Mary Holden. Mary works as a freelance editor. https://marylholdeneditor.com/ Mary is my companion on many writing journeys. We got the news about my novel being accepted for publication in August 2023 on our way to the airport after a writing conference in Dingle, Ireland. The email from Black Rose Writing popped up on my phone screen, and we both screamed. https://www.blackrosewriting.com/

 

At the TFOB, we went to every panel Zibby offered, and I realized, though I already knew, what a workhorse she is. I also realized that she said the many of the same things about her book in each different panel. This was a relief to me; I realized talking about one's book could be like teaching a class you've taught before. You switch it up a little each time, but do not re-invent the lecture every time. This seemed manageable.

 

I also discovered some great new authors—Tammy Greenwood's book, The Still Point, kept me up a couple of nights this week. I had not heard of Tammy Greenwood. https://www.tammygreenwood.com/copy-of-the-still-point Come to find out, The Still Point is her fourteenth book! And, I was able to see Bonnie Jo Campbell speak about her new novel, The Waters. https://www.bonniejocampbell.net/about I was fortunate to have Bonnie Jo as a teacher at the Bear River Writing Conference sponsored by the University of Michigan several years ago. I have loved seeing this new book take off.

 

The panel on which Bonnie Jo Campbell appeared brings me full circle back to Zibby. Bonnie Jo had read the books authored by the other two members of her panel, and was able to comment on shared themes among all three books. This generosity is unusual. It's mirrored by Zibby's generosity and support of other writers.

 

So, the most valuable lesson of the Austin weekend TFOB was this: It's all about relationships. It's all about making other people look good. This is something I've long accepted in my legal career and home life. Those relationships never develop unless one puts herself out there. This is the good reason for owning my life as a writer, getting a blowdry, getting out of my comfortable office, and being friendly.

 

Onward.

 

3/11

 

While at the TFOB, I had a couple of quiet early-morning hours to write. It's hard to come by this time. For many years, I got up every day at 4am to reclaim the time between then and 6:30am, when I pulled my kids out of bed for school and other activities and set off for paying work of my own. That early morning time feels like crawling back between the sheets.

 

About six months ago, I joined an online poetry class. Richard Tillinghast teaches the class. He's been at the Bear River Writing Conference since I began attending over a decade ago, always in charge of poetry workshops. He's a tall, thin guy with a Southern accent, with an affect like Jimmy Stewart but clothing from REI. A few years ago, he retired from years of teaching poetry at the University of Michigan.

 

I don't write poetry, so was far too shy to sign on for four days of poetry class with dedicated poets. Even if the Bear River conference is meant to be generative. I understood generative didn't mean literally starting from nothing.

 

But online? Once a month? For a few hours? I could do that.

 

Every month, I dread writing my poem. Some months, I've waited far too long, dashed off something, and emailed it in hours before class starts. I've written about my dog Seamus, and the feeling of giving him a bath. I've written about the pass-through window at the country club my grandparents owned when I was a girl, and how I loved sitting in that window and watching people dancing. I've written about many things, but I am not at all sure what I've written is poetry, although it follows the proper shape on the page.

 

I went to sleep last night with the deadline for my March poem—Tuesday—on my mind. I made a deal. When I woke up, I would either write the poem or quit the class. I would write Richard a nice note telling him how fun it had been to do something I was truly bad at. I would show up on screen on Wednesday for just a few minutes, to tell my classmates good-bye and I'd enjoyed the discussions.

 

Which I had. I loved the discussions. I loved knowing how poets put their poems together, and how they worked together in a workshop to pull them apart and put them back together again better. I loved learning something new. I even loved giving myself permission to do something I was truly bad at in public, like singing karaoke.

 

When I woke up, I set a timer. The poem was supposed to be about art. I'd saved a couple of pictures on my phone. Twenty minutes, I decided. If I didn't have the beginning of a poem in twenty minutes, I could quit the class.

 

Twenty minutes later, I had the rough roadmap of a poem. I sent it to Mary, who was in the adjoining hotel room. If she said it was okay enough, I would send it to the class. Before the deadline. I'd show up on Wednesday. I'd learn something.

 

This is what writing is like.

 

3/11/24

 

Here's the poem!

 

The prompt was to pick a piece of art and reflect upon the author's work and braid it into your own life.

 

Written at the Tucson Festival of Books

 

Buenos Aires doorway, gilded with sunshine.

Bold against azul adobe. A crimson poppy. 

A yellow barn with a ruby roof and a dark door, in a field of goldenrod.

Somehow like my Michigan farmhouse, drenched in golden morning light.

 

Acrylics.

 

Juan Brufal has a Linked In account.

Fee Thomas, who I don't think I've ever met,

And can't remember if I did (but I like her),

Introduced me to his art on Facebook.

 

Quiet.

 

Here is where art meets life in 2024.

Until I googled Juan Brufal, whose pictures I like, because of Fee Thomas,

Or maybe because I am in Tucson,

I had no idea if he was alive this morning or a hundred years ago.

 

Connection.

 

Now I know Juan Brufal is looking for a new manager.

I know precious shades repeat image after image, splayed on my screen.

I know his face with his hand in front of it with a raised pinky and first finger.

And I know that signals he likes to rock and roll, or an unfaithful spouse.

 

And I am looking for Fee Thomas to know me.