Zibby Owens, author and entrepreneur, talks with CBS New York's Book Club #ClubCalvi
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NEW YORK - Zibby Owens has been called a fairy godmother to authors.
She became known for her podcast "Moms Don't Have Time to Read Books," and has since built a media company that includes a publishing house and a bookstore.
She had previously written a memoir and a children's book. Her new book "Blank" was released this week, and she sat down with Mary Calvi to talk about it, and Zibby Media.
"I've always wanted to write a novel," Owens said. "The editor from my memoir finally gave me the opportunity."
The editor asked Owens what she wanted to write about, but Owens couldn't think about what to do.
"My son actually said 'Just hand it in blank' because I think he was getting a little fed up with me after all this talk. Then I actually thought that was a great idea for a book, if somebody were to hand in a book blank to their publisher. What would happen?"
"Blank" is about an author who had success with her first novel, but is struggling to finish her second. Calvi asked Owens about her writing process for "Blank" and overcoming the blank page.
"I had to put something in the top that said 'No one will see this but you' to trick myself to not being anxious about it," Owens said. "Then I literally started writing about the cursor. Look at the blinking cursor. I ended up putting that in the book. I'm Pippa sitting there looking at the blinking cursor. I just wrote about my own writer's block."
Calvi asked Owens about how her publishing house helps develop new talent.
"I learned so much from doing 1,800 episodes of my podcast with authors, about all the things facing authors that weren't totally fair, that they didn't feel so appreciated," Owens said. "I just wanted to try to do it a little bit differently."
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"Blank" by Zibby Owens
From the publisher: Pippa Jones is a fortyish former literary sensation who fears she will be a one-hit wonder. After the follow-up book she was almost done writing, Podlusters, had to be tossed (it ended up sharing a plot and title with superstar author Ella Rankin's summer blockbuster!), she couldn't write a thing. Months of staring at a blank page made her confidence vanish like a one-night stand. When she finds out that she has only five days left to finish (or rather, start) or repay an advance she's already spent, Pippa has a brilliantly original idea. Okay, fine, her twelve-year-old son came up with it as a joke, but Pippa and her teenage daughter approved.
Pippa's not only going to make a bold statement, but she'll change the book world while she's at it! Can she pull it off? At this point, she doesn't have a choice.
Zibby Owens lives in New York.
"Blank" by Zibby Owens (Hardcover) $26
"Blank" by Zibby Owens (Kindle) $5
Excerpt: "Blank" by Zibby Owens
"Mom, look!"
"Zoe? Are you okay?"
It was the middle of the night and I'd just woken up to a cellphone being shoved in front of my face. Great. Now I'd never fall back asleep. Well, at least I could start writing early.
"I told you they were getting together! See? I knew he didn't like me."
"What time is it?" I struggled to sit up in the dark.
"Look! See his hand on her back?"
"Whose hand?"
"Just look!"
I fumbled for and grabbed my reading glasses off the stack of books on my bedside table, slid them on, and looked at the Instagram post of two canoodling teens. When the kids were little, I was sure my sleepless nights would soon be over for good. Not a chance. At age fifteen, Zoe still seemed to have no grasp of the distinction between night and day and the fact that other people needed to sleep. Or maybe she just didn't care? Plus, now that they could sleep, I couldn't. Aging is so much fun.
"Okay, fine. Yes. It looks like they're together."
She gasped.
"It looks like they're together?"
"Yes, isn't that what you wanted me to say?"
"NO! I wanted you to tell me I was being crazy, that Todd was still into me."
I sighed, tossed my glasses on the books, and fell back on my pillow.
"I can't win. Why even ask me? I think I told my mother about literally one boy I liked at your age."
"Well, I wouldn't tell Gee-Gee anything either."
My mother, Joan, was a character, deeply consumed with her own mishigas. She was perpetually clad in Palm Springs mid-century-modern caftans, ice clinking in a lowball glass as she wandered from room to room. Her two chihuahuas were always scampering after her, my stepfather, Seymour, not too far behind.
"Could the two of you just be quiet," Ethan groaned. "Zoe, no one's ever going to like you and you'll die alone. Is that what you want us to say?"
I pretend-smacked Ethan. Perhaps a little too hard.
"Ouch!"
"Da-aaad!"
"Zoe, he's kidding. But go back to bed. Please. Get some rest, sweetie. You have school tomorrow."
"Fine, but I'm commenting on this post so the two of them know I know."
"Look, if this guy Todd isn't into you, he's a moron," Ethan said. "You should just move on. His loss."
Now that my eyes had adjusted to the dark, I could see Zoe stomping out in her favorite tie-dye T-shirt and influencer-famous joggers, twisting her long, stick-straight light-brown hair into a messy bun. Usually she wore giant sweatshirts (all styles were inexplicably referred to as "hoodies") to hide her petite, athletic body. The swooshing sounds of outgoing text messages trailed her down the hallway.
"We should take that phone away," Ethan mumbled.
"Mmm," I said, pulling the covers back up. "You're right."
Ethan rolled over and was snoring again within seconds. How is that even physically possible? I glanced over and saw the top of his familiar, faded blue-and-white-striped jammies, worn almost translucent over the years. He refused to replace them. Why waste money?
His formerly thick, wavy brown hair was now infused with a few shocks of gray and was thinning, not that we could ever acknowledge it to each other. I just kept sweeping the hairs off the bathroom floor, the pillows, even the toilet seat. After seventeen years together, I knew which "buttons" of his to avoid pushing. His blue eyes, now closed, were paired with seriously long and highly enviable eyelashes that our son, Max, had inherited—along with his dimples. Not that Ethan had smiled much lately.
I sighed deeply, my eyes open like a cat in the nighttime even though I knew I should be sleeping. I knew it; I was wide awake and it was only 3:14 a.m. I scanned the ceiling for cracks as I went back to worrying about my book.
My novel was three years overdue. Years! How could I possibly follow up Poppies with something I was proud of? Poppies, my debut novel about an heiress forced to navigate the 2008 housing crisis by selling all her Hermès purses and uniting a tribe of underutilized women, had been an unexpected bestseller. And then it was made into a film and won an Academy Award. For best sound mixing, yes, but whatever. Poppies had become a cult hit among a certain social set, and in Hollywood currency, I'd made it.
"A slam dunk from a debut author," claimed Vanity Fair. "Pippa Jones is the voice of a generation!"
Sales sped along, women toting their Birkins to readings, tittering about the plot in their book clubs for which they'd each bought two copies because why not? It was enough for my book to earn out its admittedly meager advance and start paying me "royalties," a few cents for every book sold, which really added up. It added up enough, that is, for me to finally pay for highlights instead of dipping into Ethan's savings from his career as a child actor, a rapidly draining pot. (Ethan had told me long ago that "his wife going gray" wasn't something he'd be "cool" with, despite the dwindling strands atop his head.)
My longtime literary agent, LeeLee, had been thrilled by the success of Poppies. At least I think she was thrilled. Her face didn't move that much with all the fillers. When she smiled, she looked like some sort of frozen fish trying to escape from a net. A blonde net. Not that it mattered, because I almost never saw her in person. She definitely sounded happy when she called from her vintage Saab to tell me Poppies had hit the New York Times bestseller list ("the list"). But my bespectacled, tattooed New York editor, Sidonie, had been truly over the moon from day one. She'd dreamed of it being optioned and made into a movie starring one-named celebrities I'd never heard of.
"Sireneuse! Mayhew! Persephone!"
May-who?! When did everyone get so young and famous? Sidonie and her wife, the Australian guitarist Jade, had sat in the front row of the premiere.
Naturally.
But now the dust had settled. After the movie left theaters, my publisher, Driftwood, basically forgot about me. One of their other titles had been chosen as a big book club pick, and the third book from one of their beloved thriller authors was coming out. Yes, my hit was great. But it was a single; I hadn't proven myself with a home run yet. And, apparently, it wasn't enough to keep their eyes on me.
But that's what happens in publishing. Today's darling quickly becomes tomorrow's doorstop. And those authors whose books came out and barely sold? Forget it. Of course, many of those overlooked books are amazing. Spectacular, even. Like a lost child at a crowded festival, a debut novelist could simply disappear, blending in with the background. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that talent didn't equate success, that some wildly popular authors weren't the best at their craft, whereas some gifted novelists sold, like, two copies of their book. To their parents.
Poppies disappeared from the list like a one-night stand slinking out the door the next morning, still buckling his belt. The fireworks had dissolved into mere clouds of smoke. All the excited emails from Brittany, my publicist, had stopped coming in except for a few errant newbie podcasters tossing their hats in the PR ring.
"Never say no!" Brittany advised.
Nobody cared about Poppies, or me, anymore. They were on to the next big thing. Hot summer reads! Lily Opum's new novel! The film adaptation of The Grasshopper! I was yesterday's news. Not even. Like, last decade's news. Unless I could write myself back into the narrative, I was destined to be a one-hit wonder.
Excerpted from Blank © 2024 by Zibby Owens. Reprinted with permission from Little A, an imprint of Amazon Publishing. All rights reserved.
