Hello! Bonjour.

It’s much easier writing about historical or fictional characters than putting myself – as myself – onto the paper. As many other writers, perhaps, I feel paltry all-of-a-sudden, needing to come up with an introduction. That’s ok. We’ll just keep it casual.

I grew up in Connecticut by Long Island Sound. There were Revolutionary War cannons on the beach my family used to frequent. My sisters and I would climb on them. Sometimes we’d walk out on the massive, rectangular rocks that formed a jetty into the water. Low tide meant treasures left in tidepools. That’s where I first learned my deepest connections: to history, nature, family, …the earth, sea, and sky. It may sound grandiose to you, but those are still the elements I gravitate to.

Through my 20s, I was single and traveled with my sisters as a band called Warrior Poetes. We’d all studied French growing up and used the feminine plural French ending of the word ‘poets’ on purpose. We toured for about 10 years, writing songs, recording albums, booking independent tours. The last three years we averaged about 86 concerts a year. I’m very proud of that. No, we didn’t make it big, but we had a great time, gathered fantastic life experiences, and met the best people.

About age 31 my parents, whose house was still ‘home-base’ for the band, decided to uproot and move to Kentucky. They found an Amish farmhouse in the middle of the countryside of Hart County. They invited us girls along if we wanted to ‘home-base’ from Kentucky instead of Connecticut for our next round of tours. Well, that never happened. Instead, the band broke up which I never saw coming and I spent the next several years deconstructing and reconstructing who I was and how I’d gotten so…lost.

Enter Vittorie. Or rather, Gilbert, the Frenchman. If you’ve read any of the Notes and Acknowledgements section of my debut novel, American Wild, some of this may sound familiar. If you skipped that part, it’s alright. I’ll tell you now. Stay in the moment. In the first few weeks after moving to Kentucky a new friend, an 8th-generation Hart County woman, gave my family a book of local stories. Laying it on the farmhouse counter she added that she’d always thought the second story would make a fantastic movie. That caught my attention.

Songs are three and a half minute movies. I’d been learning how to craft those for over a decade. Movies are one hundred-and-eleven page novels. I’d also been trained in story, character arc, and what ‘beat’ you needed to be on by what page number in your screenplay. I love movies. I grew up acting professionally since age 7. I’ve been a student of storytelling in all its facets my whole life. [Translation: more school holidays than I’d like to admit were spent watching books and reading movies, and vice versa, not to mention attending or performing in every theatre production I could.] While my parents and sisters were finding their new groove on the farm, I was unraveling my artistic discontent.

The truth is I dug into the research and the story because I was bad at most other farm activities and domestic chores. (Putting up goat fencing in January, I’m thinking of you.) I’ve already mentioned my affinity for French things. I began researching how the highest peak in Hart County, Kentucky, gained the moniker “Frenchman’s Knob.” There wasn’t even a high concentration of French descendants in the area. It made no sense. Every time I visited an Amish neighbor, I’d ask what they knew. Whenever I attended a country event, I’d check with the locals to gather more facts. Often, they didn’t know but they’d point me in the direction of someone who did. The more I learned, the more I couldn’t believe how incredible the truth behind the story was. At the same time, my growing sense of injustice compounded knowing how we (modern civilization) were all – literally – walking over people’s graves without knowing the tragedy and courage they’d had. What they’d accomplished. How we were still benefitting from their efforts. It grew more important to me not only to tell their story, but to tell it well.

Writing American Wild became a journey across many fronts. Researching the facts. Wrestling with my own dreams and failures. Not knowing how to put my thoughts down on paper in a way that people not only could read, but would want to read, and keep reading. I had a lot to learn. I still do. I’ve had some pretty amazing mentors and I’m committed to being a lifelong learner. Seeing my first book in print is a success. I’m grateful for that opportunity.

This is where you’ll walk life’s journey with me. Just keep showing up. And when you get really afraid, grow. That’s what I do. What I’ll need to keep doing. I’m glad you’re here.

Thanks for reading.

Marissa