Zibby reads the first chapter of BLANK!

[1:24]Zibby Owens: to moms don't have time to read books with Zibby. I'm the host, Zibby Owens. I am an author. My latest is blank, pub date March 1, a novel. I'm also a podcaster, obviously, a publisher, a bookstore owner, and so much more. If you love books, you're in the right place. In fact, we call it the Zippy verse or really the LA Times called it the Zippy verse, and we're going with it. Go to zippyowens.com to learn more and follow me on Instagram at Zippy Owens. Hi, listeners. Oh my gosh. Today's episode is about blank. In fact, this week is going to be a little bit self serving because I am so excited to finally have a novel out into the world, and I am hoping that the collection of episodes coming next will be exciting to you as well. I have different people interviewing me and talking about books and all of that. I thought that I would start this week off by reading you the first chapter of Blake. If you have not read it on Amazon First Reads and you are waiting to get your copy this Friday, March 1, I will give you a little preview so you can, get a little bit ahead. Also, if you haven't signed up, I have book events all around the country, which I know is crazy, but I'm gonna try and do it anyway. Kicks off this Thursday night at the Bedford Playhouse at 7PM with Annabelle Moynihan. So if you live anywhere near Bedford, New York, there are still some tickets left. Come and do that. Also in New York City on Friday, I'll be with Ariana Huffington at Girls Right Now, which is a nonprofit and is amazing, and it helps encourage literacy in younger girls from underprivileged backgrounds. So that is Friday. And then Sunday, I will be at Newtonville Books right across the street from the store at a place called Thistle and Leak, where I will be in conversation with Hannah Halperin. And I'm gonna be signing books all over town. And then Tuesday, I will be at PNT Knitwear downtown in New York City. So those are my first few events. And if you can, come to one of those, and I will keep you updated. Okay. Here's a little preview of blank chapter one. Mom, look. Zoe, are you okay? It was the middle of the night, and I had just woken up to a cell phone 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 15, 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 a boy I liked at your age. Well, I wouldn't tell Gigi anything either. My mother Joan was a character, deeply consumed with her own mishegas. She was perpetually clad in palm springs, mid century modern kaftans, 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 gonna 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. Dad? 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 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. 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 stripe 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 opened like a cat in the nighttime even though I knew I should be sleeping. I knew it. I was wide awake, it was only 03:14AM. 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 Poppy's with something I was proud of? Poppy is my debut novel about an heiress forced to navigate the 2008 housing crisis by selling all her Hermes 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 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, Lele, 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 sob to tell me poppies had hit the New York Times bestseller list called the list. But my bespeckled tattooed New York editor, Sedoni, had been truly over the moon from day one. She dreamed of it being optioned and made into a movie starring one name celebrities I'd never heard of. Siri News, Mayhew, Persephone. Mayhew? When did everyone get so young and famous? Sidoni 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 at the 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 novelist 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 Britney, my publicist, had stopped coming in except for a few errant newbie podcasters throwing their hats in the PR ring. Never say no, Britney advised. Nobody cared about poppies or me anymore. They were on to the next big thing. Hot summer reads. Lily opens 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. I wouldn't have minded as much if we had, well, everlasting financial security. But with Ethan's theater producer job not exactly bringing in the big bucks, there are, like, three plays a year in LA. And with my writing stalling, it was tough paying two private school tuitions and everything else. I mean, I guess I didn't have to send them to private school. The advance in my new book from three years ago, poof. I used it to turn this kitchen pantry into my writing office. Thanks to Ethan's residual income, we could lead our very privileged upper middle class life, but we were toeing the line constantly, spending heavily on all the trappings seemingly required of it, summer camp, school auction, vacations that hit us hard. We didn't have endless reserves like many of our peers. And despite how fortunate we were, there was always an undercurrent of tension. My writing income helps, but one book wouldn't cut it to maintain this lifestyle forever. When would it run out? And what then? Today's episode is sponsored by Quince. Summer always makes me rethink what I'm reaching for every day. Lighter fabrics, better materials, pieces that just feel good the moment you put them on and look effortless. That's why I keep coming back to quints. They focus on high quality essentials. Think breathable linen, soft organic cotton, washable silk, but without the luxury markup. It's that rare balance where everything feels elevated but still easy. Quince has beautiful everyday pieces like 100% European linen pants, dresses, and tops with styles starting at $32. Their denim is soft and easy to wear. I wear my jean jacket all the time. And their organic cotton sweaters are perfect for layering on cool summer nights. Everything at Quince is priced 50 to 80 less than similar brands. Quince works directly with ethical factories and cuts out the middlemen, so you're paying for quality, not brand markup. And it's not just clothing. Quince has really become a destination for elevated essentials across home, kitchen, bedding, and beyond, making it easy to bring a more premium feel into everyday life. In addition to my jean jacket, I recently got a white tank top dress with a beautiful cotton skirt that is absolutely gorgeous, and I can't wait for it to be warm enough so I can wear it every day, but it has been a cool spring. Elevate your summer wardrobe. Go to quince.com/zippy for free shipping on your order and three hundred and sixty five day returns. Now available in Canada too. That's quince.com/zibby for free shipping and three hundred and sixty five day returns. Quince.com/zibby.

[13:38]Zibby Owens: I turned onto my side and curled into a ball, my arms hugging my knees to my chest. My eyes were wide open like I just had a jolt of epinephrine. Should I read? And wait, what was that on Ethan's pillow? I inched closer to his side, propped myself up on my elbow, and examined the many hairs that had taken up residence on his pillow. The hair loss must be killing him. And yet he was plenty happy weighing in on my hair color. Really, the nerve. Honestly, I didn't care. I just didn't love the whole double standard thing. And yes, those were his hairs alright. He looked so sweet when he was asleep. If only it would stay that way. Tossing and turning wasn't helping anything. I was just getting more anxious. Okay. Time for a quick Instagram check. What was everyone else up to? And how was my account doing? Or rather accounts. I imagined throngs of women my age underneath the covers in the dead of night scrolling mindlessly. Many of us used to be up at this hour nursing, comforting crying kids, depositing errand depositing errand dollar bills as tooth fairies. Now we were all awake. Our kids out cold in messy rooms down the hall, our minds spinning, hormones toying with us. Oh, yeah? You think you can sleep now, they taunted? I'd started doing something else, something secret, salacious, and totally time consuming. I'd launched an underground Instagram account documenting the hidden parts of luxurious houses on the market in LA. That kind of writing I could do easily. Captions, pithy, fun. Like Ruth Reichel for was for restaurants anonymously dining in disguise to review the latest hotspots, I was the undercover real estate whisperer. If there was an open house in the LA area, I was there taking pictures, posting, adding funny comments. Real estate brokers often joked about me. I'd even been called out on the hit reality show Brentwood Brokers. One real estate agent said to the other, I hope at open house bandit doesn't strike again. I need people to love my new listing. I'd watched that episode on the couch next to Ethan who was busy on his phone the whole time and exclaimed, no way, pitching forward to get closer to the screen. What? Ethan had asked not looking up. Nothing. Nothing. I'd said sinking back. But it was amazing. I just smiled to myself and kept watching pulling the cozy cream chenille blanket on top of me. If only I could monetize that without revealing my identity. For whatever reason, I loved sneaking into strangers' homes trying to figure out their stories. My old therapist would have had a field day with that, searching for a home given my own fractured family. But boy, was I a sucker for wallpaper. Turned out I wasn't the only one obsessed. My 710,000 followers watched my every move. I didn't tell anyone it was me. Not Ethan, not my kids, not even Kelly, Gabriela, and Josie, my three best friends from college. We still talked all the time and got together once a month for virtual book club. It was the only thing that made me feel like me when every other part of me was wrapped up in being a wife, mom, daughter, nonwriting author, and former big deal. Who else was I? Apparently, a witty luxury home connoisseur who could spot a four bedroom with space for a powder room from a mile away. And that was the first chapter. What do you think? Did it make you wanna keep reading? I hope that you will all preorder well, now order blank because it's coming out on Friday. And I hope you will go to your local independent bookstore and ask them to get some copies in so you can buy one and go pick it up. And it is worth the wait because when we author sell books at independent bookstores, it helps for so many reasons, including giving us better relationships with those indies and having more faith in us. So go to your local indies, request the book. You can also order it online from wherever, and get ready for a fun week of blank episodes. Only a few days left till lunch. I am freaking forget to follow me on Instagram at Zibby Owens and at moms don't have time to read books. Also, sign up for my newsletter at zibbyowens.com and sign up for my virtual book club and meet lots of authors on Zoom every other week. Thanks so much to Steve and Ryan at Texture Sound for the sound editing, and thank you to Morning Moon Productions for providing this fantastic intro and outro music.