The Devil’s in the Detail

About two months ago, somewhere during the process of expanding what was then my intimate little blog, I suddenly got too ambitious for my own good. My web designer, Leigh-Ann, probably thought I’d lost my mind when I asked her to remove my mug shot and my name from Red Typewriter’s home page (“Get rid of all evidence of her and bring me a big glass of vodka!”—a line from one of my favorite movies, Moonstruck). I also asked her to switch to an editorial-style layout, add multiple story teasers, and create bylines for the slew of international writers I planned to seduce into writing. I declared that we’d never use the word blog again. This is something bigger: We would create a frigging magazine!

The truth is, I missed being a magazine editor. Since I was a little kid and sat mesmerized in front of the TV watching the miniseries Lace, in which Bess Armstrong’s character edited a glamorous publication of the same name, that’s all I wanted to do. Then I actually did it: I spent a decade working in the land of New York publishing, meeting insane deadlines and managing a staff of artsy types like myself, but hopefully never turning as crazy as Meryl Streep’s character in The Devil Wears Prada (although some of my former staffers would disagree). But then kids came, and life changed dramatically. No more late-night press parties. No more trips to Paris and Milan. The highlight of my career, in the first year after my daughter was born, was interviewing the designer Betsy Johnson from my bed, trying simultaneously to hold the phone under my chin, type on my laptop, and nurse my colicky newborn—while almost crying from the absurdity of it all. (Luckily, Johnson’s empathy pulled me through: “Honey, I’ve been there—go easy on yourself,” she said, which I will never forget.)

Then, as baby number two came and print journalism was slowly overtaken by new media, I figured there was no way back to where I started. Although I’ve enjoyed freelancing through the years, a part of me has always missed the thrill of collaborating regularly with other creative types, missed the photo shoots and the late-night donuts and deadlines. So when the time came to redesign the blog, nostalgia took over.

As Leigh-Ann kept up with my evolving (and borderline-lunatic) mindset, I jotted down story ideas, created subject categories, brainstormed about art and promotions. Over cocktails I persuaded my friend Inga, a talented graphic designer and photographer, to join the circus with me. Then one day, right after I saw the newly designed home page, staring right back at me with all its blank headlines and story boxes, I freaked out. Who would fill all these page? More than 15 topic categories, Maryann? What were you smoking when you decided this? Even my 11-year-old daughter was concerned. “Uh, Mom, how are you gonna pull this off?” she asked, staring at the gigantic Post-it notes I had stuck all over the walls of my office. “Go to bed,” I told her.

The next day, I realized that if I really wanted a magazine, I needed to rally the troops. Sure, that would be easy if I had a major publishing house backing me up—I knew how to hire and manage a staff. But who would write for free? I figured I could either talk to a few of my friends in the business and beg, or invent several pen names and write everything myself. (Seriously, Maryann.)

“You’re just experiencing start-up anxiety,” said my always-calm husband, who for a living works with anxious dot-com newbies. So I took deep breath and told myself I could do this. I reached back into the depths of my career and contacted a dozen talented writers, and to my surprise, 11 of them said yes. (Number 12, you know who you are, but no hard feelings.) And then I reached out to a bunch of other friends who I thought might know some writers, and soon I started getting emails from excited, outspoken women from all across the country—even in other countries. Before you know it, I had more than two dozen writers. And the list is growing.

After I wiped the tears from my eyes, dropped to my knees and prayed to the tiny little Buddha statue I brought back from Thailand last summer, I decided to call this overwhelming response the “we want our voices heard” phenomenon. There are so many bright, influential women out there, raising kids, working hard at their careers, stretching themselves so thin already. But they have stories to tell and the desire to share them. And OK, some of these fabulous women just have enough sympathy to want to help a sista out.

And it’s not just professional writers who are getting involved. A few of you had never written a story before, but you’re at the top of your field and have invaluable expertise to share. And the diversity doesn’t stop there. Some of you are moms, some are not. Some are married and some are single. Some are straight and some are gay. And you live all over the world, from San Francisco to New Orleans, Bangalore to Milan. I love you and thank you for making this possible. Your voices are my inspiration, as they will soon be the world’s, and I’m so glad I listened to my instincts and realized soon into the game that this project isn’t just about me, but about all of us and the collective stories we have to tell as a community of women. It’s no wonder I find myself jumping out of bed in the morning, eager to start my day.

Now we’re in this together, lovely ladies. It’ll be hard work, and there are many details to solidify, but the most important ones—the powerful female voices behind this project—are in the bag. We’re committed to churning out a magazine that treats all aspects of our lives with sincerity and respect and, most of all, a sense of humor. It’ll be a long road to success, but I just know we’ll have some wicked fun along the way.