By Jenna Glatzer
Who makes the rules? We make the rules. I want to be the conductor of my own life.
~Celine Dion
When an editor wrote to offer me an assignment writing Celine Dion's authorized biography, I did not reply, "Me? Are you sure you have the right writer?" But that's just what I was thinking.
Who makes the rules? We make the rules. I want to be the conductor of my own life.
~Celine Dion
When an editor wrote to offer me an assignment writing Celine Dion's authorized biography, I did not reply, "Me? Are you sure you have the right writer?" But that's just what I was thinking.
At that point in my career, although I'd written many magazine articles, I had just a few small books to my name... children's educational books, mostly. I had sent this editor my resume and writing samples more than a year prior and never heard anything other than, "Thanks. We'll keep you on file."
They actually did!
It was such an unassuming little e-mail, too. Just a polite little, "Would you be interested in writing this?" As if I'd have to consider it. "Hmm, gee, write a book with the top-selling female artist of all time? I'll check my schedule."
Of course, I said yes, and out of a fear of exposing my anemic credentials, I didn't ask why they chose me until well after contracts were signed.
"Because of your warmth," the editor told me. One of my writing samples was an article I'd written for a local newspaper about a man who rows a boat around Long Island every year to raise money for breast cancer research. She liked the tone of the article and thought my style would be a good fit for Celine. So that's what did it — a local newspaper article. You never know where one little thing may lead.
I spoke to one of my writer-friends who had also worked on celebrity biographies, and she warned me, "Just understand that celebrities will treat you like poo. They all seem nice on television, but you are nothing but a peon to them." I accepted that and stored that helpful info in my brain. It was okay, I figured. I pretty much felt like a peon anyway, and I was sure the tradeoff would be worth it. I was going to write a Really Big Book and get paid Really Big Money. If she made me fetch her slippers and call her "Your Majesty," so be it.
After the initial excitement wore off, the fear set in: I was going to fly to Las Vegas to meet Celine. For me, getting on a plane was roughly the same as being chased by hungry gorillas. The reason I became a writer in the first place was that I had a crippling panic disorder that left me housebound with agoraphobia for about four years. I had to find a way to make a living from home, and writing was the natural option. By then, I was past the worst of the panic disorder, but there were many things I hadn't yet conquered — like plane travel.
I'd tried getting on a plane once, and spent the entire ride home clutching the armrests with a kind stewardess by my side. Seriously, she spent the whole flight just trying to keep me from melting down. When I signed on to write Celine's book, I conveniently left out this little detail. I don't know why, but I thought I'd manage to get over my fear in the two whole weeks before the flight.
Didn't happen.
The night before the flight, I cried and cried. "WHY did I ever agree to do this? I'm not ready for this! I can't get on a plane! And I can't get on a plane to MEET CELINE DION! She's a superstar, and I'm an amoeba! I'm probably going to start hiccupping and developing facial tics if I even make it off the plane. What was I thinking? I have to cancel this!"
I didn't sleep at all. I paced and cried and flung myself dramatically on couches and tried to remember to breathe. How I convinced myself to get on that plane after all is a mystery, but I did it, and there was a surprising lack of freaking out once we were in the air.
That night, I met Celine. If there were any leftover panicky feelings, they dissipated within minutes of meeting her. My friend was wrong; Celine was an absolute sweetheart. Humble, down-to-earth, funny, silly, and very caring. She talked to me about my life and shared cookies with me. She sat on the floor with me and chatted into the middle of the night like we were old school buddies.
I went back to Vegas several times over the next few months. Celine met my family, and members of a Celine fan website brought me beautiful cards and drawings because I had involved them in the book. To make it a great book for the fans, I figured, I should find out what the fans wanted to know! Their appreciation was beautiful, and when my post office box overflowed with requests for signed bookplates, the postal worker refused to believe me when I said they were fan letters. From my fans.
Hmph. What did he think I was, a peon?
My experience with Celine was life changing in so many ways. She cried in my arms once when talking about the pressures of fame at such a young age, and it made me see her — and myself — in a new light. When I was younger, I had wanted that kind of fame. I had hoped to be a professional actress or singer, but in that moment, I knew I was doing the work I was supposed to do. It might have taken a strange path to get me there, but I loved being a writer.
"Never in my life have I wanted a journalist, a writer, to talk to me again," Celine told me. "It's hard for me to open up and trust. This is the first time I called to say, 'I want to see her. Ask her if she wants to see me again.' There's something about you."
When I was finished with the book, Celine's husband, René, called to tell me how well I had captured Celine, and that he felt very emotional and proud reading the manuscript.
The editor was right, I thought. She could have had any number of writers with stacks of celebrity books to their name, but the writer who was right for Celine was... me. Before I left Vegas for the last time, we hugged and said "I love you" to each other, and I knew that I'd just met one of the nicest and most inspiring people I'd ever encounter. She deserves every bit of her success.
Getting on that plane opened up my world again and made me see that anything was possible. My limitations had no hold over me anymore. Since that time, I've traveled many times, met fascinating people, and helped to write their stories. It's an exciting and meaningful career, but in a larger sense, it's a wonderful life. And it's exactly where I'm meant to be.
They actually did!
It was such an unassuming little e-mail, too. Just a polite little, "Would you be interested in writing this?" As if I'd have to consider it. "Hmm, gee, write a book with the top-selling female artist of all time? I'll check my schedule."
Of course, I said yes, and out of a fear of exposing my anemic credentials, I didn't ask why they chose me until well after contracts were signed.
"Because of your warmth," the editor told me. One of my writing samples was an article I'd written for a local newspaper about a man who rows a boat around Long Island every year to raise money for breast cancer research. She liked the tone of the article and thought my style would be a good fit for Celine. So that's what did it — a local newspaper article. You never know where one little thing may lead.
I spoke to one of my writer-friends who had also worked on celebrity biographies, and she warned me, "Just understand that celebrities will treat you like poo. They all seem nice on television, but you are nothing but a peon to them." I accepted that and stored that helpful info in my brain. It was okay, I figured. I pretty much felt like a peon anyway, and I was sure the tradeoff would be worth it. I was going to write a Really Big Book and get paid Really Big Money. If she made me fetch her slippers and call her "Your Majesty," so be it.
After the initial excitement wore off, the fear set in: I was going to fly to Las Vegas to meet Celine. For me, getting on a plane was roughly the same as being chased by hungry gorillas. The reason I became a writer in the first place was that I had a crippling panic disorder that left me housebound with agoraphobia for about four years. I had to find a way to make a living from home, and writing was the natural option. By then, I was past the worst of the panic disorder, but there were many things I hadn't yet conquered — like plane travel.
I'd tried getting on a plane once, and spent the entire ride home clutching the armrests with a kind stewardess by my side. Seriously, she spent the whole flight just trying to keep me from melting down. When I signed on to write Celine's book, I conveniently left out this little detail. I don't know why, but I thought I'd manage to get over my fear in the two whole weeks before the flight.
Didn't happen.
The night before the flight, I cried and cried. "WHY did I ever agree to do this? I'm not ready for this! I can't get on a plane! And I can't get on a plane to MEET CELINE DION! She's a superstar, and I'm an amoeba! I'm probably going to start hiccupping and developing facial tics if I even make it off the plane. What was I thinking? I have to cancel this!"
I didn't sleep at all. I paced and cried and flung myself dramatically on couches and tried to remember to breathe. How I convinced myself to get on that plane after all is a mystery, but I did it, and there was a surprising lack of freaking out once we were in the air.
That night, I met Celine. If there were any leftover panicky feelings, they dissipated within minutes of meeting her. My friend was wrong; Celine was an absolute sweetheart. Humble, down-to-earth, funny, silly, and very caring. She talked to me about my life and shared cookies with me. She sat on the floor with me and chatted into the middle of the night like we were old school buddies.
I went back to Vegas several times over the next few months. Celine met my family, and members of a Celine fan website brought me beautiful cards and drawings because I had involved them in the book. To make it a great book for the fans, I figured, I should find out what the fans wanted to know! Their appreciation was beautiful, and when my post office box overflowed with requests for signed bookplates, the postal worker refused to believe me when I said they were fan letters. From my fans.
Hmph. What did he think I was, a peon?
My experience with Celine was life changing in so many ways. She cried in my arms once when talking about the pressures of fame at such a young age, and it made me see her — and myself — in a new light. When I was younger, I had wanted that kind of fame. I had hoped to be a professional actress or singer, but in that moment, I knew I was doing the work I was supposed to do. It might have taken a strange path to get me there, but I loved being a writer.
"Never in my life have I wanted a journalist, a writer, to talk to me again," Celine told me. "It's hard for me to open up and trust. This is the first time I called to say, 'I want to see her. Ask her if she wants to see me again.' There's something about you."
When I was finished with the book, Celine's husband, René, called to tell me how well I had captured Celine, and that he felt very emotional and proud reading the manuscript.
The editor was right, I thought. She could have had any number of writers with stacks of celebrity books to their name, but the writer who was right for Celine was... me. Before I left Vegas for the last time, we hugged and said "I love you" to each other, and I knew that I'd just met one of the nicest and most inspiring people I'd ever encounter. She deserves every bit of her success.
Getting on that plane opened up my world again and made me see that anything was possible. My limitations had no hold over me anymore. Since that time, I've traveled many times, met fascinating people, and helped to write their stories. It's an exciting and meaningful career, but in a larger sense, it's a wonderful life. And it's exactly where I'm meant to be.
http://www.chickensoup.com
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