Writing Sistory, or, Was I a Dodo to Profile My Friend?

YOU KNOW YOU’RE a sister when your friendship can survive one of you writing, publicly, about the other. Or can it? It all started innocently enough. I sat down for a coffee with the editor of a regional magazine based here in the hinterlands, talking about what I might write for him, what I was writing for other folks, and inevitably, the conversation turned to The Sister Project, and our amazing oldest sister, lovely Margaret. I should have known what was coming. The editor, like everyone else I meet, wanted to know all about her, her garden, her projects. Now there was a subject! Could I finagle a profile of my friend (and regional celebrity) Margaret? Yikes.

Margaret, for someone who lives a pretty open online life, is also a private person. More important, she’s my friend. I tried to explain. “I work with her, you know.” “Are you her employee?” he probed. “Well, no…”

“Then I don’t see any conflict. See if she’ll do it. We will run it this summer–perfect for a garden story.”

I called when I got home.

“Err…How would you feel about being profiled?”

“Mmmm…#$%@%. Can’t get this post to upload properly…” Margaret was distracted. “Sure, sure, whatever you want. Tell me what I need to do.”

And so it began. I interviewed Margaret, and was thrilled when she gave me some tidbits about her rural odyssey I hadn’t read anywhere else. Maybe, just maybe, this would all be ok. I interviewed four other sources, friends and plantsmen all, who were transparent in their love for Margaret, their amusement at her quirks, their deep admiration for her knowledge and creativity in the garden and beyond. They confirmed her stories, adding color and detail; one of them gave me a slightly snarky but funny and accurate quote that I thought twice about using before deciding that my article had to be written by a writer first, a friend second. In truth, everything was going so, so well.

And then. Photography. Margaret had images of the garden she’d shot herself that could be used by the magazine, saving them money and allowing them to show off the garden in its best light, through all seasons. It would be a lot of work for her to select and format them, but she was willing. Great! But there remained one sticky issue.

Here’s something you may not know about Margaret, though if you were a close reader of Martha Stewart Living when she was editing there, you might have suspected it. She really, really doesn’t like to be photographed. Not in the way I don’t like to be photographed, where I’m all, “Oh, crap, I’m so fat, let me contort my body to try to find some angle where I don’t look like the Michelin man, and meanwhile I’ll hope the light is catching my cheekbones nicely so everyone will look at them instead of my saggy everything else.” Nope. Imagine how the last Dodo bird might have reacted if confronted by James Audubon: running like hell, convinced that to surrender to the portraitist may well mean the end of the entire freaking species.

My editor, a nice enough guy, wanted his photographer to shoot Margaret. None of the portraits she already had (taken, beautifully, by her friend, Erica Berger, who knows exactly how to manage Margaret in a photo shoot, and no, there are no pharmaceuticals involved, although, note to self, maybe not a bad idea for next time) would suffice. He wanted his own. Oh, [expletive deleted].

I tried gently to suggest that he try, hard, not to set himself and Margaret up for the pain of a shoot. Not only was there the issue of Margaret’s aversion to the lens, she was also, rightly, concerned that a portrait shot in the garden in (very) early spring might look out of place in a story running in July. And, there was her schedule to contend with. Always busy, she was now immersed not only in her two websites, but also in writing the first draft of her book. She really didn’t have a lot of time to give away. As the tug-of-war over images continued, I grew more and more worried.

Selfishly, I had thought this profile would be good for my portfolio, good for developing a relationship with a new (to me) magazine and editor, good press for Margaret and the websites. More, as I finished the piece, I liked what I’d written and thought it presented an accurate and compelling picture of my friend.

But as the tension mounted, I put the article out as a sacrificial lamb to Margaret. If the photo shoot was going to be too much trouble, she could walk. I would understand. The editor might never forgive me, but I was crystal clear on this point: My relationship with Margaret, the one I feared I’d jeopardized by trying to write honestly and with some humor about her, quirks and all, was not available for the chopping block.

And so, as she does in most things, Margaret prevailed. I still don’t know (and don’t want to) what magic she worked on my editor to get him to use an existing portrait;  until the magazine arrived in my mailbox yesterday, I had no idea (I’d been afraid to ask) how this issue had played itself out. Apparently I, too, have something in common with a giant flightless bird, because I’d stuck my head into the sand, not even discussing the article with Margaret again until just the other day. After reading the online version, I sent off a tentative email. I needed to know she didn’t hate it, or me.

“I hope you’re ok with it. I know it wasn’t the highlight of your year,” I stumbled.

She came through, like a sister. In part, her response read, “I love you and love your writing.” Right back at you, sissie. Now, when can I take your picture for my photo album?

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