You’d be hard-pressed to find a life that’s been more mythologized than Georgia O’Keeffe’s. By the time she was anointed Most Famous Woman Artist in America so many people had gushed so flagrantly over her singular style, her huge erotic flower paintings, her snappy (and occasionally snappish) bon mots, her long and unconventional marriage to Alfred Stieglitz, the other-worldly landscape of northern New Mexico with its voluptuous land forms and many large dead animals, whose skulls and vertebrae she immortalized, and her prickly devotion to her privacy, that it’s amazing there aren’t more O’Keeffe folk songs, limericks, totems, feast days, rituals, annual pilgrimages, and bank holidays. Given our feelings for everything she represents, it speaks well of the human race that we haven’t fetched up a minor religion around her that worships independence, focus, creativity, and wearing those bad scarves my mother used to don the day before she went to the beauty parlor.

Explain your fascination with these long-dead 20th century icons.  Frankly, it’s a little weird.

It’s a good question. Which doesn’t mean I have a good answer, or even a mediocre one.  I don’t know. Writers tend not to know.  This is true for pretty much all artists, if they’re being honest.  We do our work  in order to find out what we think, what we feel.  Our work is a form of inquiry.  A book is not a remodel.  A painting is not a retirement plan.  A song is not an itinerary.


That’s deep, and evasive.

I do one thing, then the next thing.  I have no master plan.  In 2004 I wrote a memoir about taking care of my dad during the last year of his life.  You can imagine what a cheery undertaking that was.  The writing of some books kill you.  Writing that book was like a bad break-up. After writing it, I wanted to date around. I wanted a rebound book. So, How to Hepburn was born. Katharine Hepburn was my mother’s favorite actress. When I was growing up, people would stop her in the produce aisle and tell her she looked like Hepburn. Then I went to film school, and I fell in love with her all over again. To do a book about Hepburn would mean a year of reading wonderful biographies and watching wonderful old movies and immersing myself in a time when cinema was new. Plus, I knew I wouldn’t be writing a standard biography. I have neither the interest in writing a comprehensive biography, nor the scholarly chops, nor the necessary OCD component to my personality.  It would be a cross between How Proust Can Change Your Life (by Alain de Botton) and U and I (by Nicholson Baker).  It would be my own thing. Even though Hepburn probably would not have approved of the book, she would have approved of the spirit with which it was undertaken.


Whatever you did seems to have worked.  After Hepburn came Coco Chanel, and now Georgia O’Keeffe.  

I’m calling it my Kick Ass Women trilogy.


Is that you, or the publicity department talking?

They called it my iconic women series, which I thought lacked a little cha cha cha and ooh la la.


Define “kick ass,” please.

The thing I love about them all was their unerring belief in themselves, their opinions, their style and their creative vision.  Chanel and O’Keeffe were contemporaries, and Hepburn was twenty years younger. All of them were born before women had the vote, when the goal of most women was to marry whomever would have them, the richer the better. They were stubborn.  They were not very nice. I love that they were not nice. Most women I know, even in this day and age, worry they are not nice enough. My kick ass women couldn’t give a shit. Seriously.


With the greatest respect, who cares what you think? I mean, these women are world famous, and you’re just some fan girl.

Fan girl and proud of it. I’m no different than every other person out there who’s bewitched by these women and their astounding achievements. I even have a Georgia O’Keeffe kitchen calendar, that’s how middle-brow I am.  I’ve delved into these women’s lives to see what it is that continues to attract us to them, even though they’re long dead. I write these books not only to figure out how I should live, but also, I hope, so that some of their luster might rub off on me, and by extension, you.


None of these women are mothers.  Are you saying that at the end of the day you have to forego kids to have an interesting life? That’s pretty retro.

The current thinking flies in the face of what people thought only ten years ago, which is that kids take up a lot of space in your life. I have friends who are having three and four kids, and still think they can start a company while going to medical school. But this is neither here nor there. I don’t think Hepburn wanted children, but Chanel did and so did O’Keeffe. But it didn’t happen for them, and so they threw themselves into their work. This is an old cure-all, throwing oneself into one’s work.


Did you ever imagine you’d be the inventor of this weird mash-up genre, or is it the natural outcome of having written your way through everything else.  Short stories, novels, creative non-fiction, YA mysteries, screenplays, essays, articles and reviews.  Is there anything you haven’t written?

I’m something of a poetry moron, although I did win a prize for a poem in college, so who knows what’s ahead.


In case you’re feeling a little smug about all this work, may I remind you that a Writer Without a Platform is a Writer Without a Career.

Don’t I know it. I’ve flown under the radar for twenty years, in part because I can’t settle on a specific subject or genre.  To be known for writing only about birds, or marriage, or thermonuclear reactors would be the end of me. I’d get bored. Writing would feel like homework, or doing my taxes. I cannot move forward in a piece of writing without passion, curiosity, and a sense of venturing out into the unknown. And yet, I haven’t had to make good on my promise to become a dental hygienist if stuff doesn’t work out.


Tell me something about Georgia O’Keeffe I might not already know.

She had a fabulous sense of humor. Also, she sewed her own underwear.


What’s the best piece of wisdom you’ve found in examining O’Keeffe’s life?

O’Keeffe was not immune to what other people thought about her work, but she made a habit of ignoring what other people said. “Flattery and criticism go down the same drain, and I am quite free,” she once said.


Does this mean you don’t read reviews of your work?

I stay as far away from reviews as humanly possible.  But given that in these modern times we authors are expected to leverage the hell out of every review we’re lucky enough to garner—good, bad or ugly—ignoring one’s reviews is not as easy as it once was, but I’m fighting the good fight.


Is print dead?

It’s on life support, but until the day comes when we can upload books onto chips implanted in our heads, there will still be books. Recently I was on a long flight, and the woman next to me was fussing with her iPad. Some file or app wasn’t opening for her, then her battery died.  She was forced to read Sky Mall for the next four hours. I had a paperback stuffed in my purse.  Need I say more?


Dear Texas,

Georgia O’Keeffe, the vaunted painter of periwinkle vaginas, once remarked of your landscape, “It is a burning, seething cauldron, filled with dramatic light and color.” I read O’Keeffe’s words and, Texas, I think she’s got you pegged.

From your Gulf Prairies and Marshes, that moist welcome mat for countless pirates, tycoons and explorers before me—to your tangled, pubic Pineywoods and fetid Savannah, I ache for you, Texas. Your Rolling Plains, your Edwards Plateau…Mmmmm. I can virtually run my finger down your vast belly. Although you are awfully big and grotesquely frustrating to get a handle on.

Why is this, Texas? Perhaps it’s because you’re always changing. At one moment, you’re a beacon of warmth and naked, Bacchanalian invitation a la Laredo Boys Town 1998, the next, you’re like the Summit in Houston. How so? Let me explain.

Like the Summit, sometimes, you are an arena filled with hope, Van Halen with David Lee Roth. You evoke nostalgia for Akeem Olajuwon dunking over The Admiral and you inspire memories of being eleven years old and chased on a scooter by Donnie Wahlberg of New Kids on The Block after pelting him and his bandmates with rocks for stealing our would-be girlfriends,

Other times, you become frustratingly similar to Joel Osteen’s faith-toaster, Lakewood Church, a veritable Six Flags Over Jesus where the destitute stumble in to put money in your capacious G-string, with only a hint of a lap dance and no champagne room in sight. I’d pick up my sling shot and my rocks again, but I fear Mr. Osteen may be equipped with more than a scooter and a entourage far more intimidating than Jordon, Jonathan, Joey and Danny.

Texas, you just don’t seem to know what you want to be. Do you want to be the bisexual travesty of nature Tila Tequila of Houston, or the homosexual travesty of nature Rick Perry, of the Governor’s mansion? You’ve gotta let me know. Do you want to embrace Dallas and Ft. Worth, the bloated, silicon titties of your Cross Timbers or showcase your fertile NASA mind? You know you’re capable of sending men and women into low-Earth orbit, then bringing them down with a septic splash after an exhausting interstellar session of toggle and yaw. You did say you were doing post-graduate work in aerospace engineering at nights. Was that all a lie, Texas? Or maybe you said it was medical school. Texas, what’s it going to be? Sometimes I feel like I’m sucking from the proverbial hind tit, here, Texas, a dying lone star, a black dwarf, like Emmanuel Lewis, without the cute cardigan.

Sometimes with you, I feel like a 10-year old boy, road tripping to Amarillo with my parents in 1984 to see Twisted Sister at the Civic Center. My teeth sweat with anticipation. “Ama-fucking-rillo!!” shouts Dee Snider. Then cops, then show’s over, with nary a chord struck. Cock tease. I protest in agony that we’re not gonna take it, but in the end, I always do.

Maybe this is why I’ve left you so many times. Well, I’m back now, Texas. And I’m hoping you’ll have me, if not forever, then for just this one night

I’ll finish up with another line for you from Georgia O’Keeffe: “There was quiet and an untouched feel to the country (that’s you Texas) and I could work as I pleased.” You and Georgia must have come across each other much earlier, because I certainly don’t get an “untouched feel” with you, but I do always believe that I can work with you pretty much as I please. It may seem crazy that I’m starting and ending these sappy scrawls to you by channeling Georgia O’Keeffe. But it really all comes down to art. And while Georgia creates her art with easels and acrylic, brushes and canvas and you create your art with an ill-fitting thong and a pole at the Yellow Rose Gentleman’s Club on weekdays from noon to four, you both serve as infinite inspiration for me. Well, that and of course, you’re both named after States.



A Harley biker with some naked chick riding shotgun, running over a unicorn.

A wizard perched atop a bloodshot eyeball, rolling a pair of dice across a panther’s back.

Princess Leia from Star Wars, her thighs wrapped seductively around a giant corndog.

Anything with a marijuana leaf.