Ree's PR manager made me a writer
He was at least the first to publicly label me one, and it made a difference
Ree Drummond’s PR manager made a writer out of me. Not kidding.
Oh sure, I’d been writing for years by that point—blogs about intentional money and intentional living, and was in the final stages of editing Dear Fellow Spender for publication—but I didn’t yet consider myself a “writer.” You have to have official permission, you see, to call yourself such things. Months, which would turn into two years, of post-corporate travel was inching me closer to it. I was scribbling about all kinds of things, jotting down funny and interesting things seen, wrestling with the hard, and delighting in the unexpected—turns out there’s a lot of both when you leave the beaten path—and secretly wanting to be a writer, not a coach.
Off the beaten path I sure was when I met Ree’s PR manager, Terry. I’d made a two-hour detour to Pawhuska for a quick overnight visit, wanting to see what I could see in Ree Drummond’s town. You know Ree—the Pioneer Woman? I just didn’t expect for this to be the place I received my writerly permission slip.
Now, I’m not one to idolize famous people. They’re just people, after all, and a lot of them don’t seem very fun or kind or interesting. But I like Ree, and think I would genuinely enjoy talking with her over a casual lunch. Maybe even at McDonald’s. I think I remember, from her memoirish book, to her admitting to McDonald’s stops after pregnancy doctor’s appointments, and if you’ve been with me for any length of time, you’ll know I ate more than my share of McD’s on my cross-country treks.
Even before my visit to Pawhuska, I admired what I knew of the empire Ree has built, all while keeping her cowboy-booted feet on the ground. Her self-deprecating sense of humor on her blog and in her book won me over early, and she sealed the deal when I attended her book signing at the Salt Lake City Downtown Library maybe 16 years ago. My sister and I (and everyone else in the audience) felt like we were there to see a dear friend as Ree shared her story, answered questions, and signed books, disclosing disarmingly that she was sweaty and nervous.
Arriving Friday evening didn’t leave time for much more than a walk around town, making Saturday my big chance to see the hype first hand before driving on to Tulsa. There’s only so much eating and shopping a girl can do in a smaller town and I didn’t have specific expectations for the day. You could say I was open to whatever magic the day wanted to bring me, and boy did it ever.
I had finished eating breakfast in Ree’s Mercantile restaurant and was working on book edits while waiting for my credit card to be returned, when a man wearing a sheriff’s badge entered from a door not used by the public. He greeted a few tables, and as he passed mine, I blurted out: “Are you the real sheriff?”
No, he’s not, it’s just what he jokingly calls himself. The man is “Sheriff Terry,” and he’s Ree Drummond’s friend and PR manager. Perhaps he was just being kind, maybe he thought I would provide some positive PR for The Pioneer Woman (happy to!), or maybe he knew I’d be a wildly appreciative audience; whatever the reason, Terry offered to take me on a tour of Ree’s multiple businesses—the pizza restaurant, the kitchen of the Mercantile, the event center, all the rooms of the luxury Cowboy Bunkhouse, and the sweet shop.
Everywhere we went, he introduced me as “Emily, the Writer.” And by the end of our nearly two hours together, I was sold on the idea I’d been secretly entertaining for months. Maybe I really could be a writer, and should start thinking and acting more like it. Sheriff Terry’s positive labeling of me had more of an impact than he knew, and it’s not hyperbole to call that visit a turning point, seen even more clearly as one in hindsight. Doesn’t that seem to be the way of things?
Something about Terry introducing me as “a writer,” paired with meeting interesting people and hearing interesting stories, solidified something I’d been suspecting for a while and would come to fully appreciate in the past several months. I knew that writing about intentional money and even intentional living would never light me up remotely as much as it does to discover and write about life and people, often humorously and very often self-deprecatingly. It just took me many more months to add my permission to write what I love to the permission Sheriff T had given me to be a writer.
While I haven’t written my way to the moon yet, I love the column I’m writing here on Substack, finishing Book #2 (Dear Fellow Dreamer—about the wonder in wander, embracing uncertainty, making leaps out of security, and living in the messy middle,) planning on multiple more, and am itching to go back to the town where I first became an official writer.
Next time, though, I’ll try to stay in one of the luxury Cowboy Bunkhouse rooms I got to tour instead of the, er, local rustic hotel where I collected my room key out of a box (see photo above left) and wondered just how structurally sound the whole place was. Thanks (two years later), Sheriff Terry, for the tour, for being such a kind face of the Pioneer Woman’s hospitality, and for your pivotal part in making me the writer I am today.
Makes me wonder: Has anyone accidentally given you permission to be what you already were? I’d love to know.
Isn’t life cool, and are people interesting? See you in the next one…
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Thank you for sharing this wonderful story, Emily! While not nearly as engaging as your experience, being a writer clicked in my head when a bookshop employee, ringing up my purchase of books on writing, asked, "Are you a writer?" I thought, "What the heck?" I said yes and have repeated that scenario to myself many times. Especially when the words just don't want to play nice on the page.
Yes! People have encouraged me! We could all use more and give more encouragement.