Bio
In those early days when I saw Facebook as communication’s Promised Land and long before I realized that it is to true connection what a drive-through window is to French cuisine, I tried my hand at defining myself in forty words or less for my profile. The result was a verbal flourish that caused more “Huh?” among my readers than “Ah.” It went something like this:
“I am a kaleidoscope of far-flung thoughts and stagnant pain and errant dreams—which hope and Heaven’s Hand bid flow back to each other to dance and delve and dare and dawn into a miraculous, mosaical whole.”
In an attempt to unmuddy the mosaic, I’ll try to define myself here in less poetic terms.
I was born in France to an American mother and a Canadian father. My early forays into poetry may have been inspired by the naming process in the Phoenix family. My mom, Sally, had to write newsletters fairly frequently, and she wanted something snappy and Shakespearean (Seussian?) with which to sign off. “Ken and Sally and the kids” was far too banal. But if she named us in such a way that we could have a rhyming signature? Well, that would be just dandy. So the Phoenix family became “Ken and Sally, Kip and Shelley,” which looked good and sounded good, particularly when uttered in a singsong tone. Adding to my moniker malfunction was my brother’s inability to pronounce my nickname. I consequently became known to some (and am still known in “elderly” circles) as Lelly Phoenix. Don’t judge. As soon as I was old enough to demand that my full first name be used, I put my extra-wide foot down.
I’m sure my parents hoped that my multicultural background would grow me into a walking, breathing, one-person United Nations, world-savvy and multilingual. They hadn’t banked on the firm disciplinary tactics (ie. abuse) of the French school system in which I spent the first 8 years of my education. Whatever my international upbringing might have done for me was rather irrevocably undone by the ear-pulling, nerve-pinching, dunce-cap imposing and insult-hurling teachers in the adventure that is French education.
I left the French school system in 9th grade, when I moved to Germany to attend Black Forest Academy. BFA is a school for the children of missionaries, nestled in the foothills of the Black Forest, just 20 minutes from France and Switzerland. I was a boarder my first year, and with life-sucking homesickness weighing me down, I missed my Lelly-days in a visceral way. My parents moved to Alsace, France, the next year, just across the border from the school, and began teaching at BFA. That brought a whole new dynamic into my life, a dynamic I liked to refer to, in my mellower moments, as “Why-oh-why-do-you-have-to-be-my-parents-AND-my-teachers?!” I was experiencing a bit of teenage angst at the time.
Black Forest Academy played a pivotal role in my life. The French-American-Canadian child I was had never felt “normal”—not in the States, not in Canada, and certainly not in France. BFA became home to me. My heart-home. My belonging-home. My I’m-not-weird home. My someone-actually-understands-me home. If you cram enough identity-confused teenagers into a small space, their abnormalities become the norm. There was healing in that. Great healing. Particularly as I had been reduced to a chronically depressed and introverted teenager by the subtle and overt assaults of the French culture on my fragile spirit.
Wheaton College. I picked the school because I’d actually heard of it. In those pre-Internet days, living in Europe truly felt remote, but I’d somehow heard of Wheaton. So I applied, opting for a major in communications with no regard for the utter outlet-less-ness of such a vague (albeit enjoyable) area of studies. I focused on writing and was blessed to have published author Myrna Grant as a mentor. She made it possible for me to take several graduate level writing classes, all of which have served me well.
After working for a year as a screenwriter for a now-defunct Christian association, I was informed that there were no more funds to pay my salary. Bummer. It had been my dream job: my boss lived in Colorado (while I was still in Illinois), which meant I only met him once a month at O’Hare airport to hand over the fruit of my 30 days of labor. No office hours. No one breathing down my neck. All the time in the world to watch late-night talk shows and sleep in until Days of Our Lives. And a Long John Silver’s just around the corner. (Though I eventually recovered from the sting of being fired, I never really lost my Long John Silver thighs!)
I joined the happy ranks of the unemployed for a couple of months, spending my free time herding cockroaches around my little apartment and becoming an expert in the mysteries of soap-opera plot lines. When a cheap (ie. miraculous) ticket to Europe allowed me to fly home to spend a couple weeks with my parents, I sat down for a talk with my former principal at BFA, and the rest, as they say, is…ministry. I joined the staff of Black Forest Academy a few months later, in 1991, ostensibly to be a writer in the communications department. That never happened. Instead, I’ve spent my time since then reinventing myself nearly yearly. I’ve taught English and French, directed school plays, directed ensembles and the high school choir, led student council, written and directed a yearly, large-scale outreach dinner-theater event, cooked (and otherwise helped out) in BFA’s residences, and spent as much time as humanly possible with the students I love more than I could adequately express with mere words. All the struggles I faced as the child of missionaries, the challenges I failed and the hurdles I overcame, have found their completion in my work with the young people who live and learn in this unique and inspiring place.
I wrote my first novel in college—a tacky (t-a-c-k-y!) romance. I was convinced I’d be able to sell the manuscript to Harlequin for about three and a half million dollars. It had all the necessary plot elements: slightly needy girl, athletic guy, charismatic dog and the kind of chemistry only a college student who’d never had a real boyfriend could have drummed up (forgive the dangling participle). I still have a copy of the manuscript sitting around somewhere, but the mere thought of Ravages (original, huh?) seeing the light of day makes me blush—and not in a good way.
I wrote my first screenplay (an independent study project) around the same time. It was a feature-film based on Christy, the Catherine Marshall novel. The book became an acclaimed TV series before I’d finished with my screenplay. Someone else had beaten me to the punch. In writing–as in jazz–timing is everything!
My next literary project was a cutting-edge novel written mostly in the form of emails exchanged by high school sweethearts who lost touch after they graduated, then reconnected online when disease struck the male half of the couple thirteen years later. Ironically (but not in a ha-ha way), the female character, who is an awful lot like me, ended up getting breast cancer in the story. Little did I know then that my own life would take that direction years later. Can a person prophecy her own future? Apparently so! Then came a full-length play I wrote for BFA. It had to do with heart transplants and cell-memory and relationships and grief and redemption. Right around the time I produced and directed its premiere, Hollywood came out with “Return to Me.” Once more, that three and a half million dollar check had slipped right out of my grasp. Or out of my imagination. That’s more like it.
Disillusioned with the process of traditional publishing, I decided to try my hand at self-publishing. It isn’t easy and it isn’t cheap, but it gets my novels into the hands of readers, and I’m grateful for that.
2008. A momentous year. Not only did I turn 40, but I marked the milestone with two forms of cancer and ten surgeries. “Memorable” is an understatement. The first one was a very rare (ie. 300 cases worldwide) cancer of the sweat duct, also known as microcystic adnexal carcinoma or MAC. It started me on what I came to call my McJourney, one that I thought had ended victoriously in June ‘08, after a series of surgeries to remove the invasive tumor. Exactly one month later, a kind and thorough doctor in South Carolina discovered breast cancer. It was, to say the least, a staggering diagnosis. Please see the “Michèle’s links” page of this website for a video summarizing the challenge and beauty of my journey through cancer. See also the “The Water’s Edge” page for a special coffee-table book that retraces my twofold battle against The Beast through photography and journal excerpts. It is my testimony to God’s compassion, comfort and care, shown so vividly through those He sent to walk with me down the treacherous road of recovery.
My life isn’t perfect. I figure perfect lives are reserved for perfect people, which is why they’re so scarce. But it’s good. It’s bright and surprising and filled with meaning, creativity and love. It’s God-led and God-healed. God-purposed, too. I sincerely couldn’t ask for more—except maybe for that three and half million dollar check that keeps eluding me. Oh, and a date with George Clooney.