A Conversation with Author and Playwright Leslie Liautaud

The full interview from Palomino County's print Volume One "Heritage Reclaimed."

I first met Leslie Liautaud through our mutual friend, television producer Nathan Johnson, during a private event in Franklin, Tennessee. His introduction was something along the lines of: “You both have deep roots in Kansas City, lived in Chicago, and are writers. Enjoy! I’ve gotta go find my wife!” His wife, actress and singer Laura Osnes, was the star of the evening—and she was getting ready for a Q&A panel about her latest project. He was in charge of capturing the photos and ensuring the lighting cooperated. He left us to it, and we obliged.

Within minutes, I felt an uncanny sense of familiarity. Maybe it was our shared Midwestern roots, or our years spent navigating the fast pace of Chicago before eventually settling in Middle Tennessee. Perhaps, our mutual love of long walks in the country, with our dogs in tow, sealed the deal.

During our initial conversation, what struck me most wasn’t just her impressive résumé as a playwright and novelist, or her deep creative instincts—it was her presence. Grounded yet curious, articulate without pretense, and unapologetically passionate about her work and family, Leslie embodies the balance so many of us seek: to be creatively fulfilled while staying deeply rooted in our personal lives.

Over the course of our interview, we explored the themes that shape her storytelling: the discipline of marriage (her husband is Jimmy Liautaud, founder of Jimmy John’s), the quiet successes of her parents, her own experiences raising three children while building a career in the arts, and the interplay of faith and personal integrity in both business and creativity. She shared how motherhood has softened and sharpened her voice as a writer, how the South has offered her a kind of peace she didn’t know she was missing, and how storytelling continues to serve as both an anchor and a launchpad.

Leslie’s perspective is one that values character over image, substance over spotlight. Whether through her work on the stage or on the page, she reminds us that a successful life isn’t measured by accolades, but by the way we show up—for ourselves, our families, and our communities. I’m honored to share this conversation with someone I now consider both a creative force and a kindred spirit.

Rebekah Iliff: Let’s kick it off with the million dollar question. How do you define the “American Dream?”

Leslie Liautaud: I believe there is a promise that in this country, you have the freedom to build a life on your own terms—through hard work, personal responsibility, and the chance to rise. It’s not about guaranteed success, but about the opportunity to try. That promise was born in revolution, written into our Constitution, and passed down through generations who believed in something bigger than themselves and fought for that belief. It’s not a dream handed out by government programs or top-down policies. It’s earned—earned by the small business owner unlocking their doors before sunrise, the farmer working land that’s been in the family for decades, or the immigrant who comes here not to rewrite America, but to be part of what makes it exceptional. 

My husband’s family is a wonderful example of the American Dream. Jimmy’s mother, Grazina, was bombed from her home in Lithuania during World War II and ultimately landed on the shores of America. At 12 years old, and the only English-speaking family member, she helped her family navigate their way to Chicago where her parents were able to find work in the Chicago stockyards. Grazina went on to attend the University of Illinois to earn a teaching degree. Jimmy’s father’s family started in New Orleans from a relationship between a Haitian slave and owner. His great grandfather and brothers left Louisiana for Chicago to break the color lines and all started their own independent businesses. Jimmy’s father, Jim, was the first in his family to attend college because of the GI Bill, and from there went on to create his own successful entrepreneurial career. 

When I consider these stories, it becomes clear that the American Dream isn’t about perfection—it’s about freedom. It’s about being able to choose your own path, guided by your values, and not controlled by someone else’s vision. It’s rooted in faith, family, and the belief that we’re at our best when we’re free to pursue our own version of success. While equal opportunity doesn’t mean equal outcome, it does mean the space where ambition meets liberty—the space to try—is the true gift we’ve been given.

RI: What are your thoughts on success? What does that word mean to you?

LL: Defining “success” is like defining “spicy.” Ask ten different people and you’ll get ten different answers. It’s an ambiguous word that has become solely synonymous with monetary wealth. But I personally don’t believe success is about titles, trophies, or the spotlight. It’s about doing what matters—with integrity, grit, and a sense of responsibility. It’s in the discipline of showing up every day, even when no one’s watching. It isn’t about image, it’s about character. It’s a character that chooses the harder right over the easier wrong without thinking. It’s building something real and lasting—a strong family, an honest business, and the mind set that every day can be just a touch better than the day before. 

My parents met and began dating when they were 15 years old. They married at 20 and had their first child (me) at age 22. Their adult life was akin to jumping out of a plane and growing wings along the way. They both juggled odd jobs until my father settled into sales for General Electric and my mother earned a degree in education. They renovated and flipped homes on the side as supplement income. We went camping as a family for vacations and most weekends were spent with grandparents, aunts, and uncles. When General Electric went through a period of layoffs, my father took a position at a retail shoe store until finding another full-time job, never allowing his ego to come into play. For my sister and I, new clothes were a rarity, but unconditional love was over abundant. 

Now in their mid-seventies, my father works at a local library, refusing to miss a shift, and my mother remains active in local community organizations. They are surrounded by children who emulate their work ethic, son-in-laws who aspire to their vision of family,  and grandchildren who simply adore them. In my book, their life journey has been a success by refusing to be defined by excuses or blame and instead stepping up at every turn. They carried their responsibilities without complaint. They led quietly and served steadily. They did not demand what they believed was owed, instead they gave back. Their version of success, the definition I was raised with, is about being rooted. It’s about being grounded in discipline and purpose. Honoring your body with physical activity and healthy food, quality time with loved ones, connections with your community and neighbors, and pursuing your passions. True happiness is hard work and is something that does not just happen, so to reach a place of peace, integrity, and alignment with yourself takes time and energy. It is a job all unto itself. But the riches from this type of success are immeasurable.

RI: Does faith and spirituality play a key role in how you conduct your professional life? What about your personal life? 

LL: My parents did a lot of church hopping when I was younger and, in some ways, I’m very grateful for that exposure. Drawing from the various religions, I was able to string together many life lessons I carry with me today. The simple and elementary lessons: kindness, empathy, patience, and forgiveness were instilled through all of the churches and different faiths, and I believe is at the core of our souls. We NEED kindness. We NEED forgiveness. We NEED to be forgiven. For myself, it’s as necessary as water and air to my well-being. And those needs don’t change whether the relationship is personal or business but they consistently stay in the forefront in the way I lead, make decisions, and show up every day. 

In business, faith reminds me that how you treat people matters just as much as the results you deliver. In our house, we use the phrase “Make a Deal, Keep a Deal”, which is the business equivalent of “Do Unto Others”. It keeps me grounded when things get stressful and reminds me to stay honest, even when shortcuts are tempting. It’s the reminder to “Do the right thing—even if no one’s watching.” I don’t get it right all the time, but my faith gives me a foundation to return to, especially in the messy, complicated moments. 

In my personal life, spirituality keeps me centered. I don’t know if it was experiencing so many faiths or if it’s just the way I’m wired, but as an adult, I’ve found God in the purest form when I’m in nature. Because of my young Boykin Spaniel, I spend every morning hiking the woods and pastures on my property in Tennessee, and every hike ends with a wade in the Harpeth River. It’s where I go to think about the bigger questions. It’s where I pray. The birds, the deer, the trees, flora and fauna, are all my church of choice. They help me pause, reflect, and remember that I’m part of something bigger than myself. They challenge me to be present. They request I stay grateful and respectful. Faith, in this form, is always there, quietly shaping how I move through the world.

RI: What do you love about living in the South, after spending most of your adult life in Chicago? 

LL: Growing up in Kansas City, which is very southern in its pace and attitude, Chicago felt like transporting to another planet. The city and the people there gave me momentum. They taught me how to hustle, how to think fast and move faster. And although I still love Chicago, I knew long term that it wasn’t where I wanted to hang my hat. 

When we moved to the countryside outside of Nashville, it felt less like a change of scenery and more like moving home. I adore the people in the South. Southern hospitality is not just a concept, it’s a way of life. The idea of a community being its own family is very real here. People make eye contact. They hold doors. Conversations aren’t rushed. They ask how you’re doing—and they stick around to hear the answer. Life slows down here in a way that invites you to breathe, to look around, to actually be where your feet are. The days stretch out, the humid air isn’t oppressive, it’s a weighted hug. My backyard is filled with grazing deer and wild turkey. Lightning bugs announce summer. 

Chicago gave me fervor but the South gives me something else entirely: presence. There’s a kind of quiet richness to everyday life here: porch lights glow at dusk, neighbors call across yards, potluck dinners on Sundays are commonplace. It’s not performative or polished. The difference in these two sections of America is a full body shift in pace, values, and perspective. After years of city life, Tennessee feels less like slowing down—and more like finally catching up.

RI: What first drew you to writing—was there a particular moment or experience that made you realize storytelling was your calling? 

LL: After my youngest son went to kindergarten, I knew I wanted to re-enter the world of the arts but was at a loss as to what arm would work considering my travel schedule. At a dinner party one evening, a gentleman recalled the story behind the Taj Mahal. Immediately, I thought, “Why isn’t this a movie? Or a television series?” It was at that dinner I decided to write a script about Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal. 

I poured over history books and articles and attempted to transfer the epic love story onto page after page. When I finished, I held the script in my hands with complete and utter wonder. It embodied a fresh creative energy that I hadn’t felt in years. Make no mistake, I had written what is quite possibly the worst script ever written in the history of writing. But I had done it! I had written a script. It was abundantly clear I knew nothing about the technicalities of writing a screenplay. However, I knew stage plays—the formatting, the structure, the heartbeat—like the back of my hand. I had been performing on stage at age five and had not stopped until I was married at 24, when I took a long hiatus to raise our children. Suddenly, the thought of writing for theatre felt all at once the beginning of a new chapter in my life and also a return to who I was at my core.

RI: Your work spans both novels and plays. How do you decide which stories are meant for the stage and which are better suited to the page? 

LL: Although they are both under the umbrella of “literature”, novels and plays are apples and oranges. After 15 years of writing for the stage and after the production of several full-length dramas, I decided to challenge myself by writing a novel. Much like writing a screenplay, I was starting at ground zero. But I wasn’t worried, as I was an avid reader. I figured, “I’ll just write the story, expand on my knowledge of dialogue, add some descriptors, and be done!” 

But I found myself in the same predicament of inexperience I had been in with attempting to write a screenplay. While some of the practices and techniques I had honed as a playwright were valuable, there was much to learn. As creative and curious artists, we are constantly experimenting with new techniques and approaches which keeps art in a constant state of flux. That said, after an ongoing career as a playwright and with the release of my second novel, Butterfly Pinned, I can state with all certainty that there remain distinct and stark differences between writing a novel and writing a play. There are many factors that go into deciding which format a story fits into: formatting, setting, content.  

Stage plays are limited in many ways: cast size, set, size of stage, etc. So, a story that relies on multiple car crashes or or sweeping locations would be better told through a novel. A story that explores the relationship between two people over the course of one meal is a perfect candidate for a stage play, as plays tend to be deep dives of human psychology.

RI: You’re a mother and a writer—both deeply demanding roles. How has motherhood shaped your voice as a storyteller? 

LL: Motherhood has changed the way I tell stories in ways I didn’t expect. It’s taught me to pay attention to the little things, to quiet moments, feelings that are spoken aloud, but more so, those that remain silent. Balancing the demands of being a mom with writing has made my voice more honest, more patient, and a lot more aware of the messy, beautiful parts of life. It’s given me a new kind of strength and vulnerability. Some days are exhausting, but in that tiredness, I find clarity. 

My stories now carry more weight—they’re about connection, about the small acts of kindness and grace that keep us going. Motherhood has made me more grounded, more real in my writing, reminding me that every story, like every child, is unique and precious. Just as I approach my children, I’ve learned to listen to what the story is trying to express to me instead of the other way around. I’ve always had a rule that I don’t write when my husband or children are home. Partially because my writing is subpar when I’m not completely focused but mainly it’s because my family still comes first. And the older I get, the more I realize this has worked to my advantage as a writer in ways I hadn’t anticipated. By spending more time with my children as they age (now 31, 26, and 25 years old), I’ve been able to see life’s challenges through their eyes and without my own life bias. I’m able to examine the human condition outside of myself. 

Because they are my children, I can actually feel their experience. In our quickly changing world, I’ve been able to “stay with the times” more than if I lived in my little writer’s bubble. They explain to me what it has done to their generations emotionally to grow up with social media and to constantly be “available.” I feel so blessed to share joy in real time with my children, but I’m also filled with gratitude that I’ve been there for the rocky patches, as well. I’ve learned that creating—whether it’s a story or a family—is about holding onto hope even when things aren’t perfect. And that’s shaped my voice in ways I’m still discovering.

RI: Many creatives draw inspiration from real life. What are some of the recurring themes or relationships in your own life that find their way into your work? 

LL:  In Butterfly Pinned I pulled the emotions I experienced from dealing with a family member who suffered from bipolar disorder. The story of two young women and their blossoming friendship, their fictional immense highs of mania and tragic lows of depression, was nothing at all like the experience I had with my family member. But I drew on the feelings I was washed in while maneuvering around my family member. The confusion, the anger, the compassion. These are all feelings that, as humans, we experience in relationships regardless of mental illness or not. They are part of our human condition. They are relatable. 

The same goes for the sexual assault plotline in the novel. While my experience was completely different than that in the book, the feelings of chaos, rage, and shame remained the same. These are feelings that any reader can relate to even if they have never gone through an assault. I believe that the reason art resonates with us is that it helps to name our feelings and assures us that we are not alone in our life journey no matter the circumstance.

RI: What was it like navigating your own creative career while being married to a high-profile entrepreneur? How have you supported each other’s paths?

Leslie and Jimmy Liautaud

LL: Creating my own creative career while being married to Jimmy has been a journey of learning how to hold space for two very different kinds of ambition. I began working in the arts at age five when I first stepped on the stage and picked back up when my youngest child went to kindergarten, so the industry was not completely new to me.

However, it’s easy to forget parts of yourself after giving it up for so long. And, in all fairness, my husband had never known me during the years of working, as we had started our family immediately after meeting, so for him, my personal path in the arts was unchartered territory and took some getting used to. We are both type A individuals but it presents itself very differently in each of us. Jimmy’s brain is extremely creative as an entrepreneur, but his creative world is vastly different from mine. 

His moves are fast: public, high-stakes, driven by strategy and scale. He moves forward with process, procedure, and order. Mine unfolds more quietly, shaped by long stretches of solitude, reflection, and the slow, steady work of crafting. His energy is bold and expansive, mine more inward and deliberate. But over time, we’ve learned it’s not about competing for space—it’s about honoring it for each other.

We support each other by revering what makes us different and have learned to give each other space to breathe. We’ve found that spending a few days together followed by a few days apart is the trick to balancing the support for each other while supporting our own work. It hasn’t always been seamless—two ambitious people with big dreams will always face moments of tension—but we’ve found strength in championing each other’s goals. His courage pushes me to stretch beyond my comfort zone, and I like to think my grounded nature gives him a place to pause and reflect. Our lives don’t always move at the same pace but learning to speed up or slow down for the other has ended up being a beneficial lesson for us both.

RI: Do you ever feel a tension between visibility and privacy, especially being part of a well-known family? How do you stay grounded? 

LL: Yes, I’d say there’s definitely a tension between visibility and privacy when you’re part of a public family name. My husband struggles with people confusing his name for him. My children have all sought out individual paths that allow them to create their own identities. Personally, I’m a very private person by nature and so my tendency is to retreat even further away from any public spotlight. There’s a fine line between being seen and being known, and for me, most of my personal life I’d rather keep whole and untouched by people who don’t know me one-on-one. Our family has gone through our share of outside scrutiny and judgement. Those periods have spanned the spectrum of ridiculous assumptions to dangerous accusations. Worse, when your name is public, it can feel like your story starts to belong to others before you’ve had the chance to fully claim it yourself.  

Social media, which drives so much of the privacy intrusion, is a necessary evil in my life and were it not for the marketing aspect involved, I would most likely be offline. Most people would be surprised to know that we live a very modest life in comparison to our name and wealth. I’m not shopping on Rodeo Drive in a Ferrari. I’m not drinking champagne for breakfast. But I also have to wonder that even if I did, would it be anyone’s business? 

Writing, especially, is a quiet kind of refuge. It gives me space to process on my own terms, to reclaim my narrative. It’s an ironic truth for most artists, well-known family or not: we aim to make art that touches the public on a deep level but are, ourselves, introverted and create distance from that same public. I recently went through this challenge before releasing my novel, Butterfly Pinned. Because the sexual assault plotline of the story hit close to home, I wanted to get my personal story out ahead of the release. The goal was to make sure my story remained in the realm of my truth, not that of speculation. It was an emotionally grueling process to open up to media outlets and recount my own tale, not because of the actual event, but because I was opening up a private side of myself that I’m used to fiercely protecting. But ultimately, sharing on my own terms was freeing.

RI: You’ve raised children, written multiple works, and been active in the arts community. How do you approach balance—or do you even believe in balance as a concept? 

LL: I’m not sure I believe in balance, at least not in the polished, perfectly portioned way it’s often presented. Life, in all its fullness, rarely lends itself to symmetry. While I do believe every individual has the capacity to “have it all”, I don’t believe it’s realistic to have it all, all the time, all at once. Remaining a supportive spouse, raising children, writing books, staying involved in the community—these roles don’t line up neatly. They spill into one another, sometimes beautifully, sometimes chaotically. 

Balance isn’t about everything getting equal time. It’s about presence. It’s about being where my feet are—fully there for the conversation, the situation, the person who needs me. Some days are creative sprints, racing lap after lap, full of momentum. Others are quieter, focused on family or friends, with my computer sitting patiently in the background. I try to live those very different days with the same intention: take in that moment right then and there. Because there will be days when things fall through the cracks—when I forget an appointment, burn dinner, and stare at a blank page for hours. But then there are moments of magic: one of my children dropping in just to say hello, my husband’s laughter echoing down the hallway, or gathering to witness a friend’s performance at our local music venue. That’s when I realize that different cups in my life are filled at different times. Life tends to handle the balance for me in that way. So, I try to trust the rhythm of a life fully lived. I show up—with love, with intention—and believe that even when the pieces feel scattered, they’re still part of something whole.

RI: When you’re not writing or working, what are some of your favorite ways to unwind? Any favorite vacation spots in the U.S. that feel like a personal sanctuary?

LL: I’ve been fortunate enough to travel extensively with my husband over the years; and although Europe is incredibly beautiful to explore with its rich history and stunning architecture, I find that the U.S. is breathtaking in the variety of what it has to offer. My personal favorite, aside from Tennessee which I can’t tout enough, is northern Wisconsin. I’m very much a nature girl and can lose myself for an entire day shuffling through the pine forests or walking the shoreline of a lake. There is no way to describe the magic in witnessing a baby Bald Eagle flapping its wings for the first time in an attempt to fly. Or the deafening call of hundreds of frogs during mating season. 

RI: What books, films, or plays have influenced your storytelling voice? Are there any authors or playwrights you consider personal heroes? 

LL: I absolutely love the voices of Tennessee Williams, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Stephen King (in his earlier works). They all mastered the art of capturing the frailty of  human condition through the story rather than putting the spotlight on a particular issue; the act of conveying that “the thing is not the thing.” It’s an incredibly hard feat and all three did it exceptionally well. 

RI: What does your ideal writing day look like—from routine to setting to mental state?

Suge, Leslie's beloved Boykin Spaniel

LL: There are countless writers that are dogmatic about sitting down at 7 a.m. sharp for a five hour writing sprint. They stop for lunch, then pick it back up again, closing their workspace down in the evening before dinner.

They do this without fail every day. I applaud them as I fully admit I am not a part of that tribe. I do not have a routine. I do not sit at my laptop every day. I do not have “office hours”. However, whether it is the creation of a story or the business of writing, my brain is occupied more hours of the day than not. 

My day starts with coffee and the news. I have a digital folder a mile long saved of strange and unusual articles that have the potential to become  larger stories somewhere down the line.

Then I’m into the woods with my Boykin Spaniel, Suge. We’ll hike for an hour or two, wading in and out of the river, while I listen to a playlist that I’ve made for my work-in-progress, or I’ll simply let my mind wander in silence. I find this is where so much of my creative blockage is fixed. By not sitting and staring at a computer, I’m able to let story problems subconsciously unwind themselves organically. 

When I do have solitary days, I’ll return from the hike and immediately get to work. The uncontrollable rush of ideas pouring out, of completely giving yourself over to the flow when it happens, is almost euphoric, and I’ll ride that wave for hours. If my husband is home or if my children stop by for a visit, I’ll jot down any new thoughts that have come up during the walk, the ideas not lost, only recorded and set aside, until the house is quiet again. 

RI: Looking ahead, are there any themes or formats you're eager to explore in your future work—something you've yet to tackle creatively?

LL: The novel I’ve had rolling around in my head for years, and have finally begun outlining, is a true gothic horror tale. I love the classics like Dracula, Rebecca, The Haunting of Hill House—and hope to announce my own title next.

To learn more about Leslie and her body of work, please visit: LeslieLiautaud.com.

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About Butterfly Pinned

Marin thought college would be her fresh start—an escape from a troubled past and a chance to redefine herself. But when she meets Bette, a dazzling and enigmatic student with an intoxicating lifestyle, Marin is drawn into a seductive world of glamour, secrets, and danger. What starts as an exciting friendship soon turns into something darker, as Marin finds herself trapped in Bette’s web of manipulation and control. When shocking secrets come to light, Marin must confront the unsettling truth about Bette and the powerful forces working to keep those secrets buried. Caught between exposing the truth and protecting herself, Marin faces an impossible choice—will she fight for justice, or will she take the easy way out and leave her past behind?

Butterfly Pinned is a gripping psychological thriller about friendship, deception, and the cost of transformation. Perfect for fans of Less Than Zero and Cruel Intentions, this novel explores the dark side of reinvention and the resilience it takes to break free.