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Writing My Fourth Novel: Bookends
Writing My Fourth Novel: Bookends
By Jane Green
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Excerpt From My Third Book: Mr. Maybe
Nick was never supposed to be The One, for God's sake. Even I knew that. And yes, I know those that are happily married often say you can't know, not immediately, but of course I knew. Not that he sounded wrong-Nick spoke the Queen's English slightly better than myself, but nothing else was right, nothing else fitted.There was the money thing, for a start. My job as a PR might not be the highest-paying job in the universe, but it pays the bills, pays the mortgage and leaves me just enough for the odd bit of retail therapy. Nick, on the other hand, didn't earn a penny. Well, perhaps that's a bit of an exaggeration, but he wasn't like all the other boyfriends I'd had, wasn't rolling in it, and , although that's not my main motivation, what I always say is II don't mind if he can't pay for me, but I do bloody well mind if he can't pay for himself.And though Nick occasionally offered to go dutch, it was such bad grace and I used to feel so guilty, I'd just push his hand away, tell him not to be so silly and drag out my credit card.And then there was politics. Or lack thereof, in my case, might be more appropriate. Nick was never happier than when he was with his left-wing cronies, arguing the toss about the pros and cons of New Labour, while I sat there bored out of my mind, not contributing just in case anyone asked me what I voted and I had to grudgingly admit I voted Conservative because, well, my parents had.Speaking of pros and cons, it might be easier if I showed you the list I drew up soon after I met Nick. I mean, if I sit here telling you about all the reasons why he wasn't right for me, it would take all day, and I've still got the list, so you may as well read it. It might help you to see why I was so adamant that he was just a fling.Pros I fancy the pants off him. He's got the biggest, softest, bluest eyes I've ever seen. He's very affectionate. He's fantastically selfless in bed. (Make that just fantastic) He makes me laugh. Cons He's got no money. He lives in a grotty bedsit in Highgate. He's left-wing/political. He likes pubs and pints of beer. I hate his friends. He's a complete womanizer. He's allergic to commitment. He says he's not ready for a relationship. (Although neither am I.) So there you have it-far more cons than pros, and, if I'm completely honest, the cons are much more important, I mean, how could I have even thought of getting involved with someone whose friends I hated? I have always, always thought you could judge a person by their friends, and I really should have known better.
By Jane Green
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Excerpt from My Second Book: Jemima J
God, I wish I were thin. I wish I were thin, gorgeous and could get any many I want. You probably think I'm crazy. I mean here I am, sitting at work on my own with a massive double-decker club sandwich in front of me, but I'm allowed to dream aren't I? Half an hour to go of my lunch break. Half an hour in which to drool over my latest edition of my favorite magazine. Don't get me wrong, I don't read the features, why would I? Thousands of words about how to keep your man, how to spice up your sex life, how to spot if he's being unfaithful are, quite frankly, irrelevant to me. I'll be completely honest with you here, I've never had a proper boyfriend, and the cover lines on the magazines are not the reason I buy them. If you must know, I buy them, all of them, for the pictures. I sit and I study each glossy photograph for minutes at a time, drinking in the models' long lithe limbs, their tiny waists, their glowing golden skin. I have a routine: I start with their faces, eyeing each sculpted cheekbone, heart-shaped chin, and I move slowly down their bodies, careful not to miss a muscle. I have a few favorites. In the top drawer of my chest of drawers in my bedroom at home is a stack of cut-out pictures of my top supermodels, preferred poses. Linda's there for her sex appeal, Christy's there for her lips and nose and Cindy is there for the body. And before you think I'm some kind of closet lesbian, I've already told you the one thing I would wish for if I rubbed a lamp and a gorgeous, bare-chested genie suddenly appeared. If I had one wish in all the world I wouldn't wish to win the lottery. Nor would I wish for true love. No, if I had one wish I would wish to have a model's figure, probably Cindy Crawford's, and I would extend the wish into having and keeping a model's figure no matter what I eat.
By Jane Green
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Writing My Second Novel
When it came to writing my second novel, I knew I wanted to do something different. In Straight Talking I had bared my soul, and the press attention had been overwhelming. There were times when I felt scared and vulnerable, regretting the articles I had written to publicize the book, regretting I had opened my life up for all to see.This time around I decided to do a fairytale, and a fairytale about food.Jemima Jones is overweight. Funny, feisty, frighteningly intelligent, she is on the fast track to nowhere because of her weight. Her bosses overlook her for prettier, thinner, less-accomplished colleagues, and men ignore her, treating her only ever as a friend.Jemima pushes her unhappiness down with food, secretly binge-eating to try and numb the pain of not being good enough, until her life is kick-started with the advent of Brad, a potential online romance who lives across the Atlantic in Los Angeles.Like Cinderella before her, Jemima then has to reinvent herself for Brad. Like all good fairy stories, she transforms herself dramatically from ugly duckling to beautiful swan, but it isn't Brad she realizes she wants, instead someone much closer to home.Jemima remains the easiest book I have written. I flew to Los Angeles to write it, stopping in New York for Christmas with my friend Caroline. We stayed at the Gramercy Park hotel, pre-Schrager re-invention, but it still felt like a treat, upgrading to a shabby suite and having cocktails in the piano bar.We spent hours shopping in Greenwich village and SoHo, saw movies, theatre, and laughed ourselves stupid. And then we met up with a mutual friend from London, and for some ridiculous reason the friend and I decided to embark upon a holiday romance.It felt, and was, ridiculously romantic. We held hands to the top of the Empire State Building and snogged on the terrace as we looked out over New York. We giggled through Central Park and shared hot chocolate at Micky Mantle's.I left him, and Caroline, and flew to Los Angeles, where I had booked into a terrible hotel in Santa Monica. Not the gorgeous Shutters by the Beach, but a ghastly depressing place where the sole window in the room looked onto a brick wall. I had bought a computer in New York, but once I got to LA it stopped working.I had been looking forward to LA. The last time I'd been I was twenty one. I bought an air ticket, and flew over, a budding bright-eyed journalist, with a few hundred dollars and a phone number. I moved in to the Laurel Canyon hippyish home of an aspiring film producer, and after some weeks moved in with a girl I met one day at Johnny Rockets. I interviewed TV stars in shows like Beverly Hills 90210 and LA Law, and filed the stories back to London, using the money to stay on.I went out every night, to bars, parties, clubs. I rode on the back of a motorbike that belonged to the gay guy across the hall who swiftly became my new best friend. All these years later, I expected it to be the same.It wasn't.I hated the hotel. I hated being there. The computer didn't work, and the shop told me it would take some days to fix. I couldn't write, other than longhand, I didn't know anyone, and I was no longer bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, looking for adventures, but longing to get back home to continue my budding romance, and pissed off I couldn't achieve what I wanted to.
By Jane Green
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Writing My First Book: Straight Talking
I was twenty seven when I came up with the idea for my first novel. Two things had just happened that made me think I could do it. The first was Nick Hornbys book, High Fidelity, which spoke to every thirty-something single man I knew, and the secon
By Jane Green