Stephanie Lessing's Backstory

I never intended to write a novel. Everyone I know thinks of novelists as these incredibly evolved intellectuals walking around with monocles, and really bizarre hair, who avoid associating with normal people.

"You wrote a book?" I get asked this question pretty much every day, with the emphasis on YOU????

"Yeah," I say, "Surprise!" And I have to admit; it is sort of odd. I come from a family of businesspeople who think of artists as those unfortunate folks who don’t have real jobs and therefore don’t bathe. How I came to give up bathing so I could free up my time to write a book was pure happenstance.

It all started when I was lucky enough to land a job at Mademoiselle Magazine when I was in my mid twenties. I adored my job. I was like a kid in a candy store. The glossy, almost life-sized editors, the sample shoes floating around, and the constant flow news breaking fashion and beauty advice was intoxicating. We all shopped our paychecks away and dreamed of being promoted to positions that would give us attitude problems.

I was a copywriter in the art department and I loved my writing assignments. No sooner did they arrive on my desk only to be dashed off and forgotten as I sat there tapping my pencil waiting for another one. Okay, fine, I was a suck up, but I did love my job.

Then I got married. And we moved to the suburbs and I was too lazy to commute so I did what any other self-respecting Jewish American Princess would do, I quit. But then Ron Galotti, my old publisher, called to say he had become the publisher of Vogue and asked if I wanted to freelance for him. Ron Galotti, for anyone who doesn’t know, is the real "Mr. Big," of Sex in the City fame. Of course I wanted to freelance for Vogue. Who wouldn’t want to freelance for Vogue? And so I did. And then he moved to Vanity Fair and the same phone call came again and so on and so on. Every time Ron got a new job, I got a new job, until I had a portfolio filled with projects from just about every magazine I can think of, including a few that Ron didn’t even work for!

My lips are sealed as far as True Horror Stories are concerned but boy did I witness some serious bitches going after some other serious other bitches in those magazines. It was like a blood bath --and I’m talkin’ the menstrual variety—and I was taking notes. When I got pregnant with my daughter Kim, I occasionally peeked at those old notes, but I didn’t dream of doing anything with them. I was too busy sleeping. Four years later, I had Kim and Jesse, and again I peeked at my old notes, but I was still too busy doing nothing to actually work and by that point I was also way too fat. For some reason when I had my kids I managed to keep all the baby weight on from one pregnancy right through to the next. I guess you could say I’m a medical miracle in that way. So mostly I stayed home and tried not to think about almost human-sized editors, floating sample shoes and useless up-to-the-minute fashion and beauty advice. When you’re rotting, you just don’t want to hear about these things.

Once my daughter started Kindergarten, there was no getting around the fact that she needed a ride. Once I left the house, I couldn’t help but notice the women around me . . .and how they were treating each other. Oddly enough, it didn’t seem that much different then the way some of the women in magazines treated one another. It occurred to me that no matter where I go, women are not nice to each other.

"I should really write this down," I thought. I started describing the different types of girls I had worked with and the women I was meeting on the playground and the women in department stores and the women sitting next to me while I was getting my nails done and the women having affairs with the deli man in our supermarket and facelifts and whole new body parts at our country club and before I knew it, I just kept writing until I had a collection of essays that sizzled like freshly lipo-suctioned fat in a pan. Or so I thought. Turns out the editors I sent them to thought I had written about women that didn’t really exist. Fictional stereotypes. In fact, the publishing community at large, hated my essays with such a passion, I was contemplating getting a bodyguard.

Instead of responding to their rejections with a thank you note, my agent-- at the time-- wrote lengthy letters of apology for his sudden lapse in judgment. I felt so sorry for him.

"What was I thinking? I’ll never work in this town again," he cried to me one night.

"Just keep blaming it on me," I told him and ended our contract. Luckily he signed Snoop Dog a few days later --so he got over our break up pretty quickly.

A couple of months later, I mustered up the courage to send my essays around one more time--after I took out all the good stuff. And I did get a reaction from one particular agent, who I now refer to as "my agent," who loved them.

"If you ever decide to turn these into a novel, please send it to me," she said.

"A novel? How the hell am I supposed to write a novel? I’m still working on perfecting the standard five-paragraph essay they taught us in sixth grade." She laughed when I said that. She probably thought I was kidding.

"I’ll just take one essay and see if I can turn it into a short story," I thought. And so I chose "Girl Boss," and began to write my book. As soon as I sent Chloe on her interview, my book was as good as written. I didn’t tell her what to say or what to do; she did everything on her own. All I did was watch her and repeat what she was saying and doing. Nothing could have been easier. And the more she messed up, the more I fell in love with her and wanted things to go right for her. As I was writing the book, my whole family got involved. My children would come home from school and ask me what moronic thing Chloe did that day. When I told them, they would shake their heads as though I was talking about someone they’ve known and pitied all their lives.

When I started writing my second book, "Miss Understanding," which is written in Chloe’s sister Zoe’s voice, I missed Chloe so much, I gave her a much bigger part than I had originally intended. Chloe just has this way of creeping into my heart when I least expect it and I’m not ready to say goodbye to her just yet. She literally has become a part of me. The best part. And hopefully she’ll find a way into the hearts of all sorts of other women-- especially when they’re working together and finding it difficult to see the good in one another. If nothing else, I know she’ll have taught us all something about forgiveness and hope --against the oddest of odds. Best of all, I didn’t have to gain an ounce bringing her into this world.

She's Got Issues is Stephanie Lessing's first novel

Comments

[Robert]

Managed Hosting, Colocation and Data Center Services by victoryushchenkonashpresudent ...

[Robert]

Managed Hosting, Colocation and Data Center Services by victoryushchenkonashpresudent ...