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Behind the Book by

Three Wishes is the story of three best friends who transformed their lives by taking motherhood into their own hands. Carey, Beth, and Pam had succeeded at work but failed at romance, and each resolved to have a baby before time ran out. Just one problem: no men.

Carey took the first bold step towards single motherhood, searching anonymous donor banks until she found the perfect match. What she found was not a father in a vial, but a sort of magic potion. She met a man, fell in love, and got pregnant the old-fashioned way. She passed the vials to Beth, and it happened again. Beth met man, Beth got pregnant. Beth passed the vials to Pam, and the magic struck again. They had setbacks and disappointments, but three women became three families, reveling in the shared joy of love, friendship and never losing hope.

Below, each of them shares their experience of deciding to write the book.
 
Carey
When I turned 39 and made the decision to become a single mother, I started keeping a "Baby Journal" to help me work through all the complex emotions the whole process evoked. In the back of my mind, I thought it might turn into a book one day, but really, I was thinking of it more as a legacy to the child I hoped to have. At one point I even wrote: "If you are a future child of mine reading this, I just want you to know that I really, really tried, in the months and years before making you fatherless, to find you a dad." Later, after Beth and Pam and I shared such amazing luck, I thought: "This is an incredible story. We have to tell it." They say you write the book you need to read; I was doing that, writing just what I would have liked to read as a single woman facing a harsh biological deadline, looking for role models and inspiration.     
 
Beth
When I was 35, my husband left me for a much younger woman, and we were divorced. Suddenly, I found myself losing the future I thought I’d have.  Then I rallied, and made my life better than it had been. But, like Carey, I saw myself turning 40 without a child, and I didn’t want that to happen. It didn’t, but my child didn’t arrived in the way I’d anticipated. My life has had some bumps, but I (generally) remained optimistic, believing that if I was true to myself, pursued my dreams, and had fun, that even the harsh stuff would have a way of tempering itself. Turned out I was right. I wanted to write this book not only because it’s a great story, but because it’s hopeful. I want our story to be read, and shared, and for people to pass it on, saying, "Read this, I found a part of myself in it, and it reminded me that while things aren’t always easy, the hard parts shouldn’t stop me from following my dreams."
 
Pam
Countless times, I told a woman our story and she opened up and shared hers, or said that a girlfriend was in the same situation as we had been: older, alone, desiring love and family. I wished I could talk to that friend, to encourage her to go after what she wanted, on her own, even if there were no guarantees. I personally believed that taking control of my life and preparing for single motherhood was not a zero-sum game where I was forever giving up my chance to fall in love and have a mate, even marry. I had heard all the gloom and doom news and the scary myth that my odds of getting hitched at 40 were slimmer than being in a terrorist attack. Not only was that false, but I had been in one in the Middle East and survived. That had to count for something. As more and more women rooted for us to write a book, I began to appreciate how telling our stories could shine a meaningful light on how friendship and being true to your desires in the face of convention can bring unexpected joy. 

 

Three Wishes is the story of three best friends who transformed their lives by taking motherhood into their own hands. Carey, Beth, and Pam had succeeded at work but failed at romance, and each resolved to have a baby before time ran out. Just one…

Behind the Book by

First allow me to say that I had nothing to do with our current financial meltdown. A few years ago I found myself starting a novel about a family of bank robbers set during the Great Depression, a story that would become The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers. At the time, our stock market was briskly accelerating, the wind in its hair and its wrist casually dangling out the window. My house had almost doubled in value, along with pretty much everyone else’s, and people at parties traded ideas for the next great investment (redo the kitchen? buy nanotech stocks? get a second house?).

While casting about for an idea for my second novel, I read a history of bank robbers during the Great Depression and was intrigued by colorful characters like John Dillinger, Bonnie & Clyde and Pretty Boy Floyd. I next read a number of books about the Depression itself and marveled at the stories. Fistfights at the offices of employers who announced they needed to hire two men and found themselves fending off a riot of hundreds of applicants; long lines of laid-off white-collar workers waiting on city sidewalks for a free lunch, shamefully shielding their faces from view; families facing desperate decisions about how to simply stay alive; angry young men robbing banks and redistributing wealth the old-fashioned way.

This all seemed so otherworldly to me as I read about the ’30s from the comfortable vantage of 2007. And it had seemed so otherworldly to the people living it, too. People in the Great Depression, particularly the early years, felt utterly unmoored. Their world had been turned upside down. One year, shoeshine boys had been trading stock tips; the next year, stockbrokers were taking walks out their 20th-floor windows. Countless people were dispossessed, out of work and literally starving. How had this happened? We were a nation in complete and utter shock. All of the foundations of normalcy had been torn down—faith not only in capitalism but also in democracy; the belief that hard work would be rewarded, that the American Dream could be achieved. Our most basic assumptions had been revealed to be no more than empty myths.

One year, shoeshine boys had been trading stock tips; the next year, stockbrokers were taking walks out their 20th-floor windows.

I had always wanted to write a novel centered on a typical American middle-class family unexpectedly derailed by economic disaster, but had struggled with figuring out how to do so without being too depressing—and had wondered how I might make the story interesting to readers who were themselves living in the strongest economy ever known to man. The larger-than-life bank robbers of the Depression, I realized, presented me with a perfect opportunity. My fictional family could be a shop-owning clan in a small Midwestern city, ruined by the father’s horribly timed real estate speculation. In response, two of the three sons become bank robbers—and, soon enough, folk heroes to the legions of angry souls who blame the banks and the government for the hard times—and a third son can stay home to try supporting the family legitimately. The domestic tension, the sibling rivalries, the cool bank-robbing scenes, the fedoras and Tommy guns and fast cars, the mythology of the ’30s bank robbers, the sense that all of America’s founding principles had suddenly and irrevocably been called into question, a nation that seemed on the verge of revolution—all these were rich in narrative possibility for the novelist, even in 2007. I had no idea that any of this might also become frighteningly relevant to my own times—after all, as I wrote the rough draft, the Dow was above 13,000.

 

A very unfunny thing happened during the final revisions of The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers—the world economy collapsed. I had, alas, not seen this coming (one glance at my retirement account will prove my point). But as I read and reread my book in the final months of copyediting and proofreading, it was eerie that so many things I had once considered borderline fantastical were becoming commonplace in 2009: entire neighborhoods foreclosed and vacant; a modern-day Hooverville popping up beneath a highway overpass in my childhood home of Providence, Rhode Island; populist rage at government and banks, along with accusations and counteraccusations about the merits of socialism and the failures of capitalism; the sense that we had, for the last few years or decades, been deluded fools, recklessly living according to a set of fictional principles that had finally crumbled in the face of reality.

When writing The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers, I had not been trying to tell the future or draw parallels between a distant time and our own—and I think the book works even for readers unconcerned with such analogies. But it also proves that no matter how hard a writer might try to tell own his story and control his characters, there are always more powerful forces at work. The best you can do is tell your tale and let it loose upon a world that we’re all trying to make sense of, even as it changes around us, day after day.

Thomas Mullen made his literary debut in 2006 with the award-winning novel The Last Town on Earth. His second novel, The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers, has just been published by Random House. Mullen lives in Atlanta with his wife and two sons.

First allow me to say that I had nothing to do with our current financial meltdown. A few years ago I found myself starting a novel about a family of bank robbers set during the Great Depression, a story that would become The Many Deaths…

Behind the Book by

When I get rich, I want my own spokesman. Well, spokesperson. I want to be able to stand next to someone, looking off and smiling dimly, while he or she interprets my every thought and translates them into words.

"Mr. Martinez," my spokesperson will say, "emphatically denies that he stole one word from Angela's Ashes while writing Ethel's Urn. Any similarity between the ashes, the abject poverty or the Irishmen is purely coincidental. He has nothing more to say on the subject." Members of the media will continue to fire questions but my spokesperson will wave them off and lead me to a waiting limo. Then we will have lunch and he/she will order for me, and I won't say a word all day and possibly for the rest of my life. When I die, they will bury my spokesperson with me, just in case.

It is a dream that began while I was hustling my book around Los Angeles. The book is called The Last City Room, and because it is my first novel, I have been pushing harder than usual to make it fly. When I don't feel like a hooker peddling my ass all over town, I feel like a mother bird shoving her baby out of the nest.

Everyone has a spokesman in L.

A., from a strung-out actor caught trying to pick up a transvestite taxi dancer to a celebrated homeless poet who reads for old ladies enraptured by a versifying bum. It is said that when Barbra Streisand was married recently, a spokesperson replied "She does" when asked if Barbra would take James Brolin to be her lawful-wedded husband. "If you really want to be noticed," a fellow novelist advised, "hire your own publicist." That's what I did, and it spoiled me. Her name is Kim Dower. I am a columnist for the L.

A. (by God) Times and already am semi-noticed, so when she went to work I became mega-noticed.

There is both a plus and a minus to that. The plus is that it gets you interviewed by smart people who ask intelligent questions. The minus is, it gets you interviewed by idiots who have never read the book. You know they haven't when they begin the interview with, "Tell us about your book." I was tempted once to respond to a TV interviewer, "Well, it's about a family called the Joads who leave Oklahoma during an economic downturn and move to California to pick fruit and face a lot of difficulties." I didn't because I was warned that the interviewer has a violent temper and, perceiving my mockery, might mash me like an Idaho potato right there on live cable television.

My book is actually about a fictional San Francisco daily that crashes in the 1960s against the calamity of student uprisings. It is ironic that on the day it ceased publication, the San Francisco Examiner ran a highly favorable review of The Last City Room. I thought about asking my publicist if she had engineered the newspaper's collapse to sell the book but I didn't. There are some things I just don't want to know.

I hired her for two months and then it was over. For awhile, I found myself unable to decide what to say when called upon to speak. I thought about handing out press releases at signings and readings, but that probably wouldn't be acceptable. I would have to refer to myself in the third person like Bob Dole. "Al Martinez believes that writing a novel is like having a baby in your 50s. It is possible but not easy." Laughter. Applause. If, upon reading this, you all go out and buy a copy of The Last City Room and call it to the attention of the sheltered Eastern media, who are still not convinced that the land west of the Great Divide is populated, I will be grateful. And then perhaps I will be wealthy enough to hire a spokesperson/ghost writer who will submit works such as this and say, "Al Martinez sincerely hopes you like this, but it must stand on its own. There will be no further additions or rewrites. Thank you and that will be all." Al Martinez' spokesperson tells BookPage that his first novel, The Last City Room, was published by St. Martin's. A Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, Martinez says he is currently working on another novel, rooted in the Korean War, and finishing up a travel book, I'll Be Damned If I'll Die in Oakland.

 

When I get rich, I want my own spokesman. Well, spokesperson. I want to be able to stand next to someone, looking off and smiling dimly, while he or she interprets my every thought and translates them into words.

"Mr. Martinez," my…
Behind the Book by

I'm James Patterson and I write thrillers such as Along Came a Spider and Kiss the Girls.

Having said that, let me tell you a love story.

Around 18 months ago, I had a glimmer of an idea to write a novel called Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas.

The story begins with a book editor who has fallen in love for the first time in her life, and she has fallen hard. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, the man walks out on her. A day later, she receives a diary and the following note from her lover:

Dear Katie, No words or actions can begin to tell you what I'm feeling now. I'm so sorry about what I allowed to happen between us. It was all my fault, of course. I take all the blame. You are perfect, wonderful, beautiful. It's not you. It's me. Maybe this diary will explain things better than I ever could. If you have the heart, read it. It's about my wife and son, and me. I will warn you, though, there will be parts that may be hard for you to read. I never expected to fall in love with you, but I did. Matt

Katie can't help herself; she starts the diary. And reading it changes her life. To be totally honest, the prospect of writing this novel scared me, because it was a love story actually two love stories and I had never even written one love story before. I remember that it was a Monday and that I happened to be in the offices of Little, Brown in New York City. I was meeting with the publisher and the editor in chief and suddenly I found myself saying, "Let me tell you a story that I can't get out of my head. I must warn you though, it's not a thriller." I told the story I had in mind for Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas, and when I finished, both of these somewhat tough (though tender on the inside) New Yorkers were crying.

At this point, I knew I had to try to get the story down on paper if I could.

For the next 10 months, every day, I continued to be scared, but I also was as excited as I had ever been while writing a book. I customarily write in my office, but I wrote Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas in the bedroom. I usually write six or seven drafts of a novel, but I wrote 11 drafts for Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas.

When I was finished, I gave it to my wife to read. When she came out of our bedroom about four hours later, she was crying.

I gave it to friends to read, and they cried. And then, this spring, a bookseller got hold of a reader's copy and sent me this e-mail. He wrote: "I'm an Irish man, and I don't cry. I never cry. I just finished Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas, and I cried for the first time in 20 years. Thank you." Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas comes out on July 16. Take it to the beach. But you better bring a handkerchief.

Former advertising executive James Patterson has become a one-man publishing powerhouse, with a string of best-selling novels, including the Alex Cross thrillers and a new mystery series, launched with the spring release of 1st to Die. His latest novel, Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas is a romantic departure from his earlier work. Patterson lives with his wife, Sue, and their young son. They have homes in New York and Florida.

I'm James Patterson and I write thrillers such as Along Came a Spider and Kiss the Girls.

Having said that, let me tell you a love story.

Around 18 months ago, I had a glimmer of an idea to…

Behind the Book by

People always ask why I spell Kleopatra’s name with a K. In fact, it’s the original Greek spelling. Kleopatra was not Egyptian at all, but the last of a Greek dynasty that ruled Egypt for almost 300 years. The unusual spelling is entirely appropriate: I want people to rethink the very idea of Kleopatra right down to the spelling of her name.

In a recent speech, the esteemed writer Susan Sontag claimed that "the writer’s first job is not to have opinions but to tell the truth . . . and refuse to be an accomplice of lies and misinformation." Not all writers not even those who chronicle history subscribe to Ms. Sontag’s sentiments. Mitigating factors bias, distort and color both history and its characters. Who was in power when the history was written? What was the political orientation of the historian? What were the prejudices of the age? Of all the women distorted by history and myth, Kleopatra is the most vivid example. Far from the seductive, treacherous archetype of feminine evil who lives in the popular imagination, Kleopatra was one of the ancient world’s most brilliant and powerful rulers. She survived blood-curdling family rivalries, single-handedly ruled a rich nation and kept Egypt independent while all its neighboring countries had been annexed to the Roman Empire. She spoke nine languages, patronized art, drama, athletics and the sciences, and had the loyalty of her subjects rare for the members of her dynasty.

The Kleopatra handed to us by history was the victim of a smear campaign by her rival and mortal enemy, Octavian (who became Caesar Augustus). Octavian feared with good reason not only Kleopatra’s power as the Queen of Egypt, but also her influence with Julius Caesar, and later, Mark Antony. But history is written by the winners, and Octavian, in his war against Antony and Kleopatra, won. After her death, he destroyed all written histories favorable to her, and her story was rewritten by his court historians. The more I found out about the historical Kleopatra, the more infuriated I became. Women have virtually no role models who have held Kleopatra’s great power, and I could not accept that the most powerful woman in history, with the possible exceptions of Queens Elizabeth I and Victoria, has been remembered only for the men with whom she slept. The more I learned about the real Kleopatra, the more I raged on to friends and anyone who would listen. Finally, a fellow writer—perhaps tired of hearing the diatribe—suggested that I turn my passion into a book.

I enrolled in an inter-disciplinary graduate program at Vanderbilt University where I could study with classicists, historians and women’s studies scholars. I traveled to Egypt, Greece, Turkey and Rome, walking in Kleopatra’s footsteps. I dragged my 60-something mother into the dizzying heat of the Egyptian desert, escorted by a tour guide and a truckload of men with machine guns! At the outset, I had no idea what it was going to take to write this book with integrity, but after nine years, two graduate programs and all my travels, a two-volume novel was born.

In Volume One, Kleopatra, I wanted to tell the becoming of Kleopatra, to chronicle the events and circumstances that went into the making of this towering and fascinating woman. Traditionally, her story begins as she rolls from the legendary carpet, landing at Caesar’s feet. But Kleopatra had an extremely exciting story before she came spinning into Caesar’s life. Volume Two, Pharaoh (due out in August 2002), begins when Kleopatra is thrust into the center of history’s great stage. It’s been both strange and illuminating to spend a decade of my life with someone who has been dead for 2,000 years. But I hope that I’ve contributed to the ongoing dialogue about the ways in which women have been ignored, misinterpreted or discredited by the telling of history. I felt it was time to set the record straight.

Karen Essex’ Kleopatra is being published this month by Warner Books. A journalist who wrote a well-received 1996 biography of pinup legend Bettie Page, Essex lives in California.

 

People always ask why I spell Kleopatra's name with a K. In fact, it's the original Greek spelling. Kleopatra was not Egyptian at all, but the last of a Greek dynasty that ruled Egypt for almost 300 years. The unusual spelling is entirely appropriate:…

Behind the Book by

Why was Dewey written? Because I was asked to write it. Not just by one person, but by hundreds, for years. Locals, visitors, book agents, professional writers (they wanted to help), people who had read about him in magazines or seen him in a documentary. There was something magical about this lovable orange cat named Dewey Readmore Books and the small-town library where he lived. So, after years of saying no, I finally said yes. Dewey had recently died, and part of me must have known writing a book would keep him in my life.

A good library is less an institution than a home. 

Not that he could ever go away. I loved him for almost 20 years; everything in the library reminded me of him: the copier where he warmed himself, the front desk where he perched, the Western section where he hid, the book cart he used to ride on. Every morning, he sat at the door waiting for me. When he saw me coming, he'd wave. No matter how bad I felt, that wave made me believe the world was wonderful and everything would be all right. How could I ever forget that?

With the help of a writer (one finally got to me!), I started putting down on paper all those memories: how Dewey wouldn't come down from the overhead lights no matter how we begged, lounged in front of the heater until his fur was too hot to touch, slept in the box so the patrons couldn't get their tax forms, tortured us over his food and litter, enticed us to play hide-and-seek with him, attended every children's Story Hour, ran every meeting and generally turned a cold library into a warm, inviting, friendly place. I wrote about how he sought out those in need: the elderly man who had just lost his wife; an unemployed farmhand; the homeless man. I told how whenever I wanted to give up, because I was a single mother working full-time and going to school, Dewey sensed it and jumped on my lap. And how when I agonized over a double mastectomy or a less invasive treatment (I chose the mastectomy, but never told anyone until this book), he sat beside me while I cried. He was my best friend; he was always there for me. Always. I hope I've honored his life by capturing some of his magic.

I hope I've also captured something else: the magic of libraries. Libraries aren't warehouses for books; they are meeting houses for human beings. A good library is less an institution than a home. It has comfortable seats, desks, computers, friendly people and, yes, sometimes even a cat. Libraries are society's great leveling agent: they offer job listings, financial information, technology, entertainment, any book you want. For free. I hate it when people tiptoe through a library. "This isn't a graveyard," I want to shout. "It's alive. So live a little!"

Librarians aren't little old ladies who spend all day stamping books and shushing people. We love to have fun, for one thing. But we also have interesting jobs that entail, among other things, planning community events; adopting new technologies; battling censorship; and reaching out to underprivileged groups. We provide job banks in tough times, free childcare for working parents, and, in Spencer at least, translators for errands and doctors visits, the town's only Spanish-language outreach. Be warned: librarians are studying you, and they know what you need. That's their job.

I will never forget Dewey's friend Crystal, a severely mentally and physically handicapped girl so withdrawn that everyone thought she was dead inside. But Dewey sensed something, and he started following her wheelchair. Then he started climbing up and sitting on her wooden tray. She couldn't control her muscles, so she couldn't pet him, but she would squeal with delight. One day, I placed him inside her jacket. Dewey put his head on her chest and purred, and Crystal—she just exploded. She was alive with joy. That, to me, is a Dewey story; that's the kind of cat he was. And that's what libraries do. They change lives. Everywhere in this country. Every day.

I have been surprised by the reaction to Dewey. People love the portrayal of Iowa. They are awed by Spencer, a small town that has overcome adversity by pulling together and resisting simple answers (a slaughterhouse, a casino). I agree with them; I love Iowa and Spencer too, but I never thought this was a book about a place. I thought it was a book about an extraordinary cat, and the deep bond that developed between that cat and a woman, and how the two of them dedicated their lives to the last great free enterprise in American society: the library.

Vicki Myron worked at the Spencer Public Library for 25 years, the last 20 years as its director. Dewey: The Small-Town Library Cat Who Touched the World, written with Bret Witter, is her account of the unforgettable cat who became a fixture at the library.

 

Why was Dewey written? Because I was asked to write it. Not just by one person, but by hundreds, for years. Locals, visitors, book agents, professional writers (they wanted to help), people who had read about him in magazines or seen him in a documentary. There was something magical about this lovable orange cat named Dewey Readmore Books and the small-town library where he lived. So, after years of saying no, I finally said yes. Dewey had recently died, and part of me must have known writing a book would keep him in my life.

Behind the Book by

One day about six years ago I was driving across the San Francisco Bay Bridge with my then three-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Kenna. She was looking out the window when she asked me, in a curious yet serious tone, "Daddy, why is everyone so angry?" 

Coming from my own child, it was, at the same moment, one of the cutest and most powerful questions I had ever been asked. I stumbled for an answer but nothing came out. As I looked out at the other drivers, Kenna's observations appeared quite accurate. Almost without exception, the other drivers appeared frustrated, agitated, nervous or angry. A minute or so later I admitted to Kenna, "I'm not really sure."

The more I thought about it, the stranger it seemed. After all, the tens of thousands of drivers on the road that morning were all seated in reasonably comfortable automobiles. We were all getting where we needed to be, albeit slowly. I'm guessing that most drivers probably had a cell phone and/or a radio to keep them occupied. Many were sipping coffee or talking to the person next to them.

It was one of those moments that I realized that many of the things we sweat really aren't that big a deal. It's not that anyone would actually like traffic, but then again, while all of us are subject to big and painful events in life, a traffic jam, like so many other day-to-day things, isn't one of them; it's not life and death.

Both before and after that day in traffic, there have been other moments and experiences in my life that have reinforced a similar message, moments of clarity that have reminded me of the relative importance of things. I've come to realize that life is far too important, short and magical to spend it sweating the little things.

Don't Sweat the Small Stuff (and it's all small stuff )was the first in a series of Don't Sweat books all designed to help foster this more accepting and peaceful attitude toward life. The latest in the series, Don't Sweat the Small Stuff for Men (out this month), attempts to guide men in the same direction. But now, it's your turn to be the author! My publisher (Hyperion) and I decided it would be both fun and useful to others to publish an entire book filled with stories from my readers' perspectives. Many people have moments of insight in their lives, similar in some ways to my traffic story above. These are moments that remind us, or teach us, to not sweat the small stuff. At times, these insights come about from a touching or funny experience. Other times, it's a moment of tragedy or a near-miss of some kind. A friend of mine, for example, had a life-changing moment as the small plane he was traveling aboard was about to crash. Another friend was neurotic about keeping her house perfectly clean. Then she traveled to a country where the poverty broke her heart. Her perspective shifted, and she had a change of heart. When she returned, her home seemed like such a gift the mess and chaos less relevant. It's not that keeping her house clean was no longer important just that it was no longer an emergency!

I'd like to invite you to share your story with us. Although we won't be able to print them all, we will certainly learn from each of them. If your story is selected, we'd love to publish it in a book of Don't Sweat Stories so that others can learn from your experience. If you'd like to participate, please send us your one or two page story along with your address, phone number and e-mail address. If your story is selected, we will let you know. Please send your story by October 1, 2001, to Lary Rosenblatt, Creative Media, Inc. 1720 Post Road East, Westport, CT 06880. Or e-mail to larycma@aol.com It has been such a joy to write the Don't Sweat books. I hope you join me in this life-affirming adventure in sharing with others how we have learned to not sweat the small stuff.

Don't Sweat the Small Stuff for Men, is the latest entry in Richard Carlson's best-selling series of books on dealing with the day-to-day challenges of living in a stressful world. A psychologist, he lives with his family in northern California.

Winning combination for reducing stress

Women lead incredibly full lives these days, wrestling with responsibilities at work and at home. So BookPage and Hyperion, which publishes the Don't Sweat series, recently sponsored a De-stress Contest, asking women to share their ideas for reducing stress in their lives. The winning entry came from Jeanne Leffers of Richmond, Indiana, who will receive an autographed first edition of Don't Sweat the Small Stuff for Women and a beauty gift basket to pamper herself with. Here are Jeanne's winning recommendations:

1. Downsize Look at every thing you have from space to shoes and try to downsize. Examine all of it and consider yourself, not friends, relatives or advertising. If you downsize you will find time to smell the roses, relax, put your feet up and enjoy a good book. Your number one priority should be getting rid of the over-abundance.

2. Find humor Read the funnies, learn to tell a joke, read books cataloged under humor , and when you see a cartoon that makes you laugh out loud, cut it out and post it where you can continue to enjoy it. Share kid's jokes with the children you meet. A famous person wrote a book about how he cured his serious disease by watching comic movies. Find a Charlie Chaplin movie and enjoy a belly laugh.

3. Forgive and forget To maintain and cherish your relationships, learn to forgive others' transgressions, overlook their foibles and mistakes, and forget about the time your sister-in-law threw the mustard dish at you. (And if you have been saving the stained outfit all these years, throw it away!)

4. Prioritize Every time there is competition for your attention, stop to consider which is more important. Try to go with your heart just as often as you follow your head. If you have children at home, remind yourself frequently that they are there temporarily and many years of their absence will follow their presence. Make lists of perceived jobs; it is easier to see which must really get done and which can be ignored. When the jobs are completed, cross them off with a red pen; it is very satisfying!

5. Exercise If you can downsize and prioritize you will be able to find time to exercise. It may be the most important activity of your day. A favorite for me is an early morning power walk with a bit of jogging (I call it running!) included. If you have been a couch potato, start your exercise program slowly and work toward a goal slowly.
 

One day about six years ago I was driving across the San Francisco Bay Bridge with my then three-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Kenna. She was looking out the window when she asked me, in a curious yet serious tone, "Daddy, why is everyone so angry?" 

Coming from…

Behind the Book by

Nashville has been known beyond its borders for a number of things down through the generations. In the last two decades of the 18th century, it was a rising frontier outpost on the way to the West. It rode on Andrew Jackson's coattails when that redoubtable hometown boy was the nation's top war hero and twice its president in the first half of the 19th century. A major battle of the Civil War was fought in the city, and after Tennessee and the other Southern states lost their war of rebellion against the Union, Nashville was an Upper South capital city that bounced back fast. By the 1890s, it was one of the leading urban areas in the region, thriving on a New South philosophy of commercial boosterism closely linked to Northern industry and capital.

In the 20th century, the capital city of Tennessee was known in various quarters and at various times as the Athens of the South (for its early striving to achieve a cultural transplant in the American wilderness), the Wall Street of the South (for its own developed capital resources), the Protestant Vatican (for its many churches and denominational headquarters) and of course Music City U.S.A. (for its eminence in country and other forms of popular music).

Twenty-two years ago, when the city celebrated its bicentennial, a team of local researchers, writers, editors, photographers, artists and designers was commissioned to put together a big coffee-table book of illustrations and narrative history to mark the occasion. Nashville: The Faces of Two Centuries was published in time for the 200th birthday party in 1979. Its total printing of approximately 12,000 copies sold out in a little over a year, and the book was not reissued.

Now comes a companion volume, similar in size and appearance, to pick up the story of this middle America city with a higher profile than its modest size (a half-million plus) would suggest. Nashville: An American Self-Portrait is not so much history as current events, with the specific focus being notable events and personalities of the year 2000.

It seemed like a good idea at the time, and disarmingly simple: set up a framework of 12 chapters, roughly corresponding to the months of the year, and ask an equal number of experienced journalists to write topical essays for each month. As it turned out, that was only the beginning. Luckily, the year was filled with momentous events in the life of the city and the nation. But beyond that, the editors picked up 22 sidebar writers, more than two dozen photographers who collectively produced the book's 300-plus pictures, three local artists who contributed original works and a breaking news ribbon of trenchant stories from each day of the year.

Altogether, they add up to a large format, 384-page book full of four-color art and a cacophony of voices an engaging and provocative full-dress review of modern Nashville at the turn of the new century.

Playing to the strength of the city's reputation in the trade as a good book town, the editors went for an all-Nashville cast of writers, editors, artists, photographers, designers, production specialists, marketers and distributors. Even the name writers such as David Halberstam and Roy Blount Jr. lived in the city previously, as students or as young reporters. And Hal Crowther, a New Yorker transplanted to North Carolina, qualifies by virtue of his marriage to novelist Lee Smith, who taught school in Nashville in the 1960s. Crowther's sidebar describing Smith's luncheon meeting with Dolly Parton, another one-time Nashvillian gone big-time, at a local plantation restaurant is worth the price of the book all by itself [see excerpt].

So are two chapters on politics: Capitol Offenses, a telling comparison of state and local governments by Larry Daughtrey, veteran political writer for The Tennessean, Nashville's daily paper; and Favorite Sons, a candid assessment of Vice President (and former Tennessean reporter) Al Gore's failed quest for the White House. Daughtrey chronicles the state General Assembly's painful inability to come to grips with tax reform and the local government's recovery from a philandering mayor's public embarrassment.

Local political writer Philip Ashford tracks the Gore fiasco from the Democrat's national headquarters in Nashville, where overconfidence led to the loss of Tennessee and with it, the electoral college votes that would have assured victory.

Once before, in 1824, another Nashvillian Andrew Jackson won the national popular vote but lost when the counting moved to Washington. After history's lightning bolt struck again in the same place 176 years later, Nashville artist Nancy Blackwelder was inspired to paint her own version of a famous Jackson portrait, with Gore's face replacing Jackson's.

Like the city itself, Nashville: An American Self-Portrait is full of such surprises.

John Egerton's previous books include Southern Food and Speak Now Against the Day.

 

Excerpt: Lee and Dolly do Belle Meade

In Nashville: An American Self-Portrait, essayist Hal Crowther describes what happens when his wife, the writer Lee Smith, meets Dolly Parton for lunch at an antebellum plantation in an upscale Nashville neighborhood.

When you say that my wife [Lee Smith] is a novelist and a professor of English, you haven't begun to paint her portrait. When you say that Dolly Parton is a legendary country singer, songwriter, entrepreneur, and Hollywood actress, you've only scratched the surface of the smartest woman who ever grew up in Sevier County, Tennessee.

What's relevant is that they're both shrewd mountain girls with old-fashioned manners, and watching them recognize each other was a privilege I'll remember. I know one well, the other just slightly and recently. But my take on this pair of sisters is that if Dolly Parton had also been sent to Hollins College, they'd be virtually the same person. It's not surprising that each claims to have been the other's fan forever.

"I've got a confession—I tried to dress down a little today because you're a famous writer and I didn't want to look too cheap," says Dolly, who's wearing a black skirt slit almost to the thigh, and a purple sequined body sweater you could substitute for your Christmas tree.

"I've got a confession, too," says Lee. "I put on a little extra makeup to meet you, so you wouldn't think I was mousy."

By the time we reach the restaurant at Belle Meade Mansion, they're talking about their daddies. When we walk in, Dolly draws a round of applause from the lunch crowd. . . . Two hard-breathing autograph vultures hit her before she gets to her table, and Dolly treats them like kin, like royalty. The waitress requests a laying-on of hands, and Dolly indulges her, too.

"They love for me to touch them," she says, without condescension, and we contemplate the demands of serious A-list celebrity. At 54, this is a woman who seems to love her work, her fans, and the considerable responsibility of being Dolly Parton. Her fans are polite but hungry to make a connection, any connection, and the lady isn't stingy with herself. She doesn't know it, but there isn't one famous writer in the world who gets spontaneous ovations at lunch.

—Hal Crowther

 

Nashville has been known beyond its borders for a number of things down through the generations. In the last two decades of the 18th century, it was a rising frontier outpost on the way to the West. It rode on Andrew Jackson's coattails when that…

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I have an erratic relationship with the news. I don't own a television and I don't subscribe to the local paper. I listen to NPR while I eat my breakfast or drive around in my car. About four days a week (depending on the circumstances of the week) I manage to read The New York Times. If something happens on a day when I skip breakfast and don't pick up a paper, it is completely possible that an event of major world importance could pass right by me.

Despite these lax practices, every now and then there's a news story that consumes me completely. The takeover of the Japanese embassy in Lima, Peru in December 1996 drew me to the radio and held me there. I read everything about it that I could. I made it a point to drop in on friends during the evening news so that I could see the pictures on television. A terrorist group known as Tupac Amaru had commandeered a dinner party of 450 people at the Japanese embassy. By the end of the week, they had released all but 74 of the hostages. The terrorists, from what I could tell, were not especially terrifying, or at least they were nothing like the members of The Shining Path, the group with which they were so often confused. Their goal was to force the government into freeing some 400 political prisoners from Peru's notorious high altitude prisons. They seemed to have all the time in the world to wait.

Very few disasters happen in slow motion: plane crashes, school shootings, earthquake — by the time we hear about them, they're usually over. But the story in Lima stretched on, one month, two, three. The media could not sustain its interest. The story fell off the first page, and later off the fifth. Many days the news didn't mention the hostages at all. It seemed that the world had gotten used to them being there. An embassy wasn't such a bad place to be stuck and, after all, no one was getting shot.

But I couldn't stop thinking about these people. There is no such thing as a good kidnapping, but I heard the hostages played chess with their captors. I heard they played soccer. There were rumors of large pizza orders. Many of the terrorists were young and they liked to watch soap operas on television. I don't know how far things had gone when I realized that I was reading about the novel I was going to write next. The story had all the elements I was interested in: the construction of family, the displacement from home, a life that was at once dangerous and completely benign. I started to put together my list of characters. I gave the hostages an opera singer, one woman kept, though in real life all the women had been released. They needed an opera singer, I thought, the story was so operatic. The plot taking place in my imagination moved forward while the one on the news seemed to stagnate.

And then a friend called me. "Come quick," she said. "It's over." The military had tunneled up into the compound and then shot all the terrorists, saving all the hostages. That was that. The story was over. There were many things I wanted to write about when I started Bel Canto, music and language and people's ability to communicate with one another. I wanted to explore the idea that if we were forced out of our normal lives for a time, taken away from everything we know, we might be given the opportunity to see the world in a new way. But more than anything, I wanted to find a way to grieve for something I had read about in the paper. The disasters I find there make me dizzy. They reel by me in a state of constant abstraction. Seven children shot in a school, 258 people killed in a plane crash, 10,000 lost in an earthquake. These are numbers I can't understand, and I find myself thinking that these are things that happen someplace far away, to people I don't know. How could I begin to separate out every life, to acknowledge it, grieve for it, and learn from it? I couldn't do it every time, but with this story I thought, just once I wanted to try.

Bel Canto, being published this month by HarperCollins, is the fourth novel by Ann Patchett, author of The Patron Saint of Liars and The Magician's Assistant.

I have an erratic relationship with the news. I don't own a television and I don't subscribe to the local paper. I listen to NPR while I eat my breakfast or drive around in my car. About four days a week (depending on the circumstances…

Behind the Book by

After years of being told to sit up straight, turn down the music and try, just try, to stop texting friends for a few waking moments, my pubescent son finally found a way to get even. He challenged me to climb a 14,000-foot mountain with him.

At his Colorado summer camp, my son Cass had tripped during a hike of Pikes Peak and slashed his shin to the bone. Strange thing was, he didn’t even care about the 10 surgical staples in his leg. All he talked about was the awe of watching the sunrise from the top of the same mountain that, more than a century earlier, had inspired Katharine Lee Bates to write “America the Beautiful.” Now he was inspired, too.

It was thrilling to see my 12-year-old so excited about something besides consumer electronics. It was terrifying to realize that he expected to repeat the experience with me.

I saw his request as proof that love was truly blind. After all, I was fat, 44 and in the market for a vasectomy. My mortgage was half-gone, but so was my hair. Jon Krakauer was something to read, not try.

Eons ago—back when my inseam had more inches than my waistline—I had hiked a few peaks. Then I got married, had three kids and started working to meet the responsibilities and obligations that came with the change of life. I liked to eat, not exercise. The best days of my body were so far behind me that there was no way I could ever get my behind up a mountain.

Then my son asked me, “Please?”

I could not resist.

Thus was born my book, Halfway to Heaven: My White-knuckled—and Knuckleheaded—Quest for the Rocky Mountain High. Cass and I tried and failed to summit another 14,000-foot mountain, but I came away grateful for the hours alone with a son far beyond the range of any cell phone, Xbox or Facebook account. I was hooked.
I learned my home state of Colorado has 54 peaks higher than 14,000 feet—more than any other state or province in North America. Every year more than 500,000 people try to climb a Fourteener, but fewer than 1,300 have ever reported standing atop them all. Colorado’s Fourteeners have been summited by skiers and snowboarders, racers and amputees, dogs, cats, cockatiels, monkeys and horses, people as young as one and as old as 81. One Texan spent three weeks pushing a peanut to the summit of one peak with his nose. There have been gunfights and cannibalism, avalanches and helicopter crashes.

Together the peaks have killed more climbers than Everest. They also were powerful enough to convince a stay-at-home dad with a pot belly that he had a chance to summit them all.

My wife of 17 years was generally supportive of my Fourteeners quest, but, worried about my safety, insisted on one big catch: I could never hike alone. Unfortunately, I knew no one who was remotely interested in joining me on climbs of more than four dozen 14,000-foot mountains in the three-month climbing season between Memorial Day and Labor Day. I tried bribing friends, neighbors and friends of friends with free booze and car washes in exchange for their company on a mountain hike. No dice.

So I followed the lead of lonely and desperate people all over the world and sought help on the Internet. At a fledgling website, I found other people just as addicted to altitude. The result: several times a week, I would put the kids to bed, drive through the night to a wilderness trailhead, and sleep in a tent with a total stranger with hopes of summiting a peak the next day.

My man-dates turned out to be my favorite part of climbing the Fourteeners. I ended up hiking with, among others, an ex-drag racer trying to perform a handstand on the top of every Fourteener summit; the lead oboe player in a Hebrew salsa band; a 21-year-old college student who survived a 400-foot fall that killed his father; a man so shaky around heights that he chain-smoked Marlboros on ridgetops to calm his nerves; a widower at age 38 who turned to hiking to ease his grief; and, best of all, my oldest son.

Along the way I learned about the gold rushes, hangings, wildlife and geology of one of the world’s great ranges, the Rocky Mountains. I lost 15 pounds but gained some wisdom. The best lesson of all, though, came when I discovered that age, like summit height, was just a number.

Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Mark Obmascik lives in Denver with his family.

 

After years of being told to sit up straight, turn down the music and try, just try, to stop texting friends for a few waking moments, my pubescent son finally found a way to get even. He challenged me to climb a 14,000-foot mountain with…

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How to Be an American Housewife is a work of fiction, but includes incidents that were told to me by my mother. So why did I write a novel and not a memoir? Wouldn’t it have been easier to compile the stories my mother told me?
 
Most every writer and reader has seen Truman Capote’s quote: “Fiction is the truth inside the lie.” In writing this book, my truth came from fiction, as strange as that may sound.
 
A memoir, culled strictly from real life, would have taken place only from my very limited perspective, not my mother’s. A memoir would have had its ending in my mother’s hospital bed, with her telling me, “You can do what you want. I am proud of you,” and me standing there, trying to reconcile years of rockiness with these fond words.
 
In a memoir, I would not have been free to imagine a whole other life, to see through another’s eyes. In fiction, I created characters that are like me and my mother, but not. They don’t exactly act like we did, and they certainly lead different lives. I felt it was important to have the book take place in Japan, to have the character Sueexperience viscerally what it was like to discover a whole existing family where before there had been a void.
 
Creating characters also allowed me the distance to carefully consider my relationship with my mother. To pull out what was important. To make up a plot with themes I wanted to emphasize, rather than the actual events, which might have been rather lackluster and lacking in insight.
 
Anyway, in many ways memories turn into fiction. Everyone remembers things differently. People leave out important details because they forget, or it’s not important to them. For example, even today, my father tells me additional stories of my mother and Japan that I never knew: that her family was a shogun (samurai) family, that many Japanese women who married Americans were of the untouchable class and had no prospects in the country. (And sometimes I say, Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I could have included that in the book!)
 
Nonetheless, I did choose to include some actual events in the novel. My mother told me stories of what it was like coming of age in wartime Japan, and of living among former enemies in the U.S. She told me how she worked for Americans, how her father wanted her to marry an American and actually did have her take photos of all her prospects so she could choose my father. Like the mother in the book, she told me these stories beginning in my childhood. I never liked to hear of her hardships.
 
And of course, there was the inspiration book: The American Way of Housekeeping. My mother had a copy of the book, written in Japanese and in English, telling housekeepers how to keep a proper house for the military occupying the country. Yes, housekeepers. The book was made for housekeepers, but was also a handy guide, apparently, for new Japanese brides marrying Americans. It was popular enough to go through several printings and editions and be sold at the PX, or military base store; one book I found online had the PX stamp and an inscription to a wife.
 
I used the nonfiction book as the basis for my fictional How to Be an American Housewife, which turned into a nice structure for the novel, the skeleton, so to speak. But the real stories are in some ways secondary to the meat of the book.
 
What the book is really about is how a mother and daughter overcome years of miscommunication, gaps real and imagined in both language and culture. It’s about how to come to terms with wanting what you have, not what you wanted to have. And it’s about living with hope and finding redemption, both themes that perhaps would have been less possible to have in a memoir.
 
How to Be an American Housewife is Margaret Dilloway’s first novel. For more on Dilloway, who lives with her husband and three children in Hawaii, visit her website.
 
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How to Be an American Housewife is a work of fiction, but includes incidents that were told to me by my mother. So why did I write a novel and not a memoir? Wouldn’t it have been easier to compile the stories my…

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For the first few months that I knew her, Becca Jannol existed merely as a stack of paper to me. I met her in the winter of 2000, when hers was one of nearly 7,000 applications for admission to the Class of 2004 at Wesleyan University, an excruciatingly selective liberal arts college in central Connecticut. The previous fall, Wesleyan had agreed to grant me an extraordinary opportunity: a close-up look at how a college with 10 times as many applicants as seats in its incoming class made the hard choices necessary to whittle down such a list.

I had approached Wesleyan in my capacity as a national education correspondent at <I>The New York Times</I> and was permitted by the university to read the applicants’ files and eavesdrop as their cases were debated. The only restrictions were that I not refer to the applicants by name in my articles or seek to talk to them, at least until they had received word from Wesleyan on whether they had been accepted, rejected or put on the waiting list. No one, certainly not me, wanted to telegraph a decision to an applicant prematurely via the front page of <I>The New York Times.</I> But when it came to Becca, a 17-year-old senior at the elite Harvard-Westlake School in Los Angeles, the details would be impossible to mask. Her essay was about being suspended during her sophomore year for accepting a brownie, laced with marijuana, from a fellow student.

As the admissions season was winding down in March 2000, Becca’s was one of the 400 applications that the admissions officers considered too close to call so much so that it was debated by the full 10-member committee, with the vote of the majority deemed to be binding. Though she had more A’s than B’s and had recovered from her suspension to be elected chair of the honor board, her SATs (in the high 1,200s) were low by Wesleyan standards. Nonetheless, it was the brownie that dominated much of the discussion.

Ralph Figueroa, a veteran admissions officer (and former lawyer) from Los Angeles who had met Becca, championed her case by saying she had been the only student, among the two dozen who had accepted the brownie, to turn herself in. But some of Ralph’s colleagues were skeptical. She may have turned <I>herself</I> in,” one officer said. But she didn’t turn in the brownie.” I knew as I listened to this debate that I wanted to write about it in the <I>Times</I>, not least because it showed how a momentary brush with drugs, even if owned up to in one’s essay, could taint an applicant. Never mind that some of the people in that room had no doubt sampled a pot brownie at Becca’s age, if not something stronger.

My dilemma was this: Even without her name or that of her school in the newspaper, Becca would surely recognize herself in this dialogue, as would many of her classmates. After the committee had decided Becca’s fate (which I’ll leave unspoken here, to preserve the suspense for those wishing to read about her in my new book, <B>The Gatekeepers: Inside the Admissions Process of a Premier College</B>) I let Wesleyan know that I was interested in her. I had not told anyone previously because I had not wanted to influence the decision, which was now final. It was decided by Wesleyan that Becca’s guidance counselor should be called, to relay the decision a few days early (this was not uncommon) and to give Becca a heads-up of the <I>Times'</I> plans. Her response was immediate.

“Not to hurt the feelings of <I>The New York Times</I>,” she reportedly said, “but I don’t know anyone at my school who reads it. They can write whatever they want about me.” I was far more relieved than hurt.

After Viking agreed to expand my series into a book, I knew I wanted to tell Becca’s story at length. Indeed, she was one of six especially compelling applicants each representing a different aspect of the admissions process whose files had crossed the desk of Ralph, my main character, as I looked over his shoulder that year.

Now it was Viking’s turn to be anxious. I was insistent that each of the applicants profiled in the book be referred to by name, which meant that I would be seeking Becca’s permission effectively to  “out” her first experience with drugs, however fleeting it was, in a work of narrative nonfiction. I felt that telling Becca’s story was so central to what I wanted to accomplish that, during the summer after she graduated from high school, I sent her a free plane ticket from Los Angeles to New York City, where I live and work. Her mother, who had been trained as a teacher, agreed to tag along, as suspicious of my intentions as Becca surely was.

When we finally met, over breakfast at a Midtown restaurant, Becca’s answer to my request was immediate: She wanted to tell her story as much as I did. She was proud of all she had learned from her experience with the brownie and still bruised by the way her application had been received by some of the admissions officers at Wesleyan, and elsewhere. We would spend the next six hours of that day on a bench and a boulder in Central Park, as Becca—who was both shorter (barely over five feet tall) and sunnier than in my mind’s eye—spoke, and I took notes. Like the five other applicants to Wesleyan profiled in the book, Becca came to trust me with the most intimate details of her life.

In the end, the process of getting to know her which had begun with a sheaf of papers containing her SAT scores, grade point average and essay came full circle, when Becca gave me unfettered access to her most guarded possession, the pages of her journal. She had saved everything she wrote during high school, including the entry from that fateful day in October when she took a few bites of that brownie, something she had attempted neither before or since, she assured me. Any teenager or anyone who had ever been a teenager or the parent of one could surely relate to the internal turmoil she had somehow captured on paper that day.

“How painful could it have been to just say no, or stop?” she wrote. The scariest part is that I thought I knew myself. I’m not who I thought I was. I should accept that I am not a leader.” Everyone wants to know, Why, Becca why?” she added. I don’t know.”

<I>A staff reporter for</I> The New York Times <I>for more than a decade, Jacques Steinberg is now the paper’s national education correspondent. Winner of the 1998 Education Writers Association grand prize, he lives in New York.</I> The Gatekeepers <I>is his first book.</I>

 

For the first few months that I knew her, Becca Jannol existed merely as a stack of paper to me. I met her in the winter of 2000, when hers was one of nearly 7,000 applications for admission to the Class of 2004 at Wesleyan…
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“Some stories are crafted as if by blueprint, built line by line and brick by brick. There are stories born of angst, wrung painfully from an author’s mind onto pages that, in the end, are more of bandage than paper. Then there are those stories that seek the writer, drifting through time and space like thistle seed until they find fertile ground on which to land and take root. This is one such story. It found me during my second week in Italy.” Excerpt from The Last Promise We went to Italy because my wife, Keri, and I had reached a point in our lives where comfort and predictability had become suffocating to our souls. At the same time, our family was growing up, and it was time for an experience that we could all share before breaking off into our own lives. At these times it’s best to take our lives by the corners and shake them. Leaving America was not easy. Italy was a big shake.

My wife and I found a cottage in the Chianti countryside a few kilometers outside of Italy’s cultural heart the city of Florence and I began considering ideas for my next book. It seems peculiar to me now, but I had no intention of writing anything set in Italy. In fact, after the first several months in the country, I was even less inclined to do so since it seemed to me that every American in Florence wanted to write about Italy. Then something happened.

I was near the grounds of the Roman Forum when I came upon the ruins of the temple of Vesta. I learned from my guidebook that Vesta was the goddess of hearth and home and an important deity to the ancient Romans. The keepers of the temple were the Vestal Virgins, a small group of women chosen to be priestesses to Vesta. The Vestal Virgins were considered holy and given great wealth, power and honor, but there was a price. The Vestals were required to take three vows; the first was allegiance to the Goddess Vesta, the second was to keep the Temple’s flame (symbolic of Rome’s families) burning at all times. The third and last promise was that they would, for the sake of Rome’s families, forsake love, taking vows of chastity. If a Vestal was to break this final vow, punishment was severe. First, the Vestal’s lover would be whipped to death. Then the Vestal would be bound in burial linens, given a loaf of bread and an oil lamp, and taken to the field of the damned where she was buried alive.

Eighteen of the Vestals suffered this fate. In spite of the threat of losing honor, power, wealth and even their lives, these women still chose to risk love. This dramatic illustration of the powerful conflict between the human need for love and the commitment to God and family intrigued me. I wanted to write about it.

With the premise for the novel in mind, the setting for my story presented itself a few weeks later when I met a young American woman lounging by the pool at a Chianti country club. I learned that she had, in America, married a wealthy, handsome Italian man, had a child, then, after several years, followed him from her home in the States back to his family’s beautiful villa in Tuscany. While in America, he had been romantic and caring and had treated her as an equal, but once back in Italy he seemed to change. As time passed she saw less of him. Then his attitude toward women seemed to change, as well. One day he announced, “It is not right that I help with the child or the home. It is your job. You need to serve me. That is how it is here.” Hoping to keep their marriage alive, for their child’s sake, she tried fitting into the new paradigm, but found herself desperately unhappy. When she told her husband that she wanted a divorce so she could go back home to America, her husband told her that he would not allow her to take their child with her. Italian law prevented her from taking her child out of the country without her husband’s permission. She had a choice, live a loveless life with her child or find love and break her family apart. Thousands of years later here was a modern woman facing the same dilemma that the Vestal Virgins faced in ancient Rome. Using her real life dilemma as my story’s setting, I wondered what would happen if she, deprived of love, fell in love with somebody else. What would she do? When I began to write my novel, The Last Promise, I set out to answer that question.

Richard Paul Evans was an advertising executive in Utah when he wrote his first book, The Christmas Box, which went on to become a number one bestseller. The Last Promise (Dutton, $22.95, 320 pages, ISBN 0525946969), which goes on sale November 11, is his seventh novel.

"Some stories are crafted as if by blueprint, built line by line and brick by brick. There are stories born of angst, wrung painfully from an author's mind onto pages that, in the end, are more of bandage than paper. Then there are those stories…

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