Jane Green's Blog, page 129
June 9, 2011
Curmudgeonly Cancer
Those of you who have read Promises to Keep (published as The Love Verb in the UK), will know that it is a novel with the heartbreaking theme of cancer.
Going through the cancer diagnosis, the treatment, and the eventual death of my lovely friend Heidi, what struck me most was her incredible bravery.
Recently I have been sent two blogs, both of which have moved me enormously, not just because of the bravery of these two women slowly giving in to their long battles with cancer, one at 71, one at the tender age of 15, but because of their extraordinary joie de vivre; their ability to still see the glass as half-full, and their willingness to share their grace, humor, strength and spirit with thousands of strangers they will never meet.
Marjorie Walker is an American living in London, a foodie, a beautiful writer, and a fighter, who has been in remission four times. This time she is not doing so well, but even in describing meetings with her funeral director, her humor comes through.
http://www.cancercurmudgeon.com
Alice Pyne lives in Cumbria. She is 15. Her cancer is terminal. Alice has written a bucket list, and writes a blog, and her beauty shines out of every word.
Go and visit both blogs. Now. Quickly. Leave messages with words of encouragement. Then live today, and each day after with joy, because every moment truly is a gift.
April 27, 2011
April 14, 2011
A Modern Fairytale
Yes, yes, I know I keep promising to update the blog regularly, and now that Figless Manor is almost complete - we move in on Friday - I am hoping to have a semblance of my old life back, and time to blog again.
It has been a busy few months, and one of my favorite parts has been writing a digital ebook for ABC Television and Hyperion books about The Royal Wedding. I will be honest here and say I knew very little about William and Kate and their life together as a couple, and less still about the extraordinary love story between the Queen and Prince Phillip.
Naturally I knew lots and lots about Diana and Charles because it was impossible to escape the endless stories and speculation that culminated in one of the greatest tragedies of our time, so when ABC asked me to write an A Modern Fairytale - a digital ebook - I was thrilled.
I have spent the last fifteen years as a fiction writer, but every writer needs to move out of their comfort zone to expand their creativity, and although I left journalism back in my late twenties, I knew that writing a non-fiction book would be very different. What I didn't expect was how fascinating it was to discover some of the history behind the royal weddings, particularly the Queen.
Elizabeth was only thirteen when she met her prince. Her family were touring his school, and the young, handsome Prince Philip of Greece, eighteen years old, was assigned the role of looking after the two young princesses. He spent the day making them laugh, and when the day was over, they left and immediately exchanged letters. For years they wrote to each other, finally being allowed to marry when she turned twenty one.
I loved discovering just how unusual William and Kate are: grounded, humble, and thoroughly modern, eschewing much of the pomp and circumstance that surrounded the wedding of Charles and Diana. Who can forget Diana's 25 foot train, sweeping behind her up the red carpet on the grand steps of St. Paul's Cathedral, and the horse-drawn glass carriage that carried the newlyweds down Pall Mall, the young bride swathed in froths and frills, wearing a glittering tiara that she later complained gave her a headache.
The true beauty of writing this book, for me, was seeing it, finally, on an ipad. Almost every page has photographs, videos, and footage from the weddings, and it feels somewhat Harry Potter-ish to have the page suddenly come to life. I loved seeing the footage from Charles and Diana's wedding, and their early interviews, so different from the interview that Prince William and Kate Middleton gave after their engagement was announced. Even in the early days, Diana was in charge, whereas Kate, quietly elegant and demure, defers to the fun-loving William.
It is a true glimpse into the lives of William and Kate, the history of royal weddings, and I believe a true glimpse into the future of publishing.
Tomorrow morning I'm on Good Morning America to tell you more about it - tune in and tweet me to tell me what you think, visit abcnews.go.com to see me talk about writing the book, and buy A Modern Fairytale from all the top etailers (Apple's iBookstore, Kindle, Nook, etc.) and through the new ABC Video Bookstore app
But most of all, congratulations and best wishes to Prince William and Kate Middleton - we'll all be watching.
March 31, 2011
Snow? AGAIN? Are you f*&*ing kidding me?
When I was a little girl I dreamed, often, of snow. Occasionally we would get an inch or two in London, and we'd take giant empty salt bags and go sledding down the bumpy bit of Hampstead Heath.
I would come home and immerse myself in books set in America, where families living in the middle of nowhere would get snowed in for days, and I longed to live in a place with actual snow drifts, to build fires and drink hot chocolate because we couldn't get out the house.
Now, as an adult, I have found myself seeing things rather differently. The first snowfall of the year takes my breath away with it's still, quiet beauty, but by the time February rolls around, and I haven't seen grass for weeks, and the roads are all edged with giant piles of filthy slush, I am so longing for Spring, I actually went online and ordered those special lightbulbs to cure SAD (the depression you get from giant piles of filthy slush and seeing no grass for weeks on end).
Sadly (no pun intended), the lightbulbs are almost as big as my house, and, call me superficial, but given the choice of sartorial elegance of a home without a two-foot lightbulb in the ceiling, or depression, I'm choosing the home.
April is here, and I was starting to feel a lot better. Every morning for the past week I have woken up to bright sunlight. I skip out of bed, pull on spring clothing - T-shirts, light cardigans, jeans and ballet flats - and spend the rest of the day absolutely freezing. Still. I refuse to even look at Uggs again until at least November.
This morning I found myself sitting in the waiting room of the dentist, when the weatherman appeared on the television. Snowstorm. Tonight. And I could be wrong, but I think I heard him say seven inches.
I am praying this is an April Fool's joke, and if not, those ballet flats had better withstand the snow, because this girl is refusing to dig those winter clothes out again.
And next week? I'm pulling out the bikinis...
March 30, 2011
Tweeting with Martha
Many of you know that I retired from Twitter several months ago. It had taken over my life, and I was fed up with constantly viewing my life as a series of pithy, funny sayings, in 140 characters or less.
Last night Beloved and I climbed into bed and flicked channels until we settled on Piers Morgan, who was devoting his entire show to Twitter. The founders, Evan Williams and Biz Stone were on, together with a number of other tweeters, including Martha Stewart, and after listening to what Martha had to say, I have been inspired enough to revisit Twitter.
She doesn't generally respond to comments, which may sound harsh, but in fact I think very wise. Not because she doesn't want to, but because there simply aren't enough hours in the day. She also limits her tweets to no more than five minutes a day, which was the bit that struck me the most.
I am horribly compulsive, and although I strive to see the many different shades of grey, I tend to see the world in black and white. If I do something, I do it addictively, allowing myself to be overwhelmed by it, until I don't. And then it's all over. Twitter overwhelmed me, and I spent hours checking messages, seeing if people had responded to my comments, but I'm going to try doing it Martha-style, because there are things I'm doing that I'd love to share with you, and Twitter seems like the easiest and most accessible platform to use.
Oh how things have changed. The days of authors relying on huge marketing campaigns are long gone. Now we do most of it ourselves, keeping in touch with our readers by blogging, tweeting and facebooking.
So I'm back, but I have no idea if I'll be able to limit Twitter to five minutes a day, but I hope you enjoy if I can!
March 23, 2011
March 11, 2011
Racing for a cure
Many of you know that Promises to Keep was written after I lost one of my closest friends to breast cancer. Accompanying her on the journey was an extraordinary gift, and one that has continued, with me continuing to do a series of events that raise funds for breast cancer.
A few months ago I was asked to run a half-marathon to raise money for City of Hope – an extraordinary cancer facility that not only treats, but develops ground-breaking drugs –that are changing the face of cancer treatment.
I must have been half-asleep when they asked, because I found myself saying yes. That's right. I said yes. Despite my dangerous and potentially life-threatening allergy to exercise – I break out in a terrible sweat, my limbs ache all over, and it usually ends in collapse – I agreed.
On April 3rd I will join a group of amazing women to pound the streets of New York City to raise money. When I say pound, let's just say I am aiming for a slow shuffle, and readers, should I shuffle past Barneys and notice a must-have coat in the window, let me tell you now, I am going in.
In the meantime, I am sending out a plea to all you loyal readers to sponsor me. My team are the Resource Racers, raising funds for the Sheri & Les Biller Patient and Family Resource Center at City of Hope.
Please give whatever you can! To make a secure online donation, you must use the following link: www.cityofhope.org/resourceracers. Scroll down the list and click on my name.
If you prefer to send a check, please make it out to "City of Hope/BRC Marathon", and write my name in the memo section. Send the check directly to Kimberly Wah at City of Hope: 1055 Wilshire Blvd., 12th Floor, Los Angeles, CA, 90017.
As an added incentive, I'm going to pick the three highest donors, and will send them advance copies of my new book: Another Piece of my Heart. It won't be in bookstores until February 2012, but you could be reading it by May! The highest donor wins a set of signed books and lunch with the author in New York City.
I will be back to blogging and facebooking on May 1st. The building of Figless Manor, together with writing the new book, writing another book about the impending Royal Wedding that I will tell you about shortly, and various family things has overwhelmed me, and I have not been able to blog.
I've missed it. And I've missed you. Figless Manor is ready on May 1st, I am doing a culinary course at the French Culinary Institute starting at the end of May, and then back to writing the next book – I have the story and can't wait to sit down and get started.
In the meantime, please support my attempt at the half-marathon, and pray my allergic reaction isn't too bad...
November 11, 2010
Memories of a Home
When I was small, we moved. A lot. My mother would decorate a house top to bottom, and then after three or four years, sometimes less, she'd get itchy feet and would need to do it again.
The house that I remember best, the house I loved the most, was a grand old gabled manse in the leafy streets of London's Hampstead. It had a sweeping gravel driveway, a gorgeous oak-panelled staircase, and a kitchen that was bright and cosy, warmed day and night by the large Aga at one end.
I loved every part of that house. The Red Room, with it's roaring fires and small television that disappeared behind closet doors; the Blue Room with it's pretty panelling and French doors onto the terrace; my bedroom, with yellow Laura Ashley wallpaper and small desk under the window.
For years and years I dreamed about that house. I would wake up having dreamed I had bought it back, or discovered I was still living in it, and feel flooded with joy and relief at still having the place I have always thought of as home.
Three years ago, when Beloved and I were in London, we knocked on the door, and the very sweet people who now live there let us come in and walk around. It is still a wonderful house, and much the same as I remembered it, but the best thing of all about re-visiting it, was that since that day, I haven't dreamed about it at all. It truly was as if in being able to say goodbye, I got closure.
Instead I find myself, these past five years, dreaming incessantly about Middleduck Farm. This was the lovely antique farmhouse in Litchfield that I bought, then quickly abandoned when my marriage broke up. I adored living there; loved the quirks that come with living in an old house; loved the peace and quiet; even loved the scratching that emanated from within the walls at night: creatures that were scrabbling away seemed to me endearing rather than frightening. I baked lots of bread, made lots of jam, and built toasty fires in the 18th Century fireplace in the den in the original part of the house.
When my marriage broke down, I felt I had no choice but abandon the house. What had been a haven of warmth, became cold and unwelcoming, and much too overwhelming for me on those weekends when the Smalls were with their father. I left to rent a small beach cottage, and visited only another two or three times, to gather up things I needed. I found a lovely woman who would open the house when potential buyers came over; lighting fires and scented candles; popping cinnamon buns in the oven and turning on all the lights to make it feel like a house that was loved.
It sold quickly, and I have only driven past since then, three or four times. In my waking hours, I rarely think about it, but when I am asleep my dreams are flooded with Middleduck Farm. I dream, regularly, that I discover, quite by chance, that I hadn't in fact sold it, and the farm still belongs to me. I usually determine to keep it as a weekend home, and I am always filled with delight at this unexpected treasure, and relief.
Just as with the Hampstead house I loved, I didn't say goodbye. I have moved on; am blissfully happy with everything about my life today, but I will not stop dreaming about Middleduck until I have closure. Things are rarely as good in real life as they are in your dreams, and this perhaps is the reason why I have to go. It isn't a dream unfulfilled. It's just a house. A lovely one, but one that wasn't right for me.
November 8, 2010
Cooking School…here I come!
It does not take a genius to recognise what a passionate foodie I am. Scroll through my website and you can barely read my ramblings for the recipes; pick up any one of my books and if there isn't an actual recipe at the end of the chapter (Promises to Keep/The Love Verb), you will find I regularly lose myself in lavish descriptions of luscious food.
I love cooking, and am almost entirely self-taught. Apart from the basics I learned at my mother's knee, I have pretty much taught myself to cook. I read vast amounts of cookbooks, and books about food, and so I know, for example, that a mirepoix - a mix of onions, celery and carrots - forms the basis of all great French stocks and sauces, but I have never had a lesson, never been formally taught, and I decided, just the other week - in fact I was overtaken with the compulsion - to go to cooking school.
I may think I know the basics, but I want to start from scratch, learning the culinary techniques that form the basis of all serious chefs.
I started looking, with the words Cordon Bleu echoing in my head. This is probably because, growing up in London, a Cordon Bleu was practically a requirement of the young ladies in the smart set. But I am no longer in London, am firmly in the suburban rather than smart set, and additionally found a couple of rather large obstacles preventing me from doing a Cordon Bleu.
The first is that it is a year-long course.
I still have books to write, tours to undertake, and children to raise. A year-long course is unthinkable, unless of course a publisher would like me to write a diary of my year in cooking school, and pay me very nicely for the privilege. (Editor? Are you reading this????)
The second is that there isn't a Cordon Bleu school in New York, which might prove an even bigger problem. I can commute to Manhattan, but Miami? I think not.
My friend PC is a wonderful cook, and she, I remembered, did the cooking course at the French Culinary Institute in New York, and so, last week, I filled out my enrollment form, signed my deposit, and set about ordering my chef's uniform, complete with the requisite Dansko clogs, which I am desperately excited about.
(In another universe I would never ever remove Dansko clogs from my feet, but in this world I keep that quiet because it's just so damned middle-aged to admit that I am far happier choosing function over form. At this point I will confess that we have been invited to a rather smart party, and so yesterday I found myself, my husband, all Smalls and my Boyfriends, on Greenwich Avenue trying on the most exquisite embroidered gold dress I have ever seen. It was strappy, and delicate, and delicious. I was veering towards the black dress that came up to my chin, and down to below my knees, because I feel much too old to expose so much skin, but all the men talked me into buying the gold bit of frippery. I am wondering if perhaps Dansko make a clog in gold? At least that way I would be comfortable.)
Clothes aside, I still can't believe I have signed up for chef school. Rather than the three-month course, I chose the one-month condensed version. I will be taking the train into Manhattan every day, and, for a month this Summer, I will not be a best-selling author, I will be just another student, there to learn as much as possible. I am so excited, I can hardly wait.
