Running in Heels (46 page)

I write in first person, because I write emotional books, and first person means you are as close to your characters as it's possible to get. With my third book,
Behaving Like Adults
, I had to chuck three months work. This was because I tried to write in the third person. It was rubbish. It was stiff, forced, and it distanced me from the characters. I hated it. But for other writers, it suits. You'll know when you've found your voice because the words will flow.

The final dilemma is whether you should write about what you know. I met with a couple of male authors who both swore that nothing from their personal lives leaked into their books. One of them turned to me and said “Do you leak?” And the answer is yes. Sometimes. And one famous female author recently said that
she felt her first two books weren't proper as they were really about her. There is a school of thought that believes you have to get rid of your own hang-ups before you can be a real writer, which to me sounds like the literary equivalent of running the tap until all the rust and gunk is out and you have clear water. But I disagree. I think you work through your hang-ups in the course of writing the book; the protagonist goes on a journey and so do you; you learn and grow with your characters—don't think there's any special merit in having a lofty distance from them. Your books will always be about you to some degree. They will always reflect your view of the world in some way. In the end it doesn't matter where your creativity comes from—whether it's research, imagination, or real life—in the end you always write about what you know and wherever your knowledge has come from. Your main concern should be: can you translate what you know into entertainment? Do you have empathy for your characters?

After two years of procrastination, and I finally had a plot, a synopsis, and my first three chapters. I remember sending it off to Johnny, ringing him to expect it, and thinking, “That's my best effort. If he doesn't like it, then I'm back to writing pieces on the cabbage soup diet for the
Daily Express
and being grateful.” He did like it, and he sent it out to four British publishers who also, thank goodness again, liked it, and bid for it. Nine days later, I had a two book deal with Random House, and insomnia, from excitement. A few weeks after that, Johnny sold the American rights to HarperCollins. The slight problem is that after you've got your deal, you actually have to continue writing. The advance isn't a wager—3 to 2 she writes us a book! It's frightening, because the potential for public humiliation is so vast, but once you panic for a bit, then you can calm down and actually start to enjoy it. Because forget the parties, the ponies, and the rave reviews: once you actually start writing a novel you realize that is the best part. And by the way, I don't own a pony.

I couldn't have written
Running in Heels
without the help of a lot of very kind, patient, generous people. So huge kissy thanks to: Phil, for your love, support, jokes, and genius (sorry, but Cheryl and I are allowed to say that); Mary, for withstanding yet another fictional nightmare mother; Leonie, for dutifully reporting every “He wears slippers, yes, but he's not from London” anecdote; Jonny Geller, occasional luncher and best agent in the world; Lynne Drew, for her brilliant precision editing; Tia “this will hurt but you'll thank me” Maggini for being clever and right; Sharyn Rosenblum, that sensational one-woman PR miracle; Judith Regan, for publishing me so beautifully and letting me yap on her show; Carl Raymond, you star; Cassie Jones and Deborah Schneider (I demand another tea!) for all their hard work and support; and all the talented people at ReganBooks who contributed to the success of
Getting Over It.

I had great fun (some might say, too much fun) researching
Running in Heels,
and I am enormously grateful to all the following people for their time and expertise; gorgeous Jim, I adore you!; Anne Sacks, a wonderful loyal friend; Jo, the Queen of Hearts (you're so glamorous!); Elizabeth Ferguson and Jane Devine, you were great; Jane Paris, so were you; John “is this
restaurant swanky?” Perry, to think that once I didn't like you; Paul Byrne, forgive the dyslexia; Steve from Contempo; Judith, Ray, Wendi, Sophie, Martin, Pier, John Nathan (I made it all up, honest); Jason Rackham (Tony couldn't have done it without you); Gina Short, in the nicest possible way Frannie owes you; Harry Selby, the fixer; Emma Beattie, for being inspirational—and letting me ride in the fire engine; the men on her watch (frankly, you'd set your own house on fire); Steve Vassell, you hero; Maurizio of Amici Deli, any mistakes are mine!; Uncle Ken, Phil and I think you're great; Eleanor Bailey, my fellow mother at toddler group; Trevor Blount, Pilates guru; Anna Cheevley, you're mad!; Sam Neville, for talking and talking…; Frank Tallis, you clever man; Lucy, for knowing Italian; Elizabeth Davies of the National Osteoporosis Society, thank you thank you thank you.

Last, this is a book about friendship and—except for the slaps—a tribute to Leah Hardy, Alicia Drake-Reece, Jo Kessel, Sarah Maldese, Wendy Bristow, Sasha Slater, Laura Dubiner, Emma Dally, Anna Moore, and Caren Gestetner, all of whom helped me with
Getting Over It
and much, much more.