The Autobiography of Vivian - Softcover

Krantz, Sherrie

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0345453549 ISBN 13: 9780345453549

Publisher: Ballantine Books, 2002

Synopsis

Meet Vivian . . .

A small-town girl who conquers the Big City on her own terms . . . a sucker for happy endings with an attraction to all things fattening—and a personality that oddly gets her in (and out of) trouble at lightning speed. This is her story . . . and perhaps a little of yours, too.

True, Vivian Livingston has the gig of a lifetime, starring 24/7 as the heroine of www.Vivianlives.com, a kind of “girls rule” Web site. But it wasn’t always that way. So rewind, back to the traditionally traumatic last semester of college, when Vivian, feeling the need for drastic change, randomly enters a songwriting contest and, to everyone’s surprise, actually wins. The prize—an incredible weekend getaway to the capital of the universe: New York City.

One amazing weekend getaway later, without a real “life” plan and weeks away from graduation, she and her best friend Sophie make the obvious decision . . . NYC here we come! But the moment Vivian and Sophie set foot in their new apartment—a raw, hand-me-down, fourth-floor walk-up studio—they know that life in the Big Apple is going to be anything but easy. Lacking both dough and direction, Vivian has a rough time with the transition. Even worse, Sophie seems to have found a soul mate—and has left Vivian behind. But Vivian is determined to make her world work, despite a few challenging bumps in the road. Rather than ship out, things begin to shape up, as Vivian not only gets the (virtual) keys to the city, but most important, discovers the keys to her own heart.

About this title

Review:

Here's one from the vaults: Vivian Livingston is the star of her own Web site, Vivianlives.com, where visitors learn all about this sassy fictional girl and her fabulous New York lifestyle. It's hard to believe a warhorse like this survived the market crash, but Vivian has spawned an actual book: The Autobiography of Vivian. The existence of this ill-written, ill-conceived book probably has more to do with Bridget Jones and Sex and the City than it does with any vogue for Web-based material. Whatever its raison d'être, Vivian's autobiography is a shocking display of bad writing: "Ahhhhhh, if men were only like dogs... Well, they are--oh just forget it--you know what I mean." No, we really don't. Not only is the book very nearly incoherent, it's lifted all of a piece from Sex and the City: Vivian is a cut-rate Carrie; her guy John is Mr. Big; and in case it wasn't enough to rip off the story and the characters, the book rips off the show's locations: on a big date, John takes Vivian to Da Silvano. Somehow, this kind of thing looks much worse in cold print than it does on a flickering monitor. --Claire Dederer

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

I was about seventeen years old, and had never been out of Pennsylvania with the exception of Vermont, oddly enough. (My family had been going there for winter and summer vacations even before I was part of the Livingston clan.) My parents had ordinary expectations for their only daughter. Marry my high school sweetheart after a college education, of course, and then very simply become my mother. I had two older brothers (every girl's worst nightmare once you hit puberty), an overwhelmingly loving and extraordinary mother, and a dad who was a college professor with lots of admirers in the academic world. (Every girl's dream once you hit puberty.)

I did my best to follow the rules of my household (when everyone was looking) with curfews, grades, and such, and likewise did my best to stay out of the vantage points of my brothers, Simon and Joseph. I thought of it as doing everyone a favor. Why let my parents down? Why piss my brothers off? It wouldn't do me any good. I was my own undercover agent. Charlie's fourth Angel, if you will. Yeah sure, I'll be the Vivian you want me to be and I'll be the Vivian I want to be. It was that simple.

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't as if I was spending my free time in the backseats of cars, shoplifting lip gloss, or anything like that. I prefer to think of these wild and unruly days as the time when I was developing my character. Creating my personality. I was headstrong and confident, a leader most of the time. I was confrontational and loved a challenge. I was a big sister to my girlfriends and just one of the guys to most of my boy friends. I liked who I was. It worked for me.

My best friend, Sophie, and I had agreed since the third grade that we'd go to college together, marry twin brothers, and be next-door neighbors forever. So we applied to one school and one school only--Penn State. We got in, lived far enough from campus that we had to dorm together, and between the two of us made a pretty good case for why we needed our own wheels as of semester one. See, neither of us had big plans. College was to be four years of memory-making and, of course, finding those twins.

With little to no direction, college was still a learning experience in ways neither of us could have imagined, and the freedom it provided, albeit several hours from home, changed our lives forever.

Today, when people ask how I managed to get where I am--be who I am--I can only point to the second semester of senior year as "my moment." You know what I mean. It's that moment in time that for you, and you only, seems like a mini-motion picture, a dream that you don't have to close your eyes in order to see in a wildly vivid way.

Unlike my brothers, who were overachievers (the obvious kind--Simon followed in my father's footsteps, three degrees under his belt and ready to take the world by storm, and Joseph, more of a financier and having just received his M.B.A., was plotting quite an ambitious play in the dot-com arena), I had no plans of furthering my education. I was going to graduate, take those quintessential photos with my family in that horrible polyester cap and gown that I'm convinced only looks good on men, pack my bags, and return right back to where I started with a framed degree for my parents to gloat over.

But my future did an about-face on the afternoon of a typical day during my senior year. My schedule rocked with only three classes two days a week and more free time than I knew what to do with. I started getting into fitness, strength training really. One of my goals was to finally be able to do a pull-up. (You remember the physical fitness tests in high school? They would calculate the percentage of your body fat with what looked like a plastic screwdriver, make you run a mile, and then have you do those pull-ups. Well, I was never able to do one. My gym teacher, Ms. Callaghan, seemed to revel in my weakness and that really pissed me off. I made it my mission to be able to do one before I graduated. Boy, I really challenged myself in college, eh? Trying to avenge my tenth-grade gym teacher. Now that's rich.) Well, anyway, I had just finished "My Version" of working out at the gym; I stopped as usual at the convenience store for my congratulatory two chocolate eclairs, and then typically walk them off. I admit it, I also love the way my skin looks after I work out (like after a day at the beach), so I'd walk around and work it (at least in my head).

Okay, talk about a tangent--back to my story: With a nice healthy glow, undoubtedly a few chocolate crunchies in my teeth, and several magazines I picked up along the way, I stopped by my favorite coffee shop on campus (favorite only because Sophie worked there so my cappuccinos were free). I ordered my drink, found the perfect vacant table in the back corner of the place (I always like a good view, very Godfather), and parked it for a while. I started flipping through my 'zines, got in a good bit of people watching (one of my favorite pastimes) between scoping the pages, and then for some strange reason, my eyes met an advertisement for a songwriting contest. The winner and a friend would be treated to a first class weekend in New York City, two nights in a fancy hotel, spending money, concert tickets, and a new guitar! Well, this advert spoke to me. The trip was scheduled just as spring break would spring and before any final exams, so I could go. My schedule was open and a few days out of the gym wasn't the biggest deal.

I tore the ad out straightaway and ran up to Sophie. I shouted, "We're going to New York! We're going to New York! I won a songwriting contest and we're going!!!!" She pulled the ad from my left hand, my third cappuccino from the right, read the small bit, and said, "Vivian, have you even written a song yet?"

So Sophie to say that. "Not yet, Sophie, uch! (Eye roll here, of course.) But I'm going to--this weekend--and we're going to New York!" And with that, I grabbed my things and ran back to our apartment (Yup, as seniors we had transitioned to an apartment rather than a dorm--so fancy.) and I started writing, and writing, and writing.

This songwriting thing sucked. It wasn't as easy as I had assumed. And if you're asking the question "Vivian, do you even know how to play music?" the answer is "Sort of." Simon had given me his guitar on my sixteenth birthday and although I never took lessons or had huge aspirations to play, I always liked the way it looked in my room. (I'm just being honest.) Over the years, I taught myself how to play a few strings, chords, whatever, so I figured that if I could write something good, I would strum my guitar and the rest would of course be featured on Behind the Music.

I tortured myself for the next few days. I'd listen to music that I liked and ask myself why I liked it. I went through photo albums and my journals for inspiration and in all the frustration broke my word processor. Some evenings I'd grab a bunch of CDs and cassettes, park myself in the bathroom (they don't call it the porcelain god for nothing. Some of my best ideas come to me on the toilet), and began reading the backs of cassettes, realizing that it was all about the chorus. If I could come up with a powerful chorus, the rest would be cake. Okay, maybe cupcakes.

Whatever, I did it. Part one anyway. I ended up submitting ten songs under ten different names: Vivian Livingston, Viv Livingston, Viviana Livingston, Vivian Lives, etc. . . . I was obsessed.

College hadn't been the greatest experience for me (which I'll get into at some point when I'm in a far less better mood--remembering all of this part is incredibly fun!). I had nothing tremendous to look forward to after graduation and I had told Sophie that we were going to New York. All my eggs were in this basket, or at least that's how I saw it, and I was freaking myself out. While Sophie and some of her other friends were planning trips to Florida, I was checking my mailbox. This frightening pattern went on for weeks. My mailman even found me annoying.

Since I hate it when people drag stories out, I'll get straight to it. I won. I freakin' won!!! Mind over matter and perhaps in this case, talent as well! I ran to the coffee shop and was screaming like a lunatic, "We did it, Sophie, we did it!" She had tears in her eyes. This was big. Really, really big. (She was so happy for me, it was sweet.) It had been almost four years since I had accomplished anything that I was proud of and I saw this as a ticket to ride!

We packed like you'd expect--black tops, denim jeans, and tons of Victoria's Secret panties. (We were so tragic!) I remember I bought a small black vinyl backpack special for the trip and Sophie had a tiny, almost miniature purse made out of plastic--shiny plastic. We were mall rats to the core and had no idea what was to come! (I'm sitting here laughing as I think about it.) Either way, we thought we were hot shit and I knew this was the "me" I had been waiting for!

Did I mention that we both got tips just for the occasion? I had a guitar designed on my thumb and Sophie had a stiletto stuck on her pinky! Yeah baby!!! (So scary!)

My parents, of course, had to be there for the big bon voyage. I was twenty, I think, at this point, and get this--my mom bought Sophie and me each a whistle connected to neon yellow string that she insisted we wear around our necks the entire time we were away. (For sure!) Then, even before I could ditch the necklace, there was the white super-stretch limo right on time!!! We started giggling with excitement when we saw it, gave big quick hugs to my parents, and hopped in. Plush garnet velvet trimmings, cool to the core black leather seats, rock glasses, tinted windows, and a remote control for everything. I admit it, we also opened the sunroof, stood up, and started woo-hoo-ing until I nearly lost my voice.

The poor limo driver--Les was his name, I think. I mean, we were such losers. (The worst kind, 'cause we thought we were as cool as they came!) A...

About this edition

• Publisher: Ballantine Books
• Publication date: 2002
• ISBN 10: 0345453549
• ISBN 13: 9780345453549
• Binding: Paperback
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 295