Vivian Lives

by Sherrie Krantz

Genres: Coming of Age; Humor & Satire; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

“THE FUNNIEST FICTIONAL HEROINE SINCE BRIDGET JONES.”
—Teen People

Last summer, Vivian Livingston set the world ablaze in her first book The Autobiography of Vivian, a tell-all tale of a girl trying her best to be the woman she knows she is inside. With demons to kick, confidence to gather, and goals to reach, Vivian decides to leave her safe ‘n’ sound hometown and take a bite out of the Big Apple. If she can make it there . . . well, you know the song.

Fast forward five eventful years—anyone would have thought that Vivian finally had it all: the “nice” guy, the great job, the “work in progress” bachelorette pad, a backstage pass to New York City, and an emotional first aid kit just in case. Not so fast! Just when Vivian thought that she had arrived (and on time no less), think again! Enter: an ever-buoyant subconscious, mind games without a set of directions, and pressures that make final exams and deciding on first date attire look like cake.

In her second book, Vivian takes on her biggest challenge yet: herself. Her real fears, her true hopes, and her big dreams. Befriend her as she realizes that disillusionment comes with the territory, that “breaking the glass ceiling” is the least of it, and that your past—the good and the bad—is a part of you forever. Take the journey alongside Vivian; be her travel companion through this game called life. Bring along a notebook, be sure to stop and smell the roses, and pack your favorite cocktail dress just in case!

Release date: July 29, 2003

Publisher: Ballantine Books

Print pages: 208

Sample

Prologue

There’s something about happy endings that makes me feel like everything’s possible.
Even for a fleeting moment. Do you know what I mean? Suddenly I’m optimistic, adventurous, determined, confident . . . all things good. The future looks bright and I’m part of it. And I make a promise to myself to remember that feeling and live it when deemed necessary.

If you’re wondering, YES, I’m part of that small majority—that
group of gals who look in the mirror and see the negative before
the positive. Overly sensitive, slightly neurotic. Yes it’s true. My selfesteem
plays me like a seesaw. I need that soundtrack, a cocktail,
hell, the immediate-gratification impulse purchase to kick
the week, the weekend, the evening off right. Pretty pathetic all
things considered: the therapy, the achievements, the betterthan-
average job. But if you’re looking for a rosy tale filled with
bogus antidotes and naive untruths, you should probably set this
novel down and head back to the chick lit table.

’Cause my story is real.

My ambition to fix what’s broken, my fear of looking back
with regret, the way I jones for first-kiss intensity every time
around, and this relentless inner tic that feels as though it is deserving
of anything that this once-in-a-lifetime life has to offer
seems to always land me right smack in the thick of it. So far anyway.

My silent dreams and smallish wishes follow me around like
puppy dogs. They constantly propel me to take chances. They
make me believe in myself even if the odds are against me. And,
suddenly, I become “that girl,” the chick who throws one back
and walks up to “that guy”—the one, of course, I think is out of
my league. Likely, the same guy you chose not to make eye
contact with ’cause you probably don’t give yourself enough
credit and instead make a buzzy beeline over to the coat
check, wondering what-if during your cab ride home. I become
the rookie in the conference room who every once in a while offers
up an opinion while simultaneously receiving glares that
could light a match from the venomous veterans who have
learned to be agreeable. I don those threads even though they
don’t fit me quite the same way they do the sticks in the ads. I
believe. I savor. I imagine. When I get a Why? I inevitably ask,
Why not? And if I get a no—well, I’ll bet you can guess what that
does to me.

Now, now—before you get all cranky and think me arrogant
and unrelatable, let me say this: Nine times out of ten my instincts
are disastrous, the outcome becomes a bad joke, and the subtle
confidence you’re picking up on is undoubtedly underwritten
with sweaty palms, a dry mouth, and a heart beating so boldly
you’d think I had my own personal base turned up way too high.

But alas, what kind of person, friend, tenant to myself would I
be if I quietly let my gluttonous gut go unheard? Seriously, if I
can’t sit through my own movie and leave the theater thinking,

“Yes! I really did live my life,” well then a full refund is in order! And
therein lies the problem. Doubtful any of us get a “refund” when
our own credits start a rollin’. So I say this: Go for it. I did. I am. And
I promise, I will. “Mistakes” or not, it’s worth it. (Caution: I’m not
suggesting we go leaping off small buildings in a single bound.
Reckless is hardly the goal. Living big means something different
to each of us.)

If nothing else, I know this to be true: Through the thick and
thin of it all, it is with every harmless personal dare that I have
found my greatest happiness.

Okay, so what are you waiting for? Pick me up, bring me to
the checkout counter, and give me that personal attention I
crave. I’m very low-maintenance actually. I love night-lights,
don’t get carsick, will eat anything, am fiercely independent,
and am cool with a little downtime. But I do have one small request.
When you’re through with me and if you don’t pass me on
to your friend, cousin, or coworker: How ’bout resting me between
that Brad Pitt unauthorized biography and Bruce Weber’s
most recent photography book?

What? It’s all good.

Cheers to you,

Vivian