Jordan Christy - How to Be a Hepburn in a Kardashian World: The Art of Living with Style, Class, and Grace

Sometimes you need a second chance, because you werent quite ready for the first.

Anonymous

S even years ago, I wrote a book called How to Be a Hepburn in a Hilton World, a project I was confident would sell exactly four copies (to my familyI figured theyd each buy a copy out of sheer obligation), and that would be the end of such a random endeavor. You see, Id played music my whole life, moved to Nashville when I was nineteen to pursue a career in the music industry, and was lucky enough to get a job at an amazing record label my senior year of college. My husband and I also got married that year and bought our first house. Life was good.

So it was to my surprise and complete shock when I suddenly became a writer. Beyond penning our familys annual Christmas letter and a pithy entry in my colleges literary journal, Id never had the slightest tendency toward a career in books. Not only was it new and exciting, but it seemed to be a nice little addition to my great day job. I signed my first contract when I was twenty-three years old, and I was completely self-assured. When I sat down to work on the book that summer, I knew exactly what I wanted to write about.

To properly tell the rest of the story, we need to back up about a decade. When I was thirteen, I started attending a new middle school along with several of my friends from elementary. I was actually really excited about the new school and making new friends, as it was a much bigger class than Id grown up with. However, a few kids, for whatever reason, took it upon themselves to make sure that never happened and set out to make my life miserable. I would come to school in the morning and open my locker, only to find it filled with trash. I remember standing there, day after day, trying not to cry, as I picked up all the garbage that had spilled out into the hallway. I told myself, Whatever you do, dont cry. Or youll forever be that kid who cried in seventh grade. At the end of the day, they would scream hateful things outright and throw cans and bottles at me during the bus ride home. Every day just got worse, and by the end of the year, I begged my mom to pull me out of school and just homeschool me.

It was a lonely time, and I remember wishing that I just had someone, anyone, to talk to. I now know, as an adult, that people can just be mean for no reason whatsoever (myself included, as I would soon come to find), but as a thirteen-year-old, it felt like I was the only target of hate in the world. I occasionally caught glimpses of what was being said about me, and it would only make the tears come quicker. So I trained myself to simply survive; if I could make it through the day without crying, I considered the day a success. By the time I got to high school, I vowed that if I ever had the opportunity, I would write a book for that girl Id beenthe one walking the halls by herself every day, the one with no one to sit by at lunch, the one fighting back tears during seventh-period biology. I would write something to make her feel like she had at least one friend in the world, even if it was just a book.

I would write a book that would give that girl the confidence to keep her chin up; a book that would give her the strength to get through the next day; a book that just might make her laugh and smile, even if nothing else in life was happy or good. I resolved to forever be an advocate for any girl whod ever been the only onethe only one without a partner on frog dissection day, the only one who wasnt invited to Amy W.s birthday party, the only one who didnt get picked for the kickball team. I wanted that girl to know she wasnt aloneI wanted her to know that someone out there had been through the same thing, but that someone had gone on to have an amazing life. I wanted her to know that who you are in middle school (or high school or college) doesnt have to define who you are for the rest of your life.

So, when I sat down to write my first book that summer I turned twenty-three, I knew exactly what I wanted to say. Except it didnt come out exactly as Id planned. You see, other than my mom, Id never told anyone what happened to me in junior high. Not a soul. I stuffed those tears and hurt and rejection down so far that Id never have to deal with them ever again. It hurt enough the first time going through itwhy would I want to talk about it ever again?

Little did I know, those things have a way of coming out in one form or another, at some point. The unfortunate thing was that all those suppressed, toxic emotions spilled out into one tiny book. All the hurt, all the anger, and all the pain came out in a neat, succinct little package that was then shipped to every major bookstore and translated into several different languages. By the time I realized what had unconsciously spilled out, it was too late.

Suddenly, I was the mean one. I had said things that I regretted and hurt people that Id never meant to hurt. Even innocent celebrities somehow got swept up in the wake of my unspoken pain. The strange thing is, Im actually an unbelievably (okay, obnoxiously) bubbly, optimistic, and kind personI love people and always go out of my way to make sure everyone feels loved and valued and included. But by reading that book, youd assume I was nothing but angry and bitter. Turns out, theres a small part of me that still was.

Its no secret that the world has changed drastically in the few years since that first book was published (Snapchat happened;