Zusatztext "An amazing! unexpected love story...totally inspiring." Informationen zum Autor Jessica Fox is a writer and film director. She has consulted for HarperCollins and was a resident storyteller and film director at NASA. She heads Mythic Image Studios and divides her time between the US and the UK. This is her first book. Zusammenfassung In this inspiring! delightful memoir! a young woman decides to escape the daily grind and turn her what if fantasy into a reality! only to find workand a manshe loves in one fell swoop! all in a secondhand bookstore in a quaint Scottish town. Jessica Fox was living in Hollywood! an ambitious 26-year-old film-maker with a high-stress job at NASA. Working late one night! craving another life! she was seized by a moment of inspiration and tapped second hand bookshop Scotland into Google. She clicked the first link she saw. A month later! she arrived 2!000 miles across the Atlantic in Wigtown! on the west coast of Scotland! and knocked on the door of the bookshop she would be living in for the next month . . . The rollercoaster journey that ensuedtaking in Scottish Hanukkah! yoga on Galloway's west coast! and a waxing that she will never forgetwould both break and mend her heart. It would also teach her that sometimes we must have the courage to travel the path less taken. Only then can we truly become the writers of our own stories.

"An amazing, unexpected love story...totally inspiring."

Autorentext
Jessica Fox is a writer and film director. She has consulted for HarperCollins and was a resident storyteller and film director at NASA. She heads Mythic Image Studios and divides her time between the US and the UK. This is her first book.

Zusammenfassung
In this inspiring, delightful memoir, a young woman decides to escape the daily grind and turn her “what if” fantasy into a reality, only to find work—and a man—she loves in one fell swoop, all in a secondhand bookstore in a quaint Scottish town.

Jessica Fox was living in Hollywood, an ambitious 26-year-old film-maker with a high-stress job at NASA. Working late one night, craving another life, she was seized by a moment of inspiration and tapped “second hand bookshop Scotland” into Google. She clicked the first link she saw.

A month later, she arrived 2,000 miles across the Atlantic in Wigtown, on the west coast of Scotland, and knocked on the door of the bookshop she would be living in for the next month . . .

The rollercoaster journey that ensued—taking in Scottish Hanukkah, yoga on Galloway’s west coast, and a waxing that she will never forget—would both break and mend her heart. It would also teach her that sometimes we must have the courage to travel the path less taken. Only then can we truly become the writers of our own stories.

Leseprobe
Three Things You Need to Know About Rockets

Chapter 1

“The artist’s life cannot be otherwise than full of conflicts, for two forces are at war within him; on the one hand, the common human longing for happiness, satisfaction and security in life and on the other, a ruthless passion for creation which may go so far as to override every personal desire… there are hardly any exceptions to the rule that a person must pay dearly for the divine gift of creative fire.”– Carl Jung, THE SPIRIT OF MAN IN ART AND LITERATURE: Psychology section, third shelf on the right in the main gallery.

All stories have a beginning, or so it seems. Beginnings, middles and ends feel real, like supporting pillars that have always been there and will always be. If they were drawn on paper, their solid mass would look complete, finite and separate.

On taking a closer look, however, their true nature is revealed to be ephemeral. That solid dot that we have come to trust as “the beginning” is in fact like a cloud, made up of an infinite number of moments, any of which can be broken down again into smaller and smaller moments. This begs the question, is there really a start at all? Or do each of us, just by existing, bend the air with narrative threads so that every origin to any story resides not from without but from within? The “once upon a time” that looked like it had its origin firmly on the page is in fact a mirror reflecting that the true source is, and always has been, you.

The honks of cars and the hum of exhaust leaking from engines reached a crescendo. I sat in the car, baking under the Hollywood sun. At 25 years old I was convinced that this is how my brief life would end. I would be found in my car, my body half hanging out the window, still stuck in traffic, having died from heat and exhaustion on an LA freeway.

My eyes squinted in the bright light, as I strained to see a line of cars ahead of me. Silver Lake Boulevard was usually free from congestion, but today the traffic wasn’t moving. Hot and anxious, I looked out of the window. Next to me was the dwindling expanse of water that gave Silver Lake its name. Like most things in Los Angeles, the lake was not natural but man-made, a concrete reservoir that almost emptied, dehydrated, in summer and filled partially in winter. Looking at it made me thirsty. Seeing concrete where water should be was like seeing the feet of the wizard of Oz behind the curtain; an unattractive reminder that this was the land of make-believe, where lakes didn’t exist naturally but could be conjured up by money and imagination alone.

If pressed, I couldn’t articulate why I loved Los Angeles, but I did. My former Bostonian identity had disappeared as quickly as people here applied fake tans. After just a year in the sprawling suburb, I was already feeling part of the city, and the smog, the sun and the water, or lack thereof. Growing up in New England, it had felt like I had spent my whole life fighting against some invisible force that was as strong and elusive as gravity. In California, that weight had been lifted. There was nothing to fight against here – besides traffic – and even then there was little you could do but give into the slow flow of the river of cars.

My Toyota blasted cold air from its dust-covered vents. I leaned in closer, feeling the cool kiss of air against my neck. My forehead gently fell against the wheel and I hugged my arms to my chest, away from the sun. It had been a long day at work and I was tired, burnt out and I now felt my pale arms beginning to burn.

An emerging film director, I lived in a studio apartment in Silver Lake’s lush, tree-covered hills, a hipster haven tucked into a small valley far away from the ocean, west of West Hollywood. It had the feeling of a real neighbourhood, not the typical billboard-and-boulevard vista that one would associate with Los Angeles. Silver Lake was ideally located between Pasadena, where my work was, and West Hollywood, where films and my social life resided.

In my street the otherwise grey sidewalks were littered with colourful petals. Bungalow houses were sweetly tucked into either side, each different in shape and size but all boasting views of snow-capped mountains and downtown Los Angeles. We were high enough to rise above the pollution – sometimes on very smoggy days, I looked down on a dark sticky cloud that hung over the city like a moth-eaten blanket.

My studio, nestled into the back of one of the bungalows, was a detached guest suite that had been converted into two studio apartments, one stacked on top of the other. I lived in the bottom studio – the bigger of the two, with private access to the garden. Out of the window of my four-walled oasis you could see, if you really craned your neck, the Hollywood sign.

My fingers gripped the steering wheel as I made a left out of the traffic and up a shady, empty side street. The backs of my hands were covered wi…