My name is Jerramy Fine. (Even though I’m probably the girliest girl you’ll ever meet, my parents were very mean and gave me boy’s name. I’m sorry if it’s confusing – but it’s not my fault!)
Anyway, I’m the author of a hilarious new book called SOMEDAY MY PRINCE WILL COME: TRUE ADVENTURES OF A WANNABE PRINCESS. And I’m guest blogging for you today!
Lots of people think my book is fiction. Because it looks like fiction. And it sounds like fiction. But it’s not! It’s a memoir -so it’s a TRUE story! And it’s all about me (an ordinary American farm girl) who moved in England in search of a real-life prince!
I’ve never done this before but I’ve decided to give you an exclusive excerpt from the first chapter. After you’ve read it, please get in touch with me and let me know what you think!
Exclusive excerpt from SOMEDAY MY PRINCE WILL COME:
“Jerramy, as a friend, I’m telling you that you’re absolutely delusional.”
Max’s voice boomed in the quiet Indian restaurant. No matter where we went in London, his loud New York accent never failed to make a scene, but I’d long given up on pleading with him to tone it down.
Max looked me straight in the eye, “And how many of those girls are under the age of seven?”
Well, I guess he had a point. I was not under the age of seven. In fact, I was 16 years older than seven. I’d had 16 years to come to my senses. But the simple fact remained: I was 23-years-old and still believed that one day I would become a princess.
To be honest with you, I have no idea how it started. I cannot remember a time in my life when becoming a princess was not my main ambition. There was a time, I believe it was preschool, when all of my friends dreamed of becoming princesses too. But later, when my friends moved on and dreamed of becoming actresses, astronauts, and flight attendants, I still wanted to be a princess. Those same girls actually grew up and became lawyers, fashion buyers and management consultants. I was still trying to become a princess.
I wasn’t stupid. I knew this wasn’t a career that my high school guidance counselor could help me with. I knew perfectly well that I couldn’t just go out and get a PhD in Princess Studies or a buy a royal title off eBay and crown myself at my own coronation. If only! No, I was painfully aware that breaking into my chosen vocation was going to be far trickier than that.
But the thing was, unless I could biologically prove that I had real royal blood in my veins (which, for the record, I was working on), becoming a princess was sadly something I couldn’t achieve through my own independent efforts. To legitimize my particular professional dream, I had to marry a prince. Simple as that.
Now many would point out that I live in the 21st century and that princes aren’t exactly a dime a dozen anymore. In fact, for the most part, they are pretty much obsolete. So? Eighteenth-century Chippendale dressing tables aren’t exactly a dime a dozen either, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t go out and find one if I tried hard enough. Granted, limited-edition, antique English furniture is slightly easier to track down than a twenty-something, eligible male royal, but the point is, it’s not impossible and I explained this to Max.
“Do you know how stupid you sound when you say that?” Max taunted. “Saying your ideal career is to be a princess is just as ridiculous as saying your ideal career is to be First Lady.”
I laughed. “First Lady is a good plan B!”
Sometimes I had no idea why I was friends with Max. But I appreciated his bluntness, no matter how brazen or obnoxious.
“Okay,” Max continued, “Let’s say that hypothetically, you really do meet one of these royal assholes. How are you going to get his attention? You’re hot, but you’re not the hottest girl I’ve ever met. You might be able to pull off a one-night stand with a prince, but for more than that, you’d have to be super-super-hot. I’m talking uber-hot.”
I rolled my eyes. I knew better than to be insulted. “Thanks, Max.”
The waiter came and placed half a dozen steaming dishes onto our little table. I piled some rice onto my plate while Max helped himself to chicken jalfrezi.
“Jerramy,” Max sighed, “For a girl as intelligent as I know you are – you really worry me. One of these days, you’re gonna have to start living in the real world.”
I took a large gulp of white wine.
Honestly, if I had an ounce of royal blood for every time someone mentioned the “real world” to me, I’d be a princess by now.
Most of my family and some of my very closest friends had at least learned to humor me – they saw my princess complex as a quirky and rather amusing endearment. But pretty much everyone else just laughed, shook their heads and looked at me with pity. Exactly what Max was doing at that very moment.
I knew what everyone was thinking: how could such a bright girl have such a ridiculously frivolous and downright impossible goal? And (here it comes) when was she going to grow up and start living in the real world?
My question was this: What’s so wrong with living in a fantasy world? Seriously. What’s so wrong about ignoring the conventions and practicalities of the so-called real world, and actually pursuing your childhood dream? Sometimes I think “the real world” is just a phrase invented by adults to give credibility to the miserable lives they’ve created for themselves. Feel free to call me delusional, but I was someone on this planet who, no matter how silly it seemed, was actually listening to my heart – I trusted it, believed it and followed it. And in my opinion, there was nothing more “real” in this world than that.
So no matter how much I was teased, or how many obstacles I faced, or how many birthdays I celebrated past the age of seven, my singular desire to become a princess remained firmly in my heart. And I often thought it would take nothing short of an exorcism to remove it.