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Paul and Emily have been friends for decades. Just friends, as they say. Emily’s beautiful, well-off and has always pursued Paul, in her subtle way. He, on the other hand, has never been quite sure why he’s not crazy about her. And then, with his career plummeting along with his self-confidence, Emily invites him to visit her in Ireland, where she lives raising and training horses. And Paul thinks, maybe its time to let her catch me. Be a kept man-would that be so bad?
And then-naturally-he falls for the firebrand Irish barmaid, during a week of international protests against the coming Iraq War and a chance that suddenly arises for Paul to turn his whole life around-if he can summon the will to be bold.
Green is about a small group of people and a week when their lives intertwine.
It’s also about why our friends aren’t our lovers (even though it would be sooo convenient), Ireland, horses, the rule of greed in the world, war, sex, horses, family, Ireland, horses and sex. Did I mention sex? And Horses? (Well, I capitalized it that time)
And then-naturally-he falls for the firebrand Irish barmaid, during a week of international protests against the coming Iraq War and a chance that suddenly arises for Paul to turn his whole life around-if he can summon the will to be bold.
Green is about a small group of people and a week when their lives intertwine.
It’s also about why our friends aren’t our lovers (even though it would be sooo convenient), Ireland, horses, the rule of greed in the world, war, sex, horses, family, Ireland, horses and sex. Did I mention sex? And Horses? (Well, I capitalized it that time)
Bio:
Ted Krever watched the Beatles on Ed Sullivan, went to Woodstock (the good one), and graduated Sarah Lawrence College with a useless degree in creative writing.
He spent the next few decades in media journalism, at ABC News on the magazine show Day One with Forrest Sawyer and the Barbara Walters Interviews of a Lifetime series, as General Manager of BNNtv, a documentary production company, creating programs for CNN, A&E, Court TV, CBS, MTV News, Discovery People and CBS/48 Hours, and as VP/Production of a short-lived dotcom, followed swiftly by nine months of unemployment.
Ted now writes novels and sells mattresses in Staten Island NY, a job which registers at a loathsome -98 on the Cosmopolitan Eligible Male Job-Status Guide. Ted is happily divorced, purports to be a good kisser and hopes for world peace.
He was once accused of attempting to blow up Ethel Kennedy with a Super-8 projector.
What inspired you to write this particular story?
Ted now writes novels and sells mattresses in Staten Island NY, a job which registers at a loathsome -98 on the Cosmopolitan Eligible Male Job-Status Guide. Ted is happily divorced, purports to be a good kisser and hopes for world peace.
He was once accused of attempting to blow up Ethel Kennedy with a Super-8 projector.
What inspired you to write this particular story?
A friend since the mid-70s; when she was 19 and just my type, something in my head still shouted little sister so that I couldn’t touch her. And I couldn’t figure out why, since we love each other to death as friends. And then there was another woman I met (longer version of this story on the Green page on my website) who was obsessed with the problems of being beautiful. Once I got over the impulse to laugh, I realized it was a prison in a way and became intrigued with the idea of telling that story. I started by asking questions, the way writers do, and surprised myself by actually coming up with some answers.
Why did you self publish?
Why did you self publish?
I tried for the agent and publisher for ten years. I’ve had published writers tell me I’m good; I’ve had agents tell me they liked what I wrote but don’t handle my sub-genre. The truth is, big publishers these days are interested in blockbusters or assembly-line writers. I’m what they’ve traditionally called a mid-list author, which is to say, I write about what interests me. I’m not going to turn out thirty romances or thrillers like pretzels off an assembly line. So self-publishing came along at the right time for me.
How long does it take you to write your first draft?
How long does it take you to write your first draft?
This is an evil question. First drafts for me are character and structure and making sure that each reflects the other. So first drafts are pleasure and torture because Ill get a certain distance in and discover something new. At that point, I either start over to incorporate that new knowledge or stall altogether. So in this case, the earliest sketch for this book I can find goes back to April 2002. I wrote another book in between, but the complete first draft (which is v5 on the hard drive) took me until October 2005. After that, it was finished in 2006, 2007 and then totally rewritten in 2010. Phew!
Excerpt
What the hell is in this case?
Saddles.
I’m hauling saddles? Plural?
Plural, Em nodded. Ill take them if they’re too much for you. She said this politely, as though she really might if I insisted.
She stepped out ahead, navigating the jampacked terminal like a general. A 44-year-old six-foot-tall blond runway-model-slim general in a crimson riding jacket and creased black denim, lugging an overstuffed backpack and two huge luggage cases on wheels. The crowd teeming smooching Italians from the 4:43 Roma and 65 Sikhs in turbans, manicured beards and deep gravity filing off the 5:03 (arrived early) Islamabad parted in front of her the way crowds always do with Emily, eyes panning as she passed. It’s impossible not to stare at her. Actually, the Sikhs refused, which only proved the point. I caught the looks bringing up the rear, the same looks I’ve seen for twenty-five years, on and off. Lucky son-of-a-bitch, that’s what they said.
They don’t have saddles in Ireland?
Not like these. If you want to ride, now Ill have a saddle for you.
The last time I rode a horse, I was pretending to be Roy Rogers.
Well, it’s yours, so you haul it. Like every other onerous thing in your life, there’s a story in it. We laughed an obligatory laugh. One of the privileges of knowing someone a long time is that a joke doesn’t have to be all that funny if it keeps coming uprepetition itself becomes the punch line.
I followed her onto the escalator. She was ascending backwards, having marshalled her cases into an upright, organized phalanx.
I haven’t run out of stories, I protested. I ran out of people who want to hear them.
Well, Irelands the place, you’ll see. Nobody loves stories like the Irish. They don’t care if they’re making them up half the time. The pleasures in the telling.
So what do they need me for?
You need them, she said, tapping me on the chest. You’ve been sleepwalking too long.
The escalator reached the top of its cycle. C’mon, I said, stepping off the ramp, let’s parade a little.
Emily squared her shoulders, tossed her hair in one of those moves women commit to muscle memory before high school and slipped loose another button on her blouse. Not that anything showed, mind you. A sliver of skin on Em is more erotic than bare nipples and a g-string on a less dignified woman. We threaded through the crowd, past swivelling heads and furtive glances. Emily glowed at this little game and I swelled a bit, just being seen with her.
Excerpt
What the hell is in this case?
Saddles.
I’m hauling saddles? Plural?
Plural, Em nodded. Ill take them if they’re too much for you. She said this politely, as though she really might if I insisted.
She stepped out ahead, navigating the jampacked terminal like a general. A 44-year-old six-foot-tall blond runway-model-slim general in a crimson riding jacket and creased black denim, lugging an overstuffed backpack and two huge luggage cases on wheels. The crowd teeming smooching Italians from the 4:43 Roma and 65 Sikhs in turbans, manicured beards and deep gravity filing off the 5:03 (arrived early) Islamabad parted in front of her the way crowds always do with Emily, eyes panning as she passed. It’s impossible not to stare at her. Actually, the Sikhs refused, which only proved the point. I caught the looks bringing up the rear, the same looks I’ve seen for twenty-five years, on and off. Lucky son-of-a-bitch, that’s what they said.
They don’t have saddles in Ireland?
Not like these. If you want to ride, now Ill have a saddle for you.
The last time I rode a horse, I was pretending to be Roy Rogers.
Well, it’s yours, so you haul it. Like every other onerous thing in your life, there’s a story in it. We laughed an obligatory laugh. One of the privileges of knowing someone a long time is that a joke doesn’t have to be all that funny if it keeps coming uprepetition itself becomes the punch line.
I followed her onto the escalator. She was ascending backwards, having marshalled her cases into an upright, organized phalanx.
I haven’t run out of stories, I protested. I ran out of people who want to hear them.
Well, Irelands the place, you’ll see. Nobody loves stories like the Irish. They don’t care if they’re making them up half the time. The pleasures in the telling.
So what do they need me for?
You need them, she said, tapping me on the chest. You’ve been sleepwalking too long.
The escalator reached the top of its cycle. C’mon, I said, stepping off the ramp, let’s parade a little.
Emily squared her shoulders, tossed her hair in one of those moves women commit to muscle memory before high school and slipped loose another button on her blouse. Not that anything showed, mind you. A sliver of skin on Em is more erotic than bare nipples and a g-string on a less dignified woman. We threaded through the crowd, past swivelling heads and furtive glances. Emily glowed at this little game and I swelled a bit, just being seen with her.
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