“We're here! This is free Wednesday, and that means you don't have to pay anything (but you don't get Mondays and Fridays - which are really great).
And we're just trying to give away a bunch of stuff on Wednesdays. Some of it's going to be goofy, like pencils with erasers that I bite when I'm writing.
I want to talk about my autobiography, James Patterson by James Patterson, which is the whole title. Over the course of, I don't know, a couple of months or whatever the heck, we'll give away all the chapters to that. We'll give away chapters to other books that haven't been published yet. We'll try to make it interesting.
I think my autobiography is actually my best book. My first book, The Thomas Berryman Number, won an Edgar as Best First Mystery when I was 26 and the autobiography, I obviously published when I was a lot older, and there's proof that I totally wasted my talent as a writer doing all those thrillers. But so be it.
I started the autobiography during COVID. I had nothing better to do. So I just started writing story after story. And just to give you kind of a sampling, I worked my way through college at McLean Hospital. I was an aide there, and it was just fascinating. It woke me up. I was sort of a small town kid, and all of a sudden, I'm dealing with a lot of people that had money or, you know, they were crazy in good ways.
And James Taylor, the singer, was there. He wasn't famous yet, and he used to sing in the in the coffee shop, and I could be 15 feet away from him, and he's singing “Sweet Baby James” and and “Fire and Rain” and stuff like that, which he'd already written. So that was exciting and interesting. Robert Lowell, the poet. He came in several times, and there was one other English student who was an aide, and we used to go in there, and Lowell would not just read his poetry to us, but explain what he had in mind.
Early on, when I was 26 or 27, I went to my first sort of literary party in New York City. It was at an agent's house, and there was a lot of noise going on. So I sort of wandered back through this hallway, and there was a bedroom, and it was packed with this sort of literary mob. And in the middle of the room there were these two little men, James Baldwin and Norman Mailer, and they both had their fists clenched and they were arguing about who was a better writer. And I just found it hilarious. That's one of the reasons I sort of laugh when I think about these various little things that writers get into in terms of who's better, who's worse, or whatever that is. So I learned to smile at that stuff in general. And I don't think this is stupid, but I tend to laugh at stuff. I'd rather laugh than cry at things that happen in the world.
Early on, before I published The Thomas Berryman Number, I got turned turned down by 31 publishers. To this day, there are still some editors around who turned my book down and they send me stuff for blurbs - and I'll blurb them anyway. But it could be out of revenge.
Then there are some family stories. But once again, they're all stories.
My father was just about to go off to World War II, and he got this call from this guy. He introduced himself as George Hazelton, from a nearby town, about 20 miles from where I grew up in Newburgh, New York. And this guy, George Hazelton, he told my father that last night, after dinner, his parents took him downstairs, and they said, “George, you know we love you so much, but we have to tell you, because you're going off to war, that we adopted you. You're not our natural son.” And then George Hazelton, over the phone, told my father, he said, “I'm your brother.” So that's how my father found out that he had a brother.
So there are little stories like that….Doing my autobiography at this age - it made me a better writer. It really got me to concentrate more on sentences. Some of you out there, some of you writers, think you're better than I am, and maybe you are, maybe you aren't, but you'll read it as the chapters come along, James Patterson by James Patterson, and you’ll come to your own judgment about your own writing and my writing, and that'll be kind of fun…”
See below for FREE chapters from my autobiography, James Patterson by James Patterson.
James Patterson by James Patterson
“The Jane Stories”
I lived with Jane Hall Blanchard for seven years, until she died at thirty-nine. Up until the time I fell for Sue Solie and married her, Jane was the love of my life.
The truth is, Jane totally saved me. She turned me around, turned my life around, changed my view of myself. I was basically this insecure knucklehead from upstate, and I didn’t really know how to behave in polite society, at least not in New York City society, not even while I was rising fast at J. Walter Thompson and writing novels on the side. Jane’s family had some money and some manners and, most important, confidence. And Jane was always so considerate, so human, never impatient with me.
Early on in our relationship, she asked me to go to a four-star French restaurant with her. Once we were seated, she could tell I was uncomfortable. It wasn’t hard to figure out. My body was as stiff as a mannequin in Macy’s window. I was extremely quiet and had trouble forcing a smile. I didn’t know much about French menus and I honestly didn’t know how to act in this very formal, upscale Manhattan eating place.
It was Jane’s favorite restaurant in New York, and she wanted to share it with me, but she was cool about my uneasiness. She had ordered some kind of French stew, her favorite dish there. Suddenly, she plopped her face down into the stew and came up with brown goop all over her nose, cheeks, and mouth. Then Jane said to me, “You need to know something, Jimmy. This is our place. This is our restaurant. We belong here.”
She didn’t say it loudly, and she didn’t lower her face into the plate in a way that would offend anyone around us. Her movie-worthy gesture was just for me.
This is our place. We belong. You belong. So chill out.
And Jane did it in such a kind way, with her usual humor. There was no implied criticism. That’s the kind of person she was.
A while later, I did a year in therapy. It was valuable as hell. I saw a terrific doctor, a great, smart guy to talk to, once a week. Ultimately, he became a friend. After I stopped seeing him as a doctor, we’d go out to lunch once or twice a month. He even paid half the time. Maybe 40 percent of the time.
He got me more in touch with myself. I had some anger issues and he helped me see that the anger mostly had to do with my father. He helped me understand that the way I was acting wasn’t really me, it was my father. I also realized I didn’t have to blame my father. My poor dad had his own tough issues and probably felt he was doing the best he could. The year of therapy helped me understand that I was, well, lovable — not because I was first in my class, not because I was successful as hell, but because I was me. Basically, a reasonably nice person who mostly tries to do the right thing.
And that was another thing about Jane. She loved me. I couldn’t help wondering, Why? But she did.
Early on in our relationship, we took it slow. Jane and I would get together after work. We’d go to a movie, go to a restaurant, or just do nothing. She did some home cooking. But every time she’d see me, she would totally light up. She’d wave both arms over her head. She’d call out my name. Even on a crowded New York street. She could be silly and get me to be silly and give her a big smile. I’m not one of the world’s best smilers, but Jane could get me smiling every time. That smile lasted for seven years.
“Still Jane”
When Jane and I started going out, she was a pack-a-day smoker. My parents both smoked, so I was accustomed to it, but I didn’t like it. I could never get used to that awful, acrid smell. One morning before we went to work, Jane announced, “I’m not going to smoke anymore. I’m done with that filthy habit. I’m finished.” She was going to do it cold turkey too.
To celebrate, I cooked dinner that night. To put it mildly, I’m not the greatest cook, but I prepared what was, for me, a gourmet meal. I got out Jane’s good silver, lit half a dozen candles, the whole romantic shebang. It was a big dinner for us: roast chicken, haricots verts, mashed potatoes, gravy, even a chocolate cake made from scratch — my grandmother’s recipe.
We sat down at the table, and Jane’s smile lit up the room. This was perfect!
She took one bite of the chicken and burst into tears. I turned white and started apologizing. How had I screwed up roast chicken so badly? Jane dashed across the living room and grabbed her purse. She lit up a cigarette. “I thought I could. I thought I was ready. I’m so sorry, Jimmy.”
Two weeks later, she did quit, and she stayed with it. Jane never smoked again.
One Saturday morning not long after that, Jane and I went out to breakfast near where we lived on the West Side of New York. After coffee, bagels, and eggs, we stopped at the post office on Columbus, the Ansonia Station.
Once we were inside, Jane fell to the floor and started shaking terribly. She was in great pain. We both thought she was dying. A nurse happened to be in the post office. She rushed over to help Jane. “I think your” — I don’t know if she said wife or friend — “is having a seizure.”
Jane finally stopped shaking and she managed to sit up on the floor, but we were both terrified. And totally mystified. We started consulting doctors around New York. We found out that Jane had a brain tumor.
She had surgery at New York Hospital, one of the best places in the world for cancer treatment. They removed most of the tumor, but they couldn’t get it all. We were told that Jane was going to die, probably within the next year. She was thirty-six.
She never complained, never shook her fist at the heavens, never once asked, Why me? She spent weeks and sometimes months in the hospital during the two and a half years that she lived. She had lots and lots of visitors and she never wanted to bring her friends and family down, not even while she was getting chemo and her hair was falling out. She had a collection of funny, goofy-looking hats that she’d wear. A different hat almost every day. The hat-of-the-day never failed to get her visitors laughing and then Jane would laugh too. That’s just who she was.
I had never been more in love with anybody. I was wildly in love with this woman who had to use a walker or wheelchair and had clumps of hair sprouting all over her head. It taught me something about the importance we tend to put on physical appearance. Imagine going on a blind date, and the person who shows up is using a walker and losing her hair. Not too many of us would have a second date. But during those days, I was more in love with Jane than I’d ever been. She was my best friend, the love of my life up to that point, and she was a saint.
During that time, I was running the Burger King business, which was the biggest account at J. Walter Thompson. After Jane got sick with that hellacious disease, I refused to travel. I wouldn’t go on film shoots. I wouldn’t go to Miami for meetings at Burger King headquarters. I convinced them that the business ran best with me staying in the ad factory, making sure that the work was as good as it could possibly be. The Burger King folk — especially Kyle Craig and Jeff Campbell — were good clients, good people. Besides that, they all loved Jane too.
“Still Jane, For Another Couple of Minutes”
I wasn’t really surprised that Jane beat the expectations of her doctors. No matter the setbacks — including three long stays at New York Hospital — she was always upbeat. Her spirit was amazing. I don’t know how she did it, but she was a role model for everybody who knew her. Several of our friends in those days named their babies “Jane” in her honor.
Jane’s parents had a place on the Jersey Shore. That’s where Jane spent her last summer. She was in a wheelchair most of the time, but she loved being at the ocean. I would come to the shore every weekend and try to make it a three-day weekend if I could.
One Sunday, I was going up the beach road in a taxi, pointed toward the train station in Mantoloking, heading to New York. I couldn’t help looking back through the cab’s rear window. I didn’t want to take my eyes off Jane.
She was out on the street in her wheelchair, smiling, waving to me, getting smaller and smaller and smaller.
I never forgot that image. Not even now. I’m still watching her get smaller. Every time I had to leave Jane, I wondered if I would ever see her again.
Her neurologist at New York Hospital, Frank Petito, was a great guy and he loved Jane. He would arrive at his office early in the morning, see patients, then routinely work until ten o’clock at night. At one point during Jane’s illness, I developed Bell’s palsy and Frank saw me as a patient.
After he finished for the night, he usually came to Jane’s room. He’d put his feet up on her bed, sit with us, and we’d talk about anything and everything and nothing at all for ten or fifteen minutes. Talking with Jane and me was his way to unwind. Also, she usually kept Godiva chocolates hidden away for Petito. She knew his favorites. Jane knew everybody’s favorites.
During this period, every day was on the scary side of tense and dramatic. My blood pressure had always been normal, but suddenly it shot up 30 to 40 points. I got that scary Bell’s palsy for a couple of weeks.
Then, one morning when I was at work, I got a call from the hospital. Jane’s younger sister, sweet, sweet Sarah, was on the line. She told me that Jane was having a bad time that morning. This was probably it. I rushed uptown to New York Hospital. Sarah and Jane’s mother, Anne, was also in her room. So was Dr. Frank Petito. They all seemed so small, ethereal, almost otherworldly.
I’m so glad I got there when I did. I was holding Jane’s hand when she passed. When she heard me whispering up against her cheek, she squeezed my hand twice. Then she was gone. I can barely write these words, even now, after all this time.
“Writer’s Block”
I found it impossible to write after Jane died. Her death, her not being there anymore — not seeing her face, not hearing her voice — had a numbing effect on me. I was out of it all the time. A deep sadness fell over me, a depressing fog that stayed with me day and night, weekdays and through the very long weekends. When I finally tried to write again, the pages were so awful, I didn’t even try to get them published.
When my grandfather had died back in Newburgh, I’d felt something like this. I remember going to my grandparents’ house after he died, walking in the deep woods where I used to tell stories to myself as a spacey little kid, unable to cry about Pop’s death. I could not cry. For years and years, I could not cry. Could not, even when I desperately wanted to.
But after Jane died, I cried every day. This went on for a year, maybe more than a year. Sometimes I’d force the tears to come. Late at night in our apartment on Central Park West, I would put on a favorite song of ours. I thought of it as the pleasure of grieving. I’m not sure pleasure is the correct word. Maybe it’s relief, the relief of grieving, of being able to feel something, even intense sadness.
Whatever it is, I have never been able to really say goodbye to her.
Goodbye, Janie.
It still doesn’t work.
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