New York career woman Stacey Knight marries James Makepeace just as she learns he's been offered the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to run a major Hollywood studio. There's one catch: they must relocate to Los Angeles. Will Stacey be lost in translation, or will her hard-earned New Yawk survival skills prove yet again, as Ol' Blue Eyes so often said, if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere?
The unwitting newlyweds land in a Technicolor high-stakes Social War, pursued by ruthless power brokers in the film demimonde. What's a girl to do when the promise of a glittering blockbuster future descends rapidly into film noir despair? At once seduced and repelled by the rigid caste system and predatory aspect of Hollywood life, Stacey navigates a sea of confusing social obstacles and extremely bad behavior. Empowered by 2,500-year-old military strategist Sun Tzu's The Art of War, Stacey takes control of the War Game and learns that they must adapt to survive and attack if they are to thrive.
|Product dimensions:||5.20(w) x 7.90(h) x 0.90(d)|
About the Author
Jodi Wing lives in Los Angeles with her husband. The Art of Social War is her first novel.
Read an Excerpt
The Art of Social War
The Beginning of the End
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . ." I played that familiar, bittersweet chestnut over in my mind while anxiety outweighed my exhaustion: one defining area of my life was to be settled shortly; another remained precariously up in the air. In my deconstructed office, amid half-emptied filing cabinets and half-packed boxes of memorabilia, I signed off on my very last media buy and contemplated the twinkling colored lights on the cherry trees outside my window, damp with drizzle and descending dusk. Holiday time here at Gracie Mansion. In ten days' time, the iconic Waterford crystal ball would drop down upon Times Square, signifying the official end of this crazy year. It would also signify the official end of the Giuliani mayoral tenure. My tenure, too; we would remain only to transition in the Bloomberg administration and tie up loose ends.
I rubbed my tired eyes as they traveled along the wall of framed photos and awards I still couldn't bring myself to take down these last days—visual testimony to eight years, two full terms of touchstones and memories in public ser¬vice to the City of New York. The tickertape parades, Marathons, July 4 Fireworks, Mets and Yankees Opening Day, and Thanksgiving balloons sparked such proud, joyful emotions. Remembrances of Ground Zero, firehouse and police memorials sparked profound sadness. The best of times and the worst: I had participated in both from a front row seat.
And it all came down to tonight. One last initiative, one last advertising campaign. My very last press event in this hallowedbuilding. Ever? It hardly seemed real.
I forced my thoughts to the promise of the evening's festivities and pushed aside a stack of spreadsheets in favor of my makeup bag and a brand-new copy of Emily Post's Wedding Planner, delivered today as a parting "gag" gift from the Teamsters Union, along with a bottle of Lillet sherry and elegant crystal goblets. I suppressed a smile, squeezed the last drops from a super-sized Visine bottle and began to layer concealer under my eyes, reciting bits of old-fashioned etiquette aloud to revive my sagging spirits. A quick knock, and my assistant Cathy poked her head around the door. "Leslie just called, Stacey. There was another subway scare and they had to evacuate at 79th Street." I grimaced; it was three months post-September 11, and the city still suffered daily emotional aftershocks: bomb scares, anthrax alerts, tangible civilian fear. "The Mayor—ex-Mayor," she caught herself, "is doing a quickie phoner for Channel 7, and—" I shot up by rote to run to my boss' side. "No, he said not to bother you. You should concentrate on tonight. The ads look amazing, by the way; definitely worth the all-night editing session," she added shyly, acknowledging my obviously useless cover-up attempts. I smiled wanly in return; I would miss Cathy the most.
Spirited voices neared the door: emotional reinforcements had arrived at last. In swept Chanel-scented hugs bearing rain-spackled Gloss garment bags, the entire Revlon product line and endless support and energy: my oldest and best friends, my soon-to-be bridesmaids, Nancy and Leslie. Without pausing they made themselves useful, expertly preparing airline-bottle cocktails on the paper and makeup-strewn desk. "Stace, get Nance to tell you about last night's disaster date," Leslie prodded as she handed me a vodka tonic and a tube of something shiny she was promoting, miming how to apply it. "The chubby blond accountant from our house-share in Quogue, remember? Hung like a bunny, sadly. That has a flawless finish, by the way."
"He seemed so promising," sighed Nancy, eyeing my Emily Post, and then my ring. "Oh well. It's a numbers game. Stacey found her corporate raider in Quogue two summers ago; we'll see what this season's batch brings. Meanwhile, I'll just scrounge from the Superhero Squad—what few hockey players, Navy Seals and firemen you two haven't, ahem, dated. If your father only knew of your bad-boy-in-uniform past, Stace . . ."
My smile widened (the finish really was flawless!), and I unzipped the damp plastic excitedly, unveiling cocktail dresses more fabulous than any I'd ever drooled over in Bendel's window. "My father the police captain and his entire 19th Precinct are actually quite 'pro-Jamey.' Now that they've completed a thorough background check, of course. Jamey meets Dad's 'play clean, work hard' Boy Scout criteria." I held the coveted hangers under my chin, modeling one at a time for general consideration, then frowned. "Why are there giant holes in the back of each dress?"
Nancy waved a roll of duct tape at me. "They're numbered European samples. I snuck them out of the fashion closet—they have to go back. We're shooting Monday," she warned, "so no spillage, Cinderella, or else your father-approved Boy Scout will pay a king's ransom for your evening-wear instead of the wedding."
"Or the new apartment," Leslie added helpfully, chewing an olive.
I wrinkled my nose. "Ah yes: life on a lowly City salary. Thank God for outlet stores and the kindness of high-ranking best pals. I'll behave." I held up the hangers again. "So, which do we like? I wanna project 'sophisticated, polished, eminently hire-able'—you know, like Emma Peel from The Avengers." With my chin, I reverently indicated my most favorite engagement gift, courtesy of my brilliant staff: DVD boxed sets of the iconic sixties' British television series, Emma on the front of each, outstanding in her cheekbones and sleek catsuits.
The snorting chorus didn't hesitate. "The leather one."
Of course. I negotiated the packing mess and tried on the selection behind a tower of crates. Mental note: no solid food 'til the wedding. "Speaking of superheroes, Nance, Rudy was thrilled with your coverage in Gloss." Gloss had the largest circulation in the country, and my maid of honor was the magazine's editor.
"He should be." She unspooled a loud and frighteningly large sheath of tape. "We put him on a par with Churchill and Kissinger."The Art of Social War. Copyright © by Jodi Wing. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
What People are Saying About This
“Saucy and full of biting wit, Jodi Wing’s THE ART OF SOCIAL WAR is about as much fun as you can have reading words off a printed page. Like a BONFIRE OF THE VANITIES crossed with MEAN GIRLS, it’s hilarious and deadly and fun to the bitter end!”
“Jodi Wing’s debut novelThe Art of Social Waris a satirical home run. A hilarious and dead-on exploration of the people who run Hollywood and those who try their best to love them. You won’t be able to put it down.”
“THE ART OF SOCIAL WAR is a smart, witty, yet cautionary tale... Jodi Wing’s newcomer-turned-insider narrative is a look at what happens when girl world intersects with the boys club in a town where winning is everything.”
“The gloves are off in Jodi Wing’s hilariously witty account of Hollywood’s social battle ground. For anyone who has ever wondered what it really takes to make it here, THE ART OF SOCIAL WAR delivers a knockout punch!”
“A sassy, out-spoken woman in Hollywood? What’s not to love? I couldn’t put this book down.”
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
I am a confirmed chick lit freak! and I have gone on the record as mourning the apparent demise of the genre. I was thrilled when I discovered The Art of Social War, a firt novel by author Jodi Wing. I liked the basic premise of this chick lit - if you can't join them - beat them - but in a subtle, smart way - hence the references to Sun Tzu's The Art of War. I had never really paid much attention to the original Art of War, but after reading this book, it made me interested in discovering more! This is just another example of how the book world can expand everyone's horizons - I mean, a chick lit book got me interested in reading the classic the Art of War!!!! However, back to our chick lit book. Our main character Stacey has just gotten married and finds herself living in la-la-land that is Hollywood - she also finds herself pitted up against an old movie studio and all that the movie biz entails - things are not going smoothly and after an extremely long period of "poor me, poor me", Stacey decides to fight smart! I liked this chick lit, but I found that the whole self-pity, trying desperately to fit in went on for too long. I finally cheered when Stacey finally figured it out! I like my chick lit to have strong-willed, smart heroines! I also thought that the story moved at a slow pace at times - which removed some of the fun for me. On the other hand, the writing was fun and some of the situations were deliciously set up. I don't know if its because I am getting older! but I found the print in my copy of this book to be sooooo tiny - This was a good read.
I would rate this as the worst book I read in 2008 and, unfortunately, it went into 2009. The pettiness and "game-playing" of the characters (who are really not empathetic at all) made it a difficult book to get through. There was not one strong character that I could either identify with or "root" for. I couldn't wait to be finished with it (have to finish all books I start). I know this was a "debut" novel, but I strongly suggest going back to the drawing board, learning more about character development and having a plot that is at a minimum somewhat believable. I'm just really surprised a publisher was found for it and feel really mad at myself for purchasing what a thought would be a fun novel. Not fun. Dreadful, tedious, and do not recommend it - to anyone.