It was a TV show that did me in. The heroine wouldn’t stop mooning over the
hero, who never gave her the time of day. For God’s sake, I wanted to
shout, get over him. Figure out your own life and he’ll eventually see what
That was when the plot bunnies for Imaginary Lines came hopping.
It’s not easy to be madly infatuated with a guy, especially not if the crush
lasts years and if the feeling remains unrequited. But there’s only so much you
can do. After Tamar, heroine of Imaginary Lines, tells Abraham’s
Krasner — family friend and boy-next-door — that she likes him, that’s that. He
doesn’t return the sentiment, so she’s taking off. So long, and thanks for all
So of course it doesn’t take Abe very long to realize he’s madly in love with her.
When they run into each other four years later, they’re professionally at
odds: he’s a football star and she reports on his team. And Tamar’s given up
unrequited love for good: she’s only interested in real relationships now, and
if Abe can’t prove that’s what he wants, they’ll have no future. Their
relationship is suddenly flipped — and the dynamic is so much fun to play with!
I don’t have a good answer when people ask me where I get my ideas, probably
because I want to say “everywhere” and that doesn’t seem sufficient. It’s true,
though, since I take random bits of inspiration from everything I come across,
and stick them in my manuscript: each book is a time capsule of things I see. I
wrote Imaginary Lines as I moved apartments and started a new job.
Just like Tamar, I was figuring out how to deal with a whole new set of
co-workers and responsibilities, and whether it was possible to have a career
and a social life at the same time. (Verdict: yes.)(Okay, my social life is
basically my friends and me hanging around and drinking wine in my apartment).
Most of my writing was done in cafes, highly caffeinated and hyped on chocolate
croissants. While I didn’t have access to a pro-football player (though I did
have copious books) I wrote across the table from one of my best childhood
friends, a professional journalist who gave me hints and tips for the kind of
things Tamar might have to handle. And my friend always got us into cool
journalist things, like the VIP tent of a fancy Cirque du
Soleil-esque event. Yeah, that made it into the book. As did this violently
The plot bunnies come from everywhere, and they combine to form one crazy ride.
I hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it!
About Imaginary Lines:
Tamar Rosenfeld has been in love with New York Leopards linebacker Abraham
Krasner since they were twelve years old. She’d always considered it destiny
that they’d end up together…until Abe was drafted and she professed her
feelings in a moment of blind excitement. The sting of his rejection was like
nothing she’d ever felt before, and it’s nothing she’ll ever forget.
Older and wiser, Tamar has landed a dream job as a reporter for one of New
York’s premier athletic websites. Determined to stop being the safe, boring
girl she’s felt like for most of her life, Tamar makes a list of all the things
she wants to do and see in her new city, and Getting Over Abraham is priority
But destiny has finally chosen to interfere. Just as Tamar’s decided to move
on, Abe’s realized she’s the only woman for him. When he confides the truth,
Tamar has to decide if she can put her crush behind her, or take a chance on
the very man who’s been holding her back all these years.
Read more about the New York Leopards in Rush Me and Running Back, available now!
Allison Parr is the author of Rush Me, Running Back, and Imaginary
Lines, the first three books about the New York Leopards. She grew up in
small town New England, where she developed an incurable case of wanderlust.
After graduating with degrees in archaeology and creative writing, she spent the
next several years living in San Francisco, Paris, Boston, and New York. When
she’s not traveling or writing, she’s making a mean chocolate cake or bad
historical jokes. She’s also amassing enough books to rival the library in
Beauty and the Beast.
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