December 10, 2011
Steve Job’s once-estranged daughter on Mona Simpson’s fictionalized portrayal of their family.

Driving Jane by Lisa Brennan-Jobs

Published in The Harvard Advocate, Spring 1999

We drove. I sat on my mother’s lap in the driver’s seat and steered while she did the pedals, keeping us at 15 mph. She held her hands an inch away from the steering wheel, hovering, in case I overestimated one of the turns on our twisted road in Los Trencos, California. It was just the two of us, my mom and me – so nobody told her she was crazy. My mother knew: at five I was coordinated enough to steer the car. 
In my aunt Mona Simpson’s book, A Regular Guy, a girl named Jane also drives. Her impoverished mother, Mary di Natali, sends her to find Jane’s rich father, Tom Owens. 



I didn’t read the book for two years. Mona sent me the manuscript before publication, and asked me to read it over. I expected it to be a series of conversations from a cocktail party, an idea I remembered her telling me about years before. She told me that I was to tell her if I thought she should change anything. I was honored. After reading only a few pages, it was clear that the book was about something different—but I only read so much then, and I only asked Mona to change a few details. I was intimidated to ask her to change more. Who was I to tell an accomplished writer what to do? Her first two books, Anywhere But Here and The Lost Father earned her literary fame—her work has been translated into 14 languages. She is the recipient of Whiting writer’s award and a Guggenheim grant. She was selected as one of Granta’s Best Young American Novelists. Yet, in the first few pages, I was confronted with my family, my anecdotes, my things, my thoughts, myself in the character Jane. And sandwiched between the truths was invention—lies to me, made more evident because of their dangerous proximity to the truth. Less than the uncanny resemblance between Jane and me, it is the mixture of fact and invention that grates. Jane is me and not me. Jane and I are playing tug-o-war; I am truth, Jane is lies, the rope is fiction.

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December 10, 2011
Waterloo

by Lisa Brennan-Jobs, originally published in the Massachusetts Review Spring 2006

As Brennan-Jobs shares, when she met Emily, she and her friend Cole, recognized each other at once, but both of them seemed startled. At one of their conversations, Emily told her that she had met Cole at a party in one of Harvard’s final clubs in which she had a few drinks there, but didn’t remember anything after that. The next day she went to the hospital and tested positive for the presence of Rohypnol—the date rape drug. Several people told her later that she and Cole had sex that night in the club in front of a group of people.

A WOMAN-I’D NEVER SEEN HER BEFORE-Stepped into the lift with us. Her hair was dark, pixie cut around a pretty face with a delicate, freckled nose. She and my friend, Cole, recognized each other at once. Both seemed startled. He had forgotten her name but remembered when she told him-Emily.

As the lift dropped from the fourth floor, they spoke-mostly Emily spoke. Her voice was frail but insistent, reaching to him, engaging him, laughing when he didn’t laugh. I noticed she was English, and her accent rounded softly at the edges so it was difficult to hear the last part of each phrase. Her demureness seemed a form of humility, or a false humility.

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December 10, 2011
Tuscan Holiday: Steve Jobs’ once-estranged daughter Lisa on falling hard for an Italian aristocrat, before realizing what she’d be leaving behind

by Lisa Brennan-Jobs, initially appeared in Vogue, February of 2008

COPYRIGHT (c)2008 THE CONDE NAST PUBLICATIONS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

At 24, Lisa Brennan-Jobs fell hard for a handsome Italian and his aristocratic world—until she realized what she would be giving up.

At 24, Lisa Brennan-Jobs fell hard for a handsome Italian and his aristocratic world—until she realized what she would be giving up.

Millions of presumptuous girls, intelligent or not intelligent, daily affront their destiny, and what is it open to their destiny to be, at the most, that we should make an ado about it?”

—HENRY JAMES, PREFACE TO PORTRAIT OF A LADY

We met on the wide sidewalk of the Via Cavour where it intersects the Piazza del Duomo. Marco* was a friend of a friend. I’d just arrived in Florence. As I reached out to shake his hand, a voice in my head, low and calm, said, You’re going to date him, but you’re not going to marry him. I’d never heard voices before, and I couldn’t imagine a reason for such an admonition on a weightless Italian afternoon. I was 24. He was good-looking in jeans and a blue collared shirt with a button undone, tan and a little gray at the temples. He was slim, and he spoke clear English warmed by an Italian lilt—perhaps I would date him, I thought—and he smiled, and his warm brown eyes sparkled, and we shook.

Marco took me to summer dances in crumbling villas, a Mozart concert in a candlelit church. I had landed inside Cinema Paradiso, but better—it was real.

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