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"I strode into my publisher&amp;amp;#8217;s office on a frosty February afternoon. It had taken me hours to create a look that I deemed author-appropriate&amp;amp;#8212;faded jeans, a simple blazer, light makeup and a loose bun. I had completed my first novel, A Model Summer, and was here to discuss its release with my editor, Zareen. As we walked down the hallway, my heart was pounding and my palms sweating. The faces that peered out from behind the desks were looking at a writer. I was finally going to be taken as seriously as I&amp;amp;#8217;d always wanted. And then a pleasant woman waved hello and asked, &amp;amp;#8220;Who&amp;amp;#8217;s going to write your book?&amp;amp;#8221; My editor must have noticed my stricken expression. I nodded and smiled as if it hadn&amp;amp;#8217;t mattered. But of course it had. The assumption was that if an aging ex-supermodel had anything to say, it would be best said by someone else. I&amp;amp;#8217;m as guilty as anyone in assuming a Playboy centerfold doesn&amp;amp;#8217;t hold a Ph.D. We like to label everything and everyone, shove the world into boxes so it can feel more ordered. Yet &amp;amp;#8220;intelligent&amp;amp;#8221; and &amp;amp;#8220;beautiful&amp;amp;#8221; are not separate, mutually exclusive categories, though we often treat them as such. Growing up, I didn&amp;amp;#8217;t have to choose between being pretty and smart. Like most models, I was too tall and too skinny to be considered attractive by classmates. I wanted to be a writer, and if I had the time, maybe a painter with an intermission of saving orphans. So at 15, when I was asked by the owner of the Elite agency to go to Paris to model, my shock was on such a scale that I&amp;amp;#8217;m not entirely sure I have ever gotten over it. In Paris, suddenly and overnight, I was beautiful. I got better service in restaurants and free drinks in bars, and I learned that stares from people on the street didn&amp;amp;#8217;t necessarily mean my fly was open. Every compliment was balm on my fragile teenage ego. A year later I was lying to strangers, saying that I was in the city as an au pair instead of a model. Being Cinderella at the ball, I discovered, has its disadvantages. Yes, everyone stared and wanted a picture of or with me. But no one wanted to actually talk to me. Attempts at discussing history, art or literature&amp;amp;#8212;subjects I had diligently studied&amp;amp;#8212;seemed to elicit the same reaction a toddler gets when he announces that he wants to be an astronaut or a fireman: a pat on the head and a smile. By merely mentioning that I was a model, I could practically watch my IQ plummet in someone&amp;amp;#8217;s eyes. In a desperate attempt to be taken seriously, I started dressing in all black (lots of turtlenecks), smoking Gitanes cigarettes and quoting obscure German philosophers. At the same time, I was getting noticed for appearing in the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue, and I gave my first interview. The journalist asked what I thought about modeling, and I said that it sucked. But, I admitted, it was the only way a teenager could earn as much as the President for simply showing up with clean hair. He was impressed by my frankness, and I made an interesting discovery: It&amp;amp;#8217;s easy to appear smart when the expectations are nil. That interview was not the only time I spoke my mind, and journalists often noted what one called my &amp;amp;#8220;irreverent&amp;amp;#8221; and &amp;amp;#8220;refreshingly candid&amp;amp;#8221; attitude toward modeling. Their assessments almost passed for being taken seriously. But I was greedy&amp;amp;#8212;I didn&amp;amp;#8217;t want &amp;amp;#8220;almost.&amp;amp;#8221; So I had a baby and quit modeling. No more pinup calendars or posters, I decided. Instead I acted, cowrote a children&amp;amp;#8217;s book and designed an album cover. The result? No one noticed. Suddenly, not only was I not taken seriously, I was not taken at all. I had succeeded in withdrawing my physique from the public only to find they weren&amp;amp;#8217;t interested in any other part of me. My self-confidence reached an all-time low. Yet, ultimately, my desperation at being ignored prompted me to write. I went back to school and signed up for a course called &amp;amp;#8220;Beginning the Novel.&amp;amp;#8221; My classmates either didn&amp;amp;#8217;t recognize me (quite possible since I never wore makeup and didn&amp;amp;#8217;t dress up) or made it clear that they didn&amp;amp;#8217;t give a damn. It was a feeling of freedom I had so far experienced only by visiting online chat rooms. No one cared how I looked. What was important was what I said and wrote. I made wonderful new friends, some whose only opinion of me was that I was that loudmouthed, skinny chick who needed help with written grammar but was really good at plot points. With encouragement from the workshop that we formed outside of class, I completed the story of Jirina, a young girl not unlike me and others I&amp;amp;#8217;d met during the days of selling my face and body. I spilled my innards and recorded my thoughts and gave her a life and a voice. The only reminders of my past were a few invitations to premieres, which I usually passed on in favor of staying home with my husband, two kids and a new episode of House. (Or Lost. Or 24. Clearly my nights were booked solid.) It wasn&amp;amp;#8217;t until I started to look for an agent that I felt the familiar patronizing pat on the head. &amp;amp;#8220;So you&amp;amp;#8217;re writing, huh?&amp;amp;#8221; I was asked. &amp;amp;#8220;Beauty tips?&amp;amp;#8221; Still, people were curious, and in April of this year, my book was published. This time around I knew the interest was not about my allure. It was more of an &amp;amp;#8220;Oh, is she still alive? What does she look like now?&amp;amp;#8221; fascination. But I had a book to sell, so I did not complain. I also signed on to do Dancing With the Stars as a former supermodel. The irony wasn&amp;amp;#8217;t lost on me&amp;amp;#8212;to promote my novel, I was going back into the very same pretty-woman box from which I had tried to escape. I worked my butt off for six weeks, dancing eight hours a day in heels. The producers predicted that I was going to change people&amp;amp;#8217;s assumptions about models. Instead I was the first contestant to be voted off. The real surprise, however, was not my television dismissal, but the positive reviews of the book. Critics called it &amp;amp;#8220;a dizzyingly detailed and wrenching tale of innocence lost&amp;amp;#8221; and a &amp;amp;#8220;vivid, cautionary coming-of-age tale.&amp;amp;#8221; I obsessively hung out online, checking sales (not bad) and comments (good!). I&amp;amp;#8217;ve always believed that beauty is a facade&amp;amp;#8212;wrapping paper, if you will. It was not until this year, at 42, that mine was torn away and the public saw an actual thinking person. I felt briefly vindicated. Now I&amp;amp;#8217;m writing again&amp;amp;#8212;but I&amp;amp;#8217;m also cleaning up dog poop, helping with homework and making dinner. My return to normal life came with an epiphany: The only opinions that should matter to me are those of my husband, children, friends and family. And their respect and love has never depended on how I look. Paulina Porizkova is an author and a former model."^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.glamour.com/fashion/2007/09/paulina-porizkova>