Room for Love, which I must point out was written before I had a baby, is based on an article I wrote for the New York Post (also before I had a baby), for which I pretended I was looking for a roommate as a ploy to meet men.

In the fictional version, Jacquie Stuart—struggling writer, East Village apartment owner, cinemaniac, dog lover, yogini, commitment-phobe in chronic pursuit of a commitment-phobe—takes a break from writing celebrity puff pieces to make some cash. She pitches a story to a glossy women’s magazine that proposes using the real-estate ads as a hot new dating scheme. When her editor insists that she do the research herself, Jacquie finds herself on a romantic rollercoaster ride that takes her to the dingier digs of the Upper Eastside, the brownstones of Brooklyn and the slums of the Lower Eastside. In a story that brings together two New York obsessions—romance and real estate—one woman is forced to question the shaky foundations of the bed she has made, and wonder if maybe searching for happiness in other people’s homes is the wrong way to find Mr. Right.

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