by Lynn Messina
“It’s perfect, utterly and amazingly perfect,” she says. “I wouldn’t change a word.”
I let out a huge breath. “Really?”
“It’s an honest, straightforward account of your experience and you’ve written it in such a funny and humble way that I don’t resent you.”
In the act of reaching for the cheese, I halt. “Why would you resent me?”
“Well,” she points out, “Hollywood threw you a fabulous party, you got a new edition of your book with an extremely marketable quote from the world’s most famous teen and Variety ran a story on you and now you’re whining that it wasn’t enough.”
“But I’m not whining.”
“I know. That’s what I’m saying. You’re complaining but it doesn’t come across as complaining. Instead it reads like you took one on the chin and kept going. It’s really good.”
I try to process her comment. Will other people—not-related-to-me people—think I’m whining? Maybe I should put in a sentence about how grateful I am for all Chancery did for me. I know I got more than most people do. “Thank you.”
“Seriously, I’m impressed. Who put you up to it?”
It’s just like Carrie to follow a compliment with a snide comment. “What do you mean?”
“Making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear?” Her tone is mildly scornful. “That’s not you. You make sow’s ears out of silk purses. I’m surprised you didn’t write a story earlier about how much it sucks having your book optioned. Did Julie suggest it?”
“No,” I say petulantly, annoyed at how neatly she summed up my personality. She’s my sister. She’s supposed to think nice things about me. “It was Simon.”
“Oh, that’s good. We like Simon.”
I roll my eyes. She doesn’t even know Simon. One conversation in an elevator does not a relationship make. “Is that the royal we?”
“Mom, Dad and me. We think Simon’s great. You should go out with him.”
It’s amazing how your family can manage to be a pain in the butt from three thousand miles away. “First of all,” I say, “he hasn’t asked me. Secondly, I’m already going out with someone.”
“Yeah, we don’t like Harry.”
“Mom, Dad and you?” I ask, rolling my eyes again. It’s just like them to make snap decisions about something they know nothing about. You’re supposed to teach your kids not to be judgmental, but my parents went in the opposite direction. We learned the sooner you can sum people up, the better.
“We think he’s dodgy,” she says.
Her audacity is staggering. Clearly she has no idea how vulnerable she is in the area of boyfriend disapproval. If she’s opening the flood gates, I have several leagues to say about Glenn, starting with his air of middle-aged disappointment and ending with the way he grabs her ass.
“Dodgy,” I repeat, wondering what she’s getting at. Clearly she has something in mind.
“Yes, dodgy.”
“And your evidence is?”
“His name, for one.”
I rest my head against the couch and close my eyes. “His name?” I repeat flatly.
“Harold Skimpole. Skimpole. Skimping,” she explains. “The symbolism is so unsubtle it’s almost insulting.”
“You’re holding his name against him,” I say, wondering where she’s going with this. It has to be a joke.
“He ‘forgot’ his wallet when you went to the Ivy. Classic Skimpoling.”
She can’t really be using that honest mistake against him. “I’m hanging up now.”
“And he introduced you to that writer guy who charges you every time you sneeze. You must realize we have a fundamental problem with anyone who sets you up with a siphon.”
It’s official. I’m never telling her a single thing about my life again. “The phone is inches from the receiver.”
“Fine. Go. Great article. I’m really proud of you.”
The quick fire change from mean sister to supportive one flusters me. I can’t remember the last time Carrie said she was proud of me. “Thank you.”
“Call me tomorrow.”
Not ready to forgive her, I say maybe and hang up. As annoyed as I am about her ridiculous comments about Harry—classic Skimpoling!—I’m too excited about her reaction to the essay to think about it. I type in Simon’s e-mail and send him the article. Although it’s insane to expect him to be online at nine o’clock at night, I press refresh ten times in the next hour. When it’s obvious that he’s not going to respond right away, I finish the cheese, wash it down with some stale Milanos, wash up and go to sleep, leaving the blinds open.
For the first time ever, The Hanging Judge at Midnight billboard doesn’t bother me at all.
May 10
Lester still thinks I have a solid beginning but that’s all I have.
“The premise is intriguing and original but the story is too dark. Black comedy is the hardest genre to sell because few people manage to do it well. Studios look for movies with mass appeal that will draw the largest possible audience. Tad Johnson is too niche,” he explains. “I’m afraid they’d never go for it.”
As John had said something similar about black comedy, I’m not entirely surprised by his response, but it annoys me that he didn’t mention his concern the first time I showed the script to him. If the problem all along was the story’s black comedy-ness, why did I spend four weeks and one thousand dollars trying to make it the realest real?
It’s not that I believe there’s some kind of conspiracy afoot or anything paranoid like that; it’s simply that it seems like no matter what I do, Lester won’t like it.
Maybe this is the hazing process all screenwriters go through. Maybe you have to realize your script will never be right in order for it to be right. Maybe you have to take a Zen approach and submit to the universe.
Or maybe it’s all just a mind fuck.
“What about as an indie film? Couldn’t it work as one of those?” I ask practically. If the studios won’t go for it, then fine. The dark broody colors of early Soderbergh would dovetail perfectly with Tad’s teenage angst, which is what I want anyway.
“Possibly,” he concede, “but there’s no money in it. Your work has value and should be appreciated accordingly. You wouldn’t get anything for an independent script. Have you thought about trying it as a novel? Studios are a lot less critical of books than they are of screenplays. It’s easier for them to see the potential and miss the flaws. It’s something to think about.”
Realizing it’s futile, I thank Lester for his feedback and hang up. I have a million arguments in my head for why his reasoning is wrong—there’s more to building a career than cashing big paychecks. In the movie business, I am nobody, but one solid independent hit and I could write my own ticket. Everyone has read the success stories about the little script that could. Independent films are the perfect backdoor to Hollywood, a way of paying your dues and creating a name for yourself while dodging the small-minded politics of the studio system.
I’d never be so confident as to assume I deserve to start at the top. The bottom is good enough for me as long as there’s room to grow.
But what did I really expect? I’ve known all along that Lester is only in it for the money. I’ve had this epiphany once a week for three years. Trying to push it any farther would be like banging my head against a wall.
Frustrated, I boot up my computer, open the Tad Johnson file and read through it, struggling to envision the story as a novel.
As hard as I try, it never adds up to anything more than a few hundred lines of dialogue.
May 13
Simon digs up two names for the Times.
“Richard Edson is a culture writer for Arts and Leisure. He
covers mostly television but does some movie stuff as well,” he says, placing a Post-it with e-mail addresses next to my computer. “Angela Deering is deputy editor for Thursday Styles. My friend from Columbia thinks you should go with her. A lot of her classmates have had success with the Thursday section. Apparently they’re hungry for material.”
As I study the Post-it, butterflies flutter in my belly. I don’t know what I’m more nervous about: being rejected or being rejected by the New York Times. “So Angela,” I say.
He nods. “Yep, Angela.”
I’m not ready for his easy consent. I figured we could debate the matter for a few hours before making a decision. “Should I do it now?”
“You’re welcome to sit here all day obsessing over it if you want,” he says, with a quick look at his watch, “but I have to get to work so if you need me to hold your hand while you send it, then, yes, you should do it now.”
I pick up the Post-it. It seems like such a simple thing to type in Angela Deering’s e-mail and hit send. “She’s going to hate it.”
“She’s going to love it as much as I do.”
“She’s going to think I’m whining that my movie didn’t get made.”
Simon sighs. “Seriously, I’m happy to have this discussion for the fifth time, but it’ll have to wait until after work. I’m already running late.”
“You really think it’s good?” I ask hesitantly.
He stands up and grabs his messenger bag. “So we’ll pick this up at seven. I’ll bring the sushi, you bring the crazy.”
The thought of sitting on the Post-it for an entire day is unbearable. “OK, OK.” I type in the address, sit back and stare at the empty subject line. “What do I write? It needs to be something smart and grabby.”
“Hollywood broke my heart,” he says, without even thinking about it.
I replay it in my head. “Doesn’t that sound needy and desperate?”
“It sounds true. Now go on, type it. Traffic is backing up on the 405 as we speak.”
I enter the sentence, then cut and paste the snappy pitch we wrote last night after we discussed for the fourth time whether or not I sounded whiny. It’s amazing how Simon’s opinion doesn’t change. Mine does by the minute. “Should I paste the essay into the letter or attached the Word document?”
“Both and make a note that the article is below and attached. That’s how I get most résumés these days.”
It only takes me a second to comply and before I know it my cursor is hovering over the send button. I can’t believe how heavily my heart is pounding. When did this become such a big deal?
“Whenever you’re ready,” Simon says when I don’t move for a full minute.
I close my eyes and click the mouse. When I open them again, the e-mail is gone, sent, skedaddled. There’s nothing I can do now.
Simon honors the moment with an extended silence. Then he picks up his messenger bag again and kisses me on the forehead. “They’re going to love it. You’ll see.”
“Thank you,” I say, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. “Really, thank you.”
With typical Simon-ness, he shrugs it off. “We’re still on for dinner, right? Me sushi, you crazy?”
I think of an entire day spent waiting for a response from Angela Deering. “With an extra helping of insane.”
The second Simon leaves, I refresh. Nothing. I dart into the bathroom to brush my teeth. When I come out, I click it again. Still nothing.
At eleven, Harry calls to see if I want to go take in the Magritte exhibit at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. “It’s closing next week,” he says.
As a former volunteer docent at the Museum of Contemporary art—he did it for three hours—Harry has an ID card that gets him and a guest into any museum in the city, and, apparently, the country, for free. It’s also good for ten percent off at gift shops and museum restaurants.
“I’d love to but I can’t,” I say, feeling none of the regret I try to imbue into my words. There’s no way I’m leaving my computer until I hear back from Angela Deering. An article pitch is like crack to an update junkie.
“Why? What are you up to?”
For some reason I don’t want to tell him about the essay. I e-mailed him a copy days ago for feedback and never heard a thing. Now I’m too embarrassed to ask. He must have thought it was a special kind of awful to bury it so deep. “Nothing really. Just some work I need to catch up on.”
“You sure you can’t do it later?” he asks cajolingly.
I refresh the page and get an e-mail from my sister with granite samples. I can’t believe a kitchen can take this long to design. “Nope, it has to be done now. I’ll call you later. Have fun.”
At four o’clock I get a response. My heart beating ferociously, I click on the message. Angela is succinct. “Interesting. Let me see.”
I immediately call Carrie with the good news. “The New York Times thinks I’m interesting!”
She congratulates me and asks what I thought of ash versus slate, two colors so similar they might as well be the same. “Please say you liked ash. Glenn is pushing for slate but I think it’s too dark.”
“Ash. Definitely.”
“Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” I say, thinking of the domestic discord I just fomented. “I’m always here for you.”
Angela’s next message, a half hour later, is just as concise. “We like. Please call.” My hand shaking, I dial her number. She picks up on the first ring and sounds happy to hear from me. “We really love your piece but one thing. How do I know you’re Ricki Carstone?”
“I…uh…what?”
“I need to confirm that I’m talking to Ricki Carstone and not someone who wants to sabotage her career.”
So many thoughts go through my head, I’m staggered, but one is more persistent than the others. Career sabotage. “You think the article will ruin my career?” I ask, horrified. All I was worried about was people liking it. That I would be shooting myself in the foot never occurred to me.
“Not at all. It’s delightful.”
“But you just said—”
“We always have to be careful about people using the paper to settle scores. As you’re obviously Ricki, I wouldn’t worry about it. The piece is charming and funny. We’re excited to run it. We’ve scheduled it for May 25.”
I repeat the date softly, trying to do the math in my head.
“That’s a week from Sunday,” she says.
Sunday styles? Holy shit. “That sounds great.”
I click on new message, type the date into the subject line and send it to Carrie. I don’t know why I bother. She’s probably not online at 7 p.m.
“Good. Do you have any photos from the party we can use?” she asks.
Oh, my God. The New York Times is going to run my photo. “No, not really. I mean, I have a few snapshots, but they’re nothing special. Filmmagic.com has some good ones and Getty. I could send you the links.”
“No, that’s all right. Our photo editor will do it. I think that’s it. Congratulations on a wonderful piece. I know our readers will love it.”
“Thank you,” I say, struggling to seem calm and collected when all I want to do is jump up and down.
“Oh, there was one other thing. A minor detail. When I called Chancery Productions to confirm the story, they said the movie wasn’t dead.”
I’m so surprised the phone almost slips from my hand. “What?”
“They said they still hoped to make the movie. To be honest, it sounded like the standard party line to me, you know, like a face saver, but you might want to think about softening the language a bit.”
“Right,” I say, deciding that her exp
lanation made sense. A face saver or the assistant misunderstood the question. “I’ll do that.”
“Great. I’ll be in touch. Congratulations again.”
As soon as she hangs up, I call Carrie and screech in her ear for ten minutes. I’m only capable of half sentences and obscenities. She manages to calm me down and forces me to replay the conversation word for word.
“Hold on. What does it mean the movie’s not dead?”
I shake my head. “It’s just producer speak. It doesn’t mean anything.”
An hour later, I have the same conversation with Simon. We’re at the Growlery, where I insist on taking him to celebrate his genius. “It means nothing, right?” I can’t help looking for confirmation.
“Less than nothing,” he says. “It’s the sort of bullshit you say when the New York Times calls. Now let’s have another round. My genius doesn’t feel celebrated enough.”
Wren brings another pitcher of margaritas and Simon makes her sit down while I retell my triumphant story, starting at the moment when he suggests I write the essay. Wren asks to read the piece but Simon tells her to wait for the Times like everyone else.
We stay for hours, forgoing our fancy dinner plans for bar nibbles. We try the jalapeno poppers, which I think are better, per earlier press reports, but Simon insists it’s only the taste of victory that makes them so delicious. I have no argument for that. Everything tastes sweeter tonight, even the air.
And when I put my head down at eleven thirty, giddy and drunk and excited for the future, the pillow seems softer and fluffier. Within seconds I’m asleep and it’s the deepest, most peaceful sleep I’ve ever had.
It’s wonderful to be a New York Times writer.
Day 1,092
The chain of events goes like this: The New York Times calls Chancery Production, Chancery Productions calls Lester Dedlock and Lester Dedlock calls me to say running the article would kill my movie.