I generally get mildly excited when the phone rings, because each call is a possibility. A possibility of a random party invitation, or good news from my sister, or a new ghostwriting gig. But once the whole Child McStar thing went off the rails, whenever my ringtone blared away (at that time, it was Bruce Springsteen's "Livin' in the Future"), I'd get a golf ball-sized knot in my gut, because there was a 58% chance it was somebody involved in the McStar book project calling to bitch about...something.
The most common bitcher was Literary McAgent, who'd gotten into the unfortunate habit of using me as her de facto shrink. Manager McBlabbermouth was a close second. This gentleman, who I'd never met face-to-face, and who I'd only had a small handful of phone conversations with, had taken to baring his soul about how frustrated he was with Child, and how this was the kind of thing that made him want out of the entertainment industry. But it was, of all people, Spouse McStar officially who started the downward spiral. As noted, the only way I was allowed to initiate contact with Child McStar was via email, because nobody, but nobody talked to Child on her cell unless she deemed it acceptable, so I wasn't entirely surprised when Spouse rang me up.
"So here's the deal," he said, without much in the way of preamble...or, for that matter, politeness. "We're bailing. We haven't signed the contract yet, and we're not happy with it, and we don't want to give Literary McAgent 15% of our advance so she can clean up the mess she made in the first place, so we're renegotiating the contract ourselves, and we want you to come with us. Child loves working with you. You in or out?"
I said, "Um." Because really, what else was there to say? A cranky, barely-working D-list former kid star gets a six-figure offer for a book that might or might not be mildly interesting, depending on whether her juicier stories get past the publisher's legal department, and she and her boyfriend/husband/manager/protector are going to walk away because they don't want to pay the person who get them the deal their rightful fee? Sure, Literary McAgent was a pain in the pooper, but she'd earned her money, so pay her, have your poor sap of an underpaid ghostwriter (a.k.a., me) bang out the book, and call it a day.
But that wasn't the way Child McStar rolled.
After I was silent for a bit, Spouse McStar said, "In or out? Tell me now."
I'm always nice to the people I work with/for -- too nice, some would claim -- so I said, "I'm flattered. Let me speak to Literary McAgent, and I'll get back to you."
(We now switch to boldface capital letters for the next portion of our program.)
"LITERARY MCAGENT ISN'T SHIT! WE COULD SELL THIS PROJECT TO ANY PUBLISHER IN NEW YORK IN FIVE MINUTES! FUCK [insert the name of publisher that made the overly-generous six-figure bid]! FUCK [insert the name of the editor who was saddled with the project]! FUCK LITERARY MCAGENT! FUCK THEM ALL! CHILD MCSTAR IS HUGE, AND SHE WILL NOT BE DENIED HER JUST DUE! IF YOU WANT TO WALK, THEN FUCK YOU, TOO!"
Click. Dial tone.
Naturally, I called Literary McAgent. After I recounted the Spouse McStar scream-fest, Literary asked, "So let me get this straight, babe: He said they don't want to pay me?"
I said, "Um, I think the more salient issue here is that they're bailing on the contract, and they're trying to poach me."
"Of course, babe, of course. What do you think I should do?"
"I think Child McStar is a whack job, and Spouse McStar is a nutbag, and you should cut and run, because these people will make you crazy, and hurt your reputation, and drive your favorite ghostwriter to drink." I didn't say that, of course, because I'm too damn nice. What I did say was, "Um."
Literary McAgent said, "You're right. I should sue them."
Next: In which Literary McAgent gets litigious, Child McStar initiates a phone call all by her lonesome, and Ghosty McGhostwriter gets yelled at again.
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