The day after Child McStar's husband/boyfriend/whatever dropped the bomb about wanting to fire Literary McAgent and keep me on the project, for the first and only time in my ghostwriting career, I found myself on the phone with a lawyer. Fortunately, it wasn't because of anything I did wrong.
Without warning, Literary and her legal rep rang me up and proceeded to grill me hardcore about my chat with Spouse McStar. I replicated it as best I could...only without the yelling. (I did keep in the dozens of f-bombs, however.) After the deposition, I told them not to worry, that I wasn't going to do Child's book, and have a nice day, and give me a jingle when you have a nice client for me.
I thought that was the end. I thought that Child McStar would take the project to another agent, who'd find another ghostwriter to torture. I thought I could start looking forward to phone calls again.
I was wrong.
Two days later, I get a call from -- are you ready for this -- the woman, the myth, the legend herself, Child McStar. It was immediately apparent that the communication level between Child and Spouse was nonexistent.
Child said, "So when do you want to start with our book?"
"Excuse me?"
"We got the contract from Big House yesterday, and I'm ready to do this."
"But I thought..."
Child interrupted, "I know we have to move on this, so I'm ready to roll. Are you going to come up to my place?" Child lived about 100 miles from my house. Accessible...for somebody with a car. Unlike myself.
Just for the heck of it, even though I wasn't going to do the gig, I decided to let the conversation play itself out. If nothing else, it'd make for a funny story to tell at parties. Or on a blog. I said, "Well, I think there's a train that goes up there."
She said, "You can't drive?"
"I don't have a car."
"Oh. Well I don't think there's a train station near me."
I said, "There isn't. I think it's about 20 minutes from your place. If I take the train, you could come and pick me up. Right?"
"Wrong," she said. "That's too far away. Let's just do it on the phone."
Now it made sense why Child never worked. She didn't want to go more than five miles from her house.
At that point, I tried to get myself off the phone -- the whole thing was making my head hurt -- but Child wouldn't let me go without a rant. "Hey, I have a question for you. What's the deal with Literary McAgent?"
I said, "Um, she's a literary agent."
"And literary agents take 15%?"
"Yeah. Across the board. Back in the day, William Morris took 10%, but not anymore."
"That's bullshit. Manager McBlabbermouth takes 5%, and he's happy to get it."
"Well, the literary world is different, and..."
She interrupted, "The thing is, when she first called me, I didn't even know she was an agent. She never told me she was an agent. I thought she was Manager McBlabbermouth's assistant or something. Then we get the contract, and McBlabbermouth tells me we have to give her 15%, and I'm like, what the fuck? No fucking way!"
I said, "Yeah, that's between you and Literary."
Then came the shouting. "Without me, this book doesn't exists. You fuckers all work for me. I'm paying you, and I'm paying McBlabbermouth, and I'm supposed to pay Literary, but fuck that, that's not happening. I'm Child McStar, for fuck sake. Any publisher in New York would kill to have this book. I'm getting on the phone and calling those fuckers myself. Fuck you all."
Click. Dial tone. That McStar family wasn't much for good-byes. A slammed hang-up from Child was the a fitting way for this nightmare to end.
If only it had ended there.
Next: In which Literary McAgent resurrects the deal and tries to suck me back in.
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