This may seem obvious considering what's gone down in the publishing industry over the last five years, but it bears repeating: When you write a memoir, you're best off telling the truth.
Even though the author is the party who'll be sued, and thus be responsible for any settlements or legal bills if their memoir is full of lies, and slander, and bullshit, the publisher doesn't want to end up with egg on their schnozz, so said memoir won't make it onto the bookshelves until it's been thoroughly vetted by the publisher's legal department.
Barring unforeseen circumstances, ghostwriters won't be held responsible for content that leads to a lawsuit against the author. But when it comes to your standard celebrity books, the celeb usually doesn't get involved with the book's editor until it gets time to publicize the project, which means it falls on the collective shoulders of the Ghosty McGhostwriters of the world to be sure that what's turned in to the publisher isn't a steaming pile of libelous bullshit.
This was a problem when the majority of the material that Child McStar offer up to use in her book proposal was as libelous, and slanderous, and everything-ous as you'd expect from a D-lister trying to make a fast buck.
There were claims that one of her film producer tried to get bizzy with the flick's teenage male and female stars, possibly at the same time. There were claims that one of the movie's co-stars was steroiding it up. There were claims that this guy was doing coke, and that girl was giving this person head in the dressing room, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. After the interview was done, I wanted to take a shower.
Funnily enough, Child McStar claimed she didn't engage in any of this behavior.
I asked her, "Do you have proof of any of this, Child? Because if we put this in the proposal, and that's what sells us the project, the publisher'll expect this material to go into the book, but if you can't get it past legal, well, they won't be happy."
Child didn't blink. "Don't worry. It's all real."
I said, "So you witnessed this."
"Sort of."
"Sort of?"
"Sort of."
I wanted to say, "I've got news for you, girlfriend: Sort of won't hold up in court." But, dammit, I'm polite, so I said, "Okay, the thing with the producer and the kids. If you didn't see it, we probably can't write about it."
"Right. Okay. Here's what I saw. The producer brought them into the office, and they were in there for like twenty minutes, and when they came out, the guy was straightening his belt, and the girl's hair was all messed up."
We wouldn't be able to pull that off, so I tried to chance the subject: "What about the steroid situation? Did you see actually see the dude juice up?"
She said, "I didn't have to. Just look at his pictures from before we did the film, and then look at the ones from a year later. He got so ripped. He had to be juicing."
I sighed, then asked, "Can I put in the stuff about your dad trying to steal all your money?" That wasn't particularly revelatory -- everybody knew that this girl went through a bunch of parental shit when she first came onto the scene -- but it was juicy, and it wouldn't get Ms. McStar sued. Hopefully.
"No. No fucking way." She wasn't yelling, but she wasn't using her inside voice.
I asked, "You sure?"
"I'm fucking sure." Now she was yelling.
I said, "Okay. Is there anything else we can maybe use?"
"No. That's the one. The steroids and the fucking. That's the best. That'll get me a million dollars. Write it up."
"Let me talk to Literary McAgent about this..."
"This isn't her book, it's mine! Got it?! She works for me, and you work for me, and Manager McBlabbermouth works for me, and that's it." Now she was yelling loudly.
"Okay, okay, I'll write it up tonight." I'm an insanely fast writer -- no idea why, I'm just wired that way, and thank goodness for it -- and can bang out a 5000-word writing sample in a few hours. It's one of the reasons I work regularly. "What's your email address? I'll send it tonight so you can read it in the morning."
Obviously I can't post the addy here, but trust me in that it was one of the stupidest fucking email addresses, like, ever, at once vulgar and unimaginative.
I said, "Oooohhhkay, what's your phone number?"
She said, "I'm not giving you my number."
"Um, what?"
"If you need to talk to me, you can call my boyfriend."
I said, "I thought he was your husband."
"Whatever. Call him and I'll call you back."
As noted, I'm a polite young woman, so I said all sweetly, "I understand. What's Spouse McStar's phone number?"
"Get it from Manager McBlabbermouth. Nice meeting you." Click. Dial tone.
Next: In which Literary McAgent, Jr. tells Ghosty McGhostwriter to include the slanderous bullshit in the proposal.
No comments:
Post a Comment