Things were going on behind my back. I hate it when things go on behind my back.
Turned out that Literary McAgent had pitched me to Team McGrouchy after the male ghostwriter who Literary initially wanted for the project -- remember, Cranky McGrouchy wanted to work with a dude -- had the gall to bring in his own agent to negotiate with Literary. (As she was too cool for school, Literary couldn't stomach being involved in a package that wasn't her's, and her's alone.) Turned out that I was number one, two, and three on the list of potential ghosts for Cranky's book, and there wasn't any number four.
I had no idea this had gone down until 8:45 on a Saturday night, when I was hunkered down at home for a night of Netflix.
Ring.
Me: H'lo?
Wimpy McGrouchy: Ghosty?
Me: Yeah.
Wimpy McGrouchy: Wimpy McGrouchy.
Me: Who?
Wimpy McGrouchy: Wimpy McGrouchy. Cranky McGrouchy's manager.
Me: Oh. Wow. This is a surprise.
Wimpy McGrouchy: What, Literary McAgent didn't tell you I'd be calling?
Me: Yeah, no. Not so much.
Wimpy McGrouchy: Okay, well, Cranky is doing a couple sets at The Giggle Factory, and she's going on in about 15 minutes.
Me: Um, I live over an hour from The Giggle Factory.
Wimpy McGrouchy: Cool. So I guess we'll see you for the second set.
So much for the Netflix.
I made myself presentable, slapped on some clothes, Mapquested The Giggle Factory, and split. Forty-five minutes later, I were lost as hell. (Suck it, Mapquest.) Twenty minutes after that, I got my bearings back and found The Giggle Factory. Fifteen minutes after that, I found a parking spot. Oy.
I'll spare you the details of tracking down Wimpy, because a recounting of badly given directions via text isn't the least bit interesting.
When we finally connected, Wimpy took me into the dressing room, and there, in all of her glory, sat Cranky McGrouchy. I pasted on a smile, stuck out my hand, and said, "Ghosty McGhostwriter. A pleasure."
Cranky looked at my hand, then looked at me, then my hand, then me. Then she said to Wimpy, "Yo, cuz, how do we get some food up in this bitch?"
Next: Cranky and Ghosty converse. Ish.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Thursday, January 13, 2011
GHOSTY McGHOSTWRITER MEETS THE ANGRY, ANGRY, ANGRY STAND-UP COMIC, part one
Our cast of characters:
Ghosty McGhostwriter: An ever-awesome literary collaborator.
Literary McAgent, Jr.: An ever-frustrating literary agent.
Cranky McGrouchy: An ever-angry stand-up comedian.
Wimpy McGrouchy: Cranky's ever-spineless manager/cousin.
Cool McEditor: An ever-cool editor.
There are a whole heap of people whose books I'd love to ghost: Meryl Streep, Lorne Michaels, Bruce Springsteen, Liz Phair, you know, those sorts of random, seemingly cool folks. (I'd put Brett Favre on that list, only because I'm curious to see if he'd text me a photo of his undoubtedly teeny weenie. What a douche.) I think big now, but back in the day, I shot low, and took what I could get. (Shit, who am I kidding: I still take what I can get.) So when Literary McAgent told me she'd landed a deal for the hot comic Cranky McGrouchy, I threw my hat in the ring.
Cranky was a stand-up who'd dome some time on an ensemble sketch show, and while she was inconsistent, she had moments of pure genius. Very lowbrow genius, certainly, but genius nonetheless. I thought, This foul-mouthed chick might just have a book in her.
I called up Literary and said, "Attach me to the project. Attach me to Cranky. I'm in."
"I dunno, babe," Literary said, "Cranky kinda wants to work with a guy. She likes dudes. A lot."
"Um, isn't she married? With kids?"
"Yeah, but she's not a fanatic about it. She digs strip clubs."
"Male or female?"
"Both."
That was a big ol' a red flag right there, but sometimes I'm dumb about those things. I said, "Well, if she decides she wants to work with somebody who she can't bang, I'm here for her."
"I'll let her know, babe. I'll let her know."
Much to my eternal regret, Literary let her know.
Next: In which Ghosty has a face-to-face with the surprisingly cranky Cranky, and the ill-equipped Wimpy, and briefly fears for her life.
Ghosty McGhostwriter: An ever-awesome literary collaborator.
Literary McAgent, Jr.: An ever-frustrating literary agent.
Cranky McGrouchy: An ever-angry stand-up comedian.
Wimpy McGrouchy: Cranky's ever-spineless manager/cousin.
Cool McEditor: An ever-cool editor.
There are a whole heap of people whose books I'd love to ghost: Meryl Streep, Lorne Michaels, Bruce Springsteen, Liz Phair, you know, those sorts of random, seemingly cool folks. (I'd put Brett Favre on that list, only because I'm curious to see if he'd text me a photo of his undoubtedly teeny weenie. What a douche.) I think big now, but back in the day, I shot low, and took what I could get. (Shit, who am I kidding: I still take what I can get.) So when Literary McAgent told me she'd landed a deal for the hot comic Cranky McGrouchy, I threw my hat in the ring.
Cranky was a stand-up who'd dome some time on an ensemble sketch show, and while she was inconsistent, she had moments of pure genius. Very lowbrow genius, certainly, but genius nonetheless. I thought, This foul-mouthed chick might just have a book in her.
I called up Literary and said, "Attach me to the project. Attach me to Cranky. I'm in."
"I dunno, babe," Literary said, "Cranky kinda wants to work with a guy. She likes dudes. A lot."
"Um, isn't she married? With kids?"
"Yeah, but she's not a fanatic about it. She digs strip clubs."
"Male or female?"
"Both."
That was a big ol' a red flag right there, but sometimes I'm dumb about those things. I said, "Well, if she decides she wants to work with somebody who she can't bang, I'm here for her."
"I'll let her know, babe. I'll let her know."
Much to my eternal regret, Literary let her know.
Next: In which Ghosty has a face-to-face with the surprisingly cranky Cranky, and the ill-equipped Wimpy, and briefly fears for her life.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
FOLLOW ME, FOLLOW ME, FOLLOW ME
Ghosty McGhostwriter on Twitter: http://bit.ly/hjmu2j
Ghosty McGhostwriter on Facebook: http://on.fb.me/ghostyface
Ghosty McGhostwriter on Facebook: http://on.fb.me/ghostyface
GHOSTY MCGHOSTWRITER MEETS THE POTHEAD REALITY TV STAR, Pt. 5
I still have no idea how Literary McAgent convinced Confused McManager to convince Mumbles McReality to cancel her trip to China and make herself available to me. Maybe it involved giving up some of her commission. Maybe it involved an expensive dinner and a bunch of drinks. Maybe it involved a blow job. I didn't know, and I didn't care (much). I was just happy that what was shaping up to be an entirely impossible gig improved to only a slightly impossible gig.
Over the next four days, I managed to get eight hours of Mumbles on tape, which wasn't anything close to enough material for a book, but I suspect that even if I had five times that much, it wouldn't have made a damn bit of difference, because the girl had nothing. No insightful stories about her childhood, no cute anecdotes about her castmates, no response to the rumors that she was gay, no comment on my gentle probing about her drug use, and, worst of all, no concrete answer to my questions about where she scored her weed. Since these tapes would yield me, at best, 30,000 words -- about 125-ish pages -- I was going to have to pull a book out of my ass.
So I did what any ghostwriter would've done: I went to the videotape.
I transcribed most every word that came out of her mouth on Your Reality Show of Shows, a painful endeavor, because Your Reality Show of Shows was the lamest reality show in the history of reality shows. (I'm not saying that from a snobby perspective; I likes me some quality reality tube as much as the next girl. I mean, without Top Chef, the world would be a bleaker place.) Since Mumbles got kicked off the show only seven weeks in, there wasn't much transcribing to do.
There's no exciting ending to this little tale. For the next two weeks, I wrote for 14-ish hours a day, somehow managing to complete a competent 60,000-word manuscript. And when I say 60,000 words, I mean 60,000 words. I couldn't have come up with another sentence if you put a bazooka to my boobs, but the editor was happy, and that was good enough for me.
It's possible that Mumbles read some of the first draft, but I'm certain she didn't make it through the whole thing, because after I emailed it over, she didn't give me one single editorial note, so the book that was eventually published to shitloads of derision was virtually the draft of the book that I turned in. Not one of my finer pieces of work, but it kept the lights on for a few more months, so there's that.
The moral to our story is, if you find yourself crashing a book for a weeded-up pseudo-celebrity, well, don't.
Next: Ghosty McGhostwriter Meets the Angry, Angry, Angry Stand-Up Comic.
Over the next four days, I managed to get eight hours of Mumbles on tape, which wasn't anything close to enough material for a book, but I suspect that even if I had five times that much, it wouldn't have made a damn bit of difference, because the girl had nothing. No insightful stories about her childhood, no cute anecdotes about her castmates, no response to the rumors that she was gay, no comment on my gentle probing about her drug use, and, worst of all, no concrete answer to my questions about where she scored her weed. Since these tapes would yield me, at best, 30,000 words -- about 125-ish pages -- I was going to have to pull a book out of my ass.
So I did what any ghostwriter would've done: I went to the videotape.
I transcribed most every word that came out of her mouth on Your Reality Show of Shows, a painful endeavor, because Your Reality Show of Shows was the lamest reality show in the history of reality shows. (I'm not saying that from a snobby perspective; I likes me some quality reality tube as much as the next girl. I mean, without Top Chef, the world would be a bleaker place.) Since Mumbles got kicked off the show only seven weeks in, there wasn't much transcribing to do.
There's no exciting ending to this little tale. For the next two weeks, I wrote for 14-ish hours a day, somehow managing to complete a competent 60,000-word manuscript. And when I say 60,000 words, I mean 60,000 words. I couldn't have come up with another sentence if you put a bazooka to my boobs, but the editor was happy, and that was good enough for me.
It's possible that Mumbles read some of the first draft, but I'm certain she didn't make it through the whole thing, because after I emailed it over, she didn't give me one single editorial note, so the book that was eventually published to shitloads of derision was virtually the draft of the book that I turned in. Not one of my finer pieces of work, but it kept the lights on for a few more months, so there's that.
The moral to our story is, if you find yourself crashing a book for a weeded-up pseudo-celebrity, well, don't.
Next: Ghosty McGhostwriter Meets the Angry, Angry, Angry Stand-Up Comic.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
GHOSTY MCGHOSTWRITER MEETS THE POTHEAD REALITY TV STAR, Pt. 4
I've been lucky enough to have two perfect clients. That's a shitty batting average, but in ghostwritingland, you take what you can get.
The question is, what, to a ghostwriter, constitutes a perfect client? For me, it's all about the Three P's, baby: Punctuality, preparedness, and positivity. After years of doing this, it's gotten to the point that if I could only pick one P, it'd be the first one.
See, celebrities don't work under the same time constraints as you or me. Like what time do you show up at work? When you're supposed to, right? Now in Ghosty world, a book equals work, and if we set a 10:00 meeting to prepare said book, I'm ready to go at 9:55, and blah blah blah, yak, yak, yak, you get the point.
When it came to being late for a meeting, my old pal Child McStar set the gold standard, if only because of her remarkable consistency. She was committed to lateness. She owned it. You knew that if she said she'd be ready to go at 9:00 AM, she'd be ready to go at 9:00 PM. It was inspirational. Mumbles McReality wasn't in Child's league, but she represented nonetheless.
The previous day, Confused McManager sent me an email warning me that Mumbles was a late sleeper, and probably wouldn't be functional before noon, but he also promised that because of the urgency of the project -- i.e., two-ish weeks to complete 60,000 words -- she'd be ready to roll each morning at 9:00.
Yeah, not so much.
On the plus side, starting at 9:15-ish, Mumbles stayed in touch with me via Confused McManager, who was assigned the task of calling me every 15 minutes with an update that inevitably went like this: "She'll be ready in fifteen minutes. Promise."
The morning of the first Mumbles/Ghosty interview session, I received seven of those communiques. 7 x 15 = late. Really honking late.
Was it worth the wait? Meh. Aside from the fact that Mumbles mumbled, she wasn't particularly forthcoming. Getting any useful information from her was like pulling teeth, or pushing rocks, or insert your own metaphor here. After two hours of cajoling, I had enough material to write, I dunno, three pages. Maybe two.
Mumbles ran out of energy -- she didn't have too far to go, really -- so we shut it down and set a time for the following morning. Mumbles promised she'd be on time. At least I think she did. That's how I translated "Mrgllefwop gshvinktzoid bnbnanbn ssssssss."
After that waste of collective breath and anytime minutes, I called Literary McAgent. "How'd it go, babe?" she asked.
I filled her in on the Great Nothingness that was our interview, then said, "You know Mumbles is going to China next week."
"It's my job to know, babe."
"Of course it is. But did you actually know?"
"No."
"Yeah, she's leaving the country, and I have nothing, and if it keeps up like this, I'll have less than nothing, and she'll be gone, and I'll be screwed." What I meant by I'll be screwed was that I would be blamed if the book wasn't completed on time. Y'see, most publishers don't give a damn as to why a project isn't completed on time. At the end of the day, they want a book delivered, and if it's not delivered, they blame the person who's supposed to do the actual delivering, that being the ghost, that being me.
Literary said, "Hold on a sec."
"But..." And then, hold music. Two minutes of listening to Kenny G. later, Literary clicked back on and said, "I talked to Confused McManager. We're gonna Skype it."
I said, "Um, what?"
"Yeah, we're gonna Skype it. She'll go to China, she'll do her thing, and she'll Skype you for the interviews. Seriously, Ghosty, I'm a genius. I amaze myself."
"Okay," I said, "Two problems. One, how can we guarantee she'll make herself available?"
"We can't, babe. That's part of the fun. What's the other problem?"
"We'll be 12 hours apart. She'll maybe be ready to talk at noon her time. That'll be midnight my time."
"What's your point?"
"She's already made me wait on U.S. time. If she makes me wait on China time, I'll be up all night."
"That's why we're paying you the big bucks, babe."
I said, "You're not paying me the big bucks."
"Yeah, I know. That's just an expression."
"Literary, I don't know if I can do this."
"What, you don't want to say up past your bedtime?"
"Well, no, I don't, but I will if I have to. But I don't know if I can stay up past my bedtime and write a book in two weeks."
"Oh, yeah, right, you actually have to write the book, don't you?"
"Um, yeah," I said. "I actually have to write the book."
"Okay, babe," Literary said, "let me see what I can do."
Next: Literary McAgent sees what she can do, which isn't much.
The question is, what, to a ghostwriter, constitutes a perfect client? For me, it's all about the Three P's, baby: Punctuality, preparedness, and positivity. After years of doing this, it's gotten to the point that if I could only pick one P, it'd be the first one.
See, celebrities don't work under the same time constraints as you or me. Like what time do you show up at work? When you're supposed to, right? Now in Ghosty world, a book equals work, and if we set a 10:00 meeting to prepare said book, I'm ready to go at 9:55, and blah blah blah, yak, yak, yak, you get the point.
When it came to being late for a meeting, my old pal Child McStar set the gold standard, if only because of her remarkable consistency. She was committed to lateness. She owned it. You knew that if she said she'd be ready to go at 9:00 AM, she'd be ready to go at 9:00 PM. It was inspirational. Mumbles McReality wasn't in Child's league, but she represented nonetheless.
The previous day, Confused McManager sent me an email warning me that Mumbles was a late sleeper, and probably wouldn't be functional before noon, but he also promised that because of the urgency of the project -- i.e., two-ish weeks to complete 60,000 words -- she'd be ready to roll each morning at 9:00.
Yeah, not so much.
On the plus side, starting at 9:15-ish, Mumbles stayed in touch with me via Confused McManager, who was assigned the task of calling me every 15 minutes with an update that inevitably went like this: "She'll be ready in fifteen minutes. Promise."
The morning of the first Mumbles/Ghosty interview session, I received seven of those communiques. 7 x 15 = late. Really honking late.
Was it worth the wait? Meh. Aside from the fact that Mumbles mumbled, she wasn't particularly forthcoming. Getting any useful information from her was like pulling teeth, or pushing rocks, or insert your own metaphor here. After two hours of cajoling, I had enough material to write, I dunno, three pages. Maybe two.
Mumbles ran out of energy -- she didn't have too far to go, really -- so we shut it down and set a time for the following morning. Mumbles promised she'd be on time. At least I think she did. That's how I translated "Mrgllefwop gshvinktzoid bnbnanbn ssssssss."
After that waste of collective breath and anytime minutes, I called Literary McAgent. "How'd it go, babe?" she asked.
I filled her in on the Great Nothingness that was our interview, then said, "You know Mumbles is going to China next week."
"It's my job to know, babe."
"Of course it is. But did you actually know?"
"No."
"Yeah, she's leaving the country, and I have nothing, and if it keeps up like this, I'll have less than nothing, and she'll be gone, and I'll be screwed." What I meant by I'll be screwed was that I would be blamed if the book wasn't completed on time. Y'see, most publishers don't give a damn as to why a project isn't completed on time. At the end of the day, they want a book delivered, and if it's not delivered, they blame the person who's supposed to do the actual delivering, that being the ghost, that being me.
Literary said, "Hold on a sec."
"But..." And then, hold music. Two minutes of listening to Kenny G. later, Literary clicked back on and said, "I talked to Confused McManager. We're gonna Skype it."
I said, "Um, what?"
"Yeah, we're gonna Skype it. She'll go to China, she'll do her thing, and she'll Skype you for the interviews. Seriously, Ghosty, I'm a genius. I amaze myself."
"Okay," I said, "Two problems. One, how can we guarantee she'll make herself available?"
"We can't, babe. That's part of the fun. What's the other problem?"
"We'll be 12 hours apart. She'll maybe be ready to talk at noon her time. That'll be midnight my time."
"What's your point?"
"She's already made me wait on U.S. time. If she makes me wait on China time, I'll be up all night."
"That's why we're paying you the big bucks, babe."
I said, "You're not paying me the big bucks."
"Yeah, I know. That's just an expression."
"Literary, I don't know if I can do this."
"What, you don't want to say up past your bedtime?"
"Well, no, I don't, but I will if I have to. But I don't know if I can stay up past my bedtime and write a book in two weeks."
"Oh, yeah, right, you actually have to write the book, don't you?"
"Um, yeah," I said. "I actually have to write the book."
"Okay, babe," Literary said, "let me see what I can do."
Next: Literary McAgent sees what she can do, which isn't much.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
GHOSTY MCGHOSTWRITER MEETS THE POTHEAD REALITY TV STAR, Pt. 3
In an ideal world, the ghostwriter and the ghostwrite-ee are in the same city for the preparation of their book. A face-to-face interview setting lends to more honesty, and lessens the chance of crossed signals. (Facial expressions are a beautiful thing.) Thing is, it's almost always impossible to get the two of us physically together for any significant amount of time, because celebrities, be them A-list or Z-list, are generally on the go. Some celebs really, really, really care about their project, and make it a point to be in one place for the interview process, which usually makes for a solid, cohesive book. Others could care less.
Mumbles McReality was one of the latter.
Since this was a crash book, we needed to get started immediately, so I scheduled my first phoner with Mumbles as soon as it was possible. We were going to start at 9:00 AM on, say, a Tuesday, and even though I wasn't convinced Mumbles would make a 9:00 call, I dutifully set my alarm.
Monday night at 11:30 -- well after the Larry David-mandated cut-off time -- I get a call from Confused McManager, "Here's the thing," he says. "Mumbles' mother made this deal for Mumbles to go to China. They're going to cut the ribbon at a mall, or something."
I assumed that "cutting the ribbon" was a metaphor, but I was kind of irked about having been woken up, so I didn't ask for specifics, as I wanted to go back to beddy-bye. "When're they leaving?"
"Thursday."
"When're they coming back?"
"Three weeks." The book was due in two weeks.
"Oh. Does Mrs. McReality know I can't write a book based on two days of interviews?"
"Yeah. She doesn't care. She wants Mumbles to get paid. Like now."
On one hand, I could understand. Mumbles' advance wasn't all that, and she wouldn't see any royalties until she earned back her advance, which might or might not happen (probably not), and if it did happen (which it probably wouldn't), it would take months for the publisher to get around to paying royalties. It's hard to refuse immediate cash.
On the other hand, they made, y'know, a commitment.
I said, "It'll be impossible."
He said, "Yeah. I know. I'll call Literary McAgent tomorrow. Maybe she'll have an idea."
She did.
Next: In which Mumbles is wayyyyyyyyyyy late for our first interview, and even later for the second one, and Literary McAgent comes up with a not-so-brilliant solution.
Mumbles McReality was one of the latter.
Since this was a crash book, we needed to get started immediately, so I scheduled my first phoner with Mumbles as soon as it was possible. We were going to start at 9:00 AM on, say, a Tuesday, and even though I wasn't convinced Mumbles would make a 9:00 call, I dutifully set my alarm.
Monday night at 11:30 -- well after the Larry David-mandated cut-off time -- I get a call from Confused McManager, "Here's the thing," he says. "Mumbles' mother made this deal for Mumbles to go to China. They're going to cut the ribbon at a mall, or something."
I assumed that "cutting the ribbon" was a metaphor, but I was kind of irked about having been woken up, so I didn't ask for specifics, as I wanted to go back to beddy-bye. "When're they leaving?"
"Thursday."
"When're they coming back?"
"Three weeks." The book was due in two weeks.
"Oh. Does Mrs. McReality know I can't write a book based on two days of interviews?"
"Yeah. She doesn't care. She wants Mumbles to get paid. Like now."
On one hand, I could understand. Mumbles' advance wasn't all that, and she wouldn't see any royalties until she earned back her advance, which might or might not happen (probably not), and if it did happen (which it probably wouldn't), it would take months for the publisher to get around to paying royalties. It's hard to refuse immediate cash.
On the other hand, they made, y'know, a commitment.
I said, "It'll be impossible."
He said, "Yeah. I know. I'll call Literary McAgent tomorrow. Maybe she'll have an idea."
She did.
Next: In which Mumbles is wayyyyyyyyyyy late for our first interview, and even later for the second one, and Literary McAgent comes up with a not-so-brilliant solution.
Monday, December 20, 2010
GHOSTY MCGHOSTWRITER MEETS THE POTHEAD REALITY TV STAR, Pt. 2
So I'm on the phone with Literary McAgent Jr., Confused McManager, and the star of our show, Mumbles McReality. Our assignment: Try and figure out how to squeeze a 60,000-word memoir out of Mumbles in four weeks. But first, I have to slap together an outline for Frustrated McEditor over at Mega Books.
Me: So, Mumbles, do you have any good anecdotes from the set of "The Reality Show Of Shows"?
Mumbles: Mgrmpr tppsqvs rbbtztv.
Confused: She says she'll think about it.
Me: Because I have to make a list of them. Kind of fast.
Mumbles: Rgrgpllsff mrgtwwp.
Confused: Not a problem.
Literary: Don't sweat it, babe. Confused, remember that convo we had last week? Mumbles was on fire. Anecdotes out the ying-yang.
Confused: Right. On fire.
Me: Um, so Literary, or Confused, might either of you remember any of them? I don't need the actual anecdote right now. Just a one-sentence description.
Confused and Literary (simultaneously): Blrggrfzzltwrp Mpxddlr.
Me: Yeah, I don't want to be a pain, but Frustrated asked us to have a little something by the end of the day.
Literary: Guys, don't worry about it. Confused, you have Ghosty's email address, right?
Confused: I think so.
Literary: Great, send him a note and schedule the interview sessions. Ghosty, I'll call you in a minute.
Twenty minutes later...
Literary: Don't sweat it, babe. Just make up some shit about the show. As long as you turn the book in on time, Frustrated won't care what's in the goddamn the outline.
Me: (Not wanted to admit I haven't watched "The Reality Show Of Shows"): What's your favorite part of Mumbles' program?
Literary: Come on, babe, the whole thing's good.
Me: But what part do you think a viewer would want to read about?
Literary: What part do you think a viewer would want to read about?
Me (what I wanted to say): You haven't watched the goddamn thing either, have you?
Me (what I did say): Let me go to the blogs.
Literary: This is why I love you, babe.
So I went to the blogs, discerned what kind of secrets the show's rabid fans have been trying to uncover for the past four seasons, and slapped together a fake outline filled with promises of juicy backstage morsels. To his credit, Frustrated McEditor knew it was a steaming pile of poop, but also to his credit, he didn't want to slow down the impending train wreck -- remember, we only had four weeks to get this thing done -- so he emailed me a note: "Can't wait to see what you come up with!!!"
Yeah, me neither.
Next: In which, the day before we're scheduled to start out interviews, Mumbles decides to head East. As in the Far East.
Me: So, Mumbles, do you have any good anecdotes from the set of "The Reality Show Of Shows"?
Mumbles: Mgrmpr tppsqvs rbbtztv.
Confused: She says she'll think about it.
Me: Because I have to make a list of them. Kind of fast.
Mumbles: Rgrgpllsff mrgtwwp.
Confused: Not a problem.
Literary: Don't sweat it, babe. Confused, remember that convo we had last week? Mumbles was on fire. Anecdotes out the ying-yang.
Confused: Right. On fire.
Me: Um, so Literary, or Confused, might either of you remember any of them? I don't need the actual anecdote right now. Just a one-sentence description.
Confused and Literary (simultaneously): Blrggrfzzltwrp Mpxddlr.
Me: Yeah, I don't want to be a pain, but Frustrated asked us to have a little something by the end of the day.
Literary: Guys, don't worry about it. Confused, you have Ghosty's email address, right?
Confused: I think so.
Literary: Great, send him a note and schedule the interview sessions. Ghosty, I'll call you in a minute.
Twenty minutes later...
Literary: Don't sweat it, babe. Just make up some shit about the show. As long as you turn the book in on time, Frustrated won't care what's in the goddamn the outline.
Me: (Not wanted to admit I haven't watched "The Reality Show Of Shows"): What's your favorite part of Mumbles' program?
Literary: Come on, babe, the whole thing's good.
Me: But what part do you think a viewer would want to read about?
Literary: What part do you think a viewer would want to read about?
Me (what I wanted to say): You haven't watched the goddamn thing either, have you?
Me (what I did say): Let me go to the blogs.
Literary: This is why I love you, babe.
So I went to the blogs, discerned what kind of secrets the show's rabid fans have been trying to uncover for the past four seasons, and slapped together a fake outline filled with promises of juicy backstage morsels. To his credit, Frustrated McEditor knew it was a steaming pile of poop, but also to his credit, he didn't want to slow down the impending train wreck -- remember, we only had four weeks to get this thing done -- so he emailed me a note: "Can't wait to see what you come up with!!!"
Yeah, me neither.
Next: In which, the day before we're scheduled to start out interviews, Mumbles decides to head East. As in the Far East.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
GHOSTY MCGHOSTWRITER MEETS THE POTHEAD REALITY TV STAR, Pt. 1
Our cast of characters:
I'm not going to lie: When Literary McAgent sent me the email -- a one sentence thing: "Do you want to do Mumbles McReality's book?" -- I had to do a quick Google search to find out who the heck Mumbles was. Mumbles, who'd just turned 21, was a cute young woman (little girl?) who'd used up 14 of her 15 fame minutes. She was beloved by fans of her show, but kind of a joke among the rest of the world. Like Letterman did a Mumbles Top Ten List, and Kimmel did an entire skewer-Mumbles sketch. The show was on hiatus, and there was no guarantee Mumbles would be back next season, but that didn't stop Mega Books from sniffing around.
It wasn't like Mega was all excited about the project. Frustrated McEditor managed to convince his boss to take a gamble on the book, and the boss finally agreed, but with a financial caveat. Mumbles' advance was horrible, but the royalty rate was better than usual, so if the book tanked, Mega wouldn't feel too bad. But if the book blew up, everybody would be happy...except, of course, me, because, as noted in "Ghosty McGhostwriter Meets the Whacked-Out Child Star," Literary McAgent wasn't one to fight for decent $$$ her ghosts, and this was no exception.
I was free, so, sap that I am, I accepted the job -- and the crappy advance -- without speaking with to either Mumbles or Mumbles' rep, Confused McManager. Sometimes, I'm an idiot.
Literary and Confused finally tracked down Mumbles, and scheduled a phoner. On the plus side, Mumbles took the call on time. On the minus side, Mumbles, well, she mumbled.
Next: In which Ghosty tries to discern what the hell her new client was saying, and then learns she has four weeks to write a 60,000 word book.
- GHOSTY McGHOSTWRITER: Adorable ghostwriter.
- LITERARY McAGENT, JR.: Possibly adorable literary agent. But possibly not.
- MUMBLES McREALITY: Almost adorable reality TV star who, um, mumbles.
- CONFUSED McMANAGER: Mumbles' confused manager.
- FRUSTRATED McEDITOR: Mumbles' frustrated editor at Mega Books.
I'm not going to lie: When Literary McAgent sent me the email -- a one sentence thing: "Do you want to do Mumbles McReality's book?" -- I had to do a quick Google search to find out who the heck Mumbles was. Mumbles, who'd just turned 21, was a cute young woman (little girl?) who'd used up 14 of her 15 fame minutes. She was beloved by fans of her show, but kind of a joke among the rest of the world. Like Letterman did a Mumbles Top Ten List, and Kimmel did an entire skewer-Mumbles sketch. The show was on hiatus, and there was no guarantee Mumbles would be back next season, but that didn't stop Mega Books from sniffing around.
It wasn't like Mega was all excited about the project. Frustrated McEditor managed to convince his boss to take a gamble on the book, and the boss finally agreed, but with a financial caveat. Mumbles' advance was horrible, but the royalty rate was better than usual, so if the book tanked, Mega wouldn't feel too bad. But if the book blew up, everybody would be happy...except, of course, me, because, as noted in "Ghosty McGhostwriter Meets the Whacked-Out Child Star," Literary McAgent wasn't one to fight for decent $$$ her ghosts, and this was no exception.
I was free, so, sap that I am, I accepted the job -- and the crappy advance -- without speaking with to either Mumbles or Mumbles' rep, Confused McManager. Sometimes, I'm an idiot.
Literary and Confused finally tracked down Mumbles, and scheduled a phoner. On the plus side, Mumbles took the call on time. On the minus side, Mumbles, well, she mumbled.
Next: In which Ghosty tries to discern what the hell her new client was saying, and then learns she has four weeks to write a 60,000 word book.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
GHOSTY McGHOSTWRITER MEETS THE WHACKED-OUT CHILD STAR, PT. 9
I fucking love to write.
I love writing novels, and short stories, and magazine articles, and, yes, I love ghostwriting memoirs. When you get a cool client, and a cool editor, and a cool agent, it's, well, cool. Book writers don't often get to be part of a team, and there's something to be said for a good group think.
This is part of the reason why I rarely turn down a gig. It's always an adventure. It could be awesome, it could be lame, it could be average, it could lead to something else, but no matter what, it'll be interesting, and it'll offer me the opportunity to get paid to write. I've been doing this forever, but it's still pretty thrilling when you A) see your name on the cover of a book, and B) get a check for said book.
So it was kind of shocking to me that I prayed I'd get fired from the Child McStar project.
I've been canned from a ghosting gig once before, by a penurious improvisational comedy troupe from Boston, who decided that they didn't want to pay the second installment of my fee after I'd written the entire first draft of their book, and boy oh boy, was I pissed. On the other hand, if Child fired me, I'd probably do a cartwheel, even though I'd walk away from the project without a damn thing. (Did I mention that I wrote Child's book proposal on spec? Stupid, stupid, stupid.)
The day after my phone call with Editor McPublisher -- the call in which she begged me to kiss and make up with Child -- Ms. McStar herself rang me up. "Okay, Ghosty, we're gonna do this. I talked Literary McAgent down to seven percent, and I'm ready to rock."
Man, I thought, Literary is desperate. I said, "Okay, but listen, if I'm going to write this book, you and I need to have a heart-to-heart."
She said, "What do you mean?"
"One-hundred percent honesty here: I'm on the fence about whether or not I want to stay on the project."
"What the fuck do you mean, you're on the fence?"
"Well, Child, first of all, you'll need to give me your direct phone number, because calling Spouse to get to you isn't an option, and I'll need some assurance that you'll make yourself available when you say you're going to, and you have to stop screaming at me, because if this book is going to happen, I need to feel like I can talk to you without getting my head chewed off. Sound good?"
I'm not exactly sure how much of that Child heard, because I'm not sure exactly when she hung up on me.
Two hours later, Literary McAgent called me with the answer to my prayers: Child McStar was going to use a different ghostwriter.
I don't know if Big House didn't accept the manuscript, or if Child couldn't find another sucker to ghost the thing for the crap money she was offering, or if she couldn't get her shit together to finish the book. All I know is that the thing was never published in the United States. There were whispers that it might come out in the U.K. or Canada, but those were whispers. I never asked Literary McAgent about it, and she never offered up any info, and that was fine with me.
As for Child McStar, aside from some bizarre legal issues, she hasn't really been heard from since. And frankly, the world is better off for it.
THE END
I love writing novels, and short stories, and magazine articles, and, yes, I love ghostwriting memoirs. When you get a cool client, and a cool editor, and a cool agent, it's, well, cool. Book writers don't often get to be part of a team, and there's something to be said for a good group think.
This is part of the reason why I rarely turn down a gig. It's always an adventure. It could be awesome, it could be lame, it could be average, it could lead to something else, but no matter what, it'll be interesting, and it'll offer me the opportunity to get paid to write. I've been doing this forever, but it's still pretty thrilling when you A) see your name on the cover of a book, and B) get a check for said book.
So it was kind of shocking to me that I prayed I'd get fired from the Child McStar project.
I've been canned from a ghosting gig once before, by a penurious improvisational comedy troupe from Boston, who decided that they didn't want to pay the second installment of my fee after I'd written the entire first draft of their book, and boy oh boy, was I pissed. On the other hand, if Child fired me, I'd probably do a cartwheel, even though I'd walk away from the project without a damn thing. (Did I mention that I wrote Child's book proposal on spec? Stupid, stupid, stupid.)
The day after my phone call with Editor McPublisher -- the call in which she begged me to kiss and make up with Child -- Ms. McStar herself rang me up. "Okay, Ghosty, we're gonna do this. I talked Literary McAgent down to seven percent, and I'm ready to rock."
Man, I thought, Literary is desperate. I said, "Okay, but listen, if I'm going to write this book, you and I need to have a heart-to-heart."
She said, "What do you mean?"
"One-hundred percent honesty here: I'm on the fence about whether or not I want to stay on the project."
"What the fuck do you mean, you're on the fence?"
"Well, Child, first of all, you'll need to give me your direct phone number, because calling Spouse to get to you isn't an option, and I'll need some assurance that you'll make yourself available when you say you're going to, and you have to stop screaming at me, because if this book is going to happen, I need to feel like I can talk to you without getting my head chewed off. Sound good?"
I'm not exactly sure how much of that Child heard, because I'm not sure exactly when she hung up on me.
Two hours later, Literary McAgent called me with the answer to my prayers: Child McStar was going to use a different ghostwriter.
I don't know if Big House didn't accept the manuscript, or if Child couldn't find another sucker to ghost the thing for the crap money she was offering, or if she couldn't get her shit together to finish the book. All I know is that the thing was never published in the United States. There were whispers that it might come out in the U.K. or Canada, but those were whispers. I never asked Literary McAgent about it, and she never offered up any info, and that was fine with me.
As for Child McStar, aside from some bizarre legal issues, she hasn't really been heard from since. And frankly, the world is better off for it.
THE END
GHOSTY McGHOSTWRITER MEETS THE WHACKED-OUT CHILD STAR, PT. 8
The Family McStar wasn't done with me. Not by a longshot.
A few days after my pseudo-deposition with Literary McAgent and his lawyer, Spouse McStar rang me up. (You'd think by that point, I'd have learned not to pick up the phone when the caller I.D. said Private Number.) I couldn't even get out my "Hello" when Spouse started in:
"How dare you tell lies about me! How dare you tell that pissant agent of yours that I tried to steal you! I would never do such a thing!"
I said, "Um, well, you did do such a thing."
He ignored me. "I should sue you!"
There wasn't anything to sue me about, and if it went to court, I'd have won a trial -- more likely, the case would've been either settled or thrown out before it got to that point, so whatever -- but if the McStars got litigious, I would've had to pay a lawyer, no matter how absurd their claims were. So I decided to try and calm him down.
But before I could start up with the placating, Spouse hung up on me. Naturally, I called Literary McAgent. After I gave her the 4-1-1-, I said, "I'm out. Tell Manager McBlabbermouth to tell his client and his clients family to never contact me again. If they keep harassing me, I'll sue." I wouldn't sue, of course, but if the threat of legal action was good enough for everybody else, it was good enough for me.
Unfortunately, Literary McAgent was a tenacious little bugger who refused to let things go. "Listen, babe," she said, "We're gonna make this project happen, and it'll be awesome, and it'll sell a zillion copies, and Child likes you, so it'll all be cool."
I said, "I'm out."
"You're in. I'm keeping you in. I insist."
After a few minutes of back and forth, I was exhausted, so in order to put a kibosh to the conversation, I said, "You know what, Literary? The chances of this thing happening are, like, zero percent, so you go ahead and call me when it's time, okay?"
"That's great to hear, babe. Just great."
A couple hours later, I get a call from, of all people, Editor McPublisher. This was bizarre, because A) the editor/ghostwriter relationship is generally rooted entirely in the creative, and being that I hadn't turned in a single word, there were no creative issues to discuss; and B) I'd spoken to Editor for a grand total of six minutes.
After some pleasantries -- at least somebody was polite during this mess -- she said, "Can we fix this? Can we get this book written?"
Editor was a nice girl, so I decided to be straight-up with her. "Listen, I don't know if Child has the ability to convey any useful information in a timely manner. I don't think I'll be able to squeeze a coherent book out of her in two years, let alone two months."
She said, "We don't have to crash it. I was hoping to get it out for fourth quarter, but if it can't happen, it can't happen, you know? Let's just get the thing in the can and go from there. You're a pro. You and Child can kiss and make up. It'll be fine."
I was a pro, and as a pro, it was important for me to maintain a positive relationship with Editor, as well as Big House Books, so I took the high road. "I'm game. I'll do it for you. But I don't think Child will even get on the phone with me."
"She will," Editor said. "Trust me, she will."
And she did.
Next: The denouement.
A few days after my pseudo-deposition with Literary McAgent and his lawyer, Spouse McStar rang me up. (You'd think by that point, I'd have learned not to pick up the phone when the caller I.D. said Private Number.) I couldn't even get out my "Hello" when Spouse started in:
"How dare you tell lies about me! How dare you tell that pissant agent of yours that I tried to steal you! I would never do such a thing!"
I said, "Um, well, you did do such a thing."
He ignored me. "I should sue you!"
There wasn't anything to sue me about, and if it went to court, I'd have won a trial -- more likely, the case would've been either settled or thrown out before it got to that point, so whatever -- but if the McStars got litigious, I would've had to pay a lawyer, no matter how absurd their claims were. So I decided to try and calm him down.
But before I could start up with the placating, Spouse hung up on me. Naturally, I called Literary McAgent. After I gave her the 4-1-1-, I said, "I'm out. Tell Manager McBlabbermouth to tell his client and his clients family to never contact me again. If they keep harassing me, I'll sue." I wouldn't sue, of course, but if the threat of legal action was good enough for everybody else, it was good enough for me.
Unfortunately, Literary McAgent was a tenacious little bugger who refused to let things go. "Listen, babe," she said, "We're gonna make this project happen, and it'll be awesome, and it'll sell a zillion copies, and Child likes you, so it'll all be cool."
I said, "I'm out."
"You're in. I'm keeping you in. I insist."
After a few minutes of back and forth, I was exhausted, so in order to put a kibosh to the conversation, I said, "You know what, Literary? The chances of this thing happening are, like, zero percent, so you go ahead and call me when it's time, okay?"
"That's great to hear, babe. Just great."
A couple hours later, I get a call from, of all people, Editor McPublisher. This was bizarre, because A) the editor/ghostwriter relationship is generally rooted entirely in the creative, and being that I hadn't turned in a single word, there were no creative issues to discuss; and B) I'd spoken to Editor for a grand total of six minutes.
After some pleasantries -- at least somebody was polite during this mess -- she said, "Can we fix this? Can we get this book written?"
Editor was a nice girl, so I decided to be straight-up with her. "Listen, I don't know if Child has the ability to convey any useful information in a timely manner. I don't think I'll be able to squeeze a coherent book out of her in two years, let alone two months."
She said, "We don't have to crash it. I was hoping to get it out for fourth quarter, but if it can't happen, it can't happen, you know? Let's just get the thing in the can and go from there. You're a pro. You and Child can kiss and make up. It'll be fine."
I was a pro, and as a pro, it was important for me to maintain a positive relationship with Editor, as well as Big House Books, so I took the high road. "I'm game. I'll do it for you. But I don't think Child will even get on the phone with me."
"She will," Editor said. "Trust me, she will."
And she did.
Next: The denouement.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
GHOSTY McGHOSTWRITER MEETS THE WHACKED-OUT CHILD STAR, PT. 7
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.
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.
GHOSTY McGHOSTWRITER MEETS THE WHACKED-OUT CHILD STAR, PT. 6
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.
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.
Friday, December 10, 2010
GHOSTY McGHOSTWRITER MEETS THE WHACKED-OUT CHILD STAR, PT. 5
To recap:
Not your normal ghostwriting gig. Then again, there is no such thing as a normal ghostwriting gig.
I didn't hear anything about the project from Ms. McAgent for a couple of weeks, but that's par for the course, as the vast majority of literary agents don't keep their clients in the loop about the submission process. (My guess is that they don't want their authors to get too high if there's positive interest, and too low if there isn't. Me, I want all the info I can get: The yesses, the nos, the maybes, and the piss-offs. I can take the hits, which is part of the reason I'm still in this business. If you can't handle rejection, ghostwriting probably isn't for you.) Finally, I got the call:
L. Mc: We have a phoner with Editor McPublisher from Big House Books and her boss on Tuesday.
Me: Will Child McStar make the meeting on time?
L. Mc: Absolutely. She promises.
Me: If she can fucking pick up the fucking phone on a timely basis for an editor, why the fuck can't she fucking pick up the fucking phone on a timely basis for her ghostwriter? (I don't actually say that, because I'm polite, and professional, and altogether swell. What I do say is, "Good. Talk then.")
Sure enough, Child McStar was on the call, right on time, and was charming, and lucid, and utterly unlike she was during our interview session. (That's annoying, certainly -- if you can force yourself to be normal and polite on one particular day, you can do so on any particular day -- but tried to put it in a positive light, figuring it boded well for the writing process.) She described the arc of the book and her willingness to promote it, and she was completely cool and down to earth, and the powers-that-be at Big House Books were smitten. One week later, we got the offer.
One week after that, Child McStar accepted the offer.
One week after that, Child McStar and I -- utilizing her husband/boyfriend/whatever as an in-between -- make plans to begin work on the book. (As is the case with most ghostwriters, I prefer to wait until the contract is executed and I get paid the first chunk of my advance before I dive into a project, but this is a crash book, so we have to start ASAP.)
One week after that, Child McStar -- again utilizing her husband/boyfriend/whatever as her conduit to the real world -- blows off a scheduled phone meeting. Then another. Then another. Then another. (Best excuse: "She had bad Chinese food last night, and can't talk.") Manager McBlabbermouth says he'll take care of it. He doesn't take care of it.
Five weeks after that, Child McStar unaccepts the offer...and doesn't tell anybody. Except me. Not Literary McAgent. Not Manager McBlabbermouth. Me.
And she tells me loudly.
Yikes.
Next: In which Child McStar rants at me for a really, really long time about of the publishing industry, fires Literary McAgent, then tries to hire me.
- Despite the fact that my client, Child McStar, blew off several meetings and then, when I finally got her on the phone, rambled in what she called "a stream of consciousness" manner for a mere hour, I managed to finish her book proposal.
- Said book proposal -- which is loaded with allegations that would make any publisher's legal department cringe and/or weep -- was submitted to a small handful of editors by Literary McAgent, Jr.
- I have no way to get directly in touch with Child McStar other than email, because the only phone number she gave me belonged to a dude who, depending on who you ask, is either her husband, her boyfriend, or her de facto manager.
Not your normal ghostwriting gig. Then again, there is no such thing as a normal ghostwriting gig.
I didn't hear anything about the project from Ms. McAgent for a couple of weeks, but that's par for the course, as the vast majority of literary agents don't keep their clients in the loop about the submission process. (My guess is that they don't want their authors to get too high if there's positive interest, and too low if there isn't. Me, I want all the info I can get: The yesses, the nos, the maybes, and the piss-offs. I can take the hits, which is part of the reason I'm still in this business. If you can't handle rejection, ghostwriting probably isn't for you.) Finally, I got the call:
L. Mc: We have a phoner with Editor McPublisher from Big House Books and her boss on Tuesday.
Me: Will Child McStar make the meeting on time?
L. Mc: Absolutely. She promises.
Me: If she can fucking pick up the fucking phone on a timely basis for an editor, why the fuck can't she fucking pick up the fucking phone on a timely basis for her ghostwriter? (I don't actually say that, because I'm polite, and professional, and altogether swell. What I do say is, "Good. Talk then.")
Sure enough, Child McStar was on the call, right on time, and was charming, and lucid, and utterly unlike she was during our interview session. (That's annoying, certainly -- if you can force yourself to be normal and polite on one particular day, you can do so on any particular day -- but tried to put it in a positive light, figuring it boded well for the writing process.) She described the arc of the book and her willingness to promote it, and she was completely cool and down to earth, and the powers-that-be at Big House Books were smitten. One week later, we got the offer.
One week after that, Child McStar accepted the offer.
One week after that, Child McStar and I -- utilizing her husband/boyfriend/whatever as an in-between -- make plans to begin work on the book. (As is the case with most ghostwriters, I prefer to wait until the contract is executed and I get paid the first chunk of my advance before I dive into a project, but this is a crash book, so we have to start ASAP.)
One week after that, Child McStar -- again utilizing her husband/boyfriend/whatever as her conduit to the real world -- blows off a scheduled phone meeting. Then another. Then another. Then another. (Best excuse: "She had bad Chinese food last night, and can't talk.") Manager McBlabbermouth says he'll take care of it. He doesn't take care of it.
Five weeks after that, Child McStar unaccepts the offer...and doesn't tell anybody. Except me. Not Literary McAgent. Not Manager McBlabbermouth. Me.
And she tells me loudly.
Yikes.
Next: In which Child McStar rants at me for a really, really long time about of the publishing industry, fires Literary McAgent, then tries to hire me.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
GHOSTY McGHOSTWRITER MEETS THE WHACKED-OUT CHILD STAR, PT. 4
When you've been in the publishing biz for a while, you meet a whole flock of literary agents. Some are exceptional, and want you to not just survive as a writer, but to thrive, to live a good life. Most are solid individuals who, at the very least, want to land you gigs, because the more gigs you get, the more money everybody gets. But there are a small handful who are all about themselves, who have egos the size of a David Foster Wallace book (is that the best metaphor ever, or what?), who are in the game because they think repping books -- especially celebrity books -- is a road to fame (or infamy), fortune, and earning daddy's respect.
Literary McAgent Jr. was such an animal.
I never actually met Literary face-to-face -- she was in New York and I wasn't -- but I was told that she was a short, short woman, and some have theorized that her pseudo-bigger-than-life demeanor stems from a Napoleon complex. She fashions herself as a combination of contemporary cool and old school brash, although when it comes to the literary world, I'm not convinced that she has any concept of old school. For that matter, I'm not convinced that she even reads any of her client's books...but she does, however, read the proposals, because proposals are short, and they could lead to both immediate gratification, and, y'know, money.
Naturally, what with its questionable allegations and sordid tales of debauchery, she loved Child McStar's proposal.
"Babe, this is awesome!" She called everybody "Babe."
I pointed out, "No way this crap gets in the finished book. No legal department in their right mind would let this through."
"Who gives a poop, Babe? This'll totally get us an auction." (For you non-publishing-industry-types, an auction comes about when multiple publishers want to buy a project. Sometimes the literary agent will ask for a final bid by a certain date, at which point, she and the client will make their decision, while other times, the agent will conduct a round robin auction. Less scrupulous agents will fake an auction, telling editors that there have already been several bids on a project, when in reality, it's languishing in submission purgatory.) Literary continued: "That legal poop isn't our problem."
It totally was our problem, but I didn't want to get into it with her, because, well, who had the time? I then asked the more pertinent question: "Did you work out my fee with Manager McBlabbermouth?"
There is no set template as to how a ghostwriter gets paid. For a ghost, the most common payment structure is a small fee for the book proposal and a split of the advance, with the client getting the higher portion of the split. (The split is generally in the 60/40 area, but you might also see 70/30, or 75/25.) In a perfect world, the ghostwriter will receive a fair fee for the proposal, then they and the client will split the advance 50/50. Sometimes the proposal fee will be recoupable -- an advance against the advance, if you will -- which means if the ghostwriter gets paid $5.00 for the proposal, then the project is sold for $50.00, and there's an agreed upon 50/50 split, the ghost gets $20.00, with $5.00 recoupable fee having been deducted from their portion of the advance. In other instances, the ghostwriter will do the proposal on spec, which sucks, but sometimes ya gotta do what ya gotta do; on the other hand, if you don't get a proposal fee, the client is more likely to agree to the 50/50 split. Sometimes there's a flat fee for both the proposal and the book, which is a gamble on both sides, because if the book gets a crap advance, the client might feel screwed, and if the book gets a zillion dollar advance, the ghost might feel screwed. We should unionize.
Anyhow, if you're a penurious celeb, Literary McAgent Jr. was the rep for you, because she didn't fight for her ghosts' salaries. If the celeb said, "I'm only going to pay my collaborator a dollar, and they can take it or leave it," Literary would say, "No problem, Babe." Thing is, ghostwriting work isn't always plentiful, and there's always the chance that a lousy job could lead to a good one, so most ghosts -- unless they're at the level of a David Ritz or a Jeffrey Zaslow -- will grab what they can, ignoring that A) they're getting paid shit, and B) the client is a nutbag.
This was the case here.
Literary said, "Yeah. We worked out the sheckles."
"And?"
"And they're paying you [insert lowball offer here]."
"That's it?"
"Babe, I had to fight to get you that. But this is gonna totally be a best-seller."
Yes, Child McStar was all but a non-entity, but if her allegations were true, this book would indeed sell a helluva lot of copies. Plus I needed the work. So I said yes.
Bad idea.
Next: In which we find a publisher, and the real fun begins.
Literary McAgent Jr. was such an animal.
I never actually met Literary face-to-face -- she was in New York and I wasn't -- but I was told that she was a short, short woman, and some have theorized that her pseudo-bigger-than-life demeanor stems from a Napoleon complex. She fashions herself as a combination of contemporary cool and old school brash, although when it comes to the literary world, I'm not convinced that she has any concept of old school. For that matter, I'm not convinced that she even reads any of her client's books...but she does, however, read the proposals, because proposals are short, and they could lead to both immediate gratification, and, y'know, money.
Naturally, what with its questionable allegations and sordid tales of debauchery, she loved Child McStar's proposal.
"Babe, this is awesome!" She called everybody "Babe."
I pointed out, "No way this crap gets in the finished book. No legal department in their right mind would let this through."
"Who gives a poop, Babe? This'll totally get us an auction." (For you non-publishing-industry-types, an auction comes about when multiple publishers want to buy a project. Sometimes the literary agent will ask for a final bid by a certain date, at which point, she and the client will make their decision, while other times, the agent will conduct a round robin auction. Less scrupulous agents will fake an auction, telling editors that there have already been several bids on a project, when in reality, it's languishing in submission purgatory.) Literary continued: "That legal poop isn't our problem."
It totally was our problem, but I didn't want to get into it with her, because, well, who had the time? I then asked the more pertinent question: "Did you work out my fee with Manager McBlabbermouth?"
There is no set template as to how a ghostwriter gets paid. For a ghost, the most common payment structure is a small fee for the book proposal and a split of the advance, with the client getting the higher portion of the split. (The split is generally in the 60/40 area, but you might also see 70/30, or 75/25.) In a perfect world, the ghostwriter will receive a fair fee for the proposal, then they and the client will split the advance 50/50. Sometimes the proposal fee will be recoupable -- an advance against the advance, if you will -- which means if the ghostwriter gets paid $5.00 for the proposal, then the project is sold for $50.00, and there's an agreed upon 50/50 split, the ghost gets $20.00, with $5.00 recoupable fee having been deducted from their portion of the advance. In other instances, the ghostwriter will do the proposal on spec, which sucks, but sometimes ya gotta do what ya gotta do; on the other hand, if you don't get a proposal fee, the client is more likely to agree to the 50/50 split. Sometimes there's a flat fee for both the proposal and the book, which is a gamble on both sides, because if the book gets a crap advance, the client might feel screwed, and if the book gets a zillion dollar advance, the ghost might feel screwed. We should unionize.
Anyhow, if you're a penurious celeb, Literary McAgent Jr. was the rep for you, because she didn't fight for her ghosts' salaries. If the celeb said, "I'm only going to pay my collaborator a dollar, and they can take it or leave it," Literary would say, "No problem, Babe." Thing is, ghostwriting work isn't always plentiful, and there's always the chance that a lousy job could lead to a good one, so most ghosts -- unless they're at the level of a David Ritz or a Jeffrey Zaslow -- will grab what they can, ignoring that A) they're getting paid shit, and B) the client is a nutbag.
This was the case here.
Literary said, "Yeah. We worked out the sheckles."
"And?"
"And they're paying you [insert lowball offer here]."
"That's it?"
"Babe, I had to fight to get you that. But this is gonna totally be a best-seller."
Yes, Child McStar was all but a non-entity, but if her allegations were true, this book would indeed sell a helluva lot of copies. Plus I needed the work. So I said yes.
Bad idea.
Next: In which we find a publisher, and the real fun begins.
Monday, December 6, 2010
GHOSTY McGHOSTWRITER MEETS THE WHACKED-OUT CHILD STAR, PT. 3
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.
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.
GHOSTY McGHOSTWRITER MEETS THE WHACKED-OUT CHILD STAR, PT. 2
Finally, finally, finally, after a series of blown-off phone meetings, Child McStar graces me and Literary McAgent Jr. with her presence. We are joined on the phone by Manager McBlabbermouth and the eerily silent Spouse McStar.
Child offers no apologies, which is par for the course. (I once crashed a book for a reality show contestant -- who we will be discussing in the not-too-distant future -- in two weeks, and she never thanked me. Apparently a goodly number of C-list celebrities lack the politeness gene.) So since pleasantries apparently part of the game plan, we get down to business.
As is always the case during my first conversation with a new client, one of the first things I do is explain to Child how she can get me the information she'd like in the book proposal. "We can do a series of phone interviews, you can write up notes in an email, you can send me a sloppy Word document, you can mail me handwritten stuff on legal pad, whatever's easiest for you."
Child says, "I'm all about stream-of-consciousness. I've written down hundreds and hundreds of pages of thoughts."
I say, "Great!" I love it when clients write stuff down. "Can I see some of it?"
"On, no," Child says. "Nobody sees any of it."
I hate it when clients write stuff down and won't show it to me. Why say anything in the first place? Gets my hopes up. "Bummer. So how'd you like to do this?"
"I'll talk. Let's go."
"What do you mean?"
"Let's start. I'm ready."
"Wait," I say, "don't you want to ask me some questions about, y'know, me?" Ghostwriting is an intimate endeavor, and there needs to be a certain level of trust established right off the bat between the ghost and the subject. It's impossible to establish anything without some semblance of a job interview.
Child says, "Nah," then she tells Literary, Manager, and Spouse, "Get off the phone, guys. Me and Ghosty here are gonna get to work." (Note: This was the first and only time that Child used the word "work" as relating to her book.)
I say, "Wait, you want to start now? I haven't done any research."
"Doesn't matter." And then after the business team -- such as it is -- hangs up, off she goes.
If I may digress for a minute, the first thing I like to do with a client when we begin work on their book proposal -- after we start establishing that aforementioned level of trust, that is -- is to get The Story. The Story is a long anecdote that we'll use as a writing sample, a bit that'll knock an editor on their ass, the tale that'll compel them to bring the project to the publisher's editorial board, where hopefully the powers-that-be will agree to make us an offer.
The Story that Child delivers is full of sex, and jealousy, and steroids, and suicide, and the kind of sordid stuff that would indeed knock an editor on their tushie.
Unfortunately, only about 12% of it was true.
Next: In which, despite her utter inability to make a meeting on time, Ghosty and Child craft a book proposal of sorts.
Child offers no apologies, which is par for the course. (I once crashed a book for a reality show contestant -- who we will be discussing in the not-too-distant future -- in two weeks, and she never thanked me. Apparently a goodly number of C-list celebrities lack the politeness gene.) So since pleasantries apparently part of the game plan, we get down to business.
As is always the case during my first conversation with a new client, one of the first things I do is explain to Child how she can get me the information she'd like in the book proposal. "We can do a series of phone interviews, you can write up notes in an email, you can send me a sloppy Word document, you can mail me handwritten stuff on legal pad, whatever's easiest for you."
Child says, "I'm all about stream-of-consciousness. I've written down hundreds and hundreds of pages of thoughts."
I say, "Great!" I love it when clients write stuff down. "Can I see some of it?"
"On, no," Child says. "Nobody sees any of it."
I hate it when clients write stuff down and won't show it to me. Why say anything in the first place? Gets my hopes up. "Bummer. So how'd you like to do this?"
"I'll talk. Let's go."
"What do you mean?"
"Let's start. I'm ready."
"Wait," I say, "don't you want to ask me some questions about, y'know, me?" Ghostwriting is an intimate endeavor, and there needs to be a certain level of trust established right off the bat between the ghost and the subject. It's impossible to establish anything without some semblance of a job interview.
Child says, "Nah," then she tells Literary, Manager, and Spouse, "Get off the phone, guys. Me and Ghosty here are gonna get to work." (Note: This was the first and only time that Child used the word "work" as relating to her book.)
I say, "Wait, you want to start now? I haven't done any research."
"Doesn't matter." And then after the business team -- such as it is -- hangs up, off she goes.
If I may digress for a minute, the first thing I like to do with a client when we begin work on their book proposal -- after we start establishing that aforementioned level of trust, that is -- is to get The Story. The Story is a long anecdote that we'll use as a writing sample, a bit that'll knock an editor on their ass, the tale that'll compel them to bring the project to the publisher's editorial board, where hopefully the powers-that-be will agree to make us an offer.
The Story that Child delivers is full of sex, and jealousy, and steroids, and suicide, and the kind of sordid stuff that would indeed knock an editor on their tushie.
Unfortunately, only about 12% of it was true.
Next: In which, despite her utter inability to make a meeting on time, Ghosty and Child craft a book proposal of sorts.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
GHOSTY McGHOSTWRITER MEETS THE WHACKED-OUT CHILD STAR, PT. 1
Our cast of characters:
- Me - the noble, attractive freelance ghostwriter
- Literary McAgent Jr. - the individual who packaged the project
- Editor McPublisher - the individual who shepherded the project through a major publishing house
- Child McStar - former star of stage and screen
- Spouse McStar - Child's ball & chain
- Manager McBlabbermouth - Child's representative
It starts like it always does, with a breathless call from Literary McAgent:
L. Mc: "You have time for a gig? It's a good one. You'll love it."
Me: "I always have time." (And that's pretty much still true. Unless there are extenuating circumstances -- a.k.a., super-shit money or a certifiably nutjob client -- I never turn down work. Said work may suck ass, but a gig is a gig is a gig.) "Who?"
L. Mc: "Child McStar."
Me: "Isn't she supposed to be henious?" (This chick's rep was brutal. Arrests, bankruptcy, appearances on embarrassing Where-Are-They-Now shows, porn flicks, the works.)
L. Mc: "She's in a good space right now." (According to Literary, they were always in a good space right now.)
Me: "Fine. I'll talk to her."
L. Mc: "Great. Conference call at 1:00 with me, you, Child McStar, and Manager McBlabbermouth. Call you then. You're beautiful, babe. Don't change."
One o'clock rolls around. No call. One-thirty rolls around. Still no call. Two o'clock, 2:30, 3:00, nothing, nothing, nothing. Finally, at 4:30 -- as in three-and-a-half fucking hours late -- ring, ring, ring. It's Literary and Manager. After introductions and half-assed apologies, Manager says, "Let me dial Child in. Hold on." One minute, two minutes, three minutes, four, five, six, then finally, manager clicks back on. "She can't do it. How's tomorrow at 9:00."
"In the morning?" I ask.
"No. Night."
"Um, we can't do anything earlier?"
"No. Child is more of a night person. She likes to stay up until 5:00 AM playing video games, then she sleeps until dinner time."
Literary pipes up. "That's great, babe. We'll talk tomorrow."
I say, "Wait, I have dinner plans."
Literary says, "Cancel them. Or bring your phone with you."
Manager says, "No, don't do that. Let me see what I can do."
We set up a meeting for the following afternoon, and again, Child blows us off. Two days later, same thing. And then finally, a full week and two more blown-off calls later, I have my first magical meeting with Child McStar.
NEXT: In which we learn just how whacked Child McStar is.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
THE GHOSTWRITING TERM OF THE DAY
CRASH BOOK
Say a publisher wraps up a deal for book by, I dunno, the wife of a Senator who had sex with his male intern in a bus station bathroom. It'll most likely need to be released within a few months of the incident, because if the publisher waits too long, the book-buying public will forget who the hell Senator, the wife, and the intern are. All of which means the book will need to be put into production immediately, sometimes even before the proverbial ink on the contract is dry.
What this means for us ghostwriter types is an insane deadline, sometimes as little as seven days. So we're talking a week to solidify the book's direction with your editor, interview the client, and turn in a first draft that's, at minimum, 50,000 words, and sometimes twice that. It's doable -- I've managed it a handful of times, and pretty darn well (she says modestly) -- but it takes about ten months off of your life.
There's a whole lot of trust involved, because for the most part, because of the glacial speed with which publishing contracts are executed, the writer doesn't get paid until after the book has been turned in. I've had nightmares about getting stiffed. It hasn't happened...but that doesn't stop the dreams.
Say a publisher wraps up a deal for book by, I dunno, the wife of a Senator who had sex with his male intern in a bus station bathroom. It'll most likely need to be released within a few months of the incident, because if the publisher waits too long, the book-buying public will forget who the hell Senator, the wife, and the intern are. All of which means the book will need to be put into production immediately, sometimes even before the proverbial ink on the contract is dry.
What this means for us ghostwriter types is an insane deadline, sometimes as little as seven days. So we're talking a week to solidify the book's direction with your editor, interview the client, and turn in a first draft that's, at minimum, 50,000 words, and sometimes twice that. It's doable -- I've managed it a handful of times, and pretty darn well (she says modestly) -- but it takes about ten months off of your life.
There's a whole lot of trust involved, because for the most part, because of the glacial speed with which publishing contracts are executed, the writer doesn't get paid until after the book has been turned in. I've had nightmares about getting stiffed. It hasn't happened...but that doesn't stop the dreams.
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