desperate .
“He was funny the first time, but he’s not anymore, Francesca.”
Well, neither am I .
I took another six months, rewrote the first half of the book without the dog, and showed it to Nancy.
“It’s not any fun without Max,” she said.
I decided to abandon the book I clearly couldn’t write and start over with a brand-new one. “I’ve always loved the Victorians,” I told Nancy. “I think I’ll try my hand at a historical novel.” I bought dozens of history books and spent months doing research in the library. I sketched out a plot and worked feverishly at it for a few more months before I had to admit to myself that, when you got to know them, the Victorians were unpleasantly smug and their personal hygiene left a lot to be desired. Plus, my heroine was a self-righteous pill. I dumped the historical novel. “I’m going to do a courtroom thriller,” I told everyone I knew. “After all, I wanted to be a lawyer once.” It only took me a couple of months of research to remember why I hadn’t followed up on my legal career. The good news was, I never started writing that book. The bad news? I gained another ten pounds. Oh, yeah, and I still didn’t have a new book for Gramercy Publishing.
Pete suggested I take a break from writing and do some other kind of work. Sheryl suggested that I go to Weight Watchers. Alexandra suggested that I try my hand at nonfiction. But I was a novelist—one who’d had an impressive debut. I kept on going into my home office every day to sit in front of my computer and stare at the blank screen. I’d write opening lines I would read and immediately delete. And eat chocolate.
Once, I tried to tell my new gal pals about my writer’s block. “Actually it’s not so much a block as a boulder,” I said, with what I hoped was a light little chuckle. A shudder ran around the table. I translated that to mean I had their sympathy. Maybe even their compassion. “I’m so afraid I can’t do this,” I confessed. “I’m afraid I’m going to fail.”
You’d have thought I was announcing that I had a terminal, highly contagious disease. I could actually feel them backing away.
“Oh, God,” someone finally said. “This is so depressing. Let’s change the subject.”
Andy was in town to work with Jake on one of their projects, and when I told her about the incident she shrugged. “What did you expect, Francesca? Those women are all swimming with sharks—the last thing they need is you reminding them of what happens when there’s blood in the water. You want my advice?”
I nodded eagerly.
“Get your toes done.”
“Excuse me?”
“Get a great pedicure, buy a really expensive pair of sandals, and go out to lunch. No one will know you’re having writer’s block.”
“But I am.”
“People don’t want to know that. Look like a winner, Francesca.”
That particular chunk of wisdom reminded me of one of Jake’s favorite Hollywood stories; it was about some actor and his wife who had been big TV stars but their show had been canceled, and after several years of not working they were broke. When they finally landed a network meeting, they took out a second mortgage on the house, emptied what was left in the bank account, raided the kids’ college fund, and bought a huge diamond ring for the wife to wear. I’m sure you can write the ending to this story. The wife flashed the bling, the network suits were so impressed they figured no way the couple was all washed up, contracts were signed and … huzzah! The couple were back on the tube and back on top! “It’s all about appearances,” Jake used to crow at the end of this little tale. “To hell with the real you.” Which was pretty much what Andy had said to me. She and Jake were totally on the same page when it came to the importance of appearances.
By now Jake had officially had it with Francesca the Suffering Artiste. “Screw your work,” he said. “I have some free time, and we need a
“He was funny the first time, but he’s not anymore, Francesca.”
Well, neither am I .
I took another six months, rewrote the first half of the book without the dog, and showed it to Nancy.
“It’s not any fun without Max,” she said.
I decided to abandon the book I clearly couldn’t write and start over with a brand-new one. “I’ve always loved the Victorians,” I told Nancy. “I think I’ll try my hand at a historical novel.” I bought dozens of history books and spent months doing research in the library. I sketched out a plot and worked feverishly at it for a few more months before I had to admit to myself that, when you got to know them, the Victorians were unpleasantly smug and their personal hygiene left a lot to be desired. Plus, my heroine was a self-righteous pill. I dumped the historical novel. “I’m going to do a courtroom thriller,” I told everyone I knew. “After all, I wanted to be a lawyer once.” It only took me a couple of months of research to remember why I hadn’t followed up on my legal career. The good news was, I never started writing that book. The bad news? I gained another ten pounds. Oh, yeah, and I still didn’t have a new book for Gramercy Publishing.
Pete suggested I take a break from writing and do some other kind of work. Sheryl suggested that I go to Weight Watchers. Alexandra suggested that I try my hand at nonfiction. But I was a novelist—one who’d had an impressive debut. I kept on going into my home office every day to sit in front of my computer and stare at the blank screen. I’d write opening lines I would read and immediately delete. And eat chocolate.
Once, I tried to tell my new gal pals about my writer’s block. “Actually it’s not so much a block as a boulder,” I said, with what I hoped was a light little chuckle. A shudder ran around the table. I translated that to mean I had their sympathy. Maybe even their compassion. “I’m so afraid I can’t do this,” I confessed. “I’m afraid I’m going to fail.”
You’d have thought I was announcing that I had a terminal, highly contagious disease. I could actually feel them backing away.
“Oh, God,” someone finally said. “This is so depressing. Let’s change the subject.”
Andy was in town to work with Jake on one of their projects, and when I told her about the incident she shrugged. “What did you expect, Francesca? Those women are all swimming with sharks—the last thing they need is you reminding them of what happens when there’s blood in the water. You want my advice?”
I nodded eagerly.
“Get your toes done.”
“Excuse me?”
“Get a great pedicure, buy a really expensive pair of sandals, and go out to lunch. No one will know you’re having writer’s block.”
“But I am.”
“People don’t want to know that. Look like a winner, Francesca.”
That particular chunk of wisdom reminded me of one of Jake’s favorite Hollywood stories; it was about some actor and his wife who had been big TV stars but their show had been canceled, and after several years of not working they were broke. When they finally landed a network meeting, they took out a second mortgage on the house, emptied what was left in the bank account, raided the kids’ college fund, and bought a huge diamond ring for the wife to wear. I’m sure you can write the ending to this story. The wife flashed the bling, the network suits were so impressed they figured no way the couple was all washed up, contracts were signed and … huzzah! The couple were back on the tube and back on top! “It’s all about appearances,” Jake used to crow at the end of this little tale. “To hell with the real you.” Which was pretty much what Andy had said to me. She and Jake were totally on the same page when it came to the importance of appearances.
By now Jake had officially had it with Francesca the Suffering Artiste. “Screw your work,” he said. “I have some free time, and we need a
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