Page 13 of Take 2
“Iamnotspeakingto you until we order lunch,” Lisa says from behind her menu. A breeze blows through the patio of the restaurant, ruffling the petals of the cut flower between us.
“I never eat areallunch.”
“That’s exactly the problem, Mira.” Her agenting style is to be all the things anyone could ever need, professionally or personally. Creative advisor, business advocate, therapist, mom—she’s been all of it for me. Today, I get Mom-Lisa who makes sure I’m eating right and getting enough sleep.
We order, and I jump into shoptalk like it’s a pool on a ninety-degree day. “Which one do you think has better odds of good placement?”
Lisa takes a sip of water and sighs. “Of the two you sent me in the last year? Or are we talking about the pile of screenplays I have from you?”
“I meant the new ones, but I would be content to sell any.”
“Do you realize you have sent me three or four scripts a year since I signed you?”
“I know, I’m hogging your time, but I like us to have options.” I nibble at a buttered piece of sourdough and think about the pile I didn’t finish or didn’t send her. “Cast a wide net or whatever, right?”
“Except each screenplay is a net, and they get tangled up when you throw them all in the water at one time. Mira, you know I love you and think you’re brilliant, right?”
“Mhmm.” Supportive Lisa is a constant undercurrent in all her roles.
“Well, pumping out scripts like the chocolates inI Love Lucyisn’t going to get you where you want to be. They don’t come out as good. You need to focus on one thing. Maybe after a vacation.” She mutters the last part with the good sense of someone who knows I’m not likely to do that.
I twist my pinky into the scrunchie. A few years ago, I’d have been in a puddle on the floor over that. Now, it stings a little to hear that the quality of my work has taken a backseat to quantity, but that’s exactly what I have Lisa for. This kind of advice and tough love is invaluable. “Okay, so which one should I focus on?” I take out the notebook of pitches.
“Put … the notebook … away.” She punctuates each word like the notebook is a weapon and she’s negotiating a hostage situation. “Clear your mind. Take a break. Then work on the story that lives rent free in your head. The one you have to tell or you’ll lose your mind.”
It’s been a while since I’ve written that way. “You say that as if I haven’t already lost my mind.”
“Oh, I know you have. That’s why I’m telling you to take a break and find it.”
“I can’t completely take a break. I’m still working onOf Paradise.”
“Haven’t you sent final edits to Gus?”
“Well, yes, but I’m still on call to consult.”
“Only working on one thing that’s in production is basically a vacation for you,” she says. “Baby steps.”
“Why are you so amazing at your job and also so chill?”
“Pilates and watching dolphins.”
One of those things sounds lovely.
Monday misery does not exist in my life because Monday mornings start with Ashleigh. My assistant and I get our drinks and pastries from the barista and sit at a table big enough to spread out planners and laptops next to us.
“What did my drink do to you?” She picks up her kiwi starfruit lemonade and looks at me expectantly as she takes a sip. Apparently, I was scowling at it.
There is an obvious issue—Ashleigh’s offensive ability to function without coffee, though I got over that a long time ago. “It’s my least favorite color.”
Her eyebrows pull together, and she points to my hands as I slip my writing gloves on.
“I’ve had these for years, and I can’t blame L. Frank Baum for making the city emerald over a hundred years ago. He didn’t know the color would represent the devil now.” The fingerless gloves that cover my palms and wrists have been a required writing supply since college.
“You’re also wearing the green scrunchie.”
“In my hair.” I tuck a strand that’s slipped from it back behind my ear. “I can’t see it that way.”
“It’s literally on your mind.”
