It had finally happened. After ten years of steady work and much rejection, a single solitary press had agreed to publish my novel. It wasn't one of the majors, but after drafting query letter after query letter, jumping through all the hoops like a trained pony, I hardly cared. Better one than nothing. If I had been able to drink, I would have celebrated with champagne and a Zoom session with my friends and relatives.
I had modest expectations. I, of course, was hoping for a good critical response and maybe even a small cult following. Now I had to sit back and wait to see how I would be received. The local press was enthusiastic and encouraging, and at first, I became a local success around the small city where I lived. Though I am a Southerner, I had deliberately tried to avoid falling into the cliches of Southern literature long mined by authors great and small. Naturally, having grown up here, there were bits and pieces of the culture that made their way into the final gallery proofs and revisions, but I had aimed for my setting to be the proverbial Anytown, USA.
My book sold well around town and began to pick up steam throughout the country. It won the moniker of sleeper hit and even managed, after a few months, to make the prestigious New York Times Best Seller list. After a lifetime of relative poverty, I found my financial situation much more stable and my reputation nationally heightened. I'd had an agent for quite a long time, but though she'd been constantly promoting my work for years, it wasn't until now that she was really able to help. Reputable magazines started cold calling her, asking to set up interviews. NPR called, too.
At first, people knew my name, but not my face. And I kind of preferred it that way. After the first round of relative fame, my Facebook page had been overrun by adoring fans. For a time, I added several complete strangers to my account, but found within weeks that I had to make a great purge of them. They simply would not be patient, demanded my time, demanded a piece of me, and made numerous requests I did not have the time or energy to pursue.
I stopped directly responding to my Twitter comments, most of which were supportive, though there were always a few haters and trolls seeking to bait me. I found I didn't like fame, even minor fame. But I received another piece of great news within six months of the novel's publication. A Hollywood producer (he doesn't want his name mentioned here) said he wanted to pick up the movie rights and turn it into a film. That meant even more money in the bank. I eagerly assented to the proposition.
He asked me if I'd be willing to write the screenplay. This is when we hit the first logjam. I don't know the first thing about screenplays. That's a discipline I never learned, and while I agreed that I would most certainly give my input about what someone else would ultimately complete, that work would need to be outsourced to someone else. The producer wasn't fazed by this and told me not to worry, that he'd look into the matter.
What I didn't find out until later is that my screenplay-to-be-written became a hot commodity among a few names. Many didn't want to take a chance on a complete unknown, but there were more than a few who had seen their star diminish through bad luck and failure who were eager to get back into the game. Now, it was a question of who got to me first.
My phone rang from an unfamiliar number.
"James," said a familiar voice on the end of the line, "it's Lena Dunham."
"Listen, I'll shoot straight with you. I've been making the talk show circuit for the past few years while I try to come up with a new creation---something that has legs. Everything keeps falling flat. I read your book and really enjoyed it. I hope you'll consider me as screenwriter."
I was floored. A name like that, however controversial, would give the project a kind of heft that a cheap little indie picture would never achieve on its own. She continued to say that she'd always wanted to try her hand at directing an entire film, not just the occasional episode of Girls.
And, she admired the themes of the novel. I used to write for a feminist website as the sole male voice, was familiar with the nomenclature and the theory, and tried to live my life as a good male ally. I wasn't intimidated with the perspective and the language, and that in part is what had made the book take off the way it had. Though I had my share of male readers, most of them were women.
But Lena came with some baggage. Attaching her name to the project was high risk, high reward. We both sought to gain from the endeavor, though I stood more to lose. If the film was a flop, there'd be any number of people who would be quick to judge her as a has-been, or believe she was a lousy director. But I could lose even more. A success would mean a call for more books and more movies, but a flop would consign me likely to one-hit-wonder status. Oh, people in my home town would always adore me, but if I ever wanted to court some sort of real, lasting fame, I needed a home run.
Other screenwriters called me, but none with her same celebrity status. And none of them seemed to have the conviction and belief in the project that she did. Granted, maybe she was desperate. I had no way of knowing, but I received a call from her every day until I made my decision. Ultimately, I went with her, and though part of me chose the way I did because I had faith she could pull it off, another very potent force was in play as well.
I wanted her.
Say what you will, and I can hear you scoffing to yourself now, but I wanted Lena Dunham. I'd watched every episode of Girls with rapt attention. I'd empathized with her struggles in writing workshop, as evidenced by the plot. They had been mine as well. Like her, I was also a bookworm, a bit clumsy, and had a habit of sometimes putting my foot in my mouth. You might say I was being led around a little bit by my dick, and maybe I was, but I was convinced that I was going to seduce her eventually.
She was ecstatic when I told her that I'd given her the green light.
"I'm ready to get to work!"
I really hoped I wasn't making a mistake with this. In making this momentous decision, I knew that Lena was going to want to bring around her family of actors and actresses around and lobby to cast them in crucial parts. However, the producer had final say, and his word was final. I prayed that this would not lead to conflict; that this could be an effective blending of the known and the unknown.
All major actors and actresses but one passed on the roles. I had expected this. I was not a big enough name yet and they were already committed to other projects. Aside from Lena's gang, our remaining cast of players were going to be complete unknowns. Nothing wrong with that, if the chemistry's good. People like to root for the underdog, to elevate to stardom the previously obscure. I was hoping that lightning would strike twice: a sleeper hit book would become a sleeper hit movie.
I also was planning to make my moves on Lena as soon as humanly possible. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know what some of you are thinking. How could you be so attracted to a plain, overweight, overly tattooed borderline drama queen? Who knows what drives basic attraction?
But there was a new variable in place here. Should I succeed in making her my lover, or even my partner, our relationship would become common knowledge. We would be photographed together. We would be written about. My privacy, which had already been broached once, would grow smaller and smaller.
People, for reasons of money and curiosity, would start digging into my past. I had led a relatively decent life, but I suffered from bipolar disorder, which had at times made my behavior erratic and unstable. I'd lost jobs and rubbed people the wrong way from time to time. But, in all fairness, so had she. This would all come out, eventually. Would she want someone with a chronic illness, someone frequently rendered utterly useless by depression or slightly delusional by mania?
In fairness, she'd had her share of chronic illnesses as well. She'd been insulted for being hypochondriacal. She'd gone through frustrating medical test after test. I figured if anyone could understand me in that regard, she could.
For the moment, thank God, I was feeling okay. Psychiatrists call that state of being "euthymia." Lena and I worked closely together getting the screenplay up to snuff. I had to rely on her skills in that department, which means we met for hours at a time a day, every day. We were invaluable to each other and found that we had much in common.
It could never be said that I had to imagine what Lena looked like naked. Nude pictures of her were ubiquitous and readily available. I'd found them more than adequate masturbation fodder, but I wanted the whole thing for myself. One day, halfway through the script, we poured over a particularly sensuous portion, which would require a love scene.
Feeling suddenly bold and acting impulsively, I said, "Why don't we act it out now, to see how it will work in the picture? I've wanted you for so long. I promise you won't regret this."
