Last night I hosted my friend Jo’s book launch for her new novel The Sicilian Inhertitance. I get asked to host a lot of these things and I like to think that I’m pretty good them.
After being an actress for half my life, bullshitting for thirty to forty minutes in front of strangers is a low lift. And I don’t mean this in the Uta Hagen, “I’m so talented. Performing is as simple as breathing,” type way. I mean this in the, “I’ve been degraded, and rejected, and objectified, and exploited so many times that there isn’t much that can throw me.” type way.
I didn’t get thrown last night. Last night was actually, amazing. I got thrown this morning. And it was awful.
Let me give you some backstory for context.
In 2018, after spending a year adapting one of my books as screenplay for Warner Brother’s and Anne Hathaway, I was so excited to get back to what I loved: writing not about Anne Hathaway.
During the anger phase of mourning my deceased poodle, Mr. Teets I fired my entire team at Gersh for not grieving him the way I felt they should have- condolence emails, texts, flowers, bag pipe playing singing telegrams, his entire body cast in bronze…. You know, the basics.
Having no literary representation, my manager at the time, suggested I take a meeting with this esteemed, senior partner at this smaller swanky agency in mid-town.
Sitting in his modest office with an obscene view of Manhattan, the walls covered in James Patterson thrillers and Elin Hillderbran blockbusters, I already felt out of place.
We made some small talk about our shared love of Scuba, then he cut to the chase. “Your last two books did okay.” He said, plainly.
At this point, I considered both my memoirs raging successes. And in the scheme of my life, they were. I’d made The New York Times list and completely transformed my identity from “sometimes working actress married to Jason Biggs to “published author and Writers Guild of America member married to Jason Biggs”. Both my books were optioned. One was even streaming on ABC digital.
“I made the list.” I managed to say.
“Yeah, the list doesn’t really mean anything.” He waved his hand, matter-a-factedly. “It’s really all about numbers.”
Taking another look at the mounting stack of Dean Koontz paperbacks covering his desk, it was clear that my numbers weren’t nearly as impressive to him as they were to me.
I felt like I’d just shown up to a dinner party at Gwyneth Paltrow’s holding an edible arrangement and a bottle of Kendall Jackson vintner’s reserve. “Welp, good to know.” I nodded.