Submission Page #8

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talk about my inherited mental illness

during Thanksgiving dinner?

It's pretty fascinating

though.

Bipolar is rampant.

My father wasn't bipolar.

He was angry about

the state of our country.

I just think his underlying emotional

state must have had a big effect on you,

and I'm surprised you

never went into therapy.

Why? I'm a writer.

To me, it's all grist for the

emotional mill. Why shrink it away?

He set himself on fire.

Yes, I know that.

I know.

But I don't think political

outrage is inherited, so...

- I wouldn't worry.

- [Sherrie] Okay.

Let's change the subject.

[chuckling]

How's your book coming?

[horn honking]

So how's the novel

coming?

Well, it's coming.

You know, it's coming.

It's... It's slow.

It's coming slowly, but actually I didn't

want to talk to you about my novel.

I wanted to talk to you

about, uh, a novel

that one of my students

is writing.

- God help us.

- No, no, no.

Len, listen.

It's about a high school girl who

has an affair with her teacher.

Here, let me...

I want to give it to you.

- You're f***ing her.

- What?

- No, I'm not...

- But you want to.

No, I don't want to...

It's not about sex.

It's about that this kid

is really, really talented.

I believe you. I re...

I'm sure she's very good.

But I don't have time

to look at some chick novel

about a girl with the hots

for her high school teacher.

- Why don't you just look at the first few pages?

- Ted.

- First few pages.

- Ted.

- First few pages.

- Ted.

Do yourself a favor.

Take the manuscript back.

Tell her you'll show it to me

if she lets you f*** her.

Now, what about

your book?

Let's get serious here.

I've had a thought.

Have you ever considered

a memoir?

Len.

You don't need me to tell you

that what's selling these days

has the juicy gleam,

the bloody smell of truth.

Yes, I know.

How many people you think

read a novel?

- I...

- About 5,000.

Out of the 5,000 people that read

your novel, 2,000 of them are dead,

and the other three...

they've forgotten.

Better to be a hot, new memoirist than

a mid-list, middle-aged novelist.

I'm not doing this

as your publisher.

I'm doing this

as your friend.

Well, I appreciate that.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Now, look.

I don't know you that well,

but the best thing...

the really good thing

would be

if there was something that had been

going on since your father's death.

- Some ongoing problem.

- A problem? Like what?

What are you...

Drinking, drugs,

spousal abuse.

- Oh!

- Sex addiction.

Compulsively f***ing

your students.

That would be great.

Len!

- Something that's directly traceable...

- Shh!

to your dysfunctional

childhood.

And something that you've, you

know, "recovered from," of course.

Yeah.

Well.

I'll think about it.

What are you doing,

sitting in the dark?

I don't know.

Just thinking.

Everything okay?

Is Ruby all right?

Is she pissed that I went?

No. No, not at all.

I told you, she's fine.

What did Len

have to say?

Oh, well, you know,

his kid's got ADD,

and they're medicating him

into a stupor, and, you know.

I mean about the chapters

that you gave him.

Oh, yeah.

Yeah, no. He's, um...

You know, he's excited.

You know, but it's probably gonna take him

a little while to read it, he said, so...

Okay.

Everyone would love

to see you finish Eggs.

Mm-hmm.

Oh, by the way,

one of your students called.

She sounded upset.

- Did she leave her name?

- No.

She said she wanted

to talk about her novel.

She thought

it was your cell.

Oh, her novel.

Oh, great.

Her novel. [scoffs]

She's back in New Jersey.

She left her number.

She said to call her

anytime.

Unbelievable.

These students, you know...

You say don't call me unless it's

a life-threatening emergency,

and, of course, everything to them

is a life-threatening emergency.

You know, you're at their beck and call.

It's just...

- I'm sure it's nothing that can't wait until Monday.

- Okay.

I'm going up.

All right.

I'll see you up in a minute.

Morning.

Happy Thanksgiving.

I hate it when you

look at me like that.

Like what?

Like dinner.

I'm sorry. I didn't think I was

looking at you like dinner.

I don't usually think about

dinner until I've had lunch.

So, I'm guessing

it didn't go very well.

Otherwise,

you would've called.

No, I... I, uh... I talked to

him about it, and he said...

You know, he's a very busy man.

He said he'll read it.

Of course, he could be so busy that he just

pretends to read it and then sends it back.

But, unfortunately,

we have no control over that.

So when can I

call him?

You're welcome.

- How was your Thanksgiving?

- Grisly.

So when can I call

and see if he's read it?

I don't think

he would like that.

Um, that might make him

want to not read it.

You didn't give it to him,

did you?

Okay, look.

I didn't leave it

with Len.

It's not that I didn't try.

I did.

It's just that he's not

reading any new novels now.

And you shouldn't

take it personally.

It's not... You know, it's not like

he read it and he didn't like it.

It's just... That's all.

I mean, come on.

You're young. You haven't

even finished the novel yet.

You and I both know

that this is all... bullshit.

None of it matters.

When am I going to be published?

My reputation and my fame.

It's bullshit!

The only thing that matters

is the work.

That's all. The work.

F*** you.

No. F*** you.

I went out

of my f***ing way for you.

I went down to Manhattan

to see my editor,

so he could take me out for lunch

so he could treat me like sh*t,

so he could tell me that I had to write

a memoir about my early years...

everything that I covered

already in Phoenix Time.

But now I'm supposed to

write it in a different way,

and it's supposed to be

the actual truth.

F*** me. F*** you.

- What did you tell him?

- I told him no.

I'm a novelist,

plain and simple.

I still have

some standards.

It's easy for you

to have standards,

with your nice, fat teaching job

and your tenure forever and ever.

You'll always have time to

write, even if you don't.

Whereas if I end up

working at a drugstore,

which with my parents' connections

is a best-case scenario,

I'll never have the time, while you sit

here making your little moral distinctions

about not selling out

your fabulous talent.

I can't believe

you let this happen.

- I can't believe you didn't fight harder for me.

- Angela, what...

The only reason why

I let you f*** me

was so you could get my novel to someone

who could actually do something.

I did not think that

that's what that was about.

I did not think this was

about you letting me f*** you.

I thought that was something

that we both wanted.

Well, now you know.

[door opens]

[door slams]

[alarm beeping]

[alarm stops]

[moans]

[ringtone chiming]

- Hello?

- Professor Swenson?

It's Hillary from

Dr. Bentham's office.

Yes?

Dr. Bentham would like to see you as soon

as you arrive this morning, if possible.

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