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Much to my surprise I recently found myself in a TARDIS. Not the TARDIS, sadly. As a child I very much wanted to spend time in the TARDIS, a wish which was revived around about the same time that the hyperactive, fast-talking, feline-featured Scot David Tennant took up residence. But, as I say, its wasn’t ‘the’ but ‘a’. Number three TARDIS, as I recall.
As many of you might know, what it actually meant was that I was in a sound proof room in the offices of our national broadcaster. I’d been asked to talk on the radio. It was a book show, but showing great restraint neither the presenter nor I mentioned my book once. (To my publicist’s astonishment and, predictably, great disappointment.) But there was a reason for the reticence – we weren’t there to talk about me. Really. Someone had suggested I might have a few thoughts about adaptation. Not because I was skilled at adapting myself, although let’s face it, someone who has lived in over thirty places, in five states, and on two continents is probably not too bad at it.
In fact, it was the experience I’d gained in continent number two that had appealed to the show’s producer: my job had revolved around talking to film and television people about adapting books to, well, film and television. It was a job which, in a publishing company, was – and is – extremely unusual. It did have its upside – like the trips to LA (which I chose to take during the grim, endless, oppressive British winters).
It was during one of these trips that I found myself in a groovy, low-lit bar late at night in West Hollywood, with a film agent. We’d been chewing the fat, as you do, and sampling Californian Zinfandels. The mood was relaxed and the talk moved from business to personal.
What, he asked, did I do in my spare time? Did I have a hobby? Or something.
Did I? I thought about it. Not really. Although I did write, I admitted.
He smiled a knowing smile. Everyone there wrote, if they didn’t act. Or wait tables. But still, a credit to his profession, he asked about it. What, he asked, had I written? And, in all seriousness, he asked me to give him the elevator pitch. In a bar. Late at night.
Shockingly, to him at least, I had to admit that I didn’t have one. I hadn’t prepared one earlier, in case of such a moment. Even though both he and I knew that I’d been spending the week meeting producers and pitching, mostly in offices and over food or wine, other people’s books. (See – I’m really not a publicist’s delight.) I couldn’t think of how to sum up my novel in thirty words or less. I stumbled, and stretched; I grasped at meaningless phrases. I tried stating the themes: revenge, obsession, deception, love. It’s about art, it’s about craft, I said but I was really doing very badly, considering how well I knew my subject.
But he was a kind man. Who, he said, would you cast in the lead roles?
Of course! This was a great lead and a fantastic opportunity. I pictured the main character, an American, in all her flamboyant, amoral glory. But no names came into my strangely blank mind. None. I thought of Jess: cool, enigmatic, calculating. Pixie-faced. I could see just the actress, she was in…if only I could remember her name. It was on the tip of my tongue. The blokes, I thought, what about them? Oliver, the shifty, sexy Scottish journalist came to mind. That was it: David Tennant.
The agent looked at me blankly. Who?
Oh dear I thought. He’s not going to get it if I say Dr Who. Damn. The chances of being taken on by a major film agent were slipping away. What I needed, let’s be honest, was to go back in time. What I needed, was the TARDIS. I could go back and prepare my pitch, my lines, my reasons why it was the perfect project for adaptation, why it was different, why it stood out, why the characters would resonate with viewers, why it would move people, make them laugh, why it was the perfect date movie. Or, better yet, I could just bring back David T himself. Really, he’d be great.
Recently I was asked if I planned to write a sequel to DTE, as I think of the novel these days. ‘Well,’ I said, thoughtfully. ‘No.’
I was lying, of course.
Last week I did what no unknown first time novelist should do. I went through a bookshop. The week my book was released. I didn’t actually go into the bookshop you’ll have noticed, only through. Although that was enough.
The reason I committed this grave error of judgement was that I needed groceries and the quickest way to get to the supermarket is to cut through one of the shops in front of it.
An unexpected email arrived last week. It was short, and full of exclamation marks. Before you ask, it wasn’t one offering me the opportunity to enlarge an appendage I don’t have, and which, coincidentally I wrote about in the blog that led to the unexpected email.
Nestled amongst the punctuation, there were a few words. The gist of them was this: ‘When I saw you at Christmas time, you were a luddite of no fixed abode who didn’t have job, let alone a mobile. What the hell happened?’
Airlie Lawson has worked in many different roles in publishing houses across the globe. Don’t Tell Eve is her first novel. She currently lives in Sydney and occasionally blogs at www.airlielawson.com
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