Page 7 of Take 2
Chapter Five
“I am not speaking to 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 a real lunch.”
“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 in I Love Lucy isn’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 on Of 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.”
A laugh bubbles through me. It’s not her job to be my friend , but I got lucky with a two-for-one deal here. “I’m still not fully recovered from seeing him a couple of weeks ago.”
“Well, we can fix that.” She opens her laptop and swirls a fingertip around the trackpad. “Can today be the last day you’re here for a bit?”
“God, I hope so. If my meeting today is anything more than ‘Great job, thanks,’ I’m going to die.” Or kill Gus. Seriously, I’m done changing this stupid thing. The fuck it phase has already happened. I did what he wanted, and I’m ready to wash my hands of it.
“Well, you have done a great job, so I’m sure that’ll be it. Then there’s nothing else on your calendar for the week.”
“Except Cinco de Mayo! You’re coming, right?”
“Are you going to ban guac due to your green aversion?”
“No.” I stick my tongue out at her.
“Then yes, I’ll be there.” Her gaze jumps over my shoulder, and she tenses. “I’m glad we won’t be at this studio for a while.”
I peek over my shoulder to see Kristen, Preston’s assistant, in line.
“She looks at me like I’m the other woman who stole you.” Ashleigh sighs and takes a bite of her lemon loaf.
“Except she dumped me, which I shall be eternally grateful for. I cannot imagine my life without you.”
Her cheeks turn pink as she averts her eyes. “For the immediate future, it looks like you only need me for hanging out and margaritas.”
“Do not downplay that need.”
She rolls her eyes. “Seriously. Are you going to take some time off like Lisa suggested?”
I groan. “I guess.”
“Poor you.”
“You’re one to talk! You like to stay busy too.”
“No,” she says, “I like to stay productive. Those are different things.”
“I think you’re splitting hairs, but fine.”
“Rest and self-care are productive.”
“So people claim.” I wave a hand dismissively. “Writing is self-care.”
“Except when it isn’t.”
“Whose team are you on?”
“Yours! I’d like for you not to die.”
I grin at her. “You know I don’t have room in my schedule to die.”
She balls a napkin and tosses it at my nose.
“Okay, I’ll make you a deal,” I say. “I can take a break. Don’t look at me like that. I will.” Seriously, her glare is going to come in so handy if she ever has kids. “But I need to know what’s coming next or I can’t relax.”
“All right.” Ashleigh claps her hands together. “We can work with that. Do you want to breathe new life into an old script, or do you have something new to write?”
There are new ideas pinging around in my head, but none that beg to be written at the moment.
I could force one out, but according to Lisa, that’s been the problem lately.
The dusty finished scripts were loved once.
Opening some back up will be like taking a trip back in time to when I had less experience as a writer and in life.
It’ll be nostalgic, or cringey, or both.
But there’s always a little warmth in old stories.