The Fran Lebowitz Reader (33 page)

Soon thereafter I found myself seated at dinner beside the fellow who had purchased the movie rights to the book in question. I smiled at him politely. He smiled back. I broached the subject.

“I understand,” said I, “that you have purchased A Writer of Very Successful Commercial Fiction’s next book for one million dollars?”

“Yes,” he said. “Why don’t
you
write a movie for us?”

I explained that my schedule could not, at this time,
accommodate such a task, seeing as how I was up to my ears in oversleeping, unfounded rumors and superficial friendships. We were silent for a moment. We ate. We drank. I had an idea.

“You just bought A Writer of Very Successful Commercial Fiction’s unwritten book for one million dollars, right?”

His reply was in the affirmative.

“Well,” I said, “I’ll tell you what. My next book is also unwritten. And my unwritten book is exactly the same as A Writer of Very Successful Commercial Fiction’s unwritten book. I know I have an agent and I’m not supposed to discuss business but I am willing to sell you
my
unwritten book for precisely the same price that you paid for A Writer of Very Successful Commercial Fiction’s unwritten book.”

My dinner companion declined courteously and then offered me, for my unwritten book, a sum in six figures.

“Call my agent,” I replied, and turned to my right.

The next morning I was awakened by a telephone call from said agent, informing me that she had just received and rejected the offer of a sum in six figures for the movie rights to my unwritten book.

“I think we can get more,” she said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

I mulled this over and called her back. “Look,” I said, “last year I earned four thousand dollars for the things that I wrote. This year I’ve been offered two sums in six figures for the things that I have not written. Obviously I’ve been going about this whole business in the wrong way. Not writing, it turns out, is not only fun but also, it would appear, enormously profitable. Call that movie fellow and tell him that I have several unwritten books—maybe as many as twenty.” I lit another cigarette, coughed deeply and accepted
reality. “Well, at least ten, anyway. We’ll clean up.”

We chatted a bit more and I hung up reluctantly, being well aware of how important talking on the telephone was to my newly lucrative career of not writing. I forged ahead, though, and am pleased to report that by careful application and absolute imposition of will, I spent the entire day not writing a single word.

That evening I attended an exhibit of the work of a well-known artist. I inquired as to the prices of the attractively displayed pictures, stalwartly registered only mild surprise and spent the remainder of the evening filled with an uneasy greed.

The next day, immediately upon awakening, I telephoned my agent and announced that I wanted to diversify—become more visual. Not writing was fine for the acquisition of a little capital but the real money was, it seemed to me, in not painting. No longer was I going to allow myself to be confined to one form. I was now not going to work in two mediums.

I spent the next few days in happy contemplation of my impending wealth. While it was true that no actual checks were rolling in, I was not born yesterday and know that these things take time. Inspired by my discovery, I began to look at things in an entirely new light. One weekend while driving through the countryside, I was struck by the thought that among the things that I cultivate, land is not one of them.

First thing Monday morning, I called my agent. “Listen,” I said, “I know this is a little outside your field, but I would appreciate it if you would contact the Department of Agriculture and notify them that I am presently, and have been for quite some time, not growing any wheat. I know that the
acreage in my apartment is small, but let’s see what we can get. And while you’re at it, why don’t you try the Welfare Department? I don’t have a job, either. That ought to be worth a few bucks.”

She said she’d see what she could do and hung up, leaving me to fend for myself.

I didn’t paint—a piece of cake. I grew no wheat—a snap. I remained unemployed—nothing to it. And as for not writing, well, when it comes to not writing, I’m the real thing, the genuine article, an old pro. Except, I must admit, when it comes to a deadline. A deadline is really out of my hands. There are others to consider, obligations to be met. In the case of a deadline I almost invariably falter, and as you can see, this time was no exception. This piece was due. I did it. But as the more observant among you may note, I exercised at least a modicum of restraint. This piece is too short—much too short. Forgive me, but I needed the money. If you’re going to do something, do it halfway. Business is business.