Have you ever had a real job?
Yes! I'd just finished my doctorate -- this was 1995 -- and like my heroine, Selena Keller, I was beginning to realize that the next step in my life, the expected step anyway, was to apply for tenure-track teaching jobs. For some reason, every time I thought about this I felt a keen sense of mounting desperation.
I was paging desultorily through a copy of The Economist when I noticed a classified ad: I don't remember the wording exactly, but the gist of it was that an Asian publishing group was planning to launch a pan-Asian daily newspaper based in Bangkok, and was looking for "experienced sub-editors with an extensive knowledge of Asian languages and politics." I wasn't even sure what a sub-editor was, and would have been hard-pressed to locate any Asian country on a map -- I could have found China, maybe -- but on a whim I sent them my resume. They wrote back, inviting me to an interview in a hotel room in London. The curtains were drawn, the room reeked of smoke, and the two men interviewing me -- a Thai with terrible skin and a German whose entire body was yellow with nicotine stains -- were clearly drunk. As luck would have it, they just happened to ask me the one question I could answer: What did I think of the Nick Leeson bond scandal? The night before I'd been at a dinner party hosted by a pair of mathematicians, and had heard an earful about Leeson and his marvelous exploits. I promptly relieved myself of a detailed discourse on Stochastic calculus, Markov methods, and the characteristics of economic equilibria that support Black-Scholes option pricing -- having no idea whatsoever what any of these terms meant, of course. Fortunately, they asked no follow-up questions. Their only query was whether I smoked. "I don't," I said. "But if the job requires it, I'll learn." It seems this was the right answer.
Next thing you know, I was flying to Bangkok, installed in an orchid-filled apartment with a cohort of bowing servants, and working behind the scenes at a paper quite unlike any news organ I'd ever imagined -- a place where money was never an object; where the correspondents received salaries so profligate as to make the playboys of the Saudi royal family blush; where from time to time the publisher strode in accompanied by a dozen stunningly beautiful Chinese courtesans, made cryptic pronouncements about countering the White Man's neo-colonial journalism, and then took to his heels and strode out, leaving us all mystified; and where we never -- I mean never -- produced an article anyone would ever want to read. Everything we turned out was tedious bilge: lists of unreadable economic statistics, bizarre theories about secret conspiracies between Mainland China and Taiwan; ranting incoherent editorials about the perfidy of the IMF. We were the only newspaper in the world that defended the SLORC. This stuff was awful. But yet there was so much money flowing through that place! And no one ever cut it off!
I simply couldn't figure it out, although I wasn't inclined to ask too many questions, because it really was a cushy job. I have many stories about that newspaper. Our features editor was thrown into a Thai dungeon on trumped-up drug charges, our deputy editor-in-chief was found to be moonlighting as a brothel-owner, our Burma correspondent fell into a sewer while literally chasing a story and nearly died of blood poisoning. But those are for another book.
Anyway, one day, a woman I'll call E., our correspondent in a country I'll call Klong-Klong, strode into the office for a quarterly meeting with the editor-in-chief, a man I'll call Vindaloo. I remember her well: She was an attractive, well-put-together woman in her mid-thirties with an air of breezy self-assurance. She wore very bright red lipstick. Like me, she had studied at Oxford, and because of this we struck up a gossipy conversation about people we'd known and tutors we'd had. She invited me to get a massage with her, and over the course of the afternoon E. told me two very fascinating secrets -- first, that she had slept with Hugh Grant, who was "nothing to write home about," and second, that the newspaper I worked for was "obviously" a highly elite, ultra-secret economic intelligence gathering unit for the CIA.
The second she said that, it all fell into place …
Was it true? I have no idea. I'll never knew the truth -- how could I? But the more I thought about it, the more I loved the idea. From that day, I began to look at everyone around me in a different light. And once you start looking at things that way, you never stop.
I've
been intrigued by the CIA -- and the people who work there -- ever since.
How did you write Loose Lips?
The first draft took me about six months, and rewriting it took another six months. My brother Mischa and I collaborated in the final revisions, working together via Instant Messenger. Here's the way we worked:
Mischa says: The soccer game scene is just perfect.
Mischa says: Really well done.
Mischa says: Totally right.
Claire says: Thanks!
Mischa says: I'm still having some trouble with the counterplot.
Mischa says: The counterplot seems a little bit of a repeat of the PINEAPPLE scene.
Mischa says: I'll tell you what:
Mischa says: I will write the counterplot tonight, as a one page story,
Mischa says: and you can add it in as appropriate,
Mischa says: in Selena's voice, OK?
Claire says: OK perfect ...
Claire says: Now
Mischa says: I LOVED the soccer game, though.
Claire says: my idea was that something about this guy would strike her as not right ... and she would insist that they put a tap on his phone before recruiting him, and they would thus discover that he was actually a Sikh intelligence agent in Canada fundraising for Sikh separatist activities.
Mischa says: Maybe.
Mischa says: I'll think about that.
Mischa says: My thinking was entirely different ...
Mischa says: I was thinking that the counterplot should be about fish.
Claire says: Oh! I see ...
Mischa says: Really dirty, nitty-gritty,
Mischa says: dull intelligence,
Mischa says: of the sort that is entirely necessary,
Mischa says: but not glamorous.
Claire says: Well, I'll give it a try ... let's see how it works.
Mischa says: I mean, spooks in Canada study fish, no?
Mischa says: And that stuff is pretty necessary, if you think about it.
Claire says: Yep ... but don't forget, this is the DO not the DI.
Claire says: Anything analytical is handled by the DI
Mischa says: Claire, it can be anything we want, no?
Claire says: Yes and no ... I want it to be accurate.
Mischa says: OK, so that means there needs to be an agent,
Mischa says: or an operation,
Claire says: Exactly.
Mischa says: and instructions to the agent,
Mischa says: and so on?
Claire says: Yep.
Claire says: That's what the DO does.
Mischa says: But I think it would be a real coup if
Claire says: Brainwork is the DI's purview.
Mischa says: we made a fisheries dispute compelling.
Claire says: Yes, I agree.
Mischa says: So it could be a GATT negotiator,
Mischa says: with mixed loyalties,
Claire says: Yep.
Mischa says: letting on that the Canadians are cheating, no?
Claire says: Sure.
Mischa says: OK, let me do some research on Canadian fisheries,
Mischa says: and come to understand the dispute.
Mischa says: Keep going on your end,
Claire says: To which I shall now return
Claire says: Thanks, Mate!
Mischa says: Good on ya, Sheela!
This culminated in a three weeks of frantic, deadline-inspired collaboration. We holed up together in an apartment in Washington D.C. Mischa woke me up every morning by charging into my bedroom and yelling AIRBORNE! -- the way the jumpmaster does in the parachuting scene from Loose Lips. Whenever we figured out how to solve a plot problem, we'd say "kudos!" like they do in CIA cable traffic. We both agreed that the characters in Loose Lips had become more real and meaningful to us than any of our friends.
I have very nostalgic memories of those weeks. That was when we discovered a previously unknown neural particle, the Creaton. Creatons are manufactured during sleep. They are highly unstable, and burn off quickly upon waking. Nothing new can be written without Creatons, and it's very important to take advantage of their accumulation in the brain by working immediately upon waking. By lunchtime, they're gone. A problem that admits of an instant solution when Creaton levels are high will seem insuperable when they're low.
I couldn't have finished it without Mischa. He's an editor of genius, like Maxwell Perkins.
How did you sell Loose Lips? I don't want a job either!
I had just finished Loose Lips, and I had no idea how to sell it. I was also broke. My brother had just been laid off from his job consulting to a company in Silicon Valley that specialized in e-commerce. He too was broke. We were both sinking into a funk. Mischa was living in Washington, D.C., but when I remember that time I tend to forget that: We spoke every day via Instant Messenger, so it seemed as if he existed as disembodied words on my computer screen. He could equally have been next door in Paris, or on the moon.
Mischa says: I am afraid to answer the phone, for fear it might be the landlord wondering where his money is.
Claire says: Perhaps you'd feel less anxiety if you called him preemptively,
Mischa says: Perhaps.
Claire says: and just explained that you're a little late because all your money was in Enron?
That day, Mischa proposed publishing Loose Lips on line. That seemed a bit far-fetched to me -- after all, who buys books on line? -- but he thought we had nothing to lose, and nothing better to do, so why not try.
So
Mischa built a website for the book. He put the first chapter on line. At the
end of that chapter, readers could pay $5.95 via PayPal to download the rest of
the book in PDF format. He decided that we would give away the book for free to
anyone who linked to the site from their website, or forwarded the URL to 20 of
their friends. He had me write personal letters to people who might link to the
book. I wrote to hundreds of bloggers, introducing myself and pleading with them
to read Loose Lips. To my surprise, many of the people I wrote to did link to
my book. Suddenly, traffic began pouring in to the website. People were reading
the first chapter -- and some of them were buying the rest. We celebrated each
sale:
Mischa says: SAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLEEEEEEE!
Claire says: SALE! SALE! SALE! SALE! SALE! SALE! SALE! SALE! SALE!
Mischa says: We have broken the $300 mark!
Claire says: I do believe that EVERYTHING is going our way now!
Mischa says: Yes, it's easy street from here on out!
Mischa says: Life is a breeze!
Mischa says: Although I do wish that I had the rent for this month now.
Here are some of the very fine bloggers who linked to me. Why don't you visit them after you've bought Loose Lips?
Mischa
wasn't satisfied. His next idea was to promote the book -- in the personal ads.
Subject: (wanted) *** WANTED: WRITER SEEKS READER ***
MISSED YOUR CONNECTION? DON'T FEEL BAD. TRY READING THIS NOVEL INSTEAD.BEAUTIFUL YOUNG NOVELIST with sparkling prose style seeks sensitive reader for high adventure, intrigue, romance, and plot twists.
Please read my first novel at
http://www.berlinski.com/novel/novel1.htm">http://www.berlinski.com/novel/novel1.htm</a>
Send me a note if you like it ...
…
Subject: (wanted) WRITER CHICK SEEKS READER
Hey you -- yes, YOU, the reader who saw this ad last week and didn't check out the novel, that was OUR DATE WITH DESTINY you missed. I saw you. You were kind of shy, you wondered, "is this some kind of spam?" You thought about it, our eyes met for just a second but then you looked away and my heart broke.No, no, no: I don't mean someone else, I mean YOU. This is a personal message for just the right kind of reader. Sensitive but strong. Tender but tough. You know who you are.
BEAUTIFUL YOUNG NOVELIST with sparkling prose style seeks YOU for
high adventure, intrigue, romance, and plot twists.Please read my first novel at
http://www.berlinski.com/novel/novel1.htm">http://www.berlinski.com/novel/novel1.htm</a>
Send me a note if you like it ...
AND THIS IS NOT SPAM. BECAUSE THE FIRST CHAPTER IS FREE.
…
Subject: (wanted) *** WANTED: WRITER SEEKS READER ***
I keep missing my connection to a publisher who wants to give me a contract for this great novel. I know we've almost met, many times. I've seen your face in my dreams. I've imagined the phone call so often I feel like it's almost happened. "Hey," you say kindly, almost tenderly, "what a great book! It's funny, it's sexy, it taught me all this stuff about CIA training that I never knew! Would you like me to publish you ... all over?"
If you're a fun-loving reader who likes espionage, plot twists, sexy women and a good laugh at the CIA's expense, check out my novel at
http://www.berlinski.com/novel/novel1.htm">http://www.berlinski.com/novel/novel1.htm</a>
And if you're my publisher, damn it, call me.
Not
everyone appreciated our marketing strategy:
Hi there,
This is really more like an advertisement and we really don't allow that on Craigslist...can you please not post this?
Thanks!
Some people were confused. They kept writing to ask me out. A few readers turned into rather persistent stalkers. But other people loved it, and bought the book.
It was a good development, but it still wasn't enough to pay the rent.
Mischa's final idea was the best of all. He had me collect the email addresses of hundreds of journalists, book critics, and editors of literary reviews. He split the first chapter into five installments, formatted them into HTML, and began spamming them with a serialized version of beginning of the book: Part one on Monday, Part two on Tuesday, and so on until Friday, when we figured they had to be hooked. We sent the last part with a note at the end: "If you want to find out what happens to Selena Keller, click here!" The link took them to our website.
When you're a spammer, your perspective on spam really changes.
Mischa says: We're spamming...
Claire says: Spam, spam spam spam, Spam, spam spam spam,
Claire says: Beautiful spam!
Claire says: They would have to have hearts of stone not to respond to that one.
Claire says: I have just been offered yet more barely-legal teenage lesbian action.
Claire says: Why don't they do better demographic research before sending that stuff out?
Mischa says: Well, because email is free,
Mischa says: as you know.
Mischa says: So there is not much reason for them to winnow out the crop.
Mischa says: It's not like their brand identity will suffer,
Mischa says: because you now associate Acme Smut Corp.,
Mischa says: with teenage barely legal lesbianism,
Mischa says: instead of All-Slut Gang Bang Orgies.
Claire says: I guess.
Mischa says: The choice of the word 'Action' is peculiar, though.
Mischa says: I am not sure if I am enticed by the notion of 'action.'
Claire says: I have tried many times to have myself removed from their mailing lists,
Claire says: but it doesn't work.
Mischa says: It is impossible, once they have found you.
Mischa says: Let me ask you, though: Do you think there are just some excited, entrepreneurial, barely-legal teen lesbians out there,
Mischa says: so excited to make a little money and maybe break into the big time?
Mischa says: And they feel sad when you continue to reject them?
Claire says: You mean, like we do?
Mischa says: Well, mutatis mutandis.
Claire says: No, I suspect that barely-legal teen lesbians don't get rejected quite as much as aspiring novelists.
Claire says: They probably have their hands full, so to speak.
It's
true that we did receive a number of indignant emails.
Claire says: This woman just asked us to stop spamming her.
Mischa says: Hold on. Let me see.
Mischa says: Oh, she's just getting the second installment.
Claire says: Yes.
Mischa says: Perhaps you should reply: "Awww, baby. Don't be like that." Women love that.
Claire says: Yeah, I guess I could.
Mischa says: If you were nice enough to give her your work,
Mischa says: I think she should be gracious enough to read it.
Claire says: I agree.
Claire says: But what can you do?
Mischa says: People are so touchy.
Claire says: Yes. They are.
Mischa says: I wonder if she was having a hot flash.
Mischa says: Maybe we should ask.
Claire says: We could ask,
Claire says: but I think perhaps that would be too forward.
Mischa says: How does one ask these things, in society?
Claire says: There's a fine line between charming and totally fucking offensive, you know.
Mischa says: Yes, a fine line.
Mischa says: Shit!
Claire says: What?
Mischa says: I'm missing Seinfeld!
Mischa says: Bye!
Claire says: Bye!
Mischa did all this work, I should add, with a slow dial-up connection.
Mischa says: I need to restart the spamalizer.
Claire says: I see.
Mischa says: Otherwise I would go to bed and read White Teeth,
Mischa says: which I purchased today.
Claire says: Oh! How exciting!
Mischa says: Yes. Did you know we are averaging $.08 per visitor?
Claire says: That's good! All we need now is a billion visitors, and we are SET.
Mischa says: Yes. That is only one fifth of humanity.
Claire says: Easypeasy!
We wouldn't accept no for an answer. If they hadn't bought the book after a week, and hadn't yelled at us, we sent them this email on Monday morning:
SUBJECT: FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PLEASE BUY MY BOOK!
Surely you were a little bit intrigued? Surely you were a little curious about what happened to Selena Keller? Look, I swear to you, it's a great book. It's got everything -- CIA gossip, funny stories, satire, romance, understated eroticism, intrigue, betrayal, the whole nine yards. What's not to like? You won't be able to put it down. If you don't think so, I'll give you your money back -- no questions asked. And hey: I'm practically giving it away. It costs way less than a double latte and a scone.
Look, help me out here. I'm a young writer. It's hard to get noticed and published. I'm trying to be innovative. I mean, have you ever seen a book campaign like this? It's creative, isn't it? Don't you want to help a creative young woman pursue her dreams? I mean, you had fun with the first chapter, didn't you? Look, I hate to plead, but I NEED YOU TO BUY MY BOOK. I think it would really work out well for us both. Come on, don't be coy. I need your help. You can save the young writer, or you can turn the page. Please?
This was the strategy that got us our big break. One of the people we spammed, a journalist at the Chicago Tribune, downloaded the book and loved it. He called his agent, Kathy Robbins of the Robbins Office, and suggested she take a look. Her assistant called me and arranged a phone date for me to speak to Kathy. Mischa and I were so excited we could barely stand it.
Mischa says: When you talk with Kathy Robbins tomorrow,
Mischa says: do not forget that she called you.
Claire says: yes?
Mischa says: If she hears desperation in your voice,
Mischa says: you will be less attractive to her.
Claire says: Of course.
Claire says: I am well aware of that.
Mischa says: Of course.
Mischa says: I'm just reminding you.
Mischa says: Don't, for example, offer to sell the rights to your life's work
Mischa says: for the February rent.
Claire says: No,
Claire says: I wouldn't dream of it.
Claire says: I will tell her that I will take nothing less than one BILLION dollars.
Claire says: Anything less is an insult!
Mischa says: Don't start giggling insanely, and muttering, "Rich! I'm going to be rich!"
Mischa says: A billion dollars is not what it used to be.
Kathy told me that she loved Loose Lips, and asked whether she could represent me. I said that I'd like that -- very casually, with no hint of desperation or excessive gratitude in my voice, of course.
About a week later, she asked me to come to New York to meet publishers who were interested in Loose Lips. When we saw the list of publishers Kathy had arranged for me to meet, we realized that something very big was happening. On the eve of my flight to New York, however, I came down with food poisoning.
Claire says: These seem to be the most important editors in the world!
Mischa says: Claire, no doubt: These guys are the big time.
Claire says: Gosh, I will feel SO BAD if I puke on even ONE of them.
Mischa says: Yes, you must get the puking under control ASAP.
Claire says: I have tried EVERYTHING.
Claire says: Even homeopathy.
Claire says: Although oddly, I feel better now for having eaten a big cheese sandwich.
Mischa says: Nan Graham is the editor at Scribner who works with E. Annie Proulx and Frank McCourt.
Claire says: I am kind of stunned, actually.
Claire says: I thought that our dad was being most unsympathetic when he said, of my stomach ailment, that I was simply to ignore it and get on that fucking plane and smile.
Claire says: But I guess I can see why he said that.
Claire says: I LOVE KATHY ROBBINS.
Claire says: Do you think it would be strange of me to kiss her feet when I meet her?
Mischa says: By the way -- did you notice that we had a sale, right before we shut down the site?
Claire says: Yes, I did.
Mischa says: The sale was to a woman named Jessica Ylvisaker.
Mischa says: Googlesearch her name.
Mischa says: And you will discover that she represnts another huge literary agency.
Claire says: Shit.
Mischa says: Why?
Claire says: No, that's in a good way.
Mischa says: Huh?
Claire says: I mean, shit, we are so hot right now ...
Mischa says: Yes, it is quite amazing.
Mischa says: "At Random House, Menaker edited the international bestseller Primary Colors by Anonymous (Joe Klein), and books by Vassily Aksyonov, U.S. poet laureate Billy Collins, Ted Conover, Deborah Garrison, George Saunders, Elizabeth Strout, and others."
Claire says: Wow.
Claire says: At this point, I am so eager not to be sick for these meetings that I would eagerly try a high colonic if I thought it would work.
Claire says: I wish SO BADLY that my stomach didn't hurt.
Claire says: I have so much to live for!
Unfortunately, Kathy thought it was best that we take our website down. We couldn't help but be sad about that.
Mischa says: I MISS the site.
Claire says: Me too.
Claire says: I loved the site.
Mischa says: Me too.
Claire says: I need to go pick my stuff up from the dry cleaner now.
Mischa says: I feel like I really came to understand the spirit of the Net in a new way.
Claire says: Me too.
Mischa says: Don't go!
Claire says: OK,
Claire says: but I can't miss closing time.
Mischa says: Another ten minutes...
Claire says: Or I won't have clean clothes for my trip.
Claire says: OK.
Mischa says: Yes, you know how people are always talking about the original spirit of the web? Creative and honest and cooperative?
Claire says: Yes,
Mischa says: That's what I really found from this venture.
Mischa says: I miss the Site also because I had hoped it would pay our rent for another month.
Claire says: Me too.
Mischa says: And with the site, success and failure was so clear.
Mischa says: Sale = success.
Mischa says: No sale = failure.
Mischa says: I'm ready to go back to selling the book.
Claire says: It was so easy to sell, too.
Mischa says: No, that it wasn't.
Mischa says: We worked very hard for every sale.
Claire says: People WANTED to buy Loose Lips. Once people understood how important it was, they WANTED to buy it.
Mischa says: I wonder why you are supposed to meet with the editors in person?
Claire says: I guess to demonstrate that I am mediagenic.
Mischa says: After all, if THAT book doesn't suggest your personality,
Mischa says: what book ever would?
Claire says: Well,
Claire says: Kathy seemed to think it was a good idea.
Claire says: And WHATEVER Kathy wants,
Claire says: I will do.
Claire says: I mean,
Claire says: If she thinks she needs a stool sample to sell the book,
Claire says: I will provide one.
Mischa says: Our final conversion rate for Jan was 1.45 percent.
Claire says: You know,
Mischa says: We averaged 111 visitors / day.
Claire says: That's impressive, I think ...
Mischa says: And sold 1.6 books per day.
Claire says: I was about to say,
Claire says: make fun of him if you like,
Mischa says: Who?
Claire says: but I can kind of understand why it annoyed John Ashcroft that every time his speeches were broadcast,
Claire says: there was a big erect nipple by his nose.
Mischa says: Yes, but he should have known that draping those statues would make him the object of very many snide comments.
Claire says: Yes.
Claire says: Those prisoners at Guantanamo Bay sound weird.
Mischa says: Yes,
Mischa says: I read the same article.
Claire says: Why do you think they're putting toothpaste in their butts?
Mischa says: Of course,
Mischa says: it's basically weird to fly planes into skyscrapers.
Mischa says: Everything else is just kind-of passing weird, after that.
Claire says: Well, I still kind of wonder about the toothpaste.
Mischa says: If they had teeth in their butts, it would make sense.
Claire says: Yes, that must be it.
Mischa says: But that is a big if.
Later …
Claire says: But how did they get there?
Claire says: The teeth, that is.
Claire says: I mean,
Claire says: that is a hell of a spontaneous macro-mutation.
Mischa says: Perhaps it is common in their culture, and we are just insensitive.
Claire says: Common to have butt-teeth?
Mischa says: Yes.
Claire says: That must make buggery quite the risky proposition.
Mischa says: Well, it must be said, that these are not a people terribly concerned about danger.
Claire says: I suppose,
Claire says: but then why the concern about dental caries?
Claire says: You see, it just doesn't make sense.
Mischa says: One can laugh at danger, but still take reasonable precautions against it.
Claire says: I guess ...
Claire says: Should we be putting toothpaste up our butts, just in case?
Claire says: I mean, I don't want cavities ... anywhere.
Mischa says: I am pretty sure that I do not have teeth in my butt.
Claire says: How would you know?
Claire says: When is the last time you put your head up there?
Mischa says: I see your point.
Mischa says: I think it is high time you got your dry cleaning.
Later …
Mischa says: I bench pressed 172.5 pounds yesterday.
Claire says: Is that a lot?
Mischa says: It's a new Mischa Berlinski world record.
Mischa says: No Mischa Berlinski has ever benched that much before.
Claire says: Wow! Congratulations!
Mischa says: Thanks.
Mischa says: Wow!
Mischa says: My bank balance has just gone up dramatically,
Mischa says: and I have no explanation why.
Claire says: It has?
Mischa says: Our mom has just deposited $500!
Claire says: She has!!!
Mischa says: I can pay part of your rent for Jan.
Claire says: What a trooper!
Claire says: That is wonderful!!!!
Claire says: What a great mom we have!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Mischa says: Have you paid YOUR rent for Feb?
Claire says: No,
Mischa says: Shit.
Mischa says: I am deep in debt.
Mischa says: I keep checking to see if we sold a book.
Mischa says: But then I remember that our days of sales are over.
Claire says: I know.
Claire says: It's so sad.
Claire says: So very sad.
Later .
Mischa says: Do you think that the publishers will compete amongst themselves to woo you?
Claire says: I hope they send things like fruit baskets, and champagne.
Mischa says: I hope they fly you on junkets.
Claire says: Yes.
Claire says: Big baskets from Williams Sonoma, you know?
Mischa says: Filled with delicious little things.
Claire says: With ginger-lemon cookies, and all sorts of fancy preserves?
Mischa says: Yes, that would be lovely.
Mischa says: Although I'd also like some more creative things than a food basket, too.
Mischa says: Maybe a puppy?
Claire says: Ooooh! What a nice idea!
Claire says: Or tiger cubs!
Mischa says: I'm seeing one of those all white little puppies.
Mischa says: The kind that are super-fluffy.
Claire says: Yes, like a bichon frise ...
Claire says: with an itty-bitty black nose, like a button.
Claire says: yes, I hope they send those.
Mischa says: That would surely motivate you to sign up with that publisher.
Claire says: Oh yes.
Claire says: I mean, that and a fruit basket and one billion dollars,
Claire says: and surely I would be theirs.
Mischa says: Perhaps now is the time to cultivate a variety of charming but utterly mad eccentricities.
Claire says: Perhaps I should insist that I travel nowhere without Dr. Wilson?
Mischa says: Or that you frisk every editor for surveillance equipment?
Claire says: Or refuse to enter a room where dairy products are served?
Mischa says: Yes, there are a great many opportunities for mirth forthcoming.
Mischa says: I look forward eagerly to no longer being a loser.
Claire says: Indeed. It shall be jolly when our ship comes in!
When Jon Karp at Random House bought the book, my whole family celebrated.
Claire says: I had such a nice day with our Pop.
Claire says: He is SO proud of us.
Claire says: It's so sweet.
Claire says: He said the only way we will ever understand how proud he is
Claire says: is when we have children too.
Claire says: He said he's more excited -- far more --
Claire says: than when he sold his first book. He says he's so excited he can barely eat or sleep.
Claire says: And he thinks you are the greatest genius since Einstein, Beethoven maybe.
Claire says: I am still not quite sure how I will pay the rent for this month, though.
Claire says: I hate having no money.
Mischa says: You will have money soon.
Mischa says: And life will be easier.
Mischa says: And much later,
Mischa says: you will be very nostalgic for this time in your life,
Mischa says: when you had no money,
Mischa says: but were very innocent.
Claire says: Yes.
Claire says: Maybe I'll write a book about it.
Claire says: About being a poor writer in Paris.
Mischa says: Exactly.
Claire says: I'll call it, "A Moveable Feast," or something.
Mischa says: Good idea.
Mischa says: Gosh, I feel so justified in the faith I had in Loose Lips.
Mischa says: You know, we only launched the web site six weeks ago.
Claire says: Yes, I cannot really ever thank you enough for that, you know.
Claire says: But I will try to do so by giving you a lot of money.
Mischa says: 51 days exactly.
Mischa says: I counted.
Claire says: I think that is a nice way to thank someone.
Mischa says: That is so little time, actually.
Claire says: I know.
Claire says: What do you want to do with it?
Mischa says: Let's talk about money later.
Mischa says: Let's exult in being right for now.
Claire says: OK!
Are you a full-time writer now?
Yes, I am, Thank God.
Mischa says: Remember when you and I were chatting on-line, when it looked most like you were going to have to get a job?
Mischa says: Man, we missed gainful employment by the skin of our teeth, this time.
Claire says: We sure did ... but God saved us yet again.
Mischa says: Let's never get so close to needing a job again.