I’ve shepherded many authors over the years. Agents hire me to shadow a consultant and keep him from doing anything too dumb or dangerous on book tours. Of all the drug abusers and self-destructive self-help gurus, he was the worst. One of those novelists, you know.
His book was turned into a movie, and no matter what he says, the movie was better. It was nominated for an Oscar the same year he was snubbed for a Pulitzer. Out of graciousness and idiocy, he was invited to the Oscars, and in his style, arrived ill-fit. You think straps on a dress are faux pas? He arrived on the carpet in khakis and a blue floral print shirt. I think most of the paparazzi mistook him for a tech guy – how many authors can you name by faces? – but one came over. I knew there’d be an issue, and my client tried to oblige.
“This isn’t Florida,” said the reporter with this slappably sick grin.
“Oh,” said my client, fixing the lapels of his floral and admiring the Oscar crowd. “All the young models dating old Jews fooled me.”
There would have been a P.R. firestorm the next morning, had the movie about gay ranchers not lost to the movie about L.A. being racist. Now I only work with children’s book authors. The job hasn’t changed as much as I wished.
Very amusing. Being a Floridian, I can relate to your references.
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