In case you can’t see it, that is a smile on my face. And yes, for the past several days it’s been rather permanent. It’s kind of difficult to stop laughing when the moment you’ve dreamt of for nearly 20 years exceeds your wildest expectations.
Fox Searchlight Pictures Acquires “Breathers”
First of all, the fact that Mason Novick and Diablo Cody are co-producing the film is something I couldn’t have even imagined. I’m both honored and humbled that they would have the faith to back Breathers on the big screen.
I’m also excited to work with Geoff LaTulippe, who is adapting Breathers and whose breakout screenplay, Going the Distance, is in development with New Line.
Finally, at the Church of Hollywood, my denomination has been Fox ever since I saw Star Wars in 1977. The theme music for the Fox Searchlight intro still gives me the chills every time I see one of their films.
I wonder if I can get that as a ringtone…
I read a blog on another social networking site where the blogger, a woman, related how some man who she’d met at a bar told her that: “All women are two beers away from being bi.”
Personally, I’d rather that all women were two beers away from being with me, but that’s not the point. The point is that all men are stupid. Or at least capable of being stupid. With or without the two beers. But the beer definitely helps.
There’s a reason men are stupid. It’s called testosterone.
Now some men will argue that they’re immune to this generalization, that they’ve evolved beyond the hordes of primates who are still slaves to their libido. Yeah, right. Whatever. If the testosterone doesn’t make you stupid sexually, it makes you stupid in other ways – painting your face or chest for sporting events, driving down the street with your windows down and your stereo thumping, being coy or suave when approaching a woman rather than just being honest.
It’s a handicap, really. A retardation. Men should have support groups just for the fact that we’re men.
So ladies, the next time some man says something stupid to you, have some sympathy. He’s working with a limited amount of brain cells.
So when I get home today, I find a thick, padded envelope from my editor sitting on top of the mailboxes in my apartment building. I know what’s in the envelope because my editor e-mailed me two days ago to tell me it was on the way. But I don’t rip it open right there. I have three bags of groceries from Trader Joe’s with me.
So I put the padded envelope in one of the grocery bags and head up the two flights to my apartment, open my front door, put the groceries on the kitchen counter, then remove the envelope and tear it open. And into my hand falls the first honest-to-Jerry, final published version of my novel.
By the way, if you’re wondering about the “honest-to-Jerry” bit, you’ll have to wait for my next novel.
Having the ARC of BREATHERS in my hands was one thing, but having this, the final product, with dedication and acknowledgments and back cover copy with a blurb from Kirkus, is a completely different sense of accomplishment altogether. Of course, there’s the little matter about the lack of an author photo and bio on the inside back cover, which is obviously a disappointment, but I figure it’s just a lesson to still enjoy the experience even if everything doesn’t quite turn out the way I expected.
What’s really fun is seeing the spine of BREATHERS sitting among some of my favorite authors and novels sitting on my bookshelf next to my desk:
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go bathe in a little self-indulgence.
