Idiot - Laura Clery Page 0,57

just wanted to say that we made a terrible mistake. We would love to have you back.”

“You know, that is so sweet. I actually have meetings lined up with Gersh, APA, and WME, but if none of those work out, I’ll call you, okay?”

It was the sweetest revenge.

Out of all of those agencies, I knew I wanted to be signed with APA. They specialized in comedy, and I could feel that it was right. David and I went to meet with Lindsay, the agent at APA, and it was the first meeting I had where I had no reason to feel nervous at all. For the first time, the agency wanted me. I didn’t have to beg or try to change myself to be what they wanted. I was a moneymaker to them and I was ready to utilize my power. I had a list of demands ready.

“I want to be signed literary AND theatrical. I’m a creator. I want to do it all.” It was the first time I had ever said it out loud.

Lindsay wrote this down. “Sure sure sure! I just need to see your writing, but we can make that happen for you.”

I shook her hand confidently. “I will send something over in the next couple days.”

I quickly realized what I had just signed up for. They needed to see my writing? Um, I should write something, then. I went home that night, took out my laptop, and wrote. For the first time, I just wrote. I didn’t think or judge myself or have any idea of what the fuck I was doing or where it was going, but I did it. I ended up with this dark comedy based on my relationship with Rudolf. I wrote it in a Word doc and tried to manually mimic script formatting rather than getting Final Draft script software. It looked like absolute shit. But I sent it over to Lindsay, and we met the next day.

In her high-rise office, she looked at me over her glasses. “The grammar is godawful. Your spelling is illegible. And get Final Draft for God’s sake, I could barely look at the formatting on these pages. But, this is one of the funniest scripts I’ve ever read.”

Just like that, I got my literary agent. I had always been a creator, one way or another. But now, I finally felt like one. I felt all these ideas coming to me. It was incredible.

I told my agent that I had a great idea for a feature and she told me to bring in the script. Again I went home to write it. But, you guys, features are really fucking long. Scripts are usually a minute per page, and when you think of writing a movie, which usually lasts 90–120 minutes . . . that’s a lot of pages. My agents can’t wait that long! I decided to just bring in the first three pages. I’d reel them in and then make them wait a little.

I brought the three pages in, read through it with them, and had my agents laughing their asses off. They wanted to see the rest. Great! Now all I had to do . . . was write it and not fuck it up. And get the structure right. And not spell anything wrong. And not be a fucking failure. And not come up with a pile of trash. I stared at my computer screen for three hours without writing a word. More doubt and fear was creeping into my head by the minute. I couldn’t write, why did I ever think I could? I was so disappointed in myself. I got a glass, poured myself a shot of vodka, and slammed it down.

Days passed, then weeks. The weight of this script was bearing down on me. I knew by now my agents had completely forgotten about it. There was no point in finishing it. Whatever. I wasn’t a writer, anyway.

These were all the things I told myself so I wouldn’t have to walk through my fear of failure. The voice in my head telling me to create and the voice in my head telling me I was a piece of shit were in an all-out battle.

I started to drink and use more, in an effort to drown out both of them. I wanted to be in a steady, unfeeling, neutral state! That’s healthy, right?

I kept up appearances at work for the most part, because I still took that job so seriously,