Part 1 (1/2)

Agent to the Stars.

by John Scalzi.

Introduction.

Hi there.

In the summer of 1997, I was 28 years old, and I decided that after years of thinking about writing a novel, I was simply going to go ahead and write one. There were two motivations for doing so. First, I was simply curious if I could; I'd had up to that time a reasonably successful life as a writer, but I'd never written anything longer than ten pages in my life outside of a cla.s.sroom setting. Two, my ten-year high school reunion was coming up, and I wanted to be able to say I'd finished a novel just in case anyone asked (they didn't, the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds).

In sitting down to write the novel, I decided to make it easy on myself. I decided first that I wasn't going to try to write something near and dear to my heart, just a fun story. That way, if I screwed it up (which was a real possibility), it wasn't like I was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up the One Story That Mattered To Me. I decided also that the goal of writing the novel was the actual writing of it -- not the selling of it, which is usually the goal of a novelist. I didn't want to worry about whether it was good enough to sell; I just wanted to have the experience of writing a story over the length of a novel, and see what I thought about it. Not every writer is a novelist; I wanted to see if I was.

Making these two decisions freed me from a lot of the usual angst and pain that comes from writing a first novel. This was in all respects a ”practice” novel -- a setting for me to play with the form to see what worked, and what didn't, and what I'd need to do to make the next novel worth selling.

It worked. I picked a fun, humorous story -- aliens from another world decide to get an agent -- and I just let it take me where it wanted to go. I banged out the chapters on the weekends, using the weekdays to let my mind figure out what to do next. The writing was fun, and for the most part it was easy, and in three months, the whole thing was done (and just in time for my high-school reunion).

Once the novel was finished, I decided, what the heck, I might as well try to sell it. This was not particularly successful. The agents I shopped it to liked the writing, but said humorous SF was hard place; the publishers liked the writing but said humorous SF was hard to sell. I wasn't terribly put out about this; this was a practice novel, after all. But on the other hand I thought it was good enough to let other people see it.

So in early 1999, I decided to put it online as a ”shareware novel.” The premise was simple: People could read it, and if they liked it, they could send me a dollar, or whatever sum they liked (even if that sum was zero). If they didn't like it, well, clearly, they wouldn't have to send me anything. It was a no-risk proposition for the reader. I didn't expect to see a dime from it, but as it turns out, over five years I made about $4,000 (well, I think it was about that much. I stopped counting after a while. I know I made enough to buy a laptop and lots of pizzas. More than enough).

Fast forward to today. My second novel, Old Man's War, did indeed sell to a publisher, thanks in no small part to the experience earned writing this novel. And between the writing of this novel and the publication of that one, five other books slipped out of my brain, due in some measure to my confidence that I could write book-length works, be they fiction or non-fiction. In a sense, this novel is the midwife to every book since. For this reason alone, it holds a special place in my heart. It doesn't hurt that it's a fun story, too.

And now here it is for you to read. I'm no longer soliciting a dollar if you enjoy the novel; the story has long since proved its worth in that respect. I offer it freely to give new readers a sample of my writing (perchance to tempt them to pick up one of the other books), and to say ”thanks” to those who picked up another of my books and were curious enough about the author to find their way here. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, and have enjoyed all the writing since.

John Scalzi.

December 8, 2004.

Chapter One.

”Fourteen million and 15% of the gross? For Mich.e.l.le Beck? You're out of your f.u.c.king mind, Tom.”

Headsets are a G.o.dsend; they allow you to speak on the phone while leaving your hands free for the truly important things. My hands were currently occupied with a blue rubber racquetball, which I was lightly bouncing off the pane of my office window. Each quiet thock left a tiny imprint on the gla.s.s. It looked like a litter of poodles had levitated six feet off the ground and schmooged their noses against the window. Someone would eventually have to wipe them all off.

”I've had my medication for today, Brad,” I said. ”Believe me, 14 million and 15 points is a perfectly sane figure, from my client's point of view.”

”She's not worth anywhere near that much,” Brad said. ”A year ago she was paid $375,000, flat. I know. I wrote the check.”

”A year ago, Summertime Blues hadn't hit the theaters, Brad. It's now $220 million dollars later. Not to mention your own Murdered Earth -- $85 million for perhaps the worst film in recent history. And that's before foreign, where no one will notice that there's no plot. I'd say you got your one cheap taste. Now you've gotta pay.”

”Murdered Earth wasn't that bad. And she wasn't the star.”

”I quote Variety,” I said, catching the ball left-handed for the briefest of seconds before hurling it back against the gla.s.s, ”'Murdered Earth is the sort of film you hope never makes it to broadcast television, because nearby aliens might pick up its broadcast signal and use it as an excuse to annihilate us all.' That was one of the nicer comments. And if she wasn't the star, why did you plaster her all over the posters and give her second billing?”

”What are you all about?” Brad said. ”I remember you practically doing me for that artwork and billing.”

”So you're saying you'll do anything I say? Great! Fourteen million and 15% of the gross. Gee, that was easy.”

The door opened. I turned away from the window to face my desk. Miranda Escalon, my administrative a.s.sistant, entered my office and slipped me a note. Mich.e.l.le just called, it read. Remember that you have to get them to pay for her hairdresser and makeup artist.

”Look, Tom,” Brad said. ”You know we want Mich.e.l.le. But you're asking too much. Allen is getting $20 million and 20% of the gross. If we give Mich.e.l.le what she wants, that's $35 million and a third of the gross right there. Where do you suggest we might make a profit?”

$14 million, she can pay for her own d.a.m.n hair, I wrote on the pad. Miranda read it and raised her eyebrows. She left the room. The odds of her actually giving that message to Mich.e.l.le were unimaginably remote. She's not paid to do everything I say -- she's paid to do everything I should say. There's a difference.

”I have two points to make here,” I said, turning my attention back to Brad. ”First: Allen Green isn't my client. If he were, I'd be endlessly fascinated by the amount of money you're throwing to him. But he is not. Therefore, I could not possibly give two s.h.i.+ts about what you're handing him. My responsibility is to my client and getting a fair deal for her. Second: $20 million for Allen Green? You're an idiot.”

”Allen Green is a major star.”

”Allen Green was a major star,” I said, ”When I was in high school. I'm about to go back for my 10th year reunion. He's been out in the wilderness for a long time, Brad. Mich.e.l.le, on the other hand, is a major star. Right now. $300 million in her last two films. Fourteen million is a bargain.”

The door opened. Miranda popped her head in. She's back, she mouthed.

”Tom,” Brad began.

”Hold on a second, Brad. The woman herself is on the other line.” I cut him off before he could say anything. ”What?” I said to Miranda.

”Miss Thing says she has to talk to you right now about something very important that can't wait.”

”Tell her I'm already working on the hairdresser.”

”No, it's even more important than that,” Miranda said. ”From the sound of it, it may be the most important thing ever in the history of mankind. Even more important than the invention of liposuction.”

”Don't be mocking liposuction, Miranda. It has extended the career of many an actress, thus benefiting their agents, allowing them to pay your salary. Liposuction is your friend.”

”Line two,” Miranda said. ”Let me know if fat-sucking is toppled.”

I punched the b.u.t.ton for line two. Ambient street noise filled my earphones. Mich.e.l.le was undoubtedly careening along Santa Monica Boulevard.

”Mich.e.l.le,” I said. ”I'm trying to make you very rich. Whatever it is, make it quick.”

”Ellen Merlow got Hard Memories.” Mich.e.l.le said. ”I thought I was in the running for that. I thought I had it.”

”Don't feel too bad about it, Mich.e.l.le,” I said. ”Everyone was up for that one. If you didn't get it, that puts you in there with Jessica Lange and Meryl Streep. You're in good company. Besides, the pay wasn't that good.”

I heard a short brake squeal, followed by a horn and some m.u.f.fled yelling. Mich.e.l.le had cut someone off. ”Tom, I need roles like that, you know? I don't want to be doing Summertime Blues for the next ten years. This role would have helped me stretch. I want to work on my craft.”

At the word craft, I mimed stabbing myself in the eye. ”Mich.e.l.le, right now you're the biggest female star in Hollywood. Let's work with that for a couple of movies, okay? Get a nice nest egg. Your craft will still be there later.”

”I'm right for this role, Tom.”

”The role is a 40ish Jewish woman victimized in the Warsaw ghetto and Treblinka, who then fights racism in the United States,” I said. ”You're 25. And you're blonde.” And you think Treblinka is a shop on Melrose. I kept that last thought in my head. No point confusing her.