THE WRITER’S COUCH

Angelina Jolie Stars in Sequel, Girl’s Book Interrupted

Remember who you sleep with

I was shocked, but not surprised when Columbia pictures came to me and asked if I’d like to write the sequel to Girl, Interrupted.

After The Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings 20th Reunion celebrations, Girl, Interrupted wanted to interrupt that 99% male fairy show. Girl, Interrupted director showed up at Columbia Picture’s door and yelled, “Ahem, what about us crazy bitches, you mansplaining male witches?”

Angelina Jolie is now starring in the sequel to Girl, Interrupted. She an older version of her character Lisa Rowe, a charismatic and manipulative sociopath. But really, who isn't these days? In 2022, that young sociopathic character would be cast as a Republican Rep, a Supreme Court Judge, or a hockey mom.

Anywho, back to the sequel Jolie’s character had gotten her certificate to leave the nut-nut house, and is now married with six globally diverse children, and is living in another kind of mental institution, marriage, and family.

Her sunken cheekbones have graduated into blackholed eye sockets, but she’s still strikingly beautiful. She just needs a vacation, a plastic surgeon to add some filler, and a babysitter who knows 12 languages.

I’d like to interrupt this essay, to talk about a little problem, we writers have. Where to write? A home filled with endless futile tasks or a coffee shop filled with free wifi? No brainer, right?

But, there’s no such thing as free wifi. Ladies, am I right? Some people go to coffee shops to talk to women other than their wives, guffaw with other male retirees, and even play Monopoly with toddlers who enjoy a good $6 cake pop with their Boardwalk.

You’re probably wondering why I was at the coffee shop that day if I find them so repugnant. I used to write at home. I’d answer my phone all day and listen to other people rant about their lives, but that doesn’t get words on the page.

The other problem with writing at home is I can always think of an excuse to be interrupted. Girl waiting to be interrupted, right? There's always another smudge on the mirror, pine tree needle under the couch, sourdough starter to be started.

So I picked up my heavily stickered MacPro and headed out to the hipster coffee mating lair called Excess Shot.

At first, I was on fire. Entering contests, doing my morning pages, rewriting ten-year-old short stories transforming my characters into older and wiser versions of me. I was convinced Excess Shot was my Narnia.

But then, he happened.

There I was, totally in the zone. A truck could have crashed through the window, driven by the cast of Hamilton and I would have maintained my laser focus.

But I couldn’t have anticipated him. Out of the ether, which protected my creative motherland, he poked his head through like a premie baby. “Hey Amy, whassup?”

I could have been a jerk, protected the walls of my genius, held my hand up to stop him. If I had grown up in a world where women were king, I would have said “T’fuck are you doing, man? I’m working!” But I’m not from around there. I’m from ‘be kind, be nice, don’t rattle no cages.’

So, I stopped what I was doing. I turned away from the nectar of my fragile expiring existence and said, “Heeeeyyyy.”

The guy did one of those head jerk nods as I felt my very plasma being yanked from the wormhole of the burning bush of my god-given gift.

“What’s in the new, man?” he asked.

The world around me became frigid as if death’s arctic breath loomed. Devastation, failure, regret, remorse, loss.

And then I felt the other thing — the thing that occurs when you let go of a brilliant idea. The universe lifts it from your page, puts a stamp on it, and mails to some writer who has the cajones to say “no” to interrupters.

I didn’t even recognize this guy standing there.

“What you been up to?” I asked, trying to place him. He wasn’t even my type. He certainly wasn’t worth tossing out my future fame and contribution to libraries for centuries to come.

I must have talked to him for half an hour. My book was dead. My idea had been mangled by wolves. My heart was deflated and incapable of being resuscitated. I still had no idea who this guy was.

Two weeks later, I got a letter from a man named James Mangold. It was the man from the cafe. His photo was on the top of his stationary. I guess they do that in Hollywood.

He introduced himself as an American film and television director, screenwriter, and producer best known for Cop Land, Girl, Interrupted, Walk the Line, The Wolverine, and Logan. Big fish.

It was him, he wrote, who had caught the idea as it left my page. He said he could see he’d interrupted me and it triggered something for him. We had slept together when I was in grad school.

He’d been my film professor but he’d gotten plastic surgery which changed his nose, chin, forehead, and hairline. That explained both him not being my type and not being recognizable.

I called him immediately and we had a laugh. There’s a lesson here if you haven’t already caught on. It’s important to remember who you sleep with. Look at their eyes. The plastic surgeon can’t change their eyes.

Disclaimer — At least 30% of this is fiction. I never slept with that particular professor because I didn’t have him as a professor. If I had, I would have slept with him, but I never met him. There is no Girl’s Book Interrupted, but there should be.