Yesterday I spent two tedious hours on the phone with a potential client.
(I can say all this by the way as she didn’t actually become a client).
She was on a reality TV show and at the grand old age of 24 has been asked to write a book about her life. Only, like most of these books, someone else will write it for her and I was one of the writers being interviewed.
At the age of 24. Christ, I had done a hell of a lot of things at 24, but no way would they have filled a book.
She started off by gabbling off a list of a thousand names who I had mostly never heard of but who are apparently on the ‘scene’ with her. I googled some of them as we spoke and up came photos of young, orange girls and boys, falling out of night clubs half naked.
She spoke about these people at length. About how important some were to her and about how she hated some of them and why.
I could write for the Daily Mail sidebar of shame for a year with all the knowledge I now possess about the Z list.
She asked me;
Could I write about her abusive family member? Even if some of it wasn’t exactly true? He’s dead now anyway, so it won’t matter.
Could I write about the breeder she got her dogs from? They are a friend of a friend.
Could I write about the celebrities that she has had flings with? But not name them, just allude to them so that the press would be more interested in stories when the book is released?
Big Brother may call if it’s salacious enough.
Could I be really scathing about her ex boyfriend who she found in bed with her 16 year old cousin?
The questions went on and on, only broken by her screaming at her yappy dogs for “shittin’ on the ikea rug”.
She asked if I go to this nightclub, or that night club. Did I know the bouncer from this hotel bar or the bouncer from that hotel bar.
“Oh. Oh, I was hoping to find someone more like me to write my book. I don’t know what they put me in touch with you, we don’t sound like we are on the same wavelength.”
Thank fuck for that.