Betsy Lerner

Pitching the same projects over and over is a little like married sex — sometimes you have to work to keep it fresh. I find it’s best to ask a producer/manager/agent what they’re looking for before I start in. This way, you don’t start pitching a thriller, for example, only to find out they’re no longer producing thrillers, which at best is a buzz kill. I’ve also learned only to share  two or three projects with a producer. When I started, I’d manically talk about everything I had as if my client list were a buffet table. It’s much better to talk about a couple of projects that might actually be right, like when a personal shopper suggests two suits out of the twenty she has because these are the two that will fit.

How much do you tip the guys who valet park your car? Is $2 bucks the going rate?

There is a salad at the Beverly Hills Hotel called the McArthur or McCarthy, and if I get executed and I get to pick my last meal, it will be this salad. They chop it so fine that you barely need to chew and I’m guessing that if you’re about to take the pipe, it might be hard to chew.

ALL anyone  can talk about is how Dear John bumped Avatar off the #1 Box Office perch. NO ONE can believe this. And they all want to know if we have something like a Dear John on our list. I have a Dear Adolph. Does that count? How about Dear Sirhan Sirhan? Or Dear Ted Bundy. Oh, yeah, they’d also be interested in then next The Blind Side and The Hangover. Whatcha got people? I’m here, it’s now. Pitch your high concept movie here and earn big bucks!

One last thing: Lots of producers offices have chocolate at their reception desks. What is up with that? And how many pieces is it appropriate to take?

Last night, getting on to the Santa Monica Boulevard, I accidentally went over a divider. Cars behind me came to a screeching halt. I thought if I die now, I want everyone to know that deep inside this miserable wretch is a person who is happy and has been loved. The screeching was followed by a great deal of honking as traffic diverted around my rented Dodge Ram.

I would be lost without my GPS system. I am truly a menace on the road and it’s terrifying trying to get to meetings on time and then to park. Today, I blindly parked in a valet section and went away with the keys. For the first five minutes of every meeting, I have to sit on my hands to stop them from trembling. I also love it when the pretty assistant (and they are all pretty) asks, “Do you need to be validated?” Oh, honey, if you only knew.

Star Meter: 1  Josh Duhamel (does he even count?)

As some of you may know, I was “invited to leave” NYU’s Film School after my freshman year. I had some issues including sleeping through movies, but far worse apparently was my predilection for 180 degree pans in my end of year film, a biopic of my boyfriend.

As a result, I was shuttled into Washington Square College of Arts & Science. I still remember the parting words of my professor, “Why don’t you go away and read some books. Come back in twenty years and make your movies.”

It’s 31 years later and….Good morning Los Angeles! I’m here to try and sell book projects for film. Bringing a smile to my face are huge billboards everywhere of the HBO movie of Temple Grandin’s life. If I had a camera, I’d spin completely around so you could see everything. Tomorrow a.m. meeting on the Warner Lot with BDP (Big Deal Producer). FMD.

Star meter: 0

Betsy I

When I was in college, a budding screenwriter invited me to join a literary soiree in the west village. This was not an NYU sanctioned club, this was an off-campus affair, and I felt very honored to be included. The woman who called us together seemed much older than the rest of us; she was sophisticated and world weary, a cross between Gertrude Stein and Vanessa Redgrave. When we were introduced, she made it eminently clear that the name “Betsy” would not do. And from that moment on, she called me Elizabeth (my real name). Elizabeth, she said, was a poet’s name.

When it came time to publish The Forest for the Trees, I wanted to use Elizabeth on the jacket. The few poems I had managed to place in literary magazines were under Elizabeth. My editor balked. Everyone knows you as Betsy, she said. But how many people could that be, I asked. She insisted. I  recalled my junior year abroad when I tried to be known as Elizabeth and introduced myself as such. It was fine at first, but later when people called me Elizabeth I would sit as dumb as stone, completely forgetting that I had changed my name.

I’ve always wondered about writers who hid behind initials: TC Boyle, EE Cummings, TS Eliot, AJ Liebling, AA Milne, AM Holmes, just to name a few. What’s up with that. Maybe I should have tried it: ES Lerner.  I actually kind of like that.

Betsy Taylor

Before I love and leave you: I’m going to LA next week to pimp my wares. I don’t have a laptop and don’t know how regularly I’m going to be able to blog. I may just have to ask Keanu to hop off his desktop for a few. I’ll do my best. Until then, wouldn’t it be very entertaining to compile the biggest list under the sun of authors who go by their initials? Whatcha got?

Betsy Gilbert

Betsy Barrett Browning