MOVE OVER, CECIL B.-- DAY ONE

Since half the fun of being an ebook publisher (I thought) would be making little movies, I couldn't wait till we shot the video to enhance PHONE KITTEN, a hilarious mystery by Marika Christian. The book's about Emily, a sweet but slightly nerdy girl who ends up doing phone sex after losing her job, and finds herself in the middle of a murder. So here's what we thought:  A three-minute movie showing what a phone sex worker really does while fulfilling fantasies. Pretty funny, n'est-ce pas?

We held auditions, found the perfect actress, who I'll call K, cajoled B., a well-known producer, into wrangling the camera, and hired L, who's worked in local TV for twenty or more years, to do lights.

 It was going to be down-and-dirty, the e-guerrilla way--half a day to dress the set, half a day to rehearse, and a day to shoot. E. and I scrambled till 1 p.m., producing a cozy phone kitten nest. Please note the pink princess cover and Edgar Allen Poe doll.

Good, said B, and ditto the disgusting phallic cactus. But she thought the roach looked a little fake. We could live with that, but then K. was overcome by a rogue attack of shyness. Couldn't fake orgasm if you paid her (which we were going to, but not much). All seemed lost until e. thought to ask politely if K. ever indulged in spirits. It seemed the kitten did. Well, then, would K. like a tiny libation to loosen things up? K. lit up, and three vodka-and-cranberries later, the big O was roaring out of her. While she mopped.

Okay then! We were ready for the big time.  B. left with an admonition to look sharp by 8 a.m. the next day  and don't forget the muffins and coffee. I was thinking about celebrating with my own libation when the phone rang. I knew it couldn't be good. No way it could be good, especially when I saw it was K. Yep, she was backing out. She thought she could do it, but she just couldn't. She'd realized she probably couldn't run for president if she went through it. Or even the Board of Education. She sounded like she'd had quite a few more pink drinks.

I had one of those weird dissociations like you get sometimes. You know, you break a leg and notice the run in your pantyhose.  I suddenly realized she'd gone home wearing the pink granny pants so essential to the plot.  But wait a minute, the plot was still lying soggily on the page.  It wasn't going anywhere.

And then the phone rang again. It was e., from her local in the Lower Garden District. "You want the show to go on?" she said. "Here's what we're gonna do..."

Stay tuned for Day Two: WHY THEY CALL IT DRAMA