Original subtitles

Okay, wake up.

Don't know where I am.

I don't remember what I did.

Drinking, drunk.

That is a plausible explanation.

And I wish I remembered that part.

Or do I?

What's her name? What happened?

Mary. She was very drunk. You fucked her. Twice.

Mr. Memory.

Stupid idea.

Where am I?

Okay, okay. I'm in this situation.

What do my eyes see?

Okay, how many beads?

One, two, three, four... No, meaningless, no.

Good morning. Good.

Good morning.

Who are you?

I was just about to ask you that same question.

But you didn't.

Well, you didn't give me a chance to.

Oh, I think I did.

Isn't that an obvious thing to say.

Are we in an obvious situation?

Obviously.

I knew you were gonna say that.

Yeah, I used to surprise myself.

Not anymore.

Fucked.

Congratulations.

She was naked and she was boring.

Or was she?

Maybe she wasn't boring, but I was.

Bored to death with the book,

and still suffering to finish it in some satisfactory manner.

I hated the book so much, I'd rewritten it five times, top to bottom.

I was nearing another bottom.

And if it weren't for the contract and the advance,

the advance that had long ago declined...

Mar?

It's Rick McMurray for Peter.

Peter, hi.

Yeah, Margo's just kicked me out.

She changed all the locks.

I'm not working on it. I can't. The computer's in the house.

Just a suitcase.

Yeah, I'll call you later.

Used to be, you didn't wanna talk to anyone, you left the house.

Now, you leave the house and you still have to talk.

I could write a book about that.

That might make a better book.

Anything would make a better book.

Hey, Diane, it's me. What room number are you?

Huh?

No, no, no. No, no, I'm here, I'm here.

I'm here. See?

- Why the suitcase? - Long story. Actually, a short story.

A short story with a catchy opening?

I'm very pleased to welcome novelist Richard McMurray.

So without further ado...

I haven't done this in a while. What do you usually...

We usually read a piece and talk about writing.

- Oh, dear. Okay. - Is that something from your new book?

Yes, it is. Or it was.

I was working on this

today at lunch.

Thankfully for you, I've edited out all of the boring, repetitive material.

So I'm left with...

With this.

"One morning, Richard McMurray woke to find

"that he had been transformed into a giant cockroach. "

No, you've heard that.

Actually,

there's nothing left. Consider yourselves lucky.

Mr. McMurray?

Richard or Rick.

Rick, what's the new book about?

Well, after four years, it's not so new.

But some very good news today. My wife,

or is it ex-wife? How quickly do they become exes?

She locked me out, and my computer in, so I can't work on my book anymore.

And I have to say that feels better than anything's felt in

four years.

Richard's always been very hard on himself.

You didn't read the book.

What do you think about The Trouble with Dick now?

Well, I haven't read it since

they ripped the galleys from my hands.

I'm afraid to read it again.

I'm sure I'd find a zillion things wrong with it.

At the time, I remember thinking it was pretty good.

I'm sure it could have been better, but I did the best I could and

I wasn't looking over my shoulder.

So what are your plans now?

Well, I don't have a place to sleep tonight.

But I've escaped from Malibu and that feels

great.

Wow, I feel great.

It's always seemed to me that there are two different kinds of writers,

those that write from the inside of their heads

and those that write about what's on the outside.

The inside of your head, my head,

is fairly limited.

But reality is inexhaustible, so I opted for writing about stuff on the outside.

Of course, it's easier said than done,

but feel free to bust me anytime.

Rick. Rick. Rick.

Could you tell us... - Actually, we're out of time.

But I would like to thank Richard for sharing so much with us.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Excuse me.

- Will you sign this for me? - Sure.

- What's your name? - Kristin.

Hi, Kristin.

So is it really true you don't have a place to stay tonight?

That is a true fact, Kristin.

You know, you can stay with me.

I mean, my roommate and I don't mind sleeping on the couch.

Well,

thank you, but if I said yes, that would be a plan,

and I'm sort of loving not having a plan. As long as that lasts.

So, not having a plan is your plan.

Oh, another dream punctured.

Tell me about Malibu.

Okay.

I sat in this room and looked at my computer.

Sometimes I looked at the waves.

And sometimes I'd confuse the two.

What about Margo?

She owned the house. Maybe she owned the waves.

I paid her rent.

On the house or the waves?

That's the thing about Malibu, it all conflates. It's boring.

Successful novelist married to

beautiful actress, living in Malibu? Sounds mythic.

You care to deconstruct me? Is that what you beautiful, brainy professors do?

- Oh, I wouldn't presume. - Yes, you would, but allow me.

Successful novelist.

Cult hit, seven long years ago.

"Genre-bending, coming of age... "

Please, let me deconstruct myself.

Cult novelist gets confused by the encomium "genre-bender. "

His egregious use of sci-fi in an otherwise conventional first novel

fools him into trying the same trick twice.

- And what else am I? - Living in Malibu.

Well, I've already taken care of that, or rather she has.

God bless her.

You okay?

If you'd asked me that question yesterday, I would've lied and said yes.

Fuck, if you asked me that this morning...

What about you? Doctor of Literature,

teaching at the great university, living the life of the mind.

- You haven't been to a faculty meeting. - You have a boyfriend?

Um...

No, not at the moment.

So, we're both available. What are you doing tonight?

Oh... Oh!

Richard,

- this is a little fast. - Life is fast.

- That sounds like a familiar line. - Only because we're familiar.

Down, down, boy.

Sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted you to meet my roommate.

- Jacqueline, hi. - Hi, Jacqueline.

- Thank you so much for today, it was... - You're welcome.

So have you found a place to stay?

Oh, no. I haven't officially started looking yet.

Well, our couch is extremely comfortable,

and it's still available.

Yeah, you said you needed a place to sleep

- and we have a place, so... - And it would be an honor.

- So you were serious? - Yeah.

- Okay, why not? - Great.

Here.

Okay.

We'll see you later, then? - I'll see you later.

- Bye. Thank you.

- See you. See you. Bye-bye.

Richard, I have a couch if you need a place to stay.

I don't need a couch.

- Lf you're planning on staying with them... - I wasn't planning on anything.

Let me help.

I don't need help. It's a lark.

- It's just... I'm their teacher. - Diane, it's just a couch.

What's wrong with mine?

What's wrong is, you never would have offered if they hadn't first.

But I did.

Yeah.

Weird fucking day.

It's open.

Hi.

- You really came. - You're really reading it.

Yeah, I...

I read it in high school and... Wow.

The Diana character, that's Professor Freed, right?

Diane.

Should have been cleverer with the pseudonym. First novel.

So, you guys have a history?

I mean, it's her, but it's not her.

How did you do that?

I just did it.

- Hello. - Hey,

- Jacqueline. - Richard.

Are you still a pothead?

And that's all I know.

What is this?

It's probably the Main.

Their second CD.

It's amazing.

Mmm-hmm.

They're from Portland.

I'll burn you a disk, if you'd like.

Thank you.

Do you listen to music when you write?

Sometimes. Do you?

Yes, always.

Power pop stuff, you know.

Hits, only hits. Like "Best of" albums.

HIHO is my thing.

Hits In, Hits Out. HIHO.

Hi-ho.

"Hi-ho, Silver, away. "

That's The Lone Ranger from a long time ago.

Oh, fuck.

My fucking phone is ringing.

Ow!

It's my agent, shit.

Should I talk to him? Gotta talk to him sometime.

- Yeah, just get it over with. - Don't bother.

Hi.

With friends.

Yes.

Marty, she kicked me out of the house.

I only had chapter one with me, yes.

No, I called him. He's on it. Yeah.

Yes.

Goodbye, Marty.

- Bye, Marty. - Fuck.

- Did I sound high? - No.

Yes.

Why the fuck did I answer that?

It's a primal mammalian urge. You're hard-wired to do it.

Dead air.

Hmm.

Hmm...

Kristin's towel or Jacqueline's?

Shampoo, which is which?

Similar because same demographic, family, education, that kind of shit.

They are roommates, but different.

Huh?

Jacqueline.

Eye drops, Kristin. Tampons, shared.

Do I talk louder to myself stoned?

What a strange, great, unexpected place to be peeing tonight.

- Hello. - Hey.

Brad, this is Richard. Richard, this is Brad.

What's up? - Hey, Brad.

Richard wrote The Trouble with Dick.

- The flick? - No, no, the book.

Cool.

Oh, God, The Mezzanine.

Been Kristin-ized. It's a book about a broken shoelace.

- Far out. - It's great.

Yeah, it's the greatest story ever told, about a shoelace.

Anyway, sweet dreams.

- Good night. - Good night.

Hi.

I'm gonna write a bestseller.

Does that make you hate me?

No, what genre?

Me. I'll turn myself into a genre.

I'll fulfill my destiny.

What?

The destiny of my name.

Jacqueline Susann.

She wrote terrible books, and nobody even reads them anymore,

but everybody remembers her.

Or the idea of her anyway.

So just imagine a really well-written,

postmodern Jacqueline Susann.

- I'm trying. Postmodern? - Mmm-hmm.

Why can't there be really hot postmodern sex?

- No reason. - I know.

- Sex transcends style. - Sex is style.

Well...

Sex is whatever you want it to be. It's a mirror.

What is that look?

- I'm thinking. - You think it's silly.

- Right? A silly ambition? - No.

It's all right, 'cause I really don't care.

- No. - Actually, I do care.

But I'm still gonna do it.

You know what you want.

I respect that. Hell, I envy it.

You don't respect what I want.

I don't have to, you do.

Write a hit book, more power to you.

You did it.

By accident.

Well,

I guess it's beddy-bye.

- Research? - What?

- Brad. - No.

I sent him packing. There's nothing new there.

Well, research takes patience.

And tenacity.

Well,

time for bed.

Time for couch.

- Good night. - Good night.

- Hey. - Hi.

- What time is it? - 9:45.

Oh, Jesus.

Late for class.

- I left you some coffee. - Thank you.

Could I use one of your computers to check my e-mail? Would that be...

Um...

Yeah. Sure.

- Bye. - See you later.

Kristin. Oh, hey, Kristin.

Key to your apartment.

Hi, Peter.

Yeah.

What?

I'm hiding assets? That's fascinating.

No, it's not community property. I started it before we were married.

Yes.

I know she's an officer of the corporation.

Uh-huh.

Well... What?

It's a joint bank account.

No credit cards, no...

Peter, you're an excellent lawyer, fix it.

I am crashing on the couch of a couple of English students right now, okay?

I have about $60 in my wallet.

Yes, they're over 18.

Good morning.

Kelly, I know you've been lonely since Ed was called up,

but I don't think you should be having sex with strangers.

Maybe you checked this guy's credit history, but did you check his medical history?

This guy Vincent is nice, Kel.

His pecs are buff, but not his paragraphs.

Maybe I'd be better off dating someone in the physical sciences.

Sometimes I just wanna stand in Royce Quad and yell,

"Richard, are you here?"

Rick?

- Hey, Rick. - Hey.

Didn't you hear us?

No, I was just checking my e-mail. Bad news.

So, until my lawyer gets it straightened out, I...

I have no money.

Wow. You really don't seem that upset about it.

You can stay here for a while.

- Yeah? - Yeah.

Only if you agree to let me pay for all the food and at least a month's rent

until my finances, you know.

No. No.

I'm afraid I insist.

Well, how long is this gonna take?

I don't know. A couple of days, a week maybe.

My lawyers are very good.

Yeah, but how good are your wife's lawyers?

Listen, how about, instead of rent,

you pay us in services?

Literary consultation.

Yeah.

I read your stuff and make some comments?

Hmm.

Okay, it'd be my pleasure.

Really.

How did a genius like you end up on our couch?

Just lucky, I guess.

Her profession was empty rooms, always someone else's rooms,

that she showed and sold on commission.

Anonymous spaces and faces.

If it was a he, and he looked okay, she thought, "He can sleep with me. "

Have your way, eye to eye.

And I prefer it not so perfectly polite.

But I will not show you, you must see.

There is a reward for seeing me.

Why was I doing this?

Didn't know him, didn't like him.

Didn't remember his name,

but I got him to say yes.

Because of me.

Just wish that he was better, because if he was good,

any good, then I would stop talking to myself.

Details.

A collection of details pouring into my senses.

Input

defines me.

She thought she was revealing one thing, but she was revealing something else.

Her words were a window into her world,

a prime artifact of what she was thinking.

Not as a fiction writer, an artifact of herself.

Already I can't see her as who she is, but rather as a character that I am observing.

Recording, manipulating.

As much as I can manipulate words.

Huh?

I'm talking to myself, like her character talks to herself.

At least she was getting laid.

Maybe she's right.

The Jacqueline Susann mode of literature.

And what was Richard doing, except critiquing her in such a way

that preserved and perhaps propelled his tenuous self-image

into something that he could live with.

- Didn't mean to interrupt. - Didn't.

So, what do you think?

Well...

You definitely put me inside her head.

I wish there were more details.

It's just a beginning.

Well, I can't factor that in.

You hand me something, I wanna read it without excuses.

Fair enough.

Your character talks about input.

What she gets from her senses, so give me that.

That's what I want. Don't just put me in her head, put me in that room.

Put me...

Squish it around.

So if I think about Jacqueline, this Jacqueline, as a character,

does it elevate what I'm doing into...

And why do I have to elevate it? For who, whom?

She has definite talent as a writer.

A voice, subject matter, theme.

Not completely aware of what she's doing,

but who is?

The novel?

No. Something new.

Something, anyway, maybe.

Well, okay. I think I'm...

Thank you though.

She tip-toed away.

Not tip-toes, but the quiet susurration of cotton sock on shag.

She was gone.

His words chasing her all the way back to her bedroom.

And as Richard sat there with paper and pen,

he imagined the room that she was sitting in.

He imagined his words in her head.

Her room was as small and purple as her prose.

She listened for the sound of his pen scraping on paper.

Laid back on the bed,

five senses.

And if she closed her eyes, did that mean four?

Shrugged off her clothes because she wanted to feel the air and not herself.

Not herself, not...

She rose from the bed and quietly twisted the knob,

opening the door a crack, hungered for some small clue.

Afraid to stop and reread this. Afraid to stop, because I'm just starting.

Character from my novel just walked into the room.

Sat down in front of me saying, "Here I am.

"Take your best shot, see if you can capture the contradictions,

"the flickers of attention and inhibition, the moment-to-momentness of me.

"If I weren't here, then you could kid yourself, but I am. "

Not a distraction, but yet seen and imagined.

Self-conscious in all the right ways,

and un-self-conscious of the self that I am stealing.

How do you describe that delicate, fractious angle of her chin?

Compare it to how many degrees off axis from what?

Well, she's younger, further away from death,

less fearing of it, more confident, less battered.

Different set of images pounding into her from different channels, and yet,

her face seems smoother and cleaner as she writes.

More there, and less... Fuck, I'm getting vague.

First person or third?

Think in whole sentences.

She sat across the room from him in an attitude of...

Okay, stop. Pick a moment,

the best one, and go all the way into it.

The moment where she sat down, as her body settled into balance.

I'm imagining it backwards.

Cubist strokes, paintings perceived instantaneously,

words, sequentially.

Run out of ideas, but still running.

Jacqueline?

Jacqueline?

Jackie?

Oh, Jackie?

Oh, Jackie O?

How did she dress and leave without me noticing?

Was I that into it? That inspired? Or that out of it?

Look around. Don't see her journal.

But the whole room is hers.

And under the surface, a whole book here.

It's wrong, but... No, not if it's what I do.

It's what I do. I'm doing it.

Obvious thoughts of an obvious writer,

and a tired game, tiresome... Stop, stop. Stop.

Jacqueline?

Hi.

Hey. Just checking my e-mail.

Thought you were a Mac guy.

No, I'm trying to open myself up to new experiences.

- Where is Jacks? - I don't know.

Did you just get back?

I've actually been here all day.

- All day? - Writing.

- Don't you need some fresh air? - I've OD'd on fresh air.

Hello? Hey.

Really?

Well, that was fast.

Yeah, no, I appreciate it. Thank you.

No.

No, she can have the goddamn thing. Tell her.

Okay. Yeah. Bye-bye.

You seem upset.

No. No, good news, sort of. Lawyer stuff.

I got my money back. Such as it is.

And the book? What's the title again?

Oh, uh...

The morning I left, it was, honestly, Doom for Breakfast.

Maybe because I never knew what it was, I never knew what to call it,

but it's hers now.

You're free.

So I guess our deal is off.

Yeah.

Listen.

I hope this doesn't sound or seem too weird,

but I would like to stay.

I mean, I'm writing again.

And I'm superstitious. I'm afraid if I leave

I'll break my streak.

It's not like I was blocked.

I mean, I can always spin out pages, I can write pages anytime,

but I didn't like them. They were shit.

And for some reason being...

There's something... I mean, it's boring to talk about, but...

- No, no. - I'd like to stay.

If it's okay.

- Sure. - On one condition, I pay the rent.

No, we pay the rent anyway, so...

But I'm not here anyway, and I'm sure you guys could use some extra money.

So, I pay.

- So no writing lessons? - No, yes. No. Yes, writing lessons.

I'd still love to see your stuff.

- What if you think it's terrible? Like everyone else on the planet,

I'm talking and I'm thinking,

and the thinking doesn't always overlap with the talking.

- That's the subtext, and... - The only terrible stuff is back in Malibu.

Show me something.

A story.

Barton's idea of a good time was to roll a fat one,

watch The Big Lebowski with his buds,

then truck on down to the local lanes and roll a few lines.

My idea of a good time was Barton

before his idea of a good time was a bowling ball.

Every sad story is the same, right?

In the end, we're all dead.

A bowling ball is an evolved form of complex carbon,

just like people.

My mind felt clear, empty,

ready to strike or spare.

Hope or despair.

The trick to aiming is not to...

Iris out.

Then sit in the dark with whatever lies behind your cool, quiet eyelids.

What's the most important thing in the story for you?

- Walking off alone at the end. - So why write about the guy?

Well, I figured she needed to get the bowling ball from somewhere.

- This guy... - Barton.

Okay, start there, why Barton?

Well, Barton Fink was the Coen brothers film that predates The Big Lebowski.

It's about a writer, so it's a referential echo. It's clever. I'm all for cleverness,

but the Barton details feel generic to me.

The way you write,

the rhythm of your sentences, gives me a sense of you.

How things bounce around your head.

It's like a footprint. It's very distinctive.

Let's just say I like to watch you walk.

I have a nice ass, so to speak.

But the Barton stuff is all...

Even if the guy's a drip, find a fresh way to show that.

- Draw from real life. - Draw something from you.

But you wrote sci-fi.

I wrote about a guy who wanted to write science fiction.

He was trying to squeeze himself into a different landscape as, you know, a way to

cope with his problems, and I was doing the same thing writing that book.

I mean, I didn't know that then, not overtly, and we were smoking a lot of pot.

It wasn't much of a stretch.

Your stuff's good, Kristin.

Compared to you, I was an idiot when I was 20.

19.

But who's counting?

It's good.

So what are you writing now, post-Malibu?

Are you writing from experience?

Practicing what you preach?

Just taking notes.

Notes from Underground?

If I tell myself it's just notes, keeps me looser.

Notes from a couch.

So the Barton character, is there a template?

High school flame. And I did notice you changed the subject.

Give me a Barton detail. Something disgusting or weird or

disgustingly weird.

Well, there was this water bottle rolling around in Barton's Honda,

and he got very weird when I reached down for it,

so I snuck back later, and it was filled with piss.

Oh!

- Piss bottle. - Yeah.

Well, start there.

Maybe you pick up the bottle when he's driving and...

Speed of that is...

Forget it. It's fortuitous... Can you call it fortuitous?

Hello? Hey, Marty.

Well, she's got the book, how can I deliver it?

Are you threatening me?

Are they threatening me?

Well, they should sue her for the advance, shouldn't they?

Well, let's be clear.

Marty, I hate the book, I don't want it published.

Can't I just give them another book?

Listen to your fucking language. I'm not in breach, I'm the writer.

Yeah. Yeah.

Okay. Okay.

- Oh, hey. - You okay?

Yeah. Great. Actually I feel very free.

Should I smash my cell, too? Is that part of the tutorial?

Wait until you get a book agent.

Meeting some of my friends, you want to come with?

- Are you sure? - Sure.

Okay.

I wanted to stay home,

but there was a lot to be learned from seeing Kristin in a social context.

That could be a boon.

It was all about the work.

That's what I told myself.

That everything I was doing was about the work.

But it wasn't intimate or surprising or insightful.

I wasn't insightful.

The Heisenberg principle.

The observer affecting the observed.

Within a minute of sitting down, I was wondering when I could politely leave.

I couldn't wait to get back to the apartment.

I'm going to take off. Thank you. It was nice meeting you.

All the artifacts, all the evidence of them.

Goldmine. Wait, wait, wait.

Better to exercise the imagination with that.

After I left, I imagined that...

Is he okay? I mean... Is he okay? I mean...

He just gulped down his latte and... He sipped down his latte and...

Left. I know. He's been going through a lot lately.

Richard's been going through a lot.

And he's really sleeping on your couch?

He's gotta have bucks.

He wants to sleep on my couch.

And that's the only thing he wants to sleep on?

But what I imagined was, well,

so unimaginative.

Meeting her friends was a bad idea.

The apartment was more than enough world.

It was too much.

That one corner of existence was, for me, inexhaustible.

And in that bed there was neither dream nor sleep.

Just a dream of sleep, until another voice spoke.

Dick, come on.

Dick.

Out of bed. Here we go.

That's right. Up we go.

Okay, put your arm...

Okay, Dick.

What's wrong?

What's wrong with you?

I don't know.

This house is a bad environment for you. I think that's a big part of the problem.

Now I feel responsible.

It's not this house. It's not this house. It's not this house.

Then, Dick, talk to me. What is it?

It's pressure. Everything is pressure.

Such as?

Name something.

Okay.

A flower.

There's a bag of flour on a shelf.

It's real, it exists, it's tangible.

Somebody drew the label.

They grew the wheat, they...

They made the bread.

It gets eaten. It tastes good. It does something.

And the bag, it says to me,

"What do you do, huh? What do you... " What do I say to that?

What do I say to that?

It's better than me. It's real.

Dick, what are you saying?

Nothing. I don't...

"He ran out of the room, out of his head.

"Like running across the bottom of a dead, dry ocean.

"And it felt like drowning. Drowning in air. "

So Professor Freed must have been flattered by literary immortality.

Not quite.

So how much was based on experience?

Why is that relevant?

Isn't that what you asked me?

I thought I said something like, "Write from yourself. "

It's not like I'm working from lecture notes here.

But the issue is transposing experience, right?

You're the guy who had the experience and so here's the transposition. What's the deal?

Okay, have you considered a legal career?

- I have considered writing legal novels. - I bet.

Yes, I lived in a house with Diane.

So then you imagined your own seduction.

It's better than imagining your own death.

And it's not strictly fair to equate me with Dick.

Oh, come on, Richard, Rick, Dick?

Dick was supposed to be a nod to Philip K. Dick.

Right.

You know, you had to have known that naming your hero

Dick is going to provoke a double entendre or two.

Hmm?

Okay, so then, without putting too fine a spin on it...

- Yes? - You write your experience.

Yes. Me or my unconscious.

Okay, so then this new thing that you're working on.

- Notes from a Couch. - What experience is that from?

- From where I'm at now. - Here?

My headspace.

Here?

- No, don't take me so literally. - No?

Hi.

You have something for me?

I wonder if this house isn't a bad environment, too.

What?

And I feel responsible.

Oh!

Are we reciting?

Life imitating art.

Isn't that a clich�?

Doesn't irony rescue us from clich�s?

Hmm.

I'm not just imitating your book.

The oracle was inviting me into her bed.

Sleeping with her would help the book,

but there was also the danger it could ruin everything.

We can still stop.

"I'll make it his choice,"

I imagined her thinking.

Oh, Jack's back.

- Fuck. - "Fuck"?

Shh.

She's alone.

Why don't you want her to know we're here?

She gets very competitive.

- I see. Well... - What are you doing?

I'm sneaking out in a cowardly fashion.

You can't do that.

If she comes out of the bathroom, sees you on the couch,

- she'll know you were here. - I'll go out for a drink.

- I could come with you. - Good idea.

Well, I guess you'll just have to stay here until she falls asleep.

- Done. - One more paragraph.

- You're slow. - You're making me slow.

Done.

She's asleep.

It's time.

I'll see you tomorrow.

- I'll see you. - Okay.

Oh, my God.

No way.

Hey, I need to pee. - Just a sec.

Hi.

You don't have a monopoly on guilt.

Can guilt be the basis for a relationship?

Guilt's just the foreplay.

Recrimination and regret, those take real commitment.

So does this count as a confession?

Hi.

Coffee?

I'm sorry. I meant to make an extra cup.

So how are you?

Late for class.

Stayed up late.

- Yeah. - Writing.

So, see you.

"Who fucked who? Who fucked whom?

"Why did I let you spend the night in my tomb?"

"Womb. "

"Spend the night in my womb.

"It's better when you're gone and I can imagine you all night wrong.

"Think of your face on the other side of the door.

"Do you snore?

"Schoolgirl poetry, a scorn to genre.

"Meant for me.

"Jejune.

"Zoomed in my room. "

Fucked up.

But fucked up can be good

for my work.

Fucked up can resonate.

- Hey. Hi.

- How did your story go over? - Hmm.

Fine.

I don't really care what they think, they all have agendas anyway.

- Yeah? - Yeah.

You want to hear it?

Don't I have an agenda?

Well, yeah, but you have talent.

- Okay. - Okay.

All right.

- Wow. - Wow, what?

I just...

I feel so naked. Nervous.

It's a first draft, okay? So...

- Come on. Come on. ... be gentle.

All right, the title is...

So you really, really liked the story?

A single really's worth.

Her story was well written.

It was about sex.

Rather, it was about college students who were interested in sex

and who acted upon that interest.

It was realistically detailed, it was credible,

it was sporadically poetic.

"'No, ' he said, 'There's nothing wrong with a story that ends with a kiss. '

"She held him at arm's length,

"the Luxembourg Gardens, a green sward

"stretching languorously behind him, and said, 'Yes.

"'A kiss is a kiss is a kiss. "'

You...

- You don't have to play the part with me. - What part?

- "She asked innocently. " - "With feigned innocence. "

The part of a reckless, experienced woman.

Look, I know what I'm doing.

- Do you? - And you know what I'm doing,

so let's just do it.

Shouldn't you just do something for its own sake?

Is there such a thing?

No, I mean... No, I am.

I'm doing it for its own sake.

Sorry, I just...

Are you quoting me?

Maybe.

"He searched for a way to

"describe the act

"that didn't sound like secondhand porn. "

- It's fiction. - Well, it doesn't have to be.

That sounds like cheap dialog.

Cheap can be a turn-on.

Just don't over-intellectualize the aesthetic experience.

You know, we can do anything.

- Yeah? - You can tie me up

or you can spank me.

I've got a really cute little whip, or we can shoot a movie.

I have a camcorder.

So is this like you imagined it?

- You're presuming I imagined it. - Oh, come on.

Like you never thought about fucking me.

Not even once, right?

How did you imagine it?

With me on top.

I know what you really want.

- Yeah? - A mind fuck.

- No. - Yeah.

You want to get inside my head.

You have a pretty healthy ego.

So do you.

Are you going to write about this?

- No. - Never?

I don't know.

Well, I'm going to write about you.

Uh-oh.

- I scared you. - No.

Don't worry, I'm not going to call you Richard, or Rick, or even Dick.

Nick? Mick?

You want to pick it? You want to pick the pseudonym?

That would make me a collaborator.

Wasn't this collaborating?

That's a fresh word for it.

I was trying to remember what she said, word for word.

I was desperate for a pen and paper, but that would break the mood.

Hello. - Fuck.

In here.

- Did you get milk? No.

Well, then don't touch what's left. There's just enough for my coffee.

Okay.

- What are you doing? - What do you think I'm doing?

You know what I mean? I...

No.

Meaning is so subjective and evanescent, so don't assume.

But you said last night that you wanted to keep it a secret.

Well, we obviously didn't.

Yeah, I mean, we've both slept with you.

I don't understand what the big deal is.

And this is a basic male fantasy, right?

Are you fucking with me right now?

Define "fucking. "

God, that word. It's so subjective.

You know, so charged, so evanescent.

I have a technical question, now.

About m�nage � trois?

No, about dream sequences.

Would you feel cheated if you read a sexy, sexy sex scene

and then you found out afterwards it was just a fantasy?

Hmm.

Not if it gave me an insight into character.

Not if it was hot.

Hello.

In here.

That didn't take long.

I thought you had class.

I thought you had scruples.

Wait. Why am I acting jealous?

I don't know. Why are you acting jealous?

I'm not. How is that? I'm not.

How was class?

Professor Freed read my story.

You'd think she'd be more sophisticated about a piece of fiction.

Yeah, you'd think, right?

You really think you could help me with my fiction?

Oh, yeah. You could write something very dark,

something outside the unexpected,

something that turns the ordinary world

of a college girl upside down,

that eroticizes the mundane quotidien.

You up for that?

As a piece of short or long fiction?

As an experience.

- Yes, absolutely. - Good. Good.

Can you be ruthlessly honest with yourself about what you want?

Can you?

Absolutely.

Well?

- What do you mean? - Christine, the forbidden is the forbidden.

You either cross the threshold or you don't.

Why here?

Because it stinks of the body,

because it transcends romantic illusion.

Read me your story.

- Here. - Read it. Don't be shy.

"One morning, Sarah Samso awoke to find that she had been

"transformed into a giant cockroach. "

- Can I borrow your phone? - Sure.

Thanks.

What did you think?

What did you expect me to think?

- I don't have any expectations. - I think that you do.

I think you have very finely calibrated expectations.

You said to write for myself.

Will you take all my advice to heart?

Try me.

- Don't. - Don't what?

Take my advice.

Is that your advice?

It's an antidote. It's an inoculation.

Everybody needs an antibody.

Diane.

I didn't like Kristin's story.

Well, she's young, she's still finding her voice.

- The content. - You think I fucked her in a men's room?

It's fiction, Diane. It's fucking fiction.

Forget about the men's room. Did you?

It's none of your business.

You did.

Is that what you want to talk about? Who fucked who?

Whom.

It's been 10 years since we made those kind of claims on each other.

- "Claims. " - Pick your word.

You hurt me.

- You ended the relationship. - The book.

That came well after. And it's not you, it's a character.

- Based on me. - Only in part.

But your attitude toward Diana, it hurt me that that was what you thought of me.

It's what I thought of the character.

It's not so simple.

No, it's not.

Funny talking about that old book now.

It's because we couldn't then.

You know, it's...

It's ridiculous that you are with those girls

and not with me.

Hey.

How did you know my sister's name was Kelly?

You've been spying on us.

You broke into my computer and read my e-mails and God knows what else.

- My ledger. - You've been invasive.

You wrote about my ledger?

I'm sorry.

Are you?

Sort of.

That's pretty noncommittal.

Committal in art, noncommittal in life.

Don't try to clever your way out of this, okay? You used us.

I wrote about you. It's what I do.

I write about where I am,

or I should, because if I don't, it's shit.

Well, this is shit.

You can't just say, "It's what I do. "

Jasmine? You called me Jasmine?

Like I'm some kind of shampoo?

Not you, your character.

Look, I should leave.

I'm leaving now.

I just wish we could find a way to...

Just be friends?

I'd settle for you thinking I'm not an asshole.

You or your character?

Here's what I'd settle for.

See you try and talk your way out of this one.

No, burn it.

You're burning my character, too.

Write your own character.

Well, I can't do that from his point of view.

Thank you.

I'm sorry about the spying.

I'll be leaving now.

I think you guys are both great.

This isn't how it reads.

Well, sometimes I dwell too much on the negative

in my writing.

Oh, so this is where we all hug, right? And then you lay on some big moral truth.

Hey.

This just rambles.

- It's only a beginning. - Yeah, a bad beginning.

- There's no sexual tension. - It's not about sexual tension.

That's where you're wrong. See, and this dialog, right here?

A girl would never say that, not in this context.

Well, so cut the line. Just have her be quiet.

That's wrong, too.

I have an idea.

Tell me, I won't bite.

The crazy idea is that you and me...

Do you want to write something together?

I thought you'd never ask.

Of course.

His words were my words and vice versa,

but there was no vice and no versa,

just the alternating verse of our voices.

The manuscript I found secreted with a stash was about a bratty girl,

whose only redeeming qualities were a flair for flamenco guitar and fellatio.

It was sickening and sobering to realize that this was what he thought of me.

If you burn words, are they gone?

Or do they linger behind the eyelids like scar tissue?

What about the age difference?

Irrelevant.

It's a stupid reason not to.

And I'd love you both?

That's easy. We'd just alternate nights.

A threesome would never last.

But think of all the fun we'd have failing.

I had my m�nage � trois fantasy already. This is repetitive.

The m�nage � trois or the fantasy?

I just can't imagine it.

Instead,

I can imagine myself gone.

The question is, how do I imagine them?

Writing? Writing about me?

Which raises the question of me writing about them, writing about me.

The one future you pick excludes the others,

except in fiction or...

What time is it?

Late.

Got a title.

Crashing on the Couch.

Hmm.

Drop the couch.