I Hate that Question! from James W. Ziskin

What’s the best question you’ve ever been asked as a writer? What's the worst? And what question do you wish you were asked but nobody’s ever asked it? 

This week’s question is a difficult one. As Dietrich pointed out in yesterday’s post, writers get plenty of questions on the craft of writing. Things such as where do we get ideas, how do you approach your research, or are you a plotter or a pantser? And while these questions may prompt interesting answers, they’re not in and of themselves particularly memorable.

So I struggled mightily to come up with some examples for this post. I wondered if I should mock honest, if naive, questions about my books. Or, make something up out of whole cloth and pretend someone once asked me that. But I found myself at an impasse. In the end, I decided to concentrate on one question—the worst one—and milk it for all it’s worth. Here goes!

INITIATE DREAM SEQUENCE

Picture me at a writer’s conference, sitting in the book room waiting to sign my latest mystery for eager readers. Either the track is slow or I’m not as hot a writer as I imagined because there are no takers. Everyone’s lined up at Michael Connelly’s table… Come on, Michael! Share the wealth!

Wait a sec! Here comes one. A reader! She approaches cautiously, makes one pass, glances at my book, and slows but doesn’t stop. No! She keeps walking, eyeing the next table whose author is proudly displaying a book with puppies and a florist’s shop on the cover. Damn it! Why didn’t I think of writing a book like that? 

But wait! She stops, turns on her heel, and—ignoring those really adorable puppies—directs her piercing gaze at my stack of unsigned books. She seems to be debating. Is my book worthy of her attention? Should she chance it?

She’s made up her mind. One step, then another. She’s taking her time. Oh, she’s a cool one. But since she was only three steps away from my table in the first place, there’s not far to go. And here she is. Standing above me. My mouth has gone dry. But I’m worried for nothing. She’s actually a fan. A fan of my books!

It’s like a dream. She confesses that she’s read all my books and can’t wait to get her hands on this one. The reason she walked past my table was because she needed to work up the courage to speak to me. She’s fan-girling. We talk for ten minutes, and I feel like a star. (There’s still no one else interested in my book, by the way, so I shouldn’t let this go to my head…)

Finally, she says she’d like to ask a question. Authors love questions! (Even if they’re not particularly memorable.) She draws a breath to steel herself, gulps down her nervousness, and asks…

When are you going to make your books into a TV series?

Okay, DREAM SEQUENCE OVER. Back to real life.

I hate that question. 

Mind, I don’t object to people wondering if a movie or TV deal might happen someday. No, what bothers me is the idea that somehow all I need to do is wave a wand and my books will magically be a hit Netflix series. So whenever I get this question, my first instinct is to give a snarky answer, something along the lines of,

“Oh, no. I’m too principled to sell out like that. My œuvre transcends the genre, after all. (And, yes, I spell œuvre with the ligature.) I would never jeopardize my legacy by trucking in popular media. Television? That rubbish consumed by the unwashed masses? Ha! I spit on the hoi polloi. In fact, when I spit on the hoi polloi, that’s the very sound my expectoration makes. Hoi polloi!”

My second instinct is to answer with something less precious but more sarcastic:

“Well, of course I intend to make my books into a TV series. But I’ve been tied up lately and just haven’t had the time to get it done. In fact, I’ve been dodging Apple + and HBO Max for the past month. My agent is begging me to take a meeting with Netflix. They won’t leave me alone! Maybe I’ll get to it over the Memorial Day weekend.”

But cooler head prevails—I only have one so, yes, the singular—and I offer an apologetic reply instead: 

“Gee wiz, I’d love that. Maybe someday. Fingers crossed. From your lips to God’s ear. Um, you wouldn’t happen to know anyone in Hollywood, would you?”

That response usually leaves my questioner and me standing there in awkward silence. We both search for an excuse—any excuse—to slink away. The discomfort ripens then sours. My questioner’s expression now betrays wincing pity, inspired no doubt by my pathetic film and TV prospects. To chase away the humiliation, I mop my sweaty brow and offer a more nuanced explanation: 

“Well, you see, it’s very expensive to make a television series. They cost millions of dollars, so it’s always a long shot. You’re lucky to get a modest option. A couple of thousand dollars at most. Probably less, really. And an option is no guarantee, of course. Only one in (fill-in-large-number-here) books optioned for TV or film ever gets made.”

In situations like this one, you’re lucky if your questioner has lost interest in you, remembered something urgent they had to do, and wandered away, probably to check out the book with the puppies and florist’s shop on the cover. If you’re unlucky, your questioner is still standing there, feeling as screwed as you do, so you’re stuck. You start to pray to a God you don’t believe in for deliverance in the form of a fire alarm, a power outage, or a chandelier falling from the ceiling. Any distraction will do. But no. That only happens in books. Or on TV.

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