Some fine ladies from Kappa Kappa Gamma book club took me to lunch yesterday. I love going to book clubs–the fact that you’re not up at a podium–you’re sitting amongst people slurping on egg drop soup and such–makes people ask normal questions. When you’re at a reading they typically ask questions to make them sound good, make you uncomfortable, or embarrass the shit out of you. So lunch was intimate and casual, relaxed. One woman, when discussing the relationship in The Descendants, told me she didn’t like her marriage or her husband. Hmmm. Perfect conversation over the Buddhist’s Delight at P.F Chang’s. It was probably the only time I’ve ever hung out with sorority girls, but these were sorority women, all above 50, so it doesn’t really count. In college I was roomates with one. Couldn’t stand her until she confessed she had a stealing problem and had given her cousin (who was super American Psycho-ish) a blow job. Then I liked her immensely ’cause it gave her a fucked up dimension. I’m pretty forgiving. I like people with issues.
I was excited that none of the members of the book club asked me how I could write from the point of view of a man. I have never not been asked this question and I have a feeling male writers don’t get it at all when they write about women. People have given me unmerited compliments for getting inside a man’s head. Here’s a secret. I’m not talented–men just aren’t that complicated. They need two things in life. Can you guess what they are?

Bonus Material:
On the Job Humiliations
The Black List
Will Write For Boobs
Beer and Vagina