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The Madeleine in My
Closet
By Flora Lalanne
Alone in her closet, half naked, an ex-fashionista reflects on her screenwriting
journey evoked by a J. Crew shirt…
I decided to dress fat today.
Standing in the middle of my walk-in closet, half naked, a J. Crew baby-cord
shirt in muted lime green winked at me. It was to be my first "meeting" shirt. I
bought it at a local J. Crew shortly after typing "The end" on my first draft of
my first-ever spec, Shooting Her, a comedy about a fashionista who
scrambles to find a rural farm in time for a magazine shoot. Understanding the
importance of rewarding yourself for reaching a goal, especially in projects
where we strip our souls to share our journeys, I went shopping to find myself a
present without further delay.
However, me, the sensible, reformed serial shopper, and with the seriously
limited resources of local New England stores (let's face it, keying in the AmEx
number just doesn't satisfy like being handed a shopping bag does, no matter what
ceremony one goes through before hitting the "Send Order" key)-- I wasn't going
to buy just anything that didn't look LL Bean; I searched for an item that
would, at the same time, motivate and inspire me in my new self-degrading career
as a screenwriter; and that's even before I started sending out query letters.
I looked for an outfit for my first eventual meeting in Hollywood. Of course, I
said to myself, I could wait until I arrive in L.A. I could go shopping in my
rented topless Jeep Wrangler. I'm sure something from Fred Segal will do just
fine, but then it would be too banal to wear something new and off the rack.
Besides, the new me can no longer see myself shopping the afternoon before a
meeting with an uber director-- and my uber agent is whispering that some uber
producers might pop in as well, since after their King Kong's
half-billion dollar weekend opening, they are looking for a small, high-concept
project with lots of heart to put on the fast track. I must really perfect my
already perfect pitch instead.
The shirt wasn't exactly love at first sight. It's more like a calculated
commitment, something that I knew would be good for the new me if I give it a
chance. Sure, I've seen better: silk; cotton; cashmere; silk that resembles
cashmere; cashmere that weighs like silk; or a combination of all of the above
plus a touch of Lycra to imitate synthetic; chic-er, hot-er, hip-er… As a matter
of fact, I've got some of them right in my closet. However, for some reason,
this humble little shirt in that offbeat color caught my eye. It was perfect
because I knew it should not derange any underpaid and over-diploma'd creative
execs in Gap or Banana Republic, or whatever.
Since then, I have found a pair of black jeans for the shirt-- not because I
don't already own black jeans, but because mine all have a past; my little shirt
deserves better. OK, then I went a bit overboard with the Hermès tough-chic
belt, but at least this one does not have the H buckle, and it actually could
pass for the Banana Republic's copy under artsy lighting. Another good thing is
that Hollywood has the same weather year-round. My own family lives in Manhattan
Beach, thirty minutes to three hours drive from Hollywood depending on the
traffic. They do not think they have the same weather year-round, but the rest
of the world knows they do.
That's why I knew my meeting outfit would be perfect. I was ready.
What I did not anticipate, however, was to fall in love with something else.
First, an irresistible peasant blouse for finishing the fourth re-write, then a
must-have DVF wrap dress for placing in a contest. After all, who wants to look
like everyone else in a meeting? Then a striped pant for turning down an agent I
knew wouldn't be right for me; a pair of new shades for wrapping up a comedy
pilot... then, all of a sudden, as I finished my second script, shopping lost
all its allure. After a period of denial, I am now able to admit that creating a
worthy scene actually gives me this rush no Gucci ever did. Oh, life.
Thus, for today, I went straight for one of the dozen identical white Hanes
boy-Ts and a pair of gray leggings-- so far so good, actually kind of Victoria's
Secret from the last millennium. Except, I wasn't done yet. I reached for a big
plaid wool shirt and thick slouchy socks. Then I headed downstairs, to write.
Settling in front of the laptop on the deck, I wrap the shirt tighter. The air
is cool; the morning fog lingers on still. I cannot see the sweep of the White
Mountain peaks yet. But no matter, I know they are there.
It will just be a matter of time.
Flora Lalanne is a trilingual screenwriter with a fashion design day job, short stories published
in French, and a feature script in development with an award-winning producer.
Contact:
flalanne@aol.com.
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