Julie Goes to Hollywood: What To Do When You Can't Get Arrested

Yesterday I had lunch with three lawyer friends, though this was only by happenstance, since I'm not under indictment or anything. "It ain't illegal, blogging without a license," she said, slipping into her best gun moll. "Leastwise not last time I checked, copper."

One of the high-powered legal minds at the table sized up the cool character I've resuscitated here. "We're still behind the dream, but we're starting to worry about you now," he said. I'm not sure who "we" are but part of me was glad to hear there's more than one of you out there.

The other part paused to consider my becoming a cause for concern to an officer of the court. I guess in a world where the rules are made clear with a firm bang of the gavel, my Hollywood life must read like a senseless crime spree. The rival who needs to go down, the agent somebody ought to take out of the game. The tip-offs, the drive-ons, the package deals that blew up.

If I were a lawyer, I'd become death row qualified, which I only learned recently is a thing. I would be Marcia Clark, had things have gone differently, only way more kick-ass. I'd have won the big case before cashing in with a series of gritty novels in which I am the thinly veiled (and thinner and veiled) heroine.

The corporate types talking tortes at the table don't get my addiction to the real life case all over the airwaves lately concerning that small-town waitress who slashed her boyfriend's throat after a nooner gone bad. That's when I hit the whole lot of louts with the lowdown on film noir. It's the bulldog Bogie of Maricopa County, see, opposite the busty black widow playing victim in the hot seat. I might have a secret crush on the dead guy done wrong; and a soft spot for the hard-boiled detective with the sweet-spoken voice.

If only my characters felt that conflicted and raw. While the long romance between Hollywood and criminal justice is a natural, live trial watching makes my own stories feel so flimsy. The book that didn't sell, the call that never came, the backbiting former film students meeting my recent work with the grim silence of a candlight vigil. Really, where are the stakes anymore? What happened to the handcuffs? Shut up and get a job, sister, before you get popped in the kisser.

As I slinked out of the joint, I asked the big lugs to "like" a gal now and again -- be a peach and toss her a "follow." I clicked off in my high heels while anybody but me picked up the check. Things have yet to become fatale, but you can still count on Julie to assume the role of the femme.

WHAT THEY'RE SAYING

Waking Ambrose
"Julie tells us stories not just about her aspirations and the long road to their fulfillment but also the rented bungalow, her neighbors, her dogs, her past, her friends, her losses, snark and entertainments. She writes about the whole Los Angeles the way they did when they were writing for Bogart."

Confessions of a Hollywood Juicer
"Julie has been around the Hollywood block in various incarnations, and her voice resonates with experience, insight, and humor. She puts up new posts at a pace that leaves me dizzy. Maybe that's because, unlike many of us who write about the industry, she's a pro at the keyboard, and it shows."

Complications Ensue

"Julie seems like a fascinating person who's had a charming life, unless it's the other way around. After chucking what some might consider a glamorous career as a foreign correspondent, she's got another blog about being a peon in Hollywood. I bet she gets a book out of it."

Write Procrastinator

"Screenwriter Julie knows story structure, Hollywood lore and how to show her evil landlord that the siege of Stalingrad was
just a picnic."

Kung Fu Monkey (John Rogers)

"Adding a few links I promised, as I rip through my stacked e-mails. In the Spec-Monkeys, the filthily amusing "Things They Won't Tell You in Film School." I believe the children are our future. The cynical, misled, drunken ranting children.