Writers Wanted. Must Be Beautiful. – Kiki Clark
I’m going to see a plastic surgeon today, to talk about the possibility of scar revision. It must have been two years ago that I asked my dermatologist to biopsy an area on my nose. He couldn’t see anything wrong, but the biopsy came back with a diagnosis of basal-cell carcinoma. I was recommended to another dermatologist, then poached by his referred plastic surgeon, who recommended an experimental procedure used to fix cataracts in cows’ eyes. To make a long story short, he microwaved my nose and left a pretty big scar.
Since then, I’ve had dermabrasion, discovered the joys of Physician’s Formula green concealer and camouflage make-up, and found that guys still flirt with me. But there’s still a scar smack in the middle of my face, and I’d prefer not to be known as that woman with the divot out of her nose.
Recently, one of the Noodlers pointed out a blog where a literary agent was extolling the virtues of a good-looking, highly promotable client. Someone whose smiling face looks good beside the book cover as Oprah points to it. Don’t see an author photo? That’s because the writer is a dog, this agent said.
You’d think, as writers, it wouldn’t matter what we look like. But with the merger of publishing and Hollywood, oh, it does. It’s not just about the words anymore. Who wrote the words? Did she have a scandalous youth that will make people want to know about her and buy her book? How about an illegal baby, a past drug problem, an affair with royalty? Is she young and sexy?
Ideally, I should be blonde, big-breasted and 25, with a fistful of dirty letters from Prince William and adoption papers that show Donald Trump as my biological father. I should have written a novel that’s a thinly veiled autobiography of my time in Saddam Hussein’s harem, and have a birthmark that's identical to one on Angelina Jolie’s butt, although mysteriously, we have never met. My book would then sell a million copies, the drug problem would come back, providing tabloid pictures of me, my goony face draped over the shoulders of Italian male models while one nipple accidentally peeks out of my $2,375 tank top. Cue the massive weight gain, becoming poster girl for a successful diet program, followed by a newly svelte and humble author, earning stars on her crown by saving baby tigers that are somehow exploited in Thailand’s sex trade, although there is certainly no penetration.
Whew. It’s a miracle I had time to write a good book.
So I made sure this surgeon is the real deal, with plenty of published papers and an office in Beverly Hills in addition to my major metropolitan area. Maybe I'll get a quote on big breasts while I'm there. It occurs to me that if I got three instead of the usual two, there'd be a book in it.