Every author knows the agony of the unwritten story. But what if the story you refuse to write is the only thing keeping you sane?
Desperate for a plot, a happily married 48-year-old does what any reasonable man would: he opens a Tinder account. One swipe sends him to a cemetery, where he finds a headstone with a name he can't shake: Eleanor Addams. Soon the Addams Family theme is following him from poker night to the office. His AI assistant answers every request with the same strange equation. His little black book fills up with notes he doesn't remember writing.
So he books a quiet weekend at Oakwood Manor, a restorative retreat. The woman at the front desk smiles. "Welcome back. Would you like your usual room?"
He's never been there before. At least, he doesn't think so.
Funny, strange and unexpectedly tender, Why I Am Not Writing A Book is a short darkly comic novel about grief, memory and the stories we can't stop telling ourselves.
Why I Am Not Making a Movie (new release)
It cost $2.99. It had one review. The review said “Received.”
Stan Mercer has three flops, seventeen dollars, and until Friday. Then, at three in the morning, he finds a barely read e-book called Why I Am Not Writing A Book, and he sees the whole movie.
All he needs is a script, a star and the money. What he gets is a screenwriter who was once sued by a baby, a crypto investor who insists on a dragon, a dentist who wants to be in every scene, a billionaire who only speaks through a sock, and Lorenzo Bellafiore, a former Italian soap star whose English is perfect, at least to him.
Oh, and an author who has to wear a paper bag on his head.
Six cans of film. Thirty days. A styrofoam headstone, a fog machine and a cameraman who keeps saying “incredible.” What could possibly go wrong?
Told by everyone who was there, this is the inside story of the cheapest, messiest, most improbable production in film history. And somehow, eleven Oscars.
Book 2 of The Why I Am Not Books. Each book stands on its own.
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