Thank you Buzz.
That really means a lot to me.
Buzz is not kidding about the fact
that my stories didn't really come together.
I remember one time he told me point
blank after reading one of my stories
that he didn't like being fucked with, so.
[LAUGHTER]
I was always afraid of him, and I'm still
a little afraid of him.
But those words mean a lot, thank you.
It means a lot to be here too.
This is kind of like face recognition overload right now.
So Hi, everyone that I knew.
This is my book.
I put an Oprah book club sticker on it.
[LAUGHTER]
I work in a bookstore now.
And the great thing about those stickers.
You can just pull them off the books, I learned that.
You'd think I would have already known
that since being able to pull a sticker off
is kind of a primary attribute of a sticker, but I learned it.
Go to your local bookstore and pull the Oprah stickers off,
put them on books around your house.
You can make your own Oprah book club collection.
You can.
My novel starts with a letter.
The letter is written by an aspiring filmmaker
to a successful filmmaker.
It's a real filmmaker actually, though I don't name him.
His name is Todd Field.
He lives in Maine.
He directed In The Bedroom and Little Children.
He was an actor in Stanley Kubrick's film, Eyes Wide Shut.
He's currently writing and directing a show
for HBO called Purity, which is based on a novel
by some dude named Jonathan Franzen, whoever the hell that
is.
And the letter goes like this.
Dear sir, I write to you regarding my film
The Glaze and Shelves so forgive me if I stumble.
Whenever one describes cinematic artistry of the highest order
words seem inadequate.
Nevertheless, I must attempt to convey the nature of my film,
the end result being that you, justifiably impressed,
will provide the necessary support to finish it.
To summarize the plot of The Glaze and Shelves
proves difficult, for the film's greatness
lies not in its story but rather its atmosphere.
Evoking the same decadence as Fellini,
the same humanity as Renoir, the same dread as Haneke.
It centers on a young man named Aaron,
a resident of Portland, Maine.
He goes to high school where idiots surround him,
wealthy idiots who imbibe spirits, ingest
pharmaceuticals, and harass Aaron
for not wanting anything to do with their foul preoccupations.
Aaron being intellectually beyond these people
desires some form of stronger connection,
to be around somebody who respects him and wants
to hear what he has to say instead of being
around his foolish peers who don't appreciate
his originality and his genius.
Enter Natalie, whom Aaron meets and befriends.
She is the opposite of those cretins
who crammed the hallways of his high school.
And she bonds with him through a shared love of cinema.
The film is an ode to their beautiful pure friendship.
Now, as to the reason The Glaze and Shelves sits unfinished.
I began it several years ago when I myself
was in high school.
I played the role of Aaron and my best friend Evelyn
played the role of Natalie.
We shot roughly half of the film before unforeseen circumstances
tragically ended the production.
I had given up on the project until this past May when
I saw the news of Darren Stanford's success
with Land Without Water at the Cannes Film Festival.
Now that I have seen his film, I must
reunite Evelyn and myself to finish The Glaze
and Shelves post-haste.
I write to you because in addition
to being an Oscar nominated filmmaker,
you are yourself a Maine dweller.
And you will feel an instant connection to my material.
Furthermore, I am aware that you helped
Darren Stanford secure funds for the Land Without Water.
Clearly you like to help Maine-based filmmakers.
Stanford and I are both from Portland you know.
Fairness therefore dictates that you also help finance my film,
which I must add is far superior to Stanford's.
I mean, seriously, how could you have lent your support
to such a waste?
I expect more from you given your association
with the late great Stanley Kubrick.
Surely you are able to understand the difference
between artistry and hackery.
Not every day does a filmmaker emerge from Portland, Maine,
which is the reason it's especially important to choose
the right one when the opportunity arises.
You my friend threw your support behind the wrong one.
But worry not, I am here to redeem you.
Helping me finish The Glaze and Shelves will go a long way
toward rectifying your mistake.
Now, as to what I require from you.
I require help securing funds somewhere
in the ballpark of $4 million.
We can sit down over a budget and discuss specifics later.
I require 70 millimeter cameras, sound recording equipment,
and access to a first rate editing mixing studio.
I require a crew although a skeleton crew will suffice,
perhaps a member of the members of the crew
you worked with on Little Children
or if you're still in touch with any of the people Kubrick used
on Eyes Wide Shut.
Well, they may do.
I require a letter from you sent to the people in positions
of power at Focus Features and Sony Pictures Classics
vouching for the greatness of my film.
Or if you believe the Film Festival route better
I require you to submit the film on my behalf
to Cannes, Sundance, Berlin, Venice and all the others
worthy of my achievement.
On all these points I am unbending.
So if you do not agree we should sever our association
immediately.
Please, let me know and we can begin our work together
to complete my masterpiece.
Sincerely, Maxwell Enright, writer, director, The Glaze
and Shelves.
So he's a little full of himself, right?
That's the introduction to the book.
And when the narrative proper begins
it's about five years later and Max of course
is no closer to finishing the film.
He still lives in the house that he grew up in Portland, Maine.
His parents are both gone for different reasons
for both of them.
And and he's mostly become a misanthrope
and he doesn't see the light of day that often.
It's not autobiographical, I go outside sometimes.
[LAUGHTER]
But Max isn't really the protagonist of this book.
The protagonist of this book is his twin sister, Kelly.
They're both about 30, right about ready to turn 30,
and she returns home to Portland, Maine
for the first time in 12 years.
The reason she is returning home is because she also believes
herself to be a failure.
She is broke.
She's homeless.
She's unemployed.
She's spent the last 12 years of her life kind of wandering
aimlessly around the Southwest.
And she believes that there's some money there in Portland.
And when she arrives, she of course
has to team up with her brother to solve a mystery.
I don't know, I don't know how to describe
the plot of this book.
Is that good enough?
I don't know.
It's got a mystery in it.
It's got some, it's got some shit happens.
I don't know.
It's got some genre tropes.
I like cheesy genre tropes.
So it's a mystery for people who don't like to read mysteries.
How about that?
But really at the core of the book
is the relationship between these two siblings,
and I want to read another fairly short section that
goes a little bit into their background,
especially as it pertains to their mother.
I also read the section here because it
mentions University of Arizona.
I don't mean it, I'm sorry in advance.
Mom was young when she fell in love
with Miles Bennett, a member of one of Portland's oldest
and wealthiest families, owners and founders of Oakhurst Dairy.
Which is a real thing in Portland, Maine by the way
and I'm really hoping they sue me
because that would be great for the book sales.
Mom was 19 when she met him, 20 when
Miles bought for her a two-bedroom apartment
in a decent part of town, 21 when Max and Kelly were born.
For three years Miles hung around never moving in,
but coming over a couple of times a week for fun
with Mom and paternal indifference elsewhere.
But then when Mom was 24, Miles left her for another woman.
Someone a little richer, a grad student at Boston College,
and someone the Bennetts approved of more
than they approved of dingy, wild Mom anyway.
Every week an envelope of cash arrived in Mom's mailbox.
The return address a lawyer's office in Hartford.
It was hush money.
Stay out of my life I'll make it worth your while money,
that sort of thing, just enough so
Mom never worked anything more than the occasional part-time
job, but not so much that they could ever live in a better
house or take trips or own more than a couple pairs of shoes.
And what did Mom care?
She was barely around, preferring
to spend money on herself than on her children.
But didn't she have a duty as a mother?
Please.
That hardly stopped her from leaving town
for several weekends each year.
She would knock on a neighbor's door
or call a coworker during her rare periods of employment.
And eyes leaking, Mom would lie about a sick family member
or close friend.
And then once this almost stranger
had agreed to watch her children,
she would drive to wherever.
Some friend's apartment in Burlington
or a music festival near UMass.
When Kelly turned 10 babysitters became unnecessary.
You're old enough to look after your brother,
Mom told her daughter.
Mom lived a throwback fantasy pining for a lifestyle
to belong to something that no longer existed.
She fancied herself some kind of wild child, an artist
although she never considered working at it,
not like us, right.
As a result of this immaturity the house wound up
resembling a bohemian college girl's dorm room
decorated with bead curtains, posters
for esoteric films from the '60s and '70s,
record covers pinned to the walls, hookahs,
pretty much the same way it looks now under Max's care.
Most nights Mom fed her children Thai takeout
served on paper plates.
She acted like a friend, or at best a rebellious older sister,
which made Kelly feel like she was always
waiting for her real mom to show up instead
of this child playing dress up.
But Max, hell, Max loved it.
Why wouldn't he have?
When he started writing scripts Mom
encouraged him as any good parent
would, follow your dreams, be true to yourself,
that kind of shit.
When teachers tried to make Max do schoolwork,
he became combative.
But whenever a counselor called home to voice concern,
Mom acted polite on the phone only to later tell her son
don't listen to those idiots, they
don't know genius when they see it.
By his senior year it had become so much worse.
Sometimes Mom became so high on the idea of artistic expression
that she would write notes excusing Max from school
whenever he preferred to stay home and work on his art.
His grades suffered, but what did he care?
He got to watch movies all day and write his screenplays.
But Kelly could tell that something
had changed for Mom too.
Then with the March sunlight starting
to melt the snow and thaw the ground, Mom left for one
of her trips, telling Kelly, look after your brother,
I'll be gone for the weekend.
Because Mom always said to look after Max Kelly barely took it
seriously, going about her usual business of watching
bad television and hanging out with the increasingly dramatic
Penelope Hayward, her best friend,
whose early acceptance into Columbia about which
she wouldn't shut the fuck up had not
slowed her acquisition of an insane
number of extracurricular activities,
including dull stuff like editor-in-chief
of the video yearbook.
Kelly, on the other hand, had been
accepted into the considerably less impressive University
of Arizona.
[LAUGHTER]
I love the school, Go Wildcats.
But whatever.
She couldn't wait to get out of Maine and into the sun.
So she bided her time doing the minimum
of what was expected of her.
The first indication that something had gone awry,
that Mom's latest trip wasn't just another trip,
came when one of Mom's friends knocked on the door Sunday
afternoon claiming to have lost contact with her, with Mom, who
had recently been rambling on about some guy she met,
Rafael, maybe.
You never met him? the friend asked.
Then, frowning, the friend, was her name Melanie?
added, neither have I. Kelly tried calling,
but Mom never answered and Kelly refused
to leave dumb desperate messages.
Monday morning arrived, then Tuesday, then Wednesday,
and finally, on Thursday Mom asked
what was going on whether Kelly had heard from Mom or anything.
And Kelly said, she had to go on a job
interview in Massachusetts.
I guess it's going well.
They need her to stick around.
Was this what Mom always meant when she told Kelly
to look after her brother?
Maybe Mom really meant for Kelly to just lie.
On Friday afternoon, the weekly envelope
arrived stuffed with $400 and Kelly put it in her pocket
and slid on a cardigan to walk the few blocks to TD Bank
North.
While outside the bank, finishing her cigarette
in the cold sunlight of early spring
perched on the edge of the curb, her cell phone vibrated.
Mom, wondering whether the money had arrived like usual.
Where are you?
Kelly asked.
I'm fine, Mom said.
But Kelly could hear laughter in the background,
and Mom's voice sounded more musical than usual.
But things are pretty crazy around here,
I just want to make sure you remember to deposit the money.
Why?
Kelly asked, lighting another cigarette.
Because, Mom said, it's important
that you don't leave cash lying around.
That's all, that's all, clipped, rhythmic.
Kelly's hand shook.
When are you coming home, she asked.
I'll be home soon, Mom said.
Things just got crazy.
It's just a thing with a friend, but you'll
remember to deposit the money before the bank closes today?
Yes, Kelly said, I will.
OK, I love you, Mom said.
Kelly swallowed and said, OK.
Inside the bank she asked the teller for the account balance.
$1.34, the last transaction being
a withdrawal of $240 from an ATM in Bedford, New Hampshire.
Kelly thanked the teller and walked home with the cash still
in her pocket.
The bank closed at 6:00 PM, and 20 minutes later Kelly's phone
shrieked again.
I'm just wondering, Mom said, if you
deposited the cash and everything
like we talked about.
Mom, Kelly said, locked in the darkness of her bedroom,
sitting on the floor in the corner.
I need to know when you're coming home.
Listen, Mom said.
Her voice even stranger than before like she
was an actor playing Mom.
Listen, I'll be honest with you.
Remember my friend, Melanie?
Well, Melanie is having some trouble.
So I'm here to help.
I'm just trying.
Melanie came to the house, Kelly said, and she's worried too.
She doesn't know where you are.
There was a pause.
If I give you an address, Mom said,
can you mail me the money overnight?
If you don't come home, Kelly said, I'm calling the police.
OK, OK, I'll come home tomorrow, Mom cleared her throat.
But can you put Max on the phone real quick?
No, I can't Kelly said.
I won't put Max on the phone.
Put him on right now.
No, Kelly repeated.
And now, Mom said.
But Kelly stayed strong.
You want me to let Max talk to you when you sound like this?
No, I won't do it.
And I'll take his phone away too, so you can't call him.
Kelly was trying not to cry.
Mom was silent.
You need to come home, Kelly said.
Please, Max won't go to school, not for the last week.
He won't go.
He doesn't need to go, Mom said.
Yes, he needs to go.
He's smarter than that, Mom said.
Yeah?
Kelly said.
You want him to be a fuck up like you?
The silence on the other end of the phone
made it clear to Kelly that she shouldn't have said this.
But she felt unable to control herself anymore,
and Kelly in that moment didn't care.
She knew she should apologize but she didn't apologize.
Maybe compared with all the other things ever said
by teenagers to their parents this wasn't too bad,
no different really from I hate you mom
followed by the slamming of a bedroom door.
Kelly, Mom said finally, her voice weak.
Kelly snapped her phone shut and threw it across the room.
Now, she wishes that Mom were the one who
had hung up in anger.
But it wasn't like that.
It was Kelly who couldn't take another second,
so she threw her mother across the room, snapped her mother's
head off against the wall.
Kelly never called the police, instead
a week later they called her.
There had been an accident.
It was April by then.
When Max found out that Kelly had
lied to him about the circumstances
surrounding Mom's death, that there was no job
interview, that Kelly had spent time on the phone
with her, that all Mom wanted was money, that Kelly had even
taken her brother's phone away so her Mom couldn't call him,
he took it surprisingly well.
Nodding and shuffling to his bedroom, whose door he
didn't even bother to slam.
Kelly had felt too stunned to cry or get angry
about the death, and perhaps Max felt the same way.
Or maybe the funeral and the reality
of being orphaned adults who happen
to still linger in high school fused the siblings together.
Maybe Max accepted Kelly's dishonesty simply
because he had nobody else.
In May Max asked her to be in his movie, The Glaze
and Shelves.
A few days passed and she heard nothing further
about the movie or her part.
She asked him when she was going to become a movie star
and flipped her hair back affecting a glamorous pose
the sort of silliness that usually would have amused him,
but all humor had drained from her brother.
Soon Kelly discovered what the part was.
She'd been playing it for a week.
She woke in the middle of the night
and saw Max at the end of her bed, a video camera glued
to his hand.
Kelly told him to get the fuck out of her room
and locked the door.
She slept with the covers over her head and the blinds drawn.
It wasn't anger really, it was fear.
He terrified her and she avoided him instead,
spending her time with all the willing kids around town
drinking and doing drugs and other stupid things
that teenagers do, but doing them
with the desperation of someone who understood genuine pain.
She gained a reputation as the person
who never wanted to stop, begging people
not to leave her, to stay up with her all night.
Maybe Kelly could have helped Max
but she was scared, drained.
She had nothing to say to him, no way left to look after him.
And now, some nights as sleep washes up
around her body Kelly hates herself
for hiding and running from her brother
instead of trying to help.
So should she have stayed here in Portland?
Should she have tried to look after her brother the way
that Mom asked?
Then again, who the fuck ever tried to look after her?
The answers to these questions and to all her other questions
lurk somewhere in the darkness.
Sometimes she brushes her fingertips against an answer
as she reaches out, but she never
grabs it because sleep always comes and pulls her
into blackness.
And then the morning sun blares, evaporating what came before.
Thanks.