My Lucky Star (49 page)

When a writer takes close to a decade to complete a work of light fiction, there are two ways he can choose to behave during
its protracted composition. He can be reticent to the point of secrecy, mentioning his pet project so seldom that his friends
discover he was writing it only when they receive invitations to the book party. Or he can, like me, prattle endlessly on
about it, telling anyone who’ll listen about the marvelously fun book he’s embarked upon and which he only wishes he had more
time to complete.

I don’t doubt that a few of those whose ears I’ve bent about this book have listened with genuine interest. I suspect though
that most have endured my effusions with the strained patience of well-wishers too polite to inform an expectant parent that,
while they will happily attend the christening once the bundle of joy arrives, they could do without the weekly sonograms.
So, whether for their avid interest or tactful forbearance, I thank the following people: my frequent collaborator Chris Lloyd
(who got more frequent earfuls than most), plus Rob Greenberg, Rob Hanning, Jeff Richman, Chris Marcil, Sam Johnson, David
Lee, Peter (and Rosie) Casey, Bob (and Janet) Daily, and pretty much anyone else who ever wrote for
Frasier;
our incomparable cast, Kelsey Grammer, David Hyde Pierce, Jane Leeves, Peri Gilpin, and John Mahoney; my dear friends Victor
Bumbalo, Tom O’Connor, Randy Sturges, Harriet Harris, Matt Sullivan, Crosby Ross, Richard Cassese, Lisa Banes, Jill Young,
Edward Hibbert, Jennifer Langham, Brian Hargrove, Albert Mason, Adam Small, Leslie Kolins Small, Arleen Sorkin, Christine
Baranski, Maggie Blanc, Roy and Dorothy Christopher, Tony Mclean, John Coughlan, Roger Hedden, Anne Carney, Richard Gray,
Maryanne Terrillo, Sal Terrillo, Karen Fausch, Matthew Pym, Elisa Sarno, Lynn Hanks, Reggie Burke, and Brooks Almy; my sister,
Geraldine Fennelly; my brother-in-law, Richie; my nephews Michael and Brian; my brother, John; and my mother-in-law, Bruna.

I extend especial apologies to my trainer, Doug MacDonald, and assistant, David Nahmod, who, being in my employ, have served
as captive audiences for many a long-winded progress report.

I’d like to thank my extraordinarily patient agent Geri Thoma; Jay Sures; Andrew Canava; my diligent editor, Judy Clain; her
assistant, Molly Messick; my eagle-eyed copyeditor, Karen Landry; and my publisher, Michael Pietsch. Twenty years ago he struggled
to persuade his superiors at Harmony Books to publish my first novel. When he failed (for philistinism has ever been rampant
in the industry) he helped find me my agent, Geri, proving himself as aptly named a fellow as ever I’ve met.

I’d also like to thank the numerous real-life luminaries I’ve conscripted to cross paths with my characters. They are all
fine actors for whom I have the highest regard, and I have endeavored to depict their actions as at best impeccable and at
worst innocuous. (I realize, Drew, that the movie may not sound like a classic but, trust me, you’re quite the best thing
in it.)

Most of all I’d like to thank my husband, Gerry Bernardi, who has lovingly endured more blather about this book than the above
mentioned combined. Were it not for his unwavering support and affection I would be, as Monty puts it, “a bitter old queen
incapable of spreading sunshine.”

JOE KEENAN
is the author of two previous novels,
Blue Heaven
and
Putting on the Ritz
. As a playwright and lyricist, he won the Richard Rodgers Development Award from the American Academy and Institute of Arts
and Letters for his musical
The Times
and also won the 1993 Kleban Award for the show’s lyrics. He served for seven years as a writer/producer for
Frasier,
where he received five Emmy nominations for Outstanding Writing in a Comedy Series, winning once, plus four Emmys for Outstanding
Comedy Series and two Writers Guild Awards.

Reading Group Guide

A novel by

Joe Keenan

Reviews of your work frequently compare you to P. G. Wodehouse. Were you attempting to update his special kind of farce? If
so, what is it about the genre that appeals to you?

Reading Wodehouse was what first made me want to write fction. Before I discovered him in my early twenties, my only ambition
had been to write comedies for the stage. Reading his books, I saw for the first time that not only could a novel be as funny
as a good stage farce, but it could be funny in ways that a play couldn’t be. His writing brimmed over with wonderful jokes
that could be made only in prose, jokes based on narrative tone, witty descriptions, and comic metaphors and similes. In Wodehouse’s
world butlers “shimmer” into rooms and an annoyingly hearty girl has a laugh “like a squadron of cavalry charging over a tin
bridge.” I loved his endearing characters and wonderfully twisty plots and wondered why no one bothered to write books like
that anymore. A few years later I decided to try my hand at something in a Wodehousian vein and began
Blue Heaven
. In the book’s first scene the narrator, Philip, attends a gallery opening of work by a talentless downtown poseur. A friend
maliciously informs the pretentious sculptor that Philip’s a great admirer of his. Philip reports that the artist then fixed
him “with a hungry, expectant look, like a vampire watching a hemophiliac shave.” A very Wodehousian joke and the first of
many I would make in my books.

As much as I owe to Wodehouse, there are many other writers I read when I was young whose work had a great influence on my
writing. Off the top of my head I’d cite Oscar Wilde, Saki, Noel Coward, Kaufman and Hart, Neil Simon, Alan Aykbourn, and
Joe Orton.

When you created the characters of Philip, Gilbert, and Claire in
Blue Heaven,
did you know then that you would be writing a sort of series about this trio? Did you have a model or plan for this, or did
it just happen?

When I began
Blue Heaven
I actually thought I was writing a short story, but I did imagine even then that — assuming I managed to finish and get it
published—I’d write more stories about the same characters. The dynamic between them —the ambitious, insanely impetuous Gilbert,
the wry, brainy and scrupulously ethical Claire, and the sweet, ever-seducible Philip—seemed like one that could inspire multiple
adventures. And again, too, my model was Wodehouse, who repeatedly returned to his favorite characters (most famously Bertie
and Jeeves) throughout his long and prolific career. As a reader I always found it cheering to know when I finished a book
I’d especially enjoyed that I hadn’t seen the last of its characters and there were further exploits still to be savored.

The Philip in
Blue Heaven
and
Putting on the Ritz
is much the same age as the Philip in
My Lucky Star,
even though years have passed and his surroundings have changed. Why did you choose to make your main characters frozen in
time?

Again (yes,
again
) my model was Wodehouse, whose delightful Bertie Wooster remained a deliciously dim young man-about-town for more than half
a century. There are plenty of other examples as well, particularly in detective fction, where characters like Miss Marple
and Nero Wolfe seemed to stay about the same age for quite a long time. My main reason, though, for not letting Philip and
Gilbert age is that the things that make them funny, their naïveté and rashness, their knack for self-delusion and occasional
flat-out stupidity, are qualities one finds more endearing (or at least forgivable) in the young than in men who have reached
an age by which they ought really to know better.

Who came first, Joe Keenan the novelist or Joe Keenan the TV scriptwriter? How have you managed to juggle these two personas?
Do you find the writing to be similar in nature, or completely different?

The novelist came first, although curiously it was my fiction that led to my career in television. A wonderful TV writer named
David Lloyd happened to read a
Boston Globe
review of
Blue Heaven
that cited its “Wodehousian merriment.” David, an ardent Wodehouse devotee who owns first editions, both British and American,
of his ninety-something books, read my book and gave copies to many of his friends, including Glen and Les Charles, the team
behind
Cheers
. They liked it and asked me if I’d like to create a series for them, so I wrote a pilot called
Gloria Vane,
a comedy which, coincidentally, was also about a movie star, a temperamental actress in thirties Hollywood. The pilot was
lavishly produced with a cast that included JoBeth Williams, Nina Foch, Emily Proctor, Jerry Adler, Mark Blum, Carole Cook,
and
Frasier
’s Edward Hibbert and Harriet Sansom Harris. It was not ordered to series but it did lead to an offer to join
Frasier
in its second season.

As for how I juggle the two personas . . . well, clearly not all that well, as it took me nine years to write
My Lucky Star
. But the two disciplines do have a fair number of similarities. In each you’re trying to come up with a story that’s both
amusing and at least somewhat unpredictable while crafting dialogue that’s heightened and funny without being altogether implausible.

There are, of course, very significant differences between the two disciplines. One is that television writing’s highly collaborative.
On half-hour comedies the stories are crafted by committee and then, once in production, rewritten daily by the staff with
the showrunner serving as final arbiter of both processes. On some shows every script is gang-written, with writing credit
being assigned on a rotating basis among the team. On
Frasier
we preferred to let the author (or authors) of record write the first draft alone and only then would it once more become
the property of the room. The best and most conscientious writers (and I will not stoop to such patently false humility as
to exclude myself from this group) took pride in producing drafts that required as little tweaking as possible to be camera-ready.
Another key difference is that, unlike a book, a television or film script is not the final and finished product—the film
or episode that will spring from it is. This is why, if forced to state a preference, I would have to come down on the side
of fiction.

That’s not to say that I don’t enjoy writing scripts. It’s just that every time I complete one, I’m keenly aware that the
job is far from done and that my work won’t reach its intended audience until the actors, director, designer, director of
photography, and film editor have all had a good whack at it. Most often these are marvelously gifted people who greatly enhance
my work and bring it to glorious fruition. There are times, though, when things go less auspiciously and, at close of day,
the dear little offspring I nurtured so tenderly lays cold on a gurney and can only be identified through dental records.

When I finish a book, the job’s pretty much done. Yes, my editor might have a civilized suggestion or two and a suitable artist
must be found to slap an eye-catching cover on the thing, but once these small matters are attended to, my book is ready for
its audience. There are no further middlemen, no long casting sessions where my cheeks ache from attentive smiling, no run-throughs
attended by studio and network executives bursting with insights, and no fretful debates about whether or not to recast the
sexy ingénue whose performance suggests that she’s learned the role phonetically. Just my story, my words, and an attentive
reader. Heaven.

What, to you, is the biggest challenge of writing a novel? What’s the most enjoyable part?

The biggest challenge of writing the sort of novels I write —i.e., farces—is working out the damn plots. How will Gilbert
drag Philip into yet another ghastly mess (or, as Philip says in
Putting on the Ritz,
“Disaster, brilliantly disguised as Opportunity”)? Who do they become entangled with and why? What complications ensue? How
do you keep the situation escalating and make sure that, as in all good farces, the characters’ efforts to extricate themselves
from an increasingly perilous situation only dig them in deeper? How do you finally bring them to a place where disaster and
ruin seem utterly inescapable, then how do you save them?

The hardest part, of course, is making sure that however wild and absurd the plot gets (and you want things to get as outrageous
as possible) that it doesn’t do so at the expense of logic or credibility. The plot twists, relying at times on unhappy coincidence,
may be mildly improbable, but they can never be flat-out unbelievable. (Peter Stone, author of musicals such as
1776
and movies such as
Charade,
was a teacher of mine at NYU and he passed along this sage dictum of storytelling: “You can use coincidence to get your characters
into trouble, but never to get them out of it.”) Likewise, your characters must always behave in a manner consistent with
both their essential natures and best interests. In plotting
My Lucky Star
I was faced with several conundrums of character logic and had to carefully devise credible solutions for each.

The first and perhaps thorniest was that I wanted Claire to be along for the ride, helping Philip and Gilbert write the screenplay.
If she weren’t, she’d be sidelined for the whole story and then who would save them? My problem, of course, was that the unshakably
principled Claire would never agree to accept the job once she learned that it had been secured through plagiarism, and there
was no way to prevent her knowing this as she’d never sign on without first demanding to read the spec script to which Gilbert
had signed her name. I got around this by using Claire’s own ethics to entrap her. Convinced, once Stephen and Diana are on
board, that there’s no possible way they can keep the assignment, she gives Gilbert her oath that she’ll stay if they win
the job in exchange for his promise to have Max find her another job in the event, inevitable to her, that they don’t. She
may bitterly repent having given her oath, but to Claire a promise, however foolish, cannot be reneged on.