This Will Only Hurt a Little(81)
(Probably.)
Not long after that, my manager got a call from The New Yorker. It turned out they wanted to profile me about my Instagram stories. THE NEW YORKER. I sat down with the reporter, Marisa Meltzer, over lunch while we were in New York shooting Marc and Abby’s movie. I have to admit, I was a little confused. I asked her why she wanted to talk to me. I was worried she was trolling me. But she promised she wasn’t. She explained that she found my stories infinitely watchable and said that every social media platform has an early adopter who defines what it is and how it should be done.
I stared at her. “And you think that’s me??”
She told me the article would be out in a few months and I thanked her, but secretly I was terrified of it. I liked Marisa a lot; she seemed like someone I would be friends with IRL. But I couldn’t help worrying the article would somehow be mean or dismissive or worse, make me sound dumb. I still didn’t really understand what everyone else was seeing and responding to. But as the summer wore on, I began to notice people’s reactions to me in public. I couldn’t not. It was getting overwhelming.
“Oh my God, I LOVE YOU!”
“BUSY!!! HIIIIIIIII!”
“Oh my God, I’m going to die. My best friend and I call ourselves Busy and Michelle!!! Can I PLEASE take a picture with you?!”
“Girl! You are KILLING it. Seriously. Just everything is GOALS.”
Apparently, I was killing it by just being me . . . only online.
Over the summer, I’d gotten an email from Eric Gurian, who works with Tina Fey. He explained that he and Tina and Robert Carlock had been talking, and they were all thinking we should find something else to work on together, maybe even to develop for me. I was flattered, of course, but when I met with Eric back in L.A., I told him the truth. I didn’t know what the fuck I wanted to do, but developing a show sounded potentially painful. Even under the auspices of Tina Fey and Robert Carlock. I’d just been burned too many times at this point. He understood, and as I left the meeting, he said we should keep in touch. “At the very least,” he said, “it seems insane that you’re giving away all this great content for free.”
The article came out and it was so nice. I read it twice in order to make sure I wasn’t missing some hidden snark. I was in disbelief. I didn’t sound stupid at all. In fact, I sounded pretty smart. Me! In THE NEW YORKER!
The following weekend, my manager Julie was having a big birthday party in Palm Springs at the Merv Griffin estate. Marc and I went with the girls and stayed at La Quinta. I love being in the desert because it reminds me of growing up in Scottsdale, but without having to actually be back in Scottsdale. I especially love when the sun sets, turning the mountains purple and the sky pink. The party was super fun, with plenty of wine, and then after dinner and speeches, as everyone else started dancing, Marc and I walked over to sit at the edge of the pool. I got a little stoned as I looked up at the endless desert sky and stars. We sat in silence for a few minutes, just enjoying being together in all that stillness.
Suddenly it hit me.
“Marc,” I said, turning to him. “I know what I’m supposed to do.”
He looked at me, confused. “What? For what? Right now??”
“No! For my career! My life! I’m supposed to be a late-night talk-show host! I’m supposed to be the first woman host of The Tonight Show.”
He laughed. “I think Jimmy Fallon probably has something to say about that.”
“NO!” I said, shaking my head. “Not like tomorrow. But it’s mine. I’m going to do it. I need a late-night show. This is what I’m supposed to do, Marc. I’m telling you. The ghost of Merv Griffin is sending me a sign.”
He put his arm around me and kissed me sweetly on the forehead. “Okay, Buddy. If that’s what you want to do, I’m sure you can do it.”
Of course I can. I’m Busy Philipps. Have we met? I say I’m going to do something, and then I go, and I fucking do it. I wanted to go for a walk around the block when I was two. And I went. I wanted to get out of Arizona. And I did. I wanted to be in TV shows and movies. And I was. I wanted this life. And I got it. And now I wanted a late-night talk show. And here we are. Here I am.
I’ve tried in this book, but I still don’t know exactly how to explain how all this has happened for me. My career. This life. Except to say that I willed it to be so. There are so many times when it could have gone in a different direction. There are more than a few sliding doors in my past. And who’s to say what could’ve been better or worse, what might or might not have been?
All I know for sure is . . .
THIS IS WHO I AM NOW.