Home alone, Chandler knew he was in trouble. He had told himself that he was going to be a writer, but he didn't really know what that meant. What exactly should he write?
On his computer, Chandler typed up a list of possible things to write:
1. something witty for *The New Yorker*
2. a funny play
3. a short story (about what?)
4. sarcastic observations about life
These vague notions were all based on the fact that jokes came naturally to him. Yet there was a difference between making snide remarks to his friends, and writing something for strangers to read and find amusing.
"You got any ideas?" Chandler asked the chick and the duck. The birds chirped and quacked at him, but of course, he wasn't Dr. Doolittle. Hmm, what if he wrote a story about pet birds living in New York City and talking to each other? It could be a children's book, maybe sweet and heartwarming like *The Velveteen Rabbit*, but funny too.
Chandler added that idea to his list, then began to compose the story. How hard could it be? However, Chandler went through several drafts, and didn't like any of them. Maybe he should get a copy of *The Velveteen Rabbit* to refresh his memory? Or maybe a children's book just wasn't his thing?
Chandler sighed and felt in need of some advice. How did his mother ever decide to be a romance novelist, and once she did, how did she come up with plots and stuff?
So he called her up and managed to catch her at home after another round of book tours.
She was surprised to hear that he wanted to be a writer. "First you take after your dad, and now you want to take after me?"
Chandler shrugged. "Well, you know, I thought I'd try my hand at fiction before I write some tell-all called, 'Nora Tyler Bing was my mom, and other horror stories.'"
"Very funny, dear!" Still, she was flattered and gave him a few pointers about writing, then she asked, "You're still with that Joey what's-his-name?"
"Yes, Mom. It's Joey Tribbiani. You might have heard, he's in the play, *Boxing Day*."
"Oh yes! Listen, can he get me tickets to that? I could drop in to New York, let you meet my new beau, and go to the play. Plus, I can see if this Joey is treating you right. I mean, you didn't have to put out just because he was your roommate."
"I know." He rolled his eyes.
***
When Joey came home, Chandler told him about his mom coming to visit again.
"Cool! Hey, if I get your dad tickets too--I mean, for a totally different night--would he come up from Vegas? I'd like to meet him face to face, instead of all this calling and emailing."
"Sure, we can ask him."
So Chandler endured another weekend with his mom, and the embarrassment of her constantly flirting with her latest boy-toy. She at least liked Joey's play and could see that Chandler and Joey were genuinely happy together.
"I'm sorry for my skepticism before, honey. Both your father and I haven't had very stable boyfriends, as you know, so the thought of you actually being with somebody for, what, over a year now, was a shock to me. I'm actually very proud of you, honey."
"Thanks, Mom."
"And when your dad comes to visit--tell him how hot my boyfriend is!" Some things never changed.
On his computer, Chandler typed up a list of possible things to write:
1. something witty for *The New Yorker*
2. a funny play
3. a short story (about what?)
4. sarcastic observations about life
These vague notions were all based on the fact that jokes came naturally to him. Yet there was a difference between making snide remarks to his friends, and writing something for strangers to read and find amusing.
"You got any ideas?" Chandler asked the chick and the duck. The birds chirped and quacked at him, but of course, he wasn't Dr. Doolittle. Hmm, what if he wrote a story about pet birds living in New York City and talking to each other? It could be a children's book, maybe sweet and heartwarming like *The Velveteen Rabbit*, but funny too.
Chandler added that idea to his list, then began to compose the story. How hard could it be? However, Chandler went through several drafts, and didn't like any of them. Maybe he should get a copy of *The Velveteen Rabbit* to refresh his memory? Or maybe a children's book just wasn't his thing?
Chandler sighed and felt in need of some advice. How did his mother ever decide to be a romance novelist, and once she did, how did she come up with plots and stuff?
So he called her up and managed to catch her at home after another round of book tours.
She was surprised to hear that he wanted to be a writer. "First you take after your dad, and now you want to take after me?"
Chandler shrugged. "Well, you know, I thought I'd try my hand at fiction before I write some tell-all called, 'Nora Tyler Bing was my mom, and other horror stories.'"
"Very funny, dear!" Still, she was flattered and gave him a few pointers about writing, then she asked, "You're still with that Joey what's-his-name?"
"Yes, Mom. It's Joey Tribbiani. You might have heard, he's in the play, *Boxing Day*."
"Oh yes! Listen, can he get me tickets to that? I could drop in to New York, let you meet my new beau, and go to the play. Plus, I can see if this Joey is treating you right. I mean, you didn't have to put out just because he was your roommate."
"I know." He rolled his eyes.
***
When Joey came home, Chandler told him about his mom coming to visit again.
"Cool! Hey, if I get your dad tickets too--I mean, for a totally different night--would he come up from Vegas? I'd like to meet him face to face, instead of all this calling and emailing."
"Sure, we can ask him."
So Chandler endured another weekend with his mom, and the embarrassment of her constantly flirting with her latest boy-toy. She at least liked Joey's play and could see that Chandler and Joey were genuinely happy together.
"I'm sorry for my skepticism before, honey. Both your father and I haven't had very stable boyfriends, as you know, so the thought of you actually being with somebody for, what, over a year now, was a shock to me. I'm actually very proud of you, honey."
"Thanks, Mom."
"And when your dad comes to visit--tell him how hot my boyfriend is!" Some things never changed.