Comedian, actor, now 'Shopgirl' novelist measures words carefully

Steve Martin, seriously

In this story: The bookworm from high school The result of living life Little conversation RELATED STORIES, SITES

by Leah Lessard
Special to CNN Interactive

LOS ANGELES, California (CNN) -- Steve Martin raises a leaden arm and gives the air an exhausted punch. "Don't worry," he reassures the audience in a wilted voice, "I'm still a wild and crazzzy guy."

The refrain and its accompanying gesture are delivered with a mocking half-heartedness that brings laughter from a literary Los Angeles audience. They've gathered to hear Martin -- the one-time star of "The Jerk" who used to wear an arrow through his head while dancing with "happy feet" -- talk about his new novella, "Shopgirl" (Hyperion).

Of course, the "wild and crazy guy" Martin was more than 20 years ago. In 1988, he won the coveted Writers Guild award for his "Cyrano de Bergerac"-inspired screenplay, "Roxanne," and since then, he has rather inconspicuously amassed writing credits in virtually every genre. He's written a well-received play ("Picasso at the Lapin Agile") and has become a regular contributor to The New Yorker. He has earned a reputation within the literary community as a serious writer of exceptional talent.

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Steve Martin on writing ... 160KWAV sound On the subconscious mind ... 128KWAV sound On screenplays vs. fiction ... 144KWAV sound On being both a comedian and a writer ... 176KWAV sound

So now the truth is out: Steve Martin is more Renaissance man than maniac.

But was the distraction intentional? Could it be that while Martin was bobbing to "King Tut," he was secretly creating those plays and essays? Was that arrow through his head meant to divert attention while he honed the finer plot points of his future films "L.A. Story" and "Bowfinger"?

Not according to the former white-suited comedian himself. Martin sees "Shopgirl," a delicate portrait of a group of L.A. souls, as simply a natural extension to his previous works.

"I'm very proud to be a writer," Martin said. "I'm not trying to run away from 'comedian.' I love that. It's like the big umbrella of labels for me."

Still, speaking with Martin today is more like talking to the bookworm from high school than the class clown. His ideas can be lofty (he holds a degree in philosophy, after all), such as when he talks about the different tasks of the conscious and subconscious mind in writing.

But there is nothing pretentious about Steve Martin. If he is talking about art, he is more likely to express a passion for art that is "accessible" than his own distinguished collection. He is more prone to refer to David Mamet's sentiments about writing (Martin worked with the prize-winning playwright on the film "The Spanish Prisoner") than talk about his own Emmys (or motives) for writing.

Steve Martin chooses his words carefully, yet is warm, disarming, and honest. It is a tone that resonates through "Shopgirl."

"Shopgirl" doesn't contain any zany passages that evoke knee-slapping belly laughs. The humor is present yet quiet; lucid, not ludicrous. Still, Martin's wit is irrepressible when it comes to translating the peculiarities of the City of Angels:

"In Los Angeles you can live in the tiniest apartment in the tiniest cul-de-sac with a 1/4 in your address and twenty minutes after placing an order a foreigner will knock on your door bearing yam fries and meatless meatloaf."

The book's original title was "Bergdorf's Girl," and it was going to be a play about the fragile relationship between a young clerk at an upscale New York department store and the older man she falls for. But Martin returned to Los Angeles and decided to recast the idea as a novella, changing the city and the department store in the process. Still, the writer stayed true to his original conception.

"I knew I wanted to write about this relationship, or this type of relationship," says Martin.

"Shopgirl" is the story of Mirabelle, a demure, 28-year-old woman who works behind the glove counter at the Beverly Hills Neiman Marcus, and Ray, a rich, 50-something businessman. What develops is a love story of the familiar and painful sort between two people who misunderstand each other -- and themselves. (The author writes of Ray, "If he thinks he would harm Mirabelle, he would back away. But he does not yet understand when and how people are hurt." )

Martin is clear that "Shopgirl" is not an autobiography in the strict sense. It is, rather, the result of living life.

"It's an accumulation. Many of the minor events in the book were verbatim from experiences I've had or people have told me," he says.

"When you start writing, it's amazing what you remember, and it's not major events. It's little tiny moments, and they have so much power."

One such moment took place two or three years ago when a female friend told Martin that she was going to a party and her goal was not be a wallflower.

"I found that so poignant," says Martin.

The character of Mirabelle appears to be a wallflower as well, though, as Martin writes, "What Mirabelle needs is some omniscient voice to illuminate and spotlight her, and to inform everyone that this one has value, this one over here." She spends dull, lonely days perched above a glass case of obsolete apparel, only to drive across town to her marginal existence in a sparse apartment she shares with two cats (one of which stays hidden under the bed).

Early in the book, Mirabelle's solitary evenings are comprised of sketching silhouettes of herself against black backgrounds and hoping she will get a phone call from either Jeremy, the blase young guy she occasionally dates, or one of her two unreliable girlfriends. She's also trying to stay a step ahead -- and a prescription away -- from the crushing depression that has marred her past.

Ray Porter enters Mirabelle's life by buying a pair of Dior gloves from her. He then mails them to her with a note that reads, "I would like to have dinner with you."

A man in his 50s, Ray is still trying to understand women. "This fact-finding mission, in the guise of philandering, is necessary because as a youth, he failed to observe women properly," Martin writes. On the surface, Ray and Mirabelle would not seem to be a good match: He believes that sex and commitment are unrelated enterprises; she believes that there are four distinct levels of being held.

There is very little dialogue in "Shopgirl." At first, this creates a certain remote quality, as though the reader can look at the characters -- like gloves on display -- yet not touch them. But when the characters do talk, the effect is dramatic, like the first Technicolor scene in "The Wizard of Oz."

Martin wrote "Shopgirl" that way by design, he says.

"The conversation between these two people is not scintillating. It can't be snappy and it can't be sharp and cynical and satirical. It's mostly, 'hi,' 'yeah,' 'how are you,' 'what's goin' on?', which is not good dialogue reading," says Martin. "But that's how most people talk and how these two probably talked, although there's an undercurrent always."

The writing in "Shopgirl" is fluid and at times gorgeous, making one hope that "Shopgirl" is the first of many novels. But when asked if there any planned, Martin is noncommittal.

"You have to sit and wait until your mind thinks for you," he says.

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Steve Martin
Hyperion Books

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