Comedy of Erinn Read Online Free

pulled up footage of a motorcycle careening wildly around California mountains.
    â€œHere,” Steven said. “Let’s try editing this commercial. It will give you a sense of what you can do.”
    Erinn had no desire—or any intention—of editing a motorcycle commercial.
    â€œSteven, I don’t think this is going to help me.”
    He looked at her and blinked.
    â€œNo, Ms. Wolf, I don’t think this will help you, either.”
    She wondered if Steven wanted to get rid of her. She knew she could be difficult. But it seemed insane to her that the geniuses had decided that, in order to get a grasp of the editing system, she should be working on a motorcycle commercial. She had no use for this sort of... commercial . . . editing. Just the sound of the word set her teeth on edge. She wanted to learn to edit the way she wanted to edit! Or at least, the way she thought she might want to edit, once she understood how it all worked.
    â€œThis is all about postproduction, Ms. Wolf,” Steven said. “Maybe you should be worrying about scripting before you tackle this.”
    Was he actually telling her that she should be writing? Who did he think he was—her sister? Well, he thought he was a genius, of course. He’d been told he was a genius. Genius was on his badge after Hi, My Name Is Steven.
    Erinn tipped her half-moon glasses down, studying Steven as he looked at the computer screen. She could not read him. Her genius was a sphinx.
    â€œIf I’m going to start making my own films, I need to have a complete vision,” Erinn said.
    Steven cleared his throat.
    â€œIf you’re going to make a film, I think you should concentrate on your script. Especially if you don’t want to learn editing the way we teach it.”
    Erinn hesitated, then said, “I’m having trouble with my script right now.”
    â€œWell, then, you don’t need to worry about editing at all.”
    Erinn left the Apple Store, demoralized, but changed her mind about one thing. Steven really was a genius.
    Her mood lifted as she approached the farmers’ market, which was her every-Wednesday destination. The Santa Monica Farmers’ Market offered fresh produce, flowers, and, incongruently, soap, to the locals at a fraction of the cost of the supermarkets. Erinn looked around the thriving market—even in December, fruits and vegetables were laid out in full force.
    That’s one thing I have to give Los Angeles, she thought. No outdoor farmers’ markets on 42nd Street in winter.
    She pulled out her little expandable pull-cart and unfolded a coolie hat, both of which she had stored in her messenger bag. She started loading up on yams, multicolored fingerling potatoes, carrots, and green beans. She eyed the pale yellow and pink orchids, which reared over the heads of the shoppers in an explosion of floral majesty, but she didn’t buy one. Erinn remembered a time when she thought nothing of tossing two or three heavily laden moth orchids into her cart, but those days were gone. She chided herself: On hold, not gone .
    Thinking about money—or the lack thereof—always got her down. And, of course, as her bank account diminished, her sister’s nagging had escalated from gentle to volcanic. Erinn recalled all the strange creatures craigslist had sent her way over the last few weeks. Was it her fault that everyone was impossible to deal with?
    â€œWhat was wrong with Bunny?” Suzanna had asked about a possible tenant. “She was a writer! You would have had tons to talk about!”
    â€œShe communicates with the spirit world,” said Erinn.
    â€œAt least she communicates with somebody,” said Suzanna.
    â€œShe told me my spirit guide was Dorothy Parker.”
    â€œYou could do worse.”
    â€œVery true. As a matter of fact, if you recall, I have often been compared to Dorothy Parker.”
    â€œThat’s great, Erinn. But don’t