Before reinventing himself as a serious director with "Green Book", Peter Farrelly was known for the 90s comedies he made with his brother, namely "Dumb and Dumber" and "There's Something About Mary". (They made plenty of stuff between "Mary" and "Green Book" too, but not much worth talking about.) This novel, probably somewhat autobiographical, tells of a wannabe screenwriter's adventures in early 90s Hollywood.
There's a weird sense of pointlessness running through the story -- he meets kooky Hollywood types, it's not that funny, nothing much happens -- solidified by an anticlimactic shrug of an ending. With an absence of any big plot developments, Farrelly tries to give his protagonist some inner growth, but he adds and discards so many character details at random that he's hard to buy into. For example, we're told almost three-quarters of the way through the book that he is apparently religious enough to recite a long prayer every single night. So he's been doing that this whole time? Seems like it should've been mentioned earlier.
The sympathy Farrelly instinctually gives to his male characters generally doesn't extend to the women in the book, who are either dead (and thus idealized), sexual targets, or, in the case of Colleen, the female lead, angry raging lunatics. I suppose she's meant to be funny (or at least entertaining), but she's just annoying, and her obvious mental health issues make her more of a depressing presence than anything else. We're not sure if she's meant to be the love interest or the antagonist: both, I guess, until she, like the rest of the story, just sort of gets waved off. Even in the best Farrelly brothers movies, I was always put off by an undercurrent of mean-spiritedness, and I felt that with Colleen. She should get professional help, but is ultimately treated like just another crazy story.
In one plot line that reads uglier in a post-Harvey Weinstein era, the main character decides (against the advice of his agent) to work for a nightmare of a producer who has apparently slept with every actress he's worked with. That's just a colorful detail, not followed up on; the inevitable moral dilemma of whether to keep working for the producer ultimately hinges on a minor traffic accident, and not, for example, the hero thinking through his complicity in the producer's sexual predations.
Maybe that's unfair, since the book was written in the late 90s. But how about this: in one queasy passage, the hero admits to masturbating to an underage actress he had just met at a party. The actress is a real-life person, and is mentioned by name. Later, when discussing a famous Hollywood urban legend involving a gerbil, Farrelly *doesn't* mention the real male actor involved in that story by name. Apparently tact extends to some people but not others.