Chapter 3, Page 4

This week’s topic: Rejection (which isn’t just for writers). I finally received my manuscript back from the editor. I knew my first two chapters would take a big hit, but the editor made the statement that no agent would represent me unless I ditch those two chapters, did hurt a tiny bit. However, the lady who edited stated she liked the Monty/Miles character very much, but I could not get her to agree that if it wasn’t for those first two chapters where you learn about him that you would not appreciate his comeuppance as much. My plans are to fix up the first four chapters using her editing comments and ask an agent I met at the Las Vegas Writer’s convention last April to look it over. So back to rejection. The first rejection I received about twenty years ago, hurt really bad…really really bad…it sucked big time. But after four days of moping about, I had the I’ll show them attitude. The second rejection bummed me out for about a day or so. Currently, I could wallpaper my bedroom with all my rejection letters, and it doesn’t bother me anymore…I’m not jiving. At my work where I type a lot of documents, I don’t mind people critiquing them because its important for the information to be precise. I think it’s cute that these people who make the recommendations for improvement are very keen on not bruising my ego. It tell them, “I’m a writer and positive criticism actually helps me.” But if you’re starting out with your writings or other artistic endeavors, you need to understand the symbolism of putting your work out there for someone to review. Basically, what you’re actually doing is covering a piece of your heart and soul with your manuscript, poem, memoir or painting. So when someone rejects it (which they will), it will hurt like a son of a gun. Just don’t get offensive, defensive, suicidal or homicidal. I’ve been keeping a writer’s journal of quotes, usually from Writer’s Digest, and I should have it tattooed on my arm: “Just remember that at that particular time, that particular person was not ready for that particular manuscript.” So I continue to persevere because I AM A WRITER and that’s what writers do. This week’s tip: DO YOUR OWN THING. Whatever is going on in your life that you love and hate (sometimes both at the same time) and you feel you have a talent for it, just keep plugging along. Never listen to people who say you’ll never make it; however, do listen to people who can advise you to make it a little better. We writers don’t write/create to make the big bucks or to become as famous as Stephen King, John Steinbeck and Anne Rice. We write because we HAVE TO. It’s a compulsion, a passion, and more importantly, it’s who we are as individuals. Another quote from my writer’s journal is “Failure is not falling down; failure is not getting up.”

***Wow! This stalker is not following the stalker manual. She’s a little different.****For first time viewers, please go the July 5^th Blog, Chapter One, Page One.****

…like making sure her water pipes hadn’t burst.

“Did you discover the termites?” Psychochick asked.

“No.”

“I see.” She gave me an odd smile.

“The satellite repairman found them while checking my dish.”

She nodded and her smile widened.

What was that smirk about?

Wait—hold on! Was that a patronizing smile coming from Ms. Feminine Freak-a-zoid? Did this bitch actually think I was too stupid to recognize a termite? “That’s personal.”

“Discussing TV reception and bugs is personal?” She tsked, tsked me. “I’ve always believed celebrities were weird, but, Monty, I thought so highly of you. You came across as well adjusted. In fact, bland.” She grinned. “I’m using bland in a positive sense of the word.”

“What!” I yelled, struggling to tip her over. “You’re the abnormal one!”

Psychochick plopped her entire body over me, pinning me immobile. This time she wasn’t being sexy. Mental note to myself: Have Tracy schedule me with Raul for longer strength training sessions. My muscles turned “girlie.”

“Your lifestyle choices,” she said, again smiling, “dictate you aren’t in the position to judge what is and what isn’t normal.”

Her Alice in Wonderland Cheshire cat grin was driving me nuts, mainly because I didn’t understand its meaning. Was she visualizing having sex with me like most of my fans usually did? Was she feeling victorious for catching her quarry like those lions on Lydia’s National Geographic shows? Was she calculating which method was the most efficient in preserving my corpse and storing my bodily fluids? Or was she thinking about lunch and when the fast-food clerk asks if she wants ketchup for her French fries, Psychochick will hold up a jar full of my blood and reply in her deep sultry voice, “No thanks, I’ve brought my own.”

I stopped wiggling and inhaled deeply to induce relaxation and then placed myself on standby mode to await my chance to escape.

“Monty, answer my reasonable questions.”

“Ha!” Too bad the fear dried up my saliva or I’d spit at her.

“I was unaware you knew Lydia.” Her questioning gaze reminded me of during the first script reading of Macbeth when Roy, the director, intentionally tried to catch me up to see if I knew the play actually took place in Scotland. Why do people get their rocks off trying to humiliate me? Me, of all people! Everyone knew I always played the good guy.

Until now.

“Sooooo,” I evilly smirked, “Chickee baby doesn’t know everything about Monty. I bet that bothers you.”

She pressed her heavy breasts against my chest and planted her elbows alongside my ears to prevent me from turning my head. Then she tousled my hair like I was her personal Ken doll.

That Ken was one lucky SOB.

“Oh Monty,” she passionately whispered.

For my peace of mind, I chose to believe she was mentally challenged in the emotional department…not mentally challenged in the criminally insane department.

“You’ve always bothered me.”

My toes curled up in anticipated fear.

“Let me go!” I shouted.

“After I’ve…” She quickly pushed herself up and smiled curiously. “Do you have any idea of the years of unbearable suffering and public humiliation I’ve gone through because of you?”

“No?” I squeaked out.

“And this past year has been the worst.” She shut her eyes. “I’ve been so empty inside.” She shook her head as if to block out the voices commanding her to Kill Monty! “Oh baby,” she cried out. “I’ve been miserable without you.”

“I can imagine,” I said in a soothing voice and encouragingly nodded to lure her into a false sense of trust. My major celebrity should eventually kick in and turn her into a blubbering idiot, and then she’ll do whatever I command. “Your life must have been awful,” I said sympathetically.

Her eyes widened. “Oh well,” she said smiling. “Let’s not live in the past. For the very first time in my life, Fate has evened out the score. You have no idea what a delight it is with you being the helpless one and I’m the one in complete control.”

“If you let me go,” I pleaded, “I promise to give you whatever you want!”

“But I’m about to get what I’ve always wanted.”

“Don’t hurt me!” I cried.

“Trust me,” she whispered. Her twinkling eyes and joyful smile freaked me out to an all-time high. “You’ll never see this coming.”

With paralyzing fear, I watched her cover my eyes with the palm of her hand.

Chapter 3, Page 3

This week’s topic: The writer’s passion. I finished up that book, “The Orientalist,” by Tom Reiss. Besides learning about Lev Nessimbaum alias Essad Bey alias Kurban Said, I was also educated about life, circa early 1900s, in the Caspian Sea area, the Middle East and later in Berlin when Hilter obtained power. I also was sickened that the tabloids in the 1930s were just as treacherous then as they are today. Mr. Reiss did a phenomenal job in researching Lev, which at times read like a detective story in how he tracked down people and original documents/letters. I would consider Mr. Reiss an expert of that time period and of those locations mentioned in his book. If you plan to write a biography, I suggest you read “The Orientalist,” as more of an instructional method in completing a proper bio. The back of the book are pages of sources he quoted in the chapter footnotes; a listing of Lev’s writings, which was quite impressive for dying at age 36; the many many people he interviewed; as well as all the many or books and articles he spent hours and days studying. Towards the end of the story when Lev, knowing his short life would soon be over (he had Raynaud’s disease, a sort of necrosis), the fascists took away his typewriter, and he had no more money to buy paper, so he wrote on everything he could get his hands on. This reminded me of the scene in “Quills” (a brilliant movie, my favorite role by the sensitive Joaquin Phoenix; and Jeffrey Rush’s acting as the Marquis was…amazing...which is a weak word for his performance). When parchment was removed from the Marquise de Sade so he could no longer wrote his scandalous stories, he wrote on his clothes and later used his blood to write on the walls of his cell. Why? Because he had, too. I knew this compulsion for a period of 8 months when all I could think and do was get my thoughts onto paper for fear the story would dry up. I cannot speak for Lev or the Marquis, but to me, this passion/compulsion was similar to the heady feeling of being in love—the good and the bad. I went through it for 8 months and had rough drafts for now 12 volumes. I’ve never felt that type of artistic passion again, but sometimes I’d get flare-ups when I visualize adding a scene to one of my novels. This week’s tip: Finding the Artist’s Passion. By practicing every day, you’ll be open for opportunities to have a similar experience. Watch “The Little Prince” first, especially the scene when Gene Wilder is the Fox (I’ve always loved Gene Wilder, but him as the Fox is my favorite of all his roles). The Fox explains to the Little Prince the steps he needs to undertake every day to slowly make the Fox his pet, so that eventually, the Little Prince will love the Fox like no other. Once you’ve finished watching the movie or reading the short book by Antoine de Saint-Exupery…and you’ve had a good cry, take out a spiral notebook and a pen and write a little something-something, a paragraph at a minimum. (For visual artists, blank paper or clay or whatever your medium of choice, get it out, keep it accessible and just do it!) And for all your tomorrow’s, keep adding a minimum of another paragraph. Fill up the spiral bound book, put it in the top shelf of your closet, and start on another blank spiral notebook. After you’ve filled up 7 or 8 of them, then take them down, read and analyze them for a possible novel, many short stories, a scrip for a play or movie, or hundreds of poems. Eventually, you will love and be proud of what you’ve written. More importantly, you will realize that your writings are not like any other writer, and you’ll want others to know and feel the passion, too.

****I’m creeped out, too.****For first time viewers, please go the July 5^th Blog, Chapter One, Page One.****

…My eyes bulged out.

“Good God, man! Quit over-reacting! I’ve seen dozens of pictures of your Malibu home in People magazine. You prancing around on your beach or enjoying your Jacuzzi wearing just your chest hair and looking…ah…damn, you looked really, really hot!” She leaned into me and nuzzled into my chest.

She was so close to me now that I could bite off a chunk of her face like DeNiro had in Cape Fear.

She deserved it, too! No telling what she did to her other unfortunate favorite celebrity victims. I could be the first or second runner it. I bet she was as homicidal as DeNiro’s character was in that movie. I easily imagined Psychochick in her lonely pathetic apartment or aseptic dust-free attic kneeling in front of her sinister shrine dedicated to her icon, Montgomery Davis, that stupid number one movie star. Every morning, she self-flagellated with the latest issue of the Crest and afterwards, meticulously searches through Variety, tracking down my daily movements. She planned to gain notoriety by slaughtering Monty Davis…me.

A contented sigh emerged from my armpit, and then Crazy lady slowly and deliberately pushed herself into my groin area. She lifted her head and continued smiling like one of my typical lovesick fans. Sick was the word of the day for this warped woman. As her rhythmically swaying crotch pressed into mine, I realized I really did turn her on!

Wait…hold on!

This freak was masturbating on me.

That was not cool! I tried to arch myself away, but no go.

What more proof does the United States require that our amoral secular society surpassed every country in the entire world in rearing a generation of perverts? This Super-Humping Freak obviously never learnt family values. She must be a foreigner or a Satan worshipper, because no God-fearing Christian woman would behave like that!

I looked around for a weapon, hoping for a six-inch heel hiding under the bed to impale Crazy Chick with, but that damn Lydia took neatness to the point of psychosis. Even Felix Unger would have yelled at Lydia to loosen up. If I could convince this weirdo to postpone my permanent disfiguration, maybe I could grab the plastic wrap box with my jaws and attack her with that sharp metal thingy on the box. That might work, but first, I must fake a seductive voice to this horny sideshow freak, which might be difficult due to my total disgust towards her. No amount of my Oscar-caliber acting could stop the nauseating feeling she was causing deep inside me when she did…ah…and when…ah…around there…ah...oh…OH…oh yeah!

Right there!

Whew! I breathed deeply. I couldn’t recall the last time I felt that!

I needed to get a grip and focus hard…hard purely in the mental sense. I still wanted to obtain my freedom, but if I did die, I hoped my death certificate had the statement: Cause of death from an Unnamed Pleasure.

“Sweetie,” I said, trying to sound smooth like Barry White. “What else turns you on about Monty?”

“Everything.”

“Everything?” I repeated.

“Yes, everything you do gets me hot!”

As she rotated atop my groin, my brain chose to ignore all survival instincts. Yabba dabba do! I heard men with heart problems actually died from being f&*%#@ to death. Would that apply to the rest of us guys?

After a minute—a very quick minute I might add—she stopped moving and grooving and carefully laid her head against my face. “Monty,” she tenderly whispered as if she’d been my own true love for twenty years, “Why aren’t you at your own pad?”

“I had to vacate. Termites.”

“Subterranean or dry wood?” She sat up and sounded concerned.

“Dry wood.”

“Are you having that big-ass house of yours tented or fumigated?”

“Tented, which explains why I’m here.” I tried to shrug nonchalantly to show crazy chick this situation was not a big deal, a typical day for us celebrities, but it was difficult to make a dramatic statement since my shoulders still felt like they were part of a bow. “Lydia’s cool with me staying here.”

Which was true—kind of.

The day after Lydia left for Africa, her house keys were delivered to me via a courier. Enclosed was a note: “Would you mind watering my plants?” At first, I was flattered Lydia viewed me as responsible enough to water her plants, but then I rationalized she was too cheap to hire a professional plant service. As soon as I entered her condo yesterday, my mind flashed on Lydia’s note. I experienced a moment of anguish knowing her plants never entered my mind, not once, in two and a half months. I hustled to the kitchen sink and filled a bee-etched goblet with water and searched her condo for her withering plants. They were dead in a true sense. All of Lydia’s flowers were made of silk, not one fresh plant in the condo. I had tossed that note the day I received it and now wondered if Lydia wanted me to check on something else, like making sure her water pipes hadn’t burst.

Chapter 3, Page 2

Since I’m still waiting for my manuscript to return from editing, I’m now reading a very interesting book, “The Orientalist,” by Tom Reiss. Wouldn’t you be intrigued iIf you read the following sentence on the inside front jacket? “Lev Nussimbaum was a Jew who transformed himself into a Muslim prince and became a bestselling author in Nazi Germany.” I think I mentioned a few blogs ago the enjoyment I get in reading about other cultures and other countries and past histories. In “The Orientalist,” I’m learning about the Czars in Russia in the late 1800s and of Stalin and Lenin and the Bolshevik’s revolution. It starts in Baku, Azerbaijan, a town considered to be like the “Wild West” because of its oil fields and lawlessness. There’s one character so far that I’d really like someone to write a screenplay. Her name is Sofya Perovskaya, “…a rich kid with a grudge.” She becomes involved with the ‘People’s Will” a terrorist group who planned to bomb the Czar with nitroglycerin grenades on a route he was to take in a few month’s time. She and her gang bought a building, had a small business in front of it and tunneled under the building into the street to waylay the Czar when he passed. The Czar’s security changed the carriage route, but the terrorists caught up to him all the same and attacked and killed him in the name of people’s reform. Ironically, just that morning the Czar signed reform bills; the new Czar dropped the hammer and revoked all the previous Czar’s good intentions. Sofya was hunted down and hung in front of 80,000 (stadium crowd). I checked the InterNet and there was a Russian movie made of her life in 1968, but there are no specific details. Also, Sofya was the first woman in charge of a terrorist gang. If you enjoyed the historical mystery style of the “DaVinci Code,” by Dan Brown, you may enjoy “The Orientalist.” This week’s topic: Miscellaneous writing. These past two weeks, I’ve heard the words “letter of recommendations” several times. In case you have to generate one for students or employees, composing the letter is not that difficult. If you have business letterhead paper, you’re good to go. If not, type your name, address and telephone. Next the date. Next the address of the organization if you know it; if you don’t, then “To Whom it May Concern” is acceptable. The body of the letter should be a minimum of two paragraphs. First sentence would be how you came to associate with the individual and how long you’ve known the person. The next sentence would be about what type of job or duties the individual had; if the person is a student, then describe what classes, clubs or sports, you and the student were involved with. Third sentence should describe what made her/him stand out over other individuals. And fourth sentence, the ABCD—above and beyond the call of duty—would comment on something truly remarkable the individual did (i.e., raised money, saved the company money, developed a time-saving device, saved your butt big time?). For the second paragraph, the motivation is directors towards the reader’s thoughts. Don’t we all want an employee or student who is responsible, a self-starter, and understands directions quickly and doesn’t have to be spoon-fed? Second sentence is where you’d want to get across the passion and goals for the individual. And the closing sentence would be how you foresee this individual as successful in his/her future endeavors. Close with a simple “Sincerely,” your name and title. This week’s tip: Pick a time and place and read a book about a historical person or event. Not only will you expose yourself to new countries and types of people, you’ll realize that life was just as screwed up back then as it is now. I don’t want to sound 100-percent pessimistic, but if people got through those though times back then without access to drugs, Dr. Phil and Oprah, then we should be able to get through our tough times, too.

*** Uh-oh! Someone’s in the wrong place at the wrong time. For first-time viewers, please jump to blog dated 7/5/09, Chapter One, Page One.***

…Dying, right.

I mouthed, “Bitch.” She giggled, which threw off my calculations of the likelihood of me obtaining freedom. Her weight also prevented me from pushing her off. Plus, my aching shoulders still dug into the rug, which meant I couldn’t rock to my side and topple her over.

This was so unfair.

“So tell me, Mr. Montgomery Davis.” Her Levi-blue eyes twinkled. “Why are you here?”

I had to lie. “This is my place.”

Her full-body snicker vibrated over our groin areas, which felt pretty darn good for a few seconds. For me anyways; I couldn’t speak for her. Her behavior was unpredictable. I bet she was amped up on drugs for courage to attack and carry out atrocities to her favorite celebrities. I tried not to imagine her future feats of villainy because, let’s face it, it ain’t gonna be pleasant.

“I’ll repeat myself again,” she slowly said. “Why are you here?”

“The owner let me stay.”

“But you have your own house.”

If this kook finds out that Lydia and I are lovers…I meant, “were” lovers, she’ll become more psycho and damage me worse than she originally planned.

Psychochick again smiled sweetly and lightly tickled my rug-burned tender chin. Strangely, that simple gesture heightened my panic and threw off my concentration to overpower her.

“What did you ask me?” I asked.

“Why are you here?”

“Oh. My house is not suitable at the moment.”

“Your beach house?” She casually asked.

“Ah…yeah.” The hairs on the back of my neck rose as if they were clinging to a balloon. This madwoman knew where I lived! My God! She really was Lydia’s stalker and broke in today to harm Lydia, but she’ll attain more status by kidnapping the Number One Box Office Star in the World…me!

Wait…hold on! How did she know there wasn’t any toilet paper?

Because….because after Lydia left for Africa, Toilet Paper Psychochick snuck into the condo. She was like some kind of super kinky freak who was compelled to do her dirty business in other people’s bathrooms…just like animals marking their territory. Wow! Those hours watching National Geographic weren’t a complete waste of time.

She smiled as she caressed my neck. I gulped like a fool. Maybe she wasn’t Lydia’s stalker but actually Monty Davis’ stalker? I prayed to God not to let me experience that horror again.

When I first became famous, it was a blast to read my fan mail, but not so much anymore. When I reached major celebrity status, I received freaky letters from pathological fans. They ghoulishly described sick, twisted perversions they wanted to do with me when I was alive, but creeped me out with their unique descriptions of the horrendous atrocities they planned to do with my lifeless body. The topper was the depraved correspondence from Miss Turquoise, psycho extraordinaire. Because of Miss T., I hired a private company to read all my fan mail, and they, in turn, referred the wacko letters to the Threat Management Unit. Sadly, it took several months for my nightmares of Miss T. to end, and a few more years before I quit scanning at all my public events women with turquoise eyes.

Thank you God! Toilet Paper chick eyes weren’t turquoise, but the Levi-blue gray. Too bad I was out of the loop with the latest stalking trends. I forced myself not to gruesomely imagine Psychochick’s demented letters to me. Hopefully, those letters now resided with TMU as evidence for when they charge her with murdering…me. Since Crazy Chick appeared highly intelligent and creative in her successful effort immobilizing me, I judged her as quite capable on ingenious mental cruelty, too. My body started shaking and I began hyperventilating again.

“Monty, I sense your uneasiness,” she said, applying less weight to my diaphragm. “Just because I’m aware of your lovely Malibu beach home?”

My eyes bulged out.

Chapter 3, Page 1

This week’s topic: Resources. A writer, like any good artist/craftsman, needs the proper tools and access to resources. No one can argue how the Interact speeds research, which I’ll discuss in a future blog. Today, I’m referring to the resources I have handy around my desk. A big fat Webster dictionary—I rarely use the Internet versions, except to track down new words or slang, as I love to browse through pages of the dictionary. Roget’s Thesaurus of course (but I admit I like the feature on my computer.) An old copy of Funk and Wagner’s “Standard Handbook of Synonyms,” which helps me discern why one word is better than the other for a given sentence. A “Name your Baby” book for first names. A white pages telephone book that gives me choices for last names. When it comes to names, my ear tells me what it will be. It’s similar to waiting to hear a line of music. For home furnishings and clothes and such, nothing beats the J.C. Penney catalogue. My story takes place in 1996, so I have a few books about what occurred in that year. About twenty books from Writer’s Digest to be a better writer. Two books on body language. Diane Ackerman’s book “Natural History of the Senses,” to remind me to include all the senses. “The Passionate Observer” by Jean Fabre, to remind me to really look at the world when I’m outside. Since my main character is an actor, I have 5 books on Macbeth, various acting books, like “The Filmmaker’s Dictionary,” by Singleton and Conrad, “Setting up your Shots,” by Jeremy Vineyard—even if you’re not writing about acting and directing, it’s still a good resource because you can visualize a scene “out of the box.” Also, because of the careers of my other main characters, I have police books, carpentry books, automobile books, etc. Finally, my best form of inspiration comes from my Forbe’s and National Geographic magazines and copies of the greatest paintings of all time. I cut out the pages with most awe inspiring ads and article image in the Forbe’s magazines. When you need inspiration, you’ll be surprised what will pop into your mind by looking at a random picture. That box weighs about ten pounds and is a true treasure chest. I also have many photocopies from back in the day when you had to go to the library for research. This week’s tip: Start your own treasure box. Fill it up with images that connect with you. You don’t need to know why it means something to you now. Later on, something may reveal itself to you that can spurt you to a great sentence, a great description, poem, etc.

***Twink is heating up the popcorn as we speak. For new viewers, please go to Chapter 1, Page 1 in the July archives.***

…I allowed a deranged stalker to overpower me so she could begin the initiation ritual to become “Satan’s” Number One Fan.

This shouldn’t be happening!

I was her Monty Davis for Christ’s sakes!

There must be a logical reason why I was in the midst of a sadistic version of Alice in Wonderland.

Time to back track.

I was sitting on the edge of the bathtub reading Stella’s letter. I must have nodded off and conked my head on the floor. So perhaps this was just a typical scary dream.

I then felt Psychochick dig her boots into my calves, demonstrating to me she was very real indeed. My current situation was not as harmless as a simple nightmare. Reality check: You’re in deep deep dog doo doo!

The stranger cleared her throat in a very irritating manner.

Well, excuse the hell-out-of-me me for wanting to take a moment and focus on my own problems.

As the bedroom became brighter, my breathing improved, but I sounded asthmatic. The weird housekeeper slash stalker slash homicidal maniac slash…

Stop! Quit thinking about slashers!

She now looked kind of different in this lighting. I refused to say she looked normal, because God knew she wasn’t nor would she ever be considered a “normal” person, but her expression seemed friendly. Maybe in her warped mind, she believed we were buddies, but she sickened me, especially when she lifted a quizzical eyebrow.

Having no experience with killers, unless you want to lump in my actor friends who portrayed killers and don’t forget that I will soon star as Macbeth, a raised eyebrow could represent any type of evilness coming from these kinds of people. I was forced to assume this situation won’t end favorable for me. She lightly fingered the area under my chin, leaned back and smiled sweetly at me. Fear upgraded itself to a terror like I never knew existed.

Wrong!

I once experienced this same type of terror in Florida while filming my underwater pirate movie, Treasure’s Bay. Even though it occurred several years ago, my body still tensed up whenever I remembered that shark moving towards me like a persistent fan wanting more than just an autograph. My memories always reverted to slow-mo once its enormous jaws opened wide.

All those teeth!

“Relax, Monty.” Psychochick softly said in her deep voice.

I slowly exhaled. Because of terror under the seas, I abandoned one of my favorite passions—swimming in the ocean. My groin area now felt numb, and I quickly inhaled. Did Psychochick plan to damage the instrument I use to carry out my greatest passion?

I narrowed my eyes in disgust at her. How dare she insult Stella and all my fans by boasting she was my number one fan? And a short five minutes later, voila, she assaulted me!

What was this? A cheap remake of Misery?

“Who are you?” I demanded in my toughest voice, but to my ears I sounded like a gasping impersonation of Alec Baldwin.

“Does it matter?” Her grin looked stupid with her lips stretched wide, giving her a canine appearance.

Puking while flat on your back would be messy. Messy for her.

“What do you want?” I asked, utilizing my hoarse voice, hoping to sound callous like De Niro’s.

“You just lay there like the greatest celebrity in the entire universe. I’ll be asking all the questions, Babba Louie.” She started laughing, and I must admit for a crazed Psychokiller bitch, she did have one cool laugh. None of my so-called normal gals had cool laughs. Actually, none of them rarely laughed or did anything in a hearty manner. “Monty, pretend I’m just an ordinary reporter for one of those low-down dirty tabloids. I’ll go easy on you…depending on your answers.”

“You, ordinary? Hah! But you are correct about those slimy tabloids.”

“And with your history,” she said, squeezing my waist with her firm thighs, “I’m dying to hear one of your astounding comments.”

Dying, right.

Chapter 2, Page 5

Yesterday, I experienced a sweet bliss. And you can have this same feeling, too. At my local Hollywood video store, they are now renting entire episodes from TV shows. Apparently, there was a show on HBO called “The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency” based on the novels by Alexander McCall Smith. It takes place in Botswana, Africa, and it was produced by Anthony Minghella, who directed my favorite movie of all time, “The English Patient.” The “No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency” is a true delight and I highly recommend it. It takes a little time to get use to since the characters seem too sweet and unnatural in their attitudes and behavior (unnatural as in a simple country outlook on life, not stressed out like our society or me in particular). But guess what! The characters really are sweet and charming. For real! The scene when Happy tells Precious of her mystery makes you feel like you are in the middle of a wonderful dream. This week’s topic: Movie remakes. I cannot imagine why Hollywood would remake any movie when there are many writers with creative ideas. (I know I sound bitter but many years ago I submitted a children’s story to Hyperion Books—a publishing company owned by Disney—and they rejected me and six months later, Disney did another remake of one of their own movies.) But if Hollywood does decide to do remakes, I don’t want a remake of a movie that had strong audience sentimentality like Bogart’s movies (Casablanca, the Maltese Falcon, African Queen) or True Grit or Seven-Year Itch or Little Big Man. We love these movies and the actors like we adore our beloved family members. However, there are a lot of very very old movies Hollywood could remake or movies that had a good plot but were considered a B movie back in the day and did not get the best studio resources. First up, I would like to see a new version of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. It was a good story, and recently on Turner Classic Movies I watched the silent version. (In case you are not aware, TCM does Silent Sunday’s, giving you a weekly opportunity to see those movies—we are very fortunate that TCM is doing this for us.) The actress Margarita Fischer played Eliza and I thought she did an amazing job (okay, a little bit too much swooning, but that was the style back then—Lillian Gish was famous for it.) I admit I have not read the novel and I understand the film took liberties of the novel. But you cannot deny the drama and human feelings that were evoked during the scene when Harry was taken away from Eliza on the paddleboat or the scene where Eliza and Cassy (who just learned Eliza’s secret) must fight it out at Simon’s Legree (Dang! What a great name for a villain!) Well, well, well. I just did some fact checking on the Internet and see that Uncle Tom’s Cabin was remade in 1987 with a very fine cast—Avery Brooks, Bruce Dern, Phylicia Rashad as Eliza, Samuel L. Jackson—so egg on my face, but I will rent the movie. I’m not stressing that Uncle Tom’s Cabin needs to be done with the setting of the Civil War period. Akira Kurosawa remade Shakespeare’s King Lear as Ran and Macbeth as Throne of Blood—both were very fine movies (When I was a substitute teacher, one entire summer I watched every samurai, Kurosawa, Toshiro Mifune and Japanese movie I could lay my hands on.) Throughout our world today human slavery is going on, Lisa Ling a renowned correspondent did an expose of girls in the slave trade in India. The following quote came from the Internet from a 2005 Fact Sheet from the U.S. Department of State. “According to U.S. Government estimates, 800,000 to 900,000 victims are trafficked globally each year and 17,500 to 18,500 are trafficked into the United States. Women and children comprise the largest group of victims.” My second runner up for movie remake: “The King and Four Queens.” This was a movie made in 1956 starring Clark Gable and Jo Van Fleet (a truly remarkable actress). He plays a con man who may or may not be friends with one of the outlaw brothers (three of which where killed and burned in the family’s barn by the lawmen; however, one brother escaped). The four outlaws were married to lusty women and unfortunately for the gals no one knows which brother escaped. The step-mother continues to believe the four gals were still married woman and will act respectable. And I forgot to mention, somewhere buried on the property was $100,000 stolen by the outlaw sons. So Clark Gable is the rooster among the horny hen house. (I verified on the Internet that the 1956 movie was the only one made). I really want to see this movie again and in particular remade with the likes of George Clooney and the female cast of the recent “The Women” (Annette, Jada, Meg, Eva, and Debra and Candice Bergen as the grieving step-mother). The only big change I’d make is to write the script with a little more sizzle. This week’s tip: Screenwriters! Think carefully if you do want to do a remake—make it better, not boring. In the “No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency,” Precious wanted to be a detective to catch the bad people who were bringing shame to her beloved country, Botswana. Screenwriters, you too, can write a movie that impacts so many people’s lives and might lead to positive changes in this world, too.

***Twink is upset for those previous pages full of self-reflection. I explained that Mr. Celebrity had to be positive that dumping Lydia was the best decision for him, and a great roller coaster ride always starts off at a snail’s pace.

…I know it sounded weird but it was as if Brown’s personality never truly left me.

“Good grief,” I muttered, “that was over twenty years ago.” And now I was forty and over the hill. I remembered the birthday card from my best friend, Buster. Inside, he quoted Victor Hugo: “Forty is the old age of youth; fifty is the youth of old age.” I hope he was right. It still amazed me that Buster Drew—the coarse possessor of willing beauties—for once, was insightful and mature. He was in post-production of his first reputable movie with major studio backing. I’d known him for ten years and he was nothing like the bad boy image, and I was glad the world will see him as a gentleman and a first-rate producer. However, if any gorgeous gals were nearby, then he was exactly how the media portrayed him.

Hey! Why waste time bemoaning my fate when the luscious housecleaner eagerly waited to be romanced by me. But first, she must fulfill my neglected urges. Maybe, I should step out of my comfort zone and imitated Buster’s impersonal relationship in regards to women and sex. After all, it was just an ordinary housekeeper I’d soon be bopping.

I opened the bathroom door and stepped into Lydia’s bedroom. Suddenly, I sensed a presence directly behind me.

“Hey!” I yelled.

Before I could turn completely around, a fierce punch to my diaphragm crumpled me forward, which forced the breath from my lungs. Then a Heimlich-type squeeze expelled out whatever oxygen remained. I dropped down to the pale pink carpet, and then my body was shoved into the deep plush pile. A yellow box of plastic wrap protruded from under the bed. Strands of dark brown hair dangled in my peripheral vision as a knee was roughly jabbed into my back while my arms were painfully wrenched together like turkey drumsticks.

Wasn’t the housekeeping bitch thrilled to meet me?

After a few more seconds without oxygen, I experienced the sensation of entering a house on a brutally hot summer day and only seeing black and gray images, with color and light gradually vacating the premises and quickly replaced by despair and bad vibes.

With my chin still aching from the fall, I endured new carpet burns to stare into the floor-length closet mirrors to figure out what the hell was going on! I watched Toilet Paper Chick quickly hogtie my wrists using the rolled up plastic food wrap. It sickened me how easy she accomplished the task—a common expression one attributed to a “professional.”

Oh God!

She obviously performed this a few times.

I now recalled Lydia mentioning a stalker harassing her. Big deal! I never thought further into it because every celebrity had an undesirable fan base.

So this weird woman was Lydia’s stalker.

What was I supposed to say? Or scream?

Also, words required air to be voiced, and air was a natural resource I currently lacked. Plus, I’d need to recite from a Stephen King script to penetrate her contaminated mind and convince her to stop. In the mirror, her solemn purposeful eyes briefly met my panicky ones. She obviously had an important job to do and no time for chitchat.

My tiny shallow breaths now made me dizzy and nauseous. I closed my eyes for just a second to pull my senses together, but I soon felt myself slowly doze off. My over-heated body felt like if I didn’t get out of the Jacuzzi soon, I’d soon drown.

Drown! I snapped my eyes open.

Crazy lady gently rolled me onto my back, and I greedily gulped air even though every breath hurt like hell. My diaphragm stilled ached from where she struck me with the force of a drunken stuntman. My arms continued tugging at my shoulders from my body weight, causing me to arch forward. I feared my arms would soon be disjointed like when I busted up a chicken to fit it into a soup pot.

Man, the pain was a killer!

T.P. Chick appeared to hesitate. Will she change her mind and set her idol free or did she have something more nefarious planned? She gently straddled my groin area and deliberately not bear weight on me. The typical Monty Davis stunned expression of adoration returned; unfortunately, it only lasted seconds. Crazy Lady burrowed her nose into my chest, loudly sniffed my cologne and moaned pleasurably.

Okay, it still fed the ego of a dying man to know the ladies still dug him.

She lifted her head, and her eyes were still closed, but her greedy smile seemed full of genuine satisfaction.

Creeeeeepy!

She was demented and I was doomed.

She finally opened her blue-gray eyes, with her smile changing to a forced tightness, which dispersed the remaining warmth in the room and infused my bones with a rigor mortise chill.

She was getting scarier.

“Oh, Monty,” she cried.

My teeth started to chatter.

“Why did it have to be you?” she pleaded.

I reflexively shrugged, causing intense pain to my shoulders.

She shivered.

I was positive demonic hallucinations were commanding her to eliminate her beloved.

Me!

Dear God! Because my insecure psyche demanded total attention, I allowed a deranged stalker to overpower me so she could begin the initiation ritual to become “Satan’s” Number One Fan.

Chapter 2, Page 4

Sorry about missing the past few blogs. Last week, I sent my novel off for professional editing. Over a three-week period, I went through the entire manuscript. I used the editing corrections from the sample pages and saw my weaknesses (not staying in past tense) and I fixed them up. I also discovered that what I thought was Volume One, turned out to be Volume One and Two. My manuscript was too long, so it took me a day to decide where Volume One should end and Volume Two begin. The decision feels right. Also, it appears I’ve now written eleven volumes. This week’s writing topic: Historical reading. Since my manuscript was residing with another, I was now free for leisurely reading (which I rarely do when I’m working on something as I feel guilty for taking time away from my creation). At work, I continued reading “Life on the Mississippi” by Mark Twain. I’m enjoying it immensely. I have a small copy which I keep on me for reading at restaurants or in waiting rooms. Just the other day during my lunch break, I was reading a very scary chapter about back in the day in Munich, Bavaria, where it was the custom that a person must actually be dead before they buried him/her. Dah? I guess the grave robbers were finding scratch marks inside the coffin lid. Because of those occurrences, all the recent corpses were in a big room with a string tied to one finger and the other end of the string tied to a bell above. The watchman’s job was to stare at the corpses for movement and to listen for the bell to ring. I’m not a fan of scary material, but Mark Twain does tell some good stories. My lunch break was over and I finished the scary section. I then went to the bathroom and as I’m washing my hands, the bells start ringing. My heart nearly jumped out my chest, and then when I heard staff shout it’s a fire alarm, I started laughing. Coincidence? Synchronicity? I cannot say. I recommend “Life on the Mississippi” not just because of that story (Chapter 31) but because it is an interesting story. One of these days, I hope to travel the Mississippi River. I looked up on the Internet information about the Death Watcher in Munich, Bavaria, circa 1880s, and could not find anything. However, this would make a great novel or screenplay if someone would like to pursue it—who knows, Tim Burton or Johnny Depp may be interested in it. In “Life on the Mississippi,” I also read a family’s account of the battle of Vicksburg (imporant Civil War battle fought there with surrendering of the Confederates) and how during that 8-week siege, the citizens were pretty casual about being in the middle of the North and South. They would run to the caves depending on the sound of the cannons. This would also make an interesting story for a writer who doesn’t have a solid idea at the moment, also known as ICM (Inability to Create Magic). In the evenings, I’ve been reading poetry, specifically, “Changing Light,” edited by J. Ruth Gendler. The book is divided into the changes in the day—sunset, night, sunrise, etc; and the poems chosen deal with a specific topic. Very creative idea! There is some nice art work by Ms. Gendler. What I found interesting is the poems I was becoming attached to were by Rumi, who I feel writes longer versions of the Haiku. So, I got on the internet to learn more of Rumi, and wow did he have an interesting life. He lived from 1207 to 1273 and he was Persian, even though 3 countries claim him, but he is considered to be what is now known as Iran. He is well-known throughout the Middle East, and I’m kind of bummed out that we never knew of his poetry as I feel it is just as good as Angelou, Frost, Dickinson, Blake, Keats, Shakespeare, Psalms or L’Amour, etc. (Yes, Louis L’Amour wrote a book of poetry “Smoke from this Altar,” and a biography, “Education of a Wandering Man”—both were fantastic reads. At the end of “Wandering Man, he listed all the books he read given a particular year—very useful. (So Tough Guy, go to the bookstore and fork over some dough to be Literated.) If I had time, I would definitely write up a screenplay. But as you know, I have 11 novels to push, plus other novels and plays I’d like to do if I could quit my day job and focus on my writing all day. Also, if you live in my area, my serial killer skit, “Just Desserts,” will be performed by the MHS Drama Cub, 10/22, 10/23, and 10/24, at 7PM. I’m looking forward to seeing my words come alive. This week’s writing tip: Read about history. Current literature is great; it keeps us authors employed and the economy moving. But for my personal path of self-improvement, I enjoy reading historical fiction and nonfiction (they’re both sold at the bookstores). However, to me, it’s more enjoyable to read an author who was experiencing it first hand. For such a long time, I’ve wanted to read “Pliny’s Natural History—an account by a Roman of what the Romans knew and did and valued.” Also, historical novels are great, too. If you like creepy, then “Perfume: The Story of a Murdered” by Patrick Suskind, can teach you a lot about 18th Century France and especially interesting in how Perfumes were created back then…who knows, probably still today. But if you’re in a romantic mood, there is always the “Angelique” series by Sergeanne Golon where you’d learn about the Sun King, Louis IX and you’ll be exposed to a ton of other history—it’s a series don’t forget. And all writers should read poems on a regular basis—not just to connect to the poet’s feelings and passion and trying to figure things out, but also because you see and enjoy phrasing of words that are as delightful as eating the best chocolate ever. But more importantly, reading poems should be every writer’s daily affirmation of choosing the right word. By reading something entirely different, you might develop an idea for a poem, a short story, a novel or a screen play. Or take a trip somewhere because you read about it in a story. It’s all good.


*******All right! Mr. Celebrity will soon get some action. (For first time readers, please jump to the blog: Chapter One, Page One.)***


…I must be certifiably insane to perform on stage with actual people in the audience!

The worst cut of all was no fair maiden would wail in despair when dastardly Macbeth’s head is carried on a pole. Hell, Shakespeare never viewed Macbeth as a romantic lead. Why didn’t my friend Don Anthony pick Hamlet? Hamlet was a chick magnet and Shakespeare’s teacher pet. Mr. To Be or Not To Be was blessed with the ultimate universal appeal every human being could relate to: Doubts about doing the right thing. High school winter production, I acted the suffering, insecure Hamlet. My reviews proclaimed I was a natural on stage and should star in the next movie remake. Method acting was a breeze when your pathetic personal life matched Shakespeare’s greatest tragedy.

Twelfth grade! Yeech!

I hated thinking about my senior year, especially since I haven’t conquered my one shameful internal conflict. And because of my paranoia of anyone finding out about it, I turned down every persistent request from the alumni and reunion committees. My vow was to never step foot on my high school campus or be around those who knew me back then. My nightly prayers always included a P.S. of the tabloids never learning of her, either. I sighed. I may have matured since high school, but I never moved past to resolving that issue. After I fire Fremont, maybe I’ll discuss that tragic incident with my next therapist, Dr. Ruth.

I stared into the bathroom mirror. Inspection of my brown hair revealed further desertion of the troops and thinning of the army. Ugh, it was too soon to bring in the Rogaine!

I compelled myself to examine my face. Oh Lord, look at my eyes! The bags underneath were squeezing out every bit of blueness left in them! Ladies Home Journal will never again graciously describe these eyes as being sexy. This wasn’t fair! I ate healthy organic foods, I exercised with my personal trainer, Raul, several times a week, and more importantly, I didn’t smoke or used substances and enjoyed two glasses of wine each evening. I’m richer than…98-percent of the world population, but there was nothing I could do to halt the aging process. I refused to take the laser route. And face-lift, be damned; it was not natural—only narcistic women and insecure men did it. Truth be told, I was scared to try a simple chemical peel for fear of turning into a plastic surgery junkie like Fremont, who made quarterly pilgrimages to Dr. Bruno Swan, Hollywood’s A-list chop shop surgeon.

Man, I just turned forty but I still have not outgrown being Mr. Wishy-Washy—never making up my mind. If a deadline loomed, I allowed others to decide for me. If there was enough time, Stella’s guidance solved my every problem. The few times I made an important decision entirely on my own, immediately afterwards, I distrusted my choice and feared I’d get into an even bigger mess. This typically led to repeating the decision-making process until procrastination resulted in the situation taking care of itself. Decades of worry and paralysis not once provided an end result I was proud of or comfortable with. I sighed. I was exactly like good ol’ Charlie Brown.

Crap! I hate thinking about him and despised myself more for begging Mr. Ranger to cast me as Snoopy in You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown. It was my last performance in high school, and I desperately wanted to play Snoopy so the visiting casting agents could see I had range to play zany characters, not just the romantic lead or the tragic hero. But Mr. Ranger said I’d make a perfect Charlie Brown, and unfortunately, I was.

Since then, no other acting job sucked me deeply into the nuances of characterization like the role of Good ‘ol Charlie Brown. And sometimes…I don’t know…sometimes. I knew I sounded weird, but it was as if Brown’s personality never truly left me.

Chapter Two, Page 3

This week’s topic: Bookmarks. Not the paper kind with profound statements, cute pictures of kittens or with tassels or other dainty creations. I’m referring to the electronic bookmarks that are conveniently built into your computer. Gentle viewers (I think that was a common phrase used by Jane Austen or Harriet Beecher Stowe), if you are familiar with computer easing our writing life, then skip ahead to page 3 of Chapter 2. However, if you are navigating the Internet like Columbus on his first voyage, then stick with me kid and we’ll take that journey together. So what are electronic bookmarks and why should I waste my brain cells? Bookmarks are absolutely fantastic, especially if you’ve been on hundreds of web sites and found all this wonderful information. Instead of writing down the web site, and the numerous subheadings, with just a few clicks of your mouse, you can save the page you want and can access it at your leisure. There are also features that allow you to make subfolders. Let’s say, Writing for example. Under writing, I have agents, blogs, publishers, resources, misc. This summer I was planning my vacation and did not know where to go, just someplace in Southern California. Whoa! That was hours of looking up time. I make up a folder called Vacation: Then subfolders, Hollywood, Long Beach, Santa Monica (of note, these are not randomly chosen, they are areas in my novels where I planned to do a little research). So after viewing half a million web sites, I was able to compare and contrast and narrowed it down. I finally decided to spend a few days in San Simeon—I realized I could not handle the LA traffic, all the people, the central coast weather was most accommodating, and come on, I was on vacation from my writing, too. This week’s tip: How to access Bookmark. Pretend you’re already in a website looking for information. Go to top row that says “File, Edit, View History, Bookmark, etc.” Put your mouse on Bookmark, left click once, left click Bookmark this page.” A message box will appear, and save in the main folder and click Done. After you get about 20 of them, then make some folders. If you want to make folders, i.e,, writing, vacation, food, etc., then click from the top row Bookmark, left click once; left click once Organize Bookmarks, another message box will appear and left click once Bookmark menu (you may not have to because you’ll see down below a folder called New Folder). Then left click Bookmark Menu and right click it again. Then left click New Folder. A message box will appear that says New Folder. Where it says “Name” your folder, type the name of your folder, i.e., Writing. And then left click Add. You can then drag your files to that new folder, and later, make some new folders. And if you’re more adventurous, you can also have subheading in your main folders, i.e., under writing, you can have Editing, Agents, Blogs, etc. But I’ll let you experience joy in figuring that out.





****This young lady seems to be a fan of our Mr. Celebrity. How convenient. (For first time readers, please jump to the blog: Chapter One, Page One.)***



…TV Trade, last summer’s top-grossing film, which surprisingly received favorable reviews from the critics.



“Montgomery Davis!” She finally said in a melodious voice that was as rich and as deep as Norma’s famous chocolate peanut butter fudge. “I can’t believe it’s really you!”

“I can’t believe it, either!” I said returning her excitement. And boy was I excited. A luscious babe appeared out of nowhere to ease my boredom and rev up my lower torso.

“Sweetie,” I asked. “Do you know what I could really use right now?”

“I hope I do!” She grinned and lifted her eyebrows.

“Ah,” I paused. She seemed too eager. I pointed to the empty toilet paper dispenser. “How about giving me that package you’re clinging to like it’s a shield?” I wickedly grinned. “I promise I won’t bite.” I lied, feeling like the Big Bad Wolf making his move on Ravishing Red.

She tossed me the package and gave me a dead-on impression of Mary Richards’ irresistible expression of “silly me” that she reserved for Mr. Grant. Toilet Paper Chick left the bathroom without looking back and closed the door behind her. I then heard what sounded like banging against the bathroom door. I think it was her head. She wretchedly moaned, “Oh God. Oh God! Dear God!”

“Man, do I feel great!” I said.

After turning forty a few months ago, I feared I lost it, and Lydia’s frigid aloofness added to my insecurities. But now, in just a few short minutes, I was gonna get some, and that odd housecleaner appeared amply endowed to fulfill my lusty cravings. Afterwards, I’ll demonstrate my gratitude. After all, she was a devoted fan, plus conveniently nearby.

“Ms. Husky,” I said softly, “meet Mr. Horny.”

But after staring in the mirror at my over-the-hill, double-chinned, heavily wrinkled face, I had to accept my shelf life as a romantic icon was nearing its end.

Dear God! Please grant me more time in the Hollywood spotlight. There was nothing finer on this amazing planet than being an A-list celebrity. Forget about the million times I griped about minor inconveniences, like the lack of privacy and being unable to trust anyone. I never meant it; none of us stars did. It was an act to keep those low-life producers guessing. If we didn’t grumble about our fifteen-million movie deals with sideshow perks, then how could our agents convincingly demand twenty million and net of gross?

I sucked in my gut and scrutinized my saggy physique, which was deteriorating so quick that I’d be lucky if I get a puny five million for my next picture. I bet it won’t be the starring role, either. My fans will abandon me and start obsessing over the next up-and-coming hot young actor appearing on the silver screen. They’ll forget I once existed. Who could adore this haggard face that looked as if it used all two million frequent flyer miles? Has my worn-out face finally evolved to what film lovers charitably call “character?” I bet in two years, my movie roles will consist of the harmless toothless old-timer, like Walter Brennan’s, without the unique country accent or the intense gleam.

What if Lydia’s exotic housekeeper is my very last swooning female?

Character actor…oh shit!

Even though I was clueless my leading man roles would soon dry up, my subconscious sure in hell knew. Why else would I stupidly accept the role of Macbeth?

Macbeth!

I must be certifiably insane to perform on stage with actual people in the audience!