Chapter One, Page 4

Today’s topic of conversation: Writer’s Block. I rarely experience traditional writer’s block. The times I didn’t want to write, I also didn’t want to do any of my usual fun things either. I’d just veg out in front of the TV. But taking multivitamins, iron tablets and prescription medications sorted out that problem. I think the word writer’s block is a misnomer. I refer to it as the Inability to Create Magic (ICM). This is what we artists do—create something out of nothing. I’ve experienced ICM many times. I tend to be impatient and forget that my story will reveal itself to me at it’s own pace. A hard lesson to remember. You may be experiencing ICM because you have not thoroughly visualized where you are in your story and where the next scene should take you. So if you’re in the midst of ICM, do something else. Organize your notes, hard copies and computer files; review your research; highlight all your verbs and prepositional words; or study the thesaurus. Today’s tip: I cure ICM by placing myself in a location without access to pen or paper, a computer or my voice recorder, such as washing the dishes, taking a shower or driving my car. I keep the current scene in the back burner of my mind, and when the passion hits, I wipe my hands, dry my body or safely pull to the side of the road. I make every effort to capture this gift, because our muses are like fireworks—beautiful and awesome but vanishes quickly.

****Our main character tends to be self-absorbed. Wouldn’t you agree?****

…I bet models say the same thing about us actors.

However, I may have hundreds of videotapes in my house, but Monty Davis only acts in fifty of them. Actually, there are about ten of my performances worth viewing. The other movies were for spending money or because I cut a deal so I could make the serious movies I cared about. Fortunately, the boring movies were fun to make because of my co-stars and the crew. Hey, if you have to act in a stupid movie for a measly ten million, then get your friends involved in it.

From the cupboard, I pulled out a few more magazines. Oh lovely! One magazine claims to possess “357 beauty tips” and the other boasts “340 fashion styles.” Wow! A difficult choice. My tennis shoe made that decision by kicking the magazines onto the rug.

I sighed. After two monotonous days of the redhead staring back at me from the many photographs on the walls and magazines placed throughout this dump, I’m finally forced to agree with Fremont when he criticized that Saint Lydia leans towards egotism. If it wasn’t for her photos and magazine covers, I doubt I could remember her at all. Lydia’s becoming a pale memory that is fading faster than a dollop of whipped cream on a cocoa latte.

During our short time together, she displayed weird, mute-like OCD behavior but nothing that would make the hairs on the back of my neck stand in formation. Actually, she was unlike any of my ex-women as Lydia never made demands on me or pressured me into doing her favors. Not once did she ask about my previous lovers or want to discuss the direction of our relationship. I initially hoped our relationship would lead to a long successful marriage. But due to her shyness and being a woman of few words, it became difficult to know the real Lydia. I naively assumed the first phase of intimacy with Lydia would begin slow and then gradually progress to hotsy-totsy, and finally culminating to: Vavoom! Unfortunately, it took the opposite course—the hot wild sex occurred only during our first night together, and after that, sex went downhill to almost apathy.

Lydia left for Africa after my birthday the first week of February. I held fast to the belief that she possessed admirable qualities every man would want for a proper wife and devoted mother. I rationalized that my feelings were similar to a groom on the first day of his pre-arranged marriage—my bride will grow to love me more than life itself. Only time will determine if Destiny made the perfect union. And finally, I pray that the sex will keep on getting better.

Hah!

Lydia’s two-week job in Africa extended to over two months. I was banking on when she returns, she’ll be as horny as a sailor who’s been out to sea for four months.

And still I waited.

Or use to, because now I could care less if I mattered to Lydia.

I now noticed on one of the magazines, there was a caption over Lydia’s waist: “Don’t be a Passive Flower, become a PASSION FLOWER!”

Isn’t it ironic that particular statement is plastered over Lydia’s lower region? How is it possible for a boring person like her to become world famous? It's not because of my acting ability that I’ve been the Number One celebrity in the entire world, but because I’m fascinating and fun to be around. I remember gossip a few years ago of a Supermodel sleeping her way to a major magazine cover. I can rule Lydia out because my experience between the sheets with the frizzy-haired mannequin revealed her lack of libido wouldn’t earn her a cover on Compost Weekly.

Chapter One, Page 3

This week’s writing topic: Organization. I prefer to do major rewrites and editing on hard copy (paper). Last week, I was putting in my changes and was surprised (Ha! More like furious) to learn that when I typed those changes on my computer several months ago I never saved the electronic file. Tip: Every time you open a new file, rename it with the current date., ie, Chapter One, 7-18-09 and then Chapter One, 7-19-09. And save all the files, no matter if there are 20 just for a single chapter. You never know when you will need them. Same with the hard copy. Keep all of them. I had to retrieve my chapter from the file box and now get the fun in retyping it completely.

***Will this Monty/Miles/Montgomery character ever find the elusive T.P.?

.....Variety’s headlines will read: “Monty Davis, the new Ed Wood.”

S****! Even if Don Anthony hires the best set director, cinematographer and a half dozen production assistants, my film will still be as disastrous as “Plan 9 from Outer Space.” D******! Not to mention, I’ll be responsible for the hundreds of people involved in making a 110-minute film. Oh brother! I have no experience hiring crew members or auditioning actors! What if my friends show up? How can I tell them they’re not right for the part?

I just can’t say, “Don’t call us, we’ll call you”!

I grabbed my stomach again.

Toilet paper. Toilet paper. You’d think it would be in here with all the cupboards in this bathroom?

I remembered what my mother said during times like these.

“Miles, honey,” she’d say in her soft sweet voice that my boyhood friends all wished their own moms had. “If I was a cigarette lighter, where would I be?”

Every time we had to go somewhere, I’d quickly search for her glasses or wallet but took my sweet ass time hunting for her cigarettes or lighter.

When I was fourteen, her doctor diagnosed her fainting spells as symptoms of diabetes. From then on, her diabetic medication was added to the list of items misplaced daily. Surprisingly, she never lost her keys, which was very convenient since she was a motel manager.

Oh crap! I need to stop remembering Mom and start forgetting Lydia. If Fremont finds out I blew yesterday fixating on my dead mother’s birthday, he’ll want to admit me to a trendy inpatient psychiatric facility, and if I don't, he’ll threaten to inform the tabloids. The headline will read: “Monty Davis finally cracks up! Read celebrity shrink’s latest self-help book on how he glued Mr. Romance back together.”

I opened the cupboard above the toilet and saw a large clear plastic container with a four-inch red cross painted on its side. Surprisingly, it appeared to be well stocked with first-aid items. Wow! Who knew Lydia was that conscientious? I naturally assumed her idea of an emergency was flying in her personal manicurist to work damage control on a chipped acrylic nail.

Always the optimist, I tried the cupboard under the sink. There were cleaning products and clear plastic containers which appeared to be full of feminine hygiene stuff.

“Let’s try door number three.”

The next cupboard over was a no-show for the toilet paper, but I did discover a stack of magazines.

Excellent! Since being imprisoned at Lovely Lydia’s, I finally have something to read besides my Macbeth script. Late last night, the cable was down, and I was forced to glance through the fashion and home decorating magazines which were conspicuously placed throughout her condo. After scanning a few pages of that drivel, my mind went numb. On a positive note, I did have a restful sleep. In Lydia’s bookcase by her desk, there were many serious books, including the Bible, but I’ve been too uneasy to read anything of substance.

I kicked the magazines onto the rug, hoping for People magazine. Even though my most loyal fans would never describe me as…ah…smart, I’m so desperate that I’d even settle for Newsweek or The New Yorker.

Alas! My ill luck persists—more tiresome women’s magazines with Lydia's springy red hair and blue jean eyes gracing all the covers. Are Supermodels so narcisstic that they are compelled to display their fake faces throughout their homes? I bet models say the same thing about us actors.

Chapter One, Page 2

To get onto the writer's Blog sites, I must discuss aspects of writing. Right now it's a little frustrating as I could not get my font to be cohesive throughout the paragraphs. A dedicated writer will persevere...and I did.

***Now then, let's see what our fine fellow is up to now.***

...However, following his advice is an entirely different matter.

My stomach started to ache, which only occurs when I consciously think of Lydia.

Dang! Too bad she's in Africa; otherwise, I'd call and ask: "Where's the Charmin?" In about an hour, Tracy, my personal assistant is bringing me fast food from Spago's. Mental note to myself: Tell her to get me some damn T.P.!

Every time I'm in this dull bathroom, the only word that comes to mind is "Why?"

The porcelain sink, tub and toilet were all the color of green puke. The rug, walls and cupboard were off-white;, probably Lydia's conceit so the surroundings will match her complexion. Hiding the toilet and bathtub from bedroom onlookers was a large opaque glass partition, the color of...poop.

Man, oh man. What a dump!

I bet the mind of the lowest-paid Vogue intern would burst once Miss Supermodel Extraordinaire is exposed as the owner of this boring blah blah bathroom. And none of my devoted fans would ever believe that I, Montgomery Davis, would be standing in an ordinary putrid bathroom in a run-down condo, located in Anyplace, U.S.A.

Hmmm. If I remember correctly, the script for Corduroy Carrot was about an ordinary American family. And, there's this critical scene of the teenager overly enjoying himself in his mother's bathroom. If I do direct that movie, I'll make it easy on myself by having the set designer copy Lydia's bathroom exactly as is. We'll even include those handmade light green trinket boxes on the counter and don't forget that stupid-looking bottle covered with white crochet. A good actor, and future director, doesn't let anything go to waste.

Well, one worry resolved, leaving me with five million other details to obsess about. Man, oh man! If I screw up, my future credits will list me as the worst director in history. Variety's headline will read: "Monty Davis, the new Ed Wood."

Chapter One, Page 1

“Good grief! Where’s the toilet paper?”

I stared at the empty toilet paper holder next to the green toilet and hoped a new roll would magically appear.

That’s right! Less than an hour ago while on the balcony, I used the cardboard tube to spy on that overly affectionate young couple in the park across the street. I enjoyed being sneaky, too, just like all those paparazzi buzzards.

Suddenly, my gut cramped up, meaning only a few more seconds to get on my mark. Maybe Lydia’s ugly bathroom is causing my stomach pain? I wish I knew what crime I committed to be stuck in this dump. Since meeting Ms. Supermodel on New Year’s Eve, I blamed the champagne sloshing in my skull for choosing her as my lover. Unfortunately, my intention was to marry her, and I’m so damn lucky that boneheaded idea didn’t pan out. After four and a half months, Lydia is still a stranger to me, and I don’t want to associate with her anymore.

I’ve never viewed myself as a needy man, but why would I continue a downhill relationship with the dullest woman in the universe? Plus, she doesn’t have the basic necessities, like edible food, interesting reading material and, more importantly, toilet paper?

Even though eating disorders are the first requirement in being a Supermodel, these gals still need to eat, read and take a crap!

And the tabloids continue to proclaim me as the freakiest celebrity.

Hah!

Every week, my therapist, John Fremont, nags that Lydia isn’t the right gal for me. I suppose I should listen to his advice for once considering he’s been my psychiatrist for the past two-and-aalf years. Okay, this afternoon I’ll let him preach. However, following his advice is an entirely different matter.