Chapter One, Page 8

This week’s topic: Movies. I’m switching it up because I really don’t think I can add more about the writing process until I get some reader input. There’s a book by Janet Evanovich titled, “How I write.” It is full of just about everything a new writer needs to know. So movies! I just saw the Inglorious Basterds, and I enjoyed it very much. I’m guessing here, but I think us writers get a bigger kick out of Quentin’s Tarantino’s movies than nonwriters. The pacing of the movie is brilliant, some scenes, especially the opening shot is breathtakingly beautiful, but most of the scenery is austere. The characters are also emotionally bountiful and other times aloof. The main issue I have with the movie is the outcome of the burning theater scene; I think Quentin pushed “suspended disbelief” a little too far. Because of it, my movie experience was like being at a wonderful feast and having the greatest time and then someone walks up and sucker punches me. The other issue I have with the movie is with the title. There is a war movie called Inglorious Bastards, which was made in 1978, but the plot is different. As a writer, I would never use a title that has been used before. Where’s the originality? Also, when someone is thinking of my work, why should I deliberately allow myself to be compared to someone else’s piece of work? I guess I’m selfish that way. Don’t think I’m hating on Quentin; I’m a big fan of his, having seen just about all of his movies. I was one of the few people who got the Kill Bill volumes. The summer before that movie came out, I had watched just about all of Toshiro Mifune movies. When people criticized Kill Bill for its violence, I piped in that Quentin was on the mark and accurate to the samurai genre. This week’s tip: Treat yourself to watching one of Toshiro’s movies. A good choice would be The Seven Samurai—which I feel is superior to the sentimental The Magnificent Seven. My personal favorite is Yojimbo, which is a version of Dashiell Hammett’s “Red Harvest,” an excellent short story. (Dashiell Hammett also wrote The Maltese Falcon and the Thin Man of Nick and Nora mysteries—not to be confused with the lovely teenage comedy, Nick and Nora’s Infinite Playlist). I still recommend seeing Inglorious Basterds while it’s showing on the big screen—that movie is too huge to watch on TV. And if you do see Inglorious Basterds, I have one word for you—Bon-jour-no!

****I hope this guy is being treated for his OCD.****New viewers, please jump to Chapter One, Page one.

…Another tiny hole has formed at a corner fold.

Thinking last year’s letter would be her last one, I photocopied Stella’s “Dear John/F.U. Monty” letter to keep in my wallet. I left the original at home, under my bed in the container full of Stella’s letters—over 300 of them. Unfortunately, the first time I made a rash decision, it backfired on me and resulted in the worst twelve months of my entire life. I don’t care if this current letter turns to dust because I’m leaving it in my wallet until she sends me another, which could be tomorrow…but probably never.

My darling Stella! You’ve been my divining-rod muse for twenty years. Not once have a made a big decision without your input.

Why did you stop loving me?

I carefully opened the yellow letter, and her handmade Valentine sticker fluttered to the rug. I picked it up and kissed the initials inside the little red heart. It’s killing me that you don’t write me anymore. Without your wisdom, Stella, I’m just Super-Celebrity Dude dining on a kryptonite-arugula salad.

I sat down on the edge of the tub to re-read her letter for the hundredth time.

February 4^th

Dearest One. A very happy Valentine’s Day to you.

Warm greetings from the Santa Monica pier.

I’m still irked by that reference to Santa Monica. Stella sent me letters from all over California, and her last letter just happens to be postmarked near my own back yard.

Another era has fizzled since I last wrote. Pardon me for not accomplishing any of my substandard goals. Every afternoon as I slug down my morning cup of Java, I meticulously choose which pain in the ass deserves my token effort of disagreeableness. Today, you won the coin toss.

Numero forty years old, right?

Sorry about no birthday card. Blame it on my misguided delusion to shun you forever.

I still can’t figure out what I did last summer to piss her off to the point where she halted all communications? There were way too many occasions to choose from when “Monty Davis” received bad publicity because I ticked off some idiot or some insecure minority group when I voiced my god-given “opinion.”

Which reminds me.

My lawyers need to hurry up and sue that backstabbing SOB reporter for a copy of our tape-recorded interview. Once it’s made public, the Hispanics will have proof that I never insulted them the way the unscrupulous Crest phrased it. I’m fortunate to have a good publicist like Evan who smoothed talk that Chicano group to postpone creating a big media stink until I first get the tapes. It would be cool if Evan comes up with a brilliant excuse to get me out of the guest of honor duty at the Cinco de Mayo festival in Orange Cove, California, wherever that is.

Damn! How in the hell am I supposed to find Orange Cove if I can’t find the toilet paper?

Get a grip, Miles! Tracy can make all the arrangements since that’s what I pay her for. Once she tracks Lydia’s ass down, then I’ll have Tracy rent a government satellite to zoom in on Stella’s location.

I don’t think regular people have the same type of problems as me—my best friend of nearly twenty years treating me like a ‘nobody’ and never telling me the reason why?

Chapter One, Page 7

This week’s topic: Don’t unplug your computer while running updates—cost money, time and you miss your blog deadline. Actually, I though we’d talk about music. What does music have to do with writing? It helps set the tone as well as may lead to the theme of your story. Before the era of burning a CD, I had cassette tapes with one song repeated many times. When writing a scene of your main character’s heart broken for the first time, there is no better song that will put you in the mood than Sneaker Pimps, “6 Undergrown.” You’ll want to cut your wrists. Of course, Hank Williams, “I’m so lonesome I could cry,” is a good choice when your character gives up hope that the relationship could begin again. Bryan Adam’s “Victim of Love,” the song and video is another good choice of being caught up in full-scale depression. When I hand wrote my ten volumes in an eight-month period, it helped having the Classic Rock station in the background. However, while working on the second and third versions of Volume Three and hearing Duran Duran’s “Violence of Summer,” I knew it was the perfect theme song for that novel—fun, frisky and being out of your element. And then Duran Duran’s “Midnight Sun,” was the theme for my sixth novel. Their lyrics of, “…you could be someone I don’t know at all,” is exactly what that entire novel is all about. Perfect! This week’s tip: Make up your own soundtrack for your chapters or scenes. It might jump start your mood when you don’t feel like writing. Also, whenever I hear Framptom’s “Do you feel like we do?” I’m compelled to make a sneaky grin. When you read Volume Four and Eight, you’ll be grinning, too.

****This guy obsesses over sex…as in lack of sex, as well as hung up over everything else.****

…and who subscribes to decent magazines.”

In another cupboard below the sink, the desired toilet paper and/or reading material were a no-show, but I was astounded to see two shelves full of about four different types of blow dryers, half a dozen curling irons, and enough cosmetics, hair gels and sprays that could stock a beauty supply store. All these products had been stamped “Courtesy of Autumn Fires--beauty products exclusively for red heads." This was the main company Lydia models for, and the fringe benefit is never having to buy anything. This may account for why she continues to be listed in Forbes’s as one of the wealthiest women in the world. Which in my simple mind doesn’t make much sense. Is she wealthy because she’s cheap? Is that why she lives in this run-down condo? Does she only buy toilet paper when it goes on sale?

I opened a tiny cupboard next to the bathtub and saw an empty shelf. Elementary, Dr. Watson. I’ve deduced that’s where Lydia keeps her T.P. I glanced at the tissue box covered with white crocheted yarn.

Ah, never mind. I have no urge to use the toilet and less of a desire to see Lydia or her fake magazine faces again.

God, I’m bored.

What new boring thing can I do while holed up in this crappy little condo?

How about quit obsessing over Lydia’s neglect of me, no matter how bad it burns? I should call Lydia’s bitchy personal assistant and demand that Miss Supermodel explain why I’ve been ill used. It’s been over two weeks since the last phone call, and before I could give Lydia the business, she rationalized her neglect of me was due to long days of filming and frequently traveling to different location shots.

That’s total BS! I reminded Lydia that it was I who stupidly convinced the studio to hire her for that bit part, and it was also I who wrote her four measly lines of dialogue comprising of two- to three-word statements.

Before Lydia hung up, she half-heartedly promised to write.

Liar! She hasn’t done squat to invigorate our romance, so I won’t hold my breath expecting a damn love letter from her…and if I ever did get one, I bet her personal assistant wrote it, not Lydia.

Lydia is nothing like my darling Stella who sent me hundreds of letters over the past twenty years!

Okay, it’s been a year since I received one, but if I dwell on that, I’ll definitely become more lonely and depressed.

Screw Lydia!

I mean, let some other idiot screw her.

After rehearsals tonight, I’ll run my lines with one of the witches as she runs her hands all over my neglected body.

Crap! I still have my weekly session with Fremont this afternoon. I bet one of his spies already tipped him off that my relationship with Lydia sank quicker than the Titanic.

Poor me.

After our session, I’ll pick up the latest Lazarus mystery, which is my true form of meditation. It’s the only way to forget about my demanding life when I absorb the new plot and figure out who-did-it by page ten. Of course, stopping at Marcel’s for dinner and sampling his latest French delicacy does go a long way in consoling my nonexistent heartache.

Lucky me!

Wait…hold on!

Stella’s letter!!!

Even better! I finally have something interesting to read in my temporary hovel.

Since I obsessively keep Stella’s most recent letter tucked inside my wallet as a talisman, I carefully removed the worn sheet of yellow legal paper. Darn! Another tiny hole has formed at a corner fold.

Chapter, Page 6

This week’s topic: Editing (Part 1). I don’t think any writer enjoys the actual process of editing, just sitting there, going over every single word, over and over and over.... However, we get off seeing that our sentences now run smoother…the words aren’t stilted anymore. In a sense, we’re no different than carpenters who sand down a rough edge. Self-respect and perseverance helps in the editing process because you’re going to want to repeatedly quit, thinking you’re never good enough. I’ve read how many writers handle the editing process, and it comes down to you’ll probably edit a piece at least 15 times. So this is how I do it: Of note, this method is for fiction writing--nonfiction, scripts or poems are an entirely different manner. 1) First draft, as I mentioned previously is by pen and paper—using the computer shifts your brain back and forth from the creative to the editing hemispheres of your brain—don’t edit on your first draft because you’ll have plenty of opportunity for that later; and besides, you’re supposed to be in the creative mode. 2) Type your work. Set it aside (try to set aside what you’ve last written for a minimum of a day, a week or longer is better for editing—you’ll have fresh eyes). 3) Then in double space format, edit from the last sentence of a chapter, to the first sentence. 4) From the first sentence to the last sentence. 5) Then format in 1-1/2 space with the page layout set for two columns, edit from the last sentence to the first (you’ll be surprised at how those inefficient words shake themselves loose). 6) Then from first to last sentence. To be continued…. This week’s tip: It’s very important to keep track of where you are in the editing process, especially if you have twenty-plus chapters in your novel. I’ll send you the grid I use, if you E-mail me at reneesbook@gmail.com, with the subject “Request editing grid.”

*****Isn’t it sad that the man who has everything, continues to expect everything?****

……and became use to the many, many…numerous quiet moments.

Lydia’s odd behavior was illogical because any gal with a pulse would brag to the nation that she was Monty Davis’ lover.

Maybe if women converse about subjects I’d be interested in, I’d respect them more.

And why is it so damn difficult for California to produce one woman who has deep thoughts?

I rolled up the magazine, wanting to smash it against something. Actually, I’d get off if I could swat a certain red-headed beauty. Maybe it would help shake off this feeling that she’s been using me.

But what is she using me for?

I studied Lydia’s magazine photo for more clues as to her true nature. Her perm must have been wound too tight for choosing to associate with that passionflower statement. Or is she remembering the wee hours of New Year’s Eve when she drank too much champagne and seduced me with a fervent passion? I now blame her horniness on the champagne because there was no drinking involved those few occasions we had sex since New Years with Lydia steadily losing her momentum of enjoyment. I was tipsy one that last time we made out, and the sex started off as…just okay…and ended...scary.

I’m not bragging when I say I’m use to better babes in bed.

And shit! I deserve a better lay!

Lydia is like some Jekyll and Hyde sex goddess. Her sexiness is reserved for just the magazine covers. Because when we had sex, she rarely said a word and barely moved a muscle. And the woman poses for magazines with articles that describe ways to drive your man wild. Doesn’t she read any of them?

I know I get hot when my lover yells, “I fucking love you!” Usually, I dislike women cursing, but during sex, vulgar words are acceptable. Unfortunately, sex with Lydia was merely adequate and progressed to nonexistent. My efforts to satisfy the frigid frizzy beauty were wasted because she never lost herself in the scene. Her nipples remained flat, and no creamy honey filled her warm hive.

She either has serious sexual hang ups or her reality is the fake person posing in those photo shoots. During down-and-dirty, true blue sexual intercourse, a gal is supposed to give herself to her man, not remain in total control the entire time.

What’s her problem?

No, what’s my problem?

And why can’t I be satisfied?

Before I turned forty, I decided to change the direction of my life with a goal to finally commit to marr…ah…to be in a stable relationship that should last longer than six months.

Okay, I want to get married!

And stupid me, I actually believed Lydia was my perfect mate.

Maybe every man in the world desires Lydia, but not this man.

Why not! What does she lack?

I can’t think of anything.

What do I want from a relationship?

I haven’t a clue…but my gut knows there should be something more.

So what is the “more” I long for?

Who the hell knows!

Okay, I’ve wasted four and a half months. But I’m positive that when I seriously think about marriage again, I’ll need to date the woman for at least two years, and it wouldn’t hurt to stay a few days in her home either. However, enough time has passed to confirm that Lydia ain’t the right gal for me. I shoved the magazines back into the cupboard and continued on my search for the elusive toilet paper.

“What I actually desire, Lord,” I said out loud, “is a real woman who…whose conversations aren’t boring and…and…and who subscribes to decent magazines.”

Chapter One, Page 5

This week’s topic: To be or not to be a writer. (Okay, it’s lame!) I’ve read many times that writer’s are born with the ability or talent and that it cannot be taught. Bummer! In my case, I knew I had a connection to writing after reading my essays out loud in front of my fourth grade class and observed how they appreciated and looked forward to hearing my words. I can remember after watching cartoon or children’s movie, my little mind continuing to write sequels or change parts of the story that I didn’t like. So maybe I was born with the writing gene. HOWEVER, for a college assignment I observed an AA meeting. I am ashamed to say I was jealous of the beauty of the words the alcoholics used to describe the heartaches they caused to themselves and to their loved ones. No politician or religious person has ever moved me as much as those recovering alcoholics and I believe they could be writers, too. Maybe writing is a method to share our passion. Years went by, and I spent uncountable hours writing in different genres (never a novel, though); some of my writings were modestly successful and some you can chalk up to OJT. While on vacation many years ago, I read several books by the most popular romance writers. Truthfully, they were the most boring books I have ever read and the characters were flat...not real people at all. I made up my mind to write the kind of romance novel that I, yes that I, want to read and deserve to read. Well, ten volumes later, here we are. This week’s tip: I can easily waste your time by asking you to write about some mindless prompt, but how will that help you find your passion? Give this a try: If recently or some time in the near future, you become irritated by what you’ve read, watched on TV/movie or seen in an advertisement, then FIX IT! Make it exactly how you want it to be. Go through the writer’s stages--Visualize, Rough draft (preferably pen and paper); retype onto computer; research; edit it repeatedly; and wait at least two weeks and then edit it some more. Finally, analyze the feelings you experienced during this little test. By then, I will become clear to you if the writing life is for you.

***If a Supermodel can’t make this guy happy, then no one can.***

…proved her lack of libido wouldn’t earn her a cover on Compost Weekly.

A copy of Women’s Esteem magazine distanced itself from the pack. I wonder which Supermodel is on this issue?

Surprise! Surprise! Its narcistic Lydia with her curly red hair teased out as large as a beach ball. She looks ridiculous with her tongue touching her top lip in a pathetic attempt at sexiness. Obviously, it was the photographer’s idea because Lydia never tried getting passionate with me.

Well that’s a lie. Our first time was magic.

Men are dopes for buying into her phony bony sexless image. And what was that stylist thinking by selecting that horrible green Lycra tube outfit? It minimizes Lydia’s nonexistent cleavage and total lack of curves. She resembles a green-striped kayak which coincidentally matches her stiff personality.

I don’t understand why this photo of Lydia is familiar to me, but I’m positive I’ve seen it before. Is it because Lydia’s $30,000-a-day smile appears genuinely heartfelt? I was the recipient of that glorious smile…but only in public, never in private. AND…I specifically remember not seeing it when I gave her that expensive black nightgown for her birthday, which she never wore.

In the magazine photo, I noticed a green doughnut-shaped barrette stuck between her coiled strands of hair. The color of the barrette reminded me of the unusual jade necklace Lydia wore the first night we met. It was the AmFAR benefit last New Year’s Eve, and that night ended just as wonderful as when I attended my first Oscars.

But the second day and since then, Lydia was…a bore.

How could a once-promising passionate relationship turn into two passing acquaintances who shared a one-night stand?

I can’t be the only one who thinks this situation is weird?

Actually, she’s just plain weird.

Whenever Lydia steps foot in public, she receives almost as much adulation as I do...or use to. But when it’s just the two of us, she’s silent and practically invisible, like a ghost. The only conversations she initiated with me revolved around her worthy subjects like AIDS charities, endangered animals, and which stocks have the highest P/E ratio.

Most of the time she watched that financial guy, Louis some body, and all the National Geographic-type shows. At first I found it adorable when she stifled her tears while the big bad predator caught his innocent prey. But after hours of watching scene after scene of lions viciously disemboweling foolish antelopes, Lydia became annoying to the point that I yelled at her to change the damn channel or else I was out of there.

I should have walked out the door and never looked back. If I had, maybe this miserable feeling would have gone away by now.

Of all my women, Lydia turned out to be the biggest drag, even worse than Cindy. Cindy was my girlfriend from beauty school long before I became the world famous, Monty Davis, movie star. And I’ve remained loyal to her even though everyone I know dislikes her. Actually, I’m stupidly loyal to all the people I care about; however, they forget about being loyal to me when I need them the most.

I covered Lydia’s photo with my shoe. God! She was such a bore during those few weeks in the Big Apple. Added to that disillusionment, she was neurotic about us being seen together in public. We received many invites to attend private functions where we wouldn’t encounter the paparazzi, but Lydia passed on them. For the most part, we were secluded in hotels where she needle-pointed wall hangings of endangered animals for charity raffles or else studied her fashion magazines for a pretend pop quiz. It goes against the actor’s code to have periods of dead silence, and eventually I stopped getting antsy and became use to the many, many…numerous quiet moments.