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.