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.
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