Chapter 2, Page 2

This week’s subject: Trying something different. This past week I worked on a script for the local high school Drama class. They’re putting on a creepy Halloween show. I tried my hand at a new type of genre—Horror. For ten years now, I’ve spent most of my energy on my novel, the romantic comedy series. When the day comes that I can quit my job and devote all my time to writing, I would also like to pursue some of the other plays and novels I’ve developed plots for. But my time is a limited resource, so I work on what I enjoy the most. A few weeks ago, I gave the drama teacher a 1-1/2 page synopsis of my skit (serial killer loose in the forest—it’s for two actors, approximately ten minutes long; E-mail me at reneesbook@gmail.com if you’re interested in purchasing it). I’m not the type of person who watches scary movies unless my favorite actor is in it, but that does not mean I don’t know how to scare the crap out of a person. The Drama teacher liked the synopsis, and as I mentioned, I worked on the script, which was revised four or five times. Future writers of the world---don’t say I never told you that rewriting is probably about 60-70 percent of our job. But I’m proud to say, my script looks polished and I really like what I did and one lady I know refused to read after the second page. I asked if she didn’t like it, but she said it scared her too much to read further. In a few weeks, I’ll get to see young actors perform it on stage, and I hope to scare the audience. This week’s tip: If you’re working on a long writing project, take a break and try a short little something something that may be a different genre for you. Make up your own commercial or tiny skit, and then hone in on it until you feel the pride of a job well done. Even the shortest piece of writing will benefit you in the long run when you edit it a minimum of four times. You’ll start developing your own writing style, author’s voice and tone. Or call up your local high school drama instructor. They can always use short skits which are relevant to teenagers or makes references to today’s topics—in my script, I mentioned an MP3 player and an English assignment of having to write a Japanese Haiku, which means high school students may identify with my script more and I hope to earn “props.”

***Great! Someone new has entered the story. Let’s hope she’s not as neurotic as our main character. (For first time readers, please jump to the blog: Chapter One, Page One.)***

…Or twenty years ago?

And why didn’t that friggin’ Lydia mention the most delicious housekeeper in the entire universe might drop by?

Actually, Lydia rarely spoke. We had one interesting conversation. We both commiserated how our fathers’ died too soon—my dad before I was born and Lydia’s when she was an infant. A few times, Lydia spoke with pride about a cousin whose obsession with Monty Davis was verging on cult-like status. Plus, her other cousin was a police officer who received many awards for fearless bravery. From what I remembered, Lydia’s cousins sounded like kooks, and I never want to be stuck in a dark alley with either of them.

I was tired of complaining to Lydia we were living like shut-ins, but she rationalized her Monty-obsessed cousin would be traumatized seeing photos of the two of us together. Not once, did I buy her phony bony story. Besides cooking, my other favorite hobby was reading and collecting mystery novels. I felt qualified to deduce the real reason Lydia lost interest in me was because she was being threatened by one of my psycho fans.

But that was ancient history.

In front of me, the transfixed beautiful housekeeper continued staring at me as her strong fingers squeezed the TP. I greedily smiled anticipating future physicality between the covers. She wasn’t wearing fingernail polish either, and I searched but did not see a wedding ring.

No surprise there. I bet Ms. Fem-machismo could pussy whip the ‘Cripts’ toughest homeboy as he pleaded for a touch of her sleek kindness.

God, I needed a woman so bad! It had been two and a half long months without the good stuff. If I didn’t get some soon, I won’t have enough energy to think straight.

I raised my eyebrows slightly at the human statue. She appeared lost in her own thoughts; hopefully, her goals were similar to mine. Eventually, as with all of my women, I became bored with the deer-in-the-headlights skit.

“Yes?” I asked, folding up Stella’s letter.

“You’re…Monty Davis!” she mouthed.

“That’s right!” I said enthusiastically, giving her the brilliant smile I typically reserved for little children and ancient grannies.

“I’m…ah…I’m,” she whispered. “Ah…I’m your number one fan.”

Doubt it!

Everyday, women threw themselves at me and screamed they were my number one fan. However, Stella had that esteem honor, and once again, her enduring proof was tucked inside my wallet.

“I’m…I’m,” she stuttered.

“I completely understand,” I said softly. Which was true because every day would were unable to form coherent sentences once that laid eyes on Monty.

That was reality talking…not ego.

And this gal was definitely exhibiting the typical fan’s response of ever-widening smile, intense shiny eyes and quick shallow breaths. It was obvious she needed to tell me something important—like how she was overcome with the vapors as she watched me in TV Trade, last summer’s top-grossing film, which surprisingly received favorable reviews from the critics.