CHapter Two, Page One

This week’s topic: Chapter Titles. Most novels nowadays do not have titles for their chapters, which I think is kind of boring. As a child and reading children’s books, I enjoyed the chapter titles. However, the trend in publishing is usually no titles. Back when all my chapters just had numbers, it was difficult for me to visualize and recall aspects of my novel. When I wrote an addendum on the back of any paper that was handy, when I wanted to add it to my novel or identify it and file it for a chapter, it was a pain. Even now, I cannot describe what’s in chapter nine or ten of my novel. But since chapter nine is called “Going Loco,” and chapter ten is called, “The Fool,” I can tell you exactly what’s in those two chapters. I also get a big smile on my face when I think of “The Fool.” This week’s tip: While you’re working on your manuscript, give yourself a title for each chapter for organizational purposes. It could be something simple like a unique comment or a description, or the general mood from that particular chapter. You don’t have to use them when you submit for submission, but it will make it easier for you when recalling necessary plot points.

***Has the fair Lydia returned? (For first time viewers, please jump to the blog, Chapter One, Page One.)****

Chapter Two, Page One

I peered around the brown glass.

Whoa!

Lydia’s a no-show, but fortunately for moi, Ms. Guilty Pleasure stood in the doorway. My desire to physically know her was as ravenous as a Rottweiler eyeballing home delivery of Chateaubriand. Wow! My prayers to relieve my boredom have been answered because I immediately dump Lydia and yummy yum yum shows up. I’d be a fool not to interpret this as a sign that Fate agrees with my decision of out with bony Olive Oyl and in with a hunk, a hunk of burning love.

When the sudden appearance of a beautiful woman standing motionless in the doorway, what could it mean?

It’s probably not every day she beholds someone as famous as me, Montgomery Davis, the Number One Movie Star in the entire world. She probably wasn’t expecting to see me in Ms. Supermodel’s boring bathroom casually sitting on the edge of the bathtub reading a letter.

Wow! The mysterious beauty must be a mind reader because she’s clutching to her chest a desired treasure—a four-pack of Quilted Northern toilet paper. She looked tall, but not as tall as Lydia whose frizzy red hair would sometimes reached the top of most doorways. I think this woman is about my age…maybe. You can’t tell a woman’s age nowadays since plastic surgery can make anyone thirty years younger. Her long dark brown hair was pulled tight into a ponytail. In this dull lighting, her small eyes kind of had the same Levi-blue color as Lydia’s. The stranger’s eyebrows were black and stern and gave her a commanding presence, an atypical look for most gals. Actually, I’ve argued with Buster that I thought Brando’s eyebrows were too pretty for a man, and here I am proved right. It’s too bad Buster isn’t here so I could brag to him, “I told you so.” Of course, if Buster were here, he’d be humping this gal in fifteen minutes flat.

Even though he’s like a brother to me, the guy has no class.

Judging by her expressionless face, mystery woman appeared to be suffering from shock.

And…as for me?

Yowza!

What a strange-looking…no exotic…no…

She’s just a different type of woman I usually frequent.

Yowwwwzzzzaaaa!

Mystery woman’s jaw gradually opened, just wide enough to pop inside one of Marcel’s lobster Quadrilles.

Oh, man, oh man, oh man!

Thank you Supreme Being for designing those yummy ummy lips for oral gymnastics. Collagen injections? No way. This earthy gal would not succumb to pretense. Judging by her cheap clothes, she probably couldn’t afford the treatment, either. I’m also guessing her full bosom concealed beneath a black cotton T-shirt isn’t partially plastic either. The package of toilet paper and a well-worn, black leather biker jacket with wind-resistant zippers obscured the white printed letters on her T-shirt. Black canvas jeans emphasized long muscular legs. Hmmm. It shouldn’t take longer than ten minutes to convince her to wrap those legs around me.

Who am I kidding…five minutes! I’m Monty!

I heard a groan and realized it came from me.

Her eyes were still transfixed and she probably couldn’t hear a siren go off now.

I licked my chops in delight because judging by her firm physique this gal didn’t have a trendy eating disorder. Scuffed, black leather boots with square silver buckles completed what I would call an impressive ‘kick-ass’ ensemble.

My God! What a formidable housecleaner!

Why didn’t she show up yesterday?

Or four and a half months ago?

Or twenty years ago?