Chapter 3, Page 3

This week’s topic: The writer’s passion. I finished up that book, “The Orientalist,” by Tom Reiss. Besides learning about Lev Nessimbaum alias Essad Bey alias Kurban Said, I was also educated about life, circa early 1900s, in the Caspian Sea area, the Middle East and later in Berlin when Hilter obtained power. I also was sickened that the tabloids in the 1930s were just as treacherous then as they are today. Mr. Reiss did a phenomenal job in researching Lev, which at times read like a detective story in how he tracked down people and original documents/letters. I would consider Mr. Reiss an expert of that time period and of those locations mentioned in his book. If you plan to write a biography, I suggest you read “The Orientalist,” as more of an instructional method in completing a proper bio. The back of the book are pages of sources he quoted in the chapter footnotes; a listing of Lev’s writings, which was quite impressive for dying at age 36; the many many people he interviewed; as well as all the many or books and articles he spent hours and days studying. Towards the end of the story when Lev, knowing his short life would soon be over (he had Raynaud’s disease, a sort of necrosis), the fascists took away his typewriter, and he had no more money to buy paper, so he wrote on everything he could get his hands on. This reminded me of the scene in “Quills” (a brilliant movie, my favorite role by the sensitive Joaquin Phoenix; and Jeffrey Rush’s acting as the Marquis was…amazing...which is a weak word for his performance). When parchment was removed from the Marquise de Sade so he could no longer wrote his scandalous stories, he wrote on his clothes and later used his blood to write on the walls of his cell. Why? Because he had, too. I knew this compulsion for a period of 8 months when all I could think and do was get my thoughts onto paper for fear the story would dry up. I cannot speak for Lev or the Marquis, but to me, this passion/compulsion was similar to the heady feeling of being in love—the good and the bad. I went through it for 8 months and had rough drafts for now 12 volumes. I’ve never felt that type of artistic passion again, but sometimes I’d get flare-ups when I visualize adding a scene to one of my novels. This week’s tip: Finding the Artist’s Passion. By practicing every day, you’ll be open for opportunities to have a similar experience. Watch “The Little Prince” first, especially the scene when Gene Wilder is the Fox (I’ve always loved Gene Wilder, but him as the Fox is my favorite of all his roles). The Fox explains to the Little Prince the steps he needs to undertake every day to slowly make the Fox his pet, so that eventually, the Little Prince will love the Fox like no other. Once you’ve finished watching the movie or reading the short book by Antoine de Saint-Exupery…and you’ve had a good cry, take out a spiral notebook and a pen and write a little something-something, a paragraph at a minimum. (For visual artists, blank paper or clay or whatever your medium of choice, get it out, keep it accessible and just do it!) And for all your tomorrow’s, keep adding a minimum of another paragraph. Fill up the spiral bound book, put it in the top shelf of your closet, and start on another blank spiral notebook. After you’ve filled up 7 or 8 of them, then take them down, read and analyze them for a possible novel, many short stories, a scrip for a play or movie, or hundreds of poems. Eventually, you will love and be proud of what you’ve written. More importantly, you will realize that your writings are not like any other writer, and you’ll want others to know and feel the passion, too.

****I’m creeped out, too.****For first time viewers, please go the July 5^th Blog, Chapter One, Page One.****

…My eyes bulged out.

“Good God, man! Quit over-reacting! I’ve seen dozens of pictures of your Malibu home in People magazine. You prancing around on your beach or enjoying your Jacuzzi wearing just your chest hair and looking…ah…damn, you looked really, really hot!” She leaned into me and nuzzled into my chest.

She was so close to me now that I could bite off a chunk of her face like DeNiro had in Cape Fear.

She deserved it, too! No telling what she did to her other unfortunate favorite celebrity victims. I could be the first or second runner it. I bet she was as homicidal as DeNiro’s character was in that movie. I easily imagined Psychochick in her lonely pathetic apartment or aseptic dust-free attic kneeling in front of her sinister shrine dedicated to her icon, Montgomery Davis, that stupid number one movie star. Every morning, she self-flagellated with the latest issue of the Crest and afterwards, meticulously searches through Variety, tracking down my daily movements. She planned to gain notoriety by slaughtering Monty Davis…me.

A contented sigh emerged from my armpit, and then Crazy lady slowly and deliberately pushed herself into my groin area. She lifted her head and continued smiling like one of my typical lovesick fans. Sick was the word of the day for this warped woman. As her rhythmically swaying crotch pressed into mine, I realized I really did turn her on!

Wait…hold on!

This freak was masturbating on me.

That was not cool! I tried to arch myself away, but no go.

What more proof does the United States require that our amoral secular society surpassed every country in the entire world in rearing a generation of perverts? This Super-Humping Freak obviously never learnt family values. She must be a foreigner or a Satan worshipper, because no God-fearing Christian woman would behave like that!

I looked around for a weapon, hoping for a six-inch heel hiding under the bed to impale Crazy Chick with, but that damn Lydia took neatness to the point of psychosis. Even Felix Unger would have yelled at Lydia to loosen up. If I could convince this weirdo to postpone my permanent disfiguration, maybe I could grab the plastic wrap box with my jaws and attack her with that sharp metal thingy on the box. That might work, but first, I must fake a seductive voice to this horny sideshow freak, which might be difficult due to my total disgust towards her. No amount of my Oscar-caliber acting could stop the nauseating feeling she was causing deep inside me when she did…ah…and when…ah…around there…ah...oh…OH…oh yeah!

Right there!

Whew! I breathed deeply. I couldn’t recall the last time I felt that!

I needed to get a grip and focus hard…hard purely in the mental sense. I still wanted to obtain my freedom, but if I did die, I hoped my death certificate had the statement: Cause of death from an Unnamed Pleasure.

“Sweetie,” I said, trying to sound smooth like Barry White. “What else turns you on about Monty?”

“Everything.”

“Everything?” I repeated.

“Yes, everything you do gets me hot!”

As she rotated atop my groin, my brain chose to ignore all survival instincts. Yabba dabba do! I heard men with heart problems actually died from being f&*%#@ to death. Would that apply to the rest of us guys?

After a minute—a very quick minute I might add—she stopped moving and grooving and carefully laid her head against my face. “Monty,” she tenderly whispered as if she’d been my own true love for twenty years, “Why aren’t you at your own pad?”

“I had to vacate. Termites.”

“Subterranean or dry wood?” She sat up and sounded concerned.

“Dry wood.”

“Are you having that big-ass house of yours tented or fumigated?”

“Tented, which explains why I’m here.” I tried to shrug nonchalantly to show crazy chick this situation was not a big deal, a typical day for us celebrities, but it was difficult to make a dramatic statement since my shoulders still felt like they were part of a bow. “Lydia’s cool with me staying here.”

Which was true—kind of.

The day after Lydia left for Africa, her house keys were delivered to me via a courier. Enclosed was a note: “Would you mind watering my plants?” At first, I was flattered Lydia viewed me as responsible enough to water her plants, but then I rationalized she was too cheap to hire a professional plant service. As soon as I entered her condo yesterday, my mind flashed on Lydia’s note. I experienced a moment of anguish knowing her plants never entered my mind, not once, in two and a half months. I hustled to the kitchen sink and filled a bee-etched goblet with water and searched her condo for her withering plants. They were dead in a true sense. All of Lydia’s flowers were made of silk, not one fresh plant in the condo. I had tossed that note the day I received it and now wondered if Lydia wanted me to check on something else, like making sure her water pipes hadn’t burst.

Chapter 3, Page 2

Since I’m still waiting for my manuscript to return from editing, I’m now reading a very interesting book, “The Orientalist,” by Tom Reiss. Wouldn’t you be intrigued iIf you read the following sentence on the inside front jacket? “Lev Nussimbaum was a Jew who transformed himself into a Muslim prince and became a bestselling author in Nazi Germany.” I think I mentioned a few blogs ago the enjoyment I get in reading about other cultures and other countries and past histories. In “The Orientalist,” I’m learning about the Czars in Russia in the late 1800s and of Stalin and Lenin and the Bolshevik’s revolution. It starts in Baku, Azerbaijan, a town considered to be like the “Wild West” because of its oil fields and lawlessness. There’s one character so far that I’d really like someone to write a screenplay. Her name is Sofya Perovskaya, “…a rich kid with a grudge.” She becomes involved with the ‘People’s Will” a terrorist group who planned to bomb the Czar with nitroglycerin grenades on a route he was to take in a few month’s time. She and her gang bought a building, had a small business in front of it and tunneled under the building into the street to waylay the Czar when he passed. The Czar’s security changed the carriage route, but the terrorists caught up to him all the same and attacked and killed him in the name of people’s reform. Ironically, just that morning the Czar signed reform bills; the new Czar dropped the hammer and revoked all the previous Czar’s good intentions. Sofya was hunted down and hung in front of 80,000 (stadium crowd). I checked the InterNet and there was a Russian movie made of her life in 1968, but there are no specific details. Also, Sofya was the first woman in charge of a terrorist gang. If you enjoyed the historical mystery style of the “DaVinci Code,” by Dan Brown, you may enjoy “The Orientalist.” This week’s topic: Miscellaneous writing. These past two weeks, I’ve heard the words “letter of recommendations” several times. In case you have to generate one for students or employees, composing the letter is not that difficult. If you have business letterhead paper, you’re good to go. If not, type your name, address and telephone. Next the date. Next the address of the organization if you know it; if you don’t, then “To Whom it May Concern” is acceptable. The body of the letter should be a minimum of two paragraphs. First sentence would be how you came to associate with the individual and how long you’ve known the person. The next sentence would be about what type of job or duties the individual had; if the person is a student, then describe what classes, clubs or sports, you and the student were involved with. Third sentence should describe what made her/him stand out over other individuals. And fourth sentence, the ABCD—above and beyond the call of duty—would comment on something truly remarkable the individual did (i.e., raised money, saved the company money, developed a time-saving device, saved your butt big time?). For the second paragraph, the motivation is directors towards the reader’s thoughts. Don’t we all want an employee or student who is responsible, a self-starter, and understands directions quickly and doesn’t have to be spoon-fed? Second sentence is where you’d want to get across the passion and goals for the individual. And the closing sentence would be how you foresee this individual as successful in his/her future endeavors. Close with a simple “Sincerely,” your name and title. This week’s tip: Pick a time and place and read a book about a historical person or event. Not only will you expose yourself to new countries and types of people, you’ll realize that life was just as screwed up back then as it is now. I don’t want to sound 100-percent pessimistic, but if people got through those though times back then without access to drugs, Dr. Phil and Oprah, then we should be able to get through our tough times, too.

*** Uh-oh! Someone’s in the wrong place at the wrong time. For first-time viewers, please jump to blog dated 7/5/09, Chapter One, Page One.***

…Dying, right.

I mouthed, “Bitch.” She giggled, which threw off my calculations of the likelihood of me obtaining freedom. Her weight also prevented me from pushing her off. Plus, my aching shoulders still dug into the rug, which meant I couldn’t rock to my side and topple her over.

This was so unfair.

“So tell me, Mr. Montgomery Davis.” Her Levi-blue eyes twinkled. “Why are you here?”

I had to lie. “This is my place.”

Her full-body snicker vibrated over our groin areas, which felt pretty darn good for a few seconds. For me anyways; I couldn’t speak for her. Her behavior was unpredictable. I bet she was amped up on drugs for courage to attack and carry out atrocities to her favorite celebrities. I tried not to imagine her future feats of villainy because, let’s face it, it ain’t gonna be pleasant.

“I’ll repeat myself again,” she slowly said. “Why are you here?”

“The owner let me stay.”

“But you have your own house.”

If this kook finds out that Lydia and I are lovers…I meant, “were” lovers, she’ll become more psycho and damage me worse than she originally planned.

Psychochick again smiled sweetly and lightly tickled my rug-burned tender chin. Strangely, that simple gesture heightened my panic and threw off my concentration to overpower her.

“What did you ask me?” I asked.

“Why are you here?”

“Oh. My house is not suitable at the moment.”

“Your beach house?” She casually asked.

“Ah…yeah.” The hairs on the back of my neck rose as if they were clinging to a balloon. This madwoman knew where I lived! My God! She really was Lydia’s stalker and broke in today to harm Lydia, but she’ll attain more status by kidnapping the Number One Box Office Star in the World…me!

Wait…hold on! How did she know there wasn’t any toilet paper?

Because….because after Lydia left for Africa, Toilet Paper Psychochick snuck into the condo. She was like some kind of super kinky freak who was compelled to do her dirty business in other people’s bathrooms…just like animals marking their territory. Wow! Those hours watching National Geographic weren’t a complete waste of time.

She smiled as she caressed my neck. I gulped like a fool. Maybe she wasn’t Lydia’s stalker but actually Monty Davis’ stalker? I prayed to God not to let me experience that horror again.

When I first became famous, it was a blast to read my fan mail, but not so much anymore. When I reached major celebrity status, I received freaky letters from pathological fans. They ghoulishly described sick, twisted perversions they wanted to do with me when I was alive, but creeped me out with their unique descriptions of the horrendous atrocities they planned to do with my lifeless body. The topper was the depraved correspondence from Miss Turquoise, psycho extraordinaire. Because of Miss T., I hired a private company to read all my fan mail, and they, in turn, referred the wacko letters to the Threat Management Unit. Sadly, it took several months for my nightmares of Miss T. to end, and a few more years before I quit scanning at all my public events women with turquoise eyes.

Thank you God! Toilet Paper chick eyes weren’t turquoise, but the Levi-blue gray. Too bad I was out of the loop with the latest stalking trends. I forced myself not to gruesomely imagine Psychochick’s demented letters to me. Hopefully, those letters now resided with TMU as evidence for when they charge her with murdering…me. Since Crazy Chick appeared highly intelligent and creative in her successful effort immobilizing me, I judged her as quite capable on ingenious mental cruelty, too. My body started shaking and I began hyperventilating again.

“Monty, I sense your uneasiness,” she said, applying less weight to my diaphragm. “Just because I’m aware of your lovely Malibu beach home?”

My eyes bulged out.

Chapter 3, Page 1

This week’s topic: Resources. A writer, like any good artist/craftsman, needs the proper tools and access to resources. No one can argue how the Interact speeds research, which I’ll discuss in a future blog. Today, I’m referring to the resources I have handy around my desk. A big fat Webster dictionary—I rarely use the Internet versions, except to track down new words or slang, as I love to browse through pages of the dictionary. Roget’s Thesaurus of course (but I admit I like the feature on my computer.) An old copy of Funk and Wagner’s “Standard Handbook of Synonyms,” which helps me discern why one word is better than the other for a given sentence. A “Name your Baby” book for first names. A white pages telephone book that gives me choices for last names. When it comes to names, my ear tells me what it will be. It’s similar to waiting to hear a line of music. For home furnishings and clothes and such, nothing beats the J.C. Penney catalogue. My story takes place in 1996, so I have a few books about what occurred in that year. About twenty books from Writer’s Digest to be a better writer. Two books on body language. Diane Ackerman’s book “Natural History of the Senses,” to remind me to include all the senses. “The Passionate Observer” by Jean Fabre, to remind me to really look at the world when I’m outside. Since my main character is an actor, I have 5 books on Macbeth, various acting books, like “The Filmmaker’s Dictionary,” by Singleton and Conrad, “Setting up your Shots,” by Jeremy Vineyard—even if you’re not writing about acting and directing, it’s still a good resource because you can visualize a scene “out of the box.” Also, because of the careers of my other main characters, I have police books, carpentry books, automobile books, etc. Finally, my best form of inspiration comes from my Forbe’s and National Geographic magazines and copies of the greatest paintings of all time. I cut out the pages with most awe inspiring ads and article image in the Forbe’s magazines. When you need inspiration, you’ll be surprised what will pop into your mind by looking at a random picture. That box weighs about ten pounds and is a true treasure chest. I also have many photocopies from back in the day when you had to go to the library for research. This week’s tip: Start your own treasure box. Fill it up with images that connect with you. You don’t need to know why it means something to you now. Later on, something may reveal itself to you that can spurt you to a great sentence, a great description, poem, etc.

***Twink is heating up the popcorn as we speak. For new viewers, please go to Chapter 1, Page 1 in the July archives.***

…I allowed a deranged stalker to overpower me so she could begin the initiation ritual to become “Satan’s” Number One Fan.

This shouldn’t be happening!

I was her Monty Davis for Christ’s sakes!

There must be a logical reason why I was in the midst of a sadistic version of Alice in Wonderland.

Time to back track.

I was sitting on the edge of the bathtub reading Stella’s letter. I must have nodded off and conked my head on the floor. So perhaps this was just a typical scary dream.

I then felt Psychochick dig her boots into my calves, demonstrating to me she was very real indeed. My current situation was not as harmless as a simple nightmare. Reality check: You’re in deep deep dog doo doo!

The stranger cleared her throat in a very irritating manner.

Well, excuse the hell-out-of-me me for wanting to take a moment and focus on my own problems.

As the bedroom became brighter, my breathing improved, but I sounded asthmatic. The weird housekeeper slash stalker slash homicidal maniac slash…

Stop! Quit thinking about slashers!

She now looked kind of different in this lighting. I refused to say she looked normal, because God knew she wasn’t nor would she ever be considered a “normal” person, but her expression seemed friendly. Maybe in her warped mind, she believed we were buddies, but she sickened me, especially when she lifted a quizzical eyebrow.

Having no experience with killers, unless you want to lump in my actor friends who portrayed killers and don’t forget that I will soon star as Macbeth, a raised eyebrow could represent any type of evilness coming from these kinds of people. I was forced to assume this situation won’t end favorable for me. She lightly fingered the area under my chin, leaned back and smiled sweetly at me. Fear upgraded itself to a terror like I never knew existed.

Wrong!

I once experienced this same type of terror in Florida while filming my underwater pirate movie, Treasure’s Bay. Even though it occurred several years ago, my body still tensed up whenever I remembered that shark moving towards me like a persistent fan wanting more than just an autograph. My memories always reverted to slow-mo once its enormous jaws opened wide.

All those teeth!

“Relax, Monty.” Psychochick softly said in her deep voice.

I slowly exhaled. Because of terror under the seas, I abandoned one of my favorite passions—swimming in the ocean. My groin area now felt numb, and I quickly inhaled. Did Psychochick plan to damage the instrument I use to carry out my greatest passion?

I narrowed my eyes in disgust at her. How dare she insult Stella and all my fans by boasting she was my number one fan? And a short five minutes later, voila, she assaulted me!

What was this? A cheap remake of Misery?

“Who are you?” I demanded in my toughest voice, but to my ears I sounded like a gasping impersonation of Alec Baldwin.

“Does it matter?” Her grin looked stupid with her lips stretched wide, giving her a canine appearance.

Puking while flat on your back would be messy. Messy for her.

“What do you want?” I asked, utilizing my hoarse voice, hoping to sound callous like De Niro’s.

“You just lay there like the greatest celebrity in the entire universe. I’ll be asking all the questions, Babba Louie.” She started laughing, and I must admit for a crazed Psychokiller bitch, she did have one cool laugh. None of my so-called normal gals had cool laughs. Actually, none of them rarely laughed or did anything in a hearty manner. “Monty, pretend I’m just an ordinary reporter for one of those low-down dirty tabloids. I’ll go easy on you…depending on your answers.”

“You, ordinary? Hah! But you are correct about those slimy tabloids.”

“And with your history,” she said, squeezing my waist with her firm thighs, “I’m dying to hear one of your astounding comments.”

Dying, right.