Chapter 3, Page 4

This week’s topic: Rejection (which isn’t just for writers). I finally received my manuscript back from the editor. I knew my first two chapters would take a big hit, but the editor made the statement that no agent would represent me unless I ditch those two chapters, did hurt a tiny bit. However, the lady who edited stated she liked the Monty/Miles character very much, but I could not get her to agree that if it wasn’t for those first two chapters where you learn about him that you would not appreciate his comeuppance as much. My plans are to fix up the first four chapters using her editing comments and ask an agent I met at the Las Vegas Writer’s convention last April to look it over. So back to rejection. The first rejection I received about twenty years ago, hurt really bad…really really bad…it sucked big time. But after four days of moping about, I had the I’ll show them attitude. The second rejection bummed me out for about a day or so. Currently, I could wallpaper my bedroom with all my rejection letters, and it doesn’t bother me anymore…I’m not jiving. At my work where I type a lot of documents, I don’t mind people critiquing them because its important for the information to be precise. I think it’s cute that these people who make the recommendations for improvement are very keen on not bruising my ego. It tell them, “I’m a writer and positive criticism actually helps me.” But if you’re starting out with your writings or other artistic endeavors, you need to understand the symbolism of putting your work out there for someone to review. Basically, what you’re actually doing is covering a piece of your heart and soul with your manuscript, poem, memoir or painting. So when someone rejects it (which they will), it will hurt like a son of a gun. Just don’t get offensive, defensive, suicidal or homicidal. I’ve been keeping a writer’s journal of quotes, usually from Writer’s Digest, and I should have it tattooed on my arm: “Just remember that at that particular time, that particular person was not ready for that particular manuscript.” So I continue to persevere because I AM A WRITER and that’s what writers do. This week’s tip: DO YOUR OWN THING. Whatever is going on in your life that you love and hate (sometimes both at the same time) and you feel you have a talent for it, just keep plugging along. Never listen to people who say you’ll never make it; however, do listen to people who can advise you to make it a little better. We writers don’t write/create to make the big bucks or to become as famous as Stephen King, John Steinbeck and Anne Rice. We write because we HAVE TO. It’s a compulsion, a passion, and more importantly, it’s who we are as individuals. Another quote from my writer’s journal is “Failure is not falling down; failure is not getting up.”

***Wow! This stalker is not following the stalker manual. She’s a little different.****For first time viewers, please go the July 5^th Blog, Chapter One, Page One.****

…like making sure her water pipes hadn’t burst.

“Did you discover the termites?” Psychochick asked.

“No.”

“I see.” She gave me an odd smile.

“The satellite repairman found them while checking my dish.”

She nodded and her smile widened.

What was that smirk about?

Wait—hold on! Was that a patronizing smile coming from Ms. Feminine Freak-a-zoid? Did this bitch actually think I was too stupid to recognize a termite? “That’s personal.”

“Discussing TV reception and bugs is personal?” She tsked, tsked me. “I’ve always believed celebrities were weird, but, Monty, I thought so highly of you. You came across as well adjusted. In fact, bland.” She grinned. “I’m using bland in a positive sense of the word.”

“What!” I yelled, struggling to tip her over. “You’re the abnormal one!”

Psychochick plopped her entire body over me, pinning me immobile. This time she wasn’t being sexy. Mental note to myself: Have Tracy schedule me with Raul for longer strength training sessions. My muscles turned “girlie.”

“Your lifestyle choices,” she said, again smiling, “dictate you aren’t in the position to judge what is and what isn’t normal.”

Her Alice in Wonderland Cheshire cat grin was driving me nuts, mainly because I didn’t understand its meaning. Was she visualizing having sex with me like most of my fans usually did? Was she feeling victorious for catching her quarry like those lions on Lydia’s National Geographic shows? Was she calculating which method was the most efficient in preserving my corpse and storing my bodily fluids? Or was she thinking about lunch and when the fast-food clerk asks if she wants ketchup for her French fries, Psychochick will hold up a jar full of my blood and reply in her deep sultry voice, “No thanks, I’ve brought my own.”

I stopped wiggling and inhaled deeply to induce relaxation and then placed myself on standby mode to await my chance to escape.

“Monty, answer my reasonable questions.”

“Ha!” Too bad the fear dried up my saliva or I’d spit at her.

“I was unaware you knew Lydia.” Her questioning gaze reminded me of during the first script reading of Macbeth when Roy, the director, intentionally tried to catch me up to see if I knew the play actually took place in Scotland. Why do people get their rocks off trying to humiliate me? Me, of all people! Everyone knew I always played the good guy.

Until now.

“Sooooo,” I evilly smirked, “Chickee baby doesn’t know everything about Monty. I bet that bothers you.”

She pressed her heavy breasts against my chest and planted her elbows alongside my ears to prevent me from turning my head. Then she tousled my hair like I was her personal Ken doll.

That Ken was one lucky SOB.

“Oh Monty,” she passionately whispered.

For my peace of mind, I chose to believe she was mentally challenged in the emotional department…not mentally challenged in the criminally insane department.

“You’ve always bothered me.”

My toes curled up in anticipated fear.

“Let me go!” I shouted.

“After I’ve…” She quickly pushed herself up and smiled curiously. “Do you have any idea of the years of unbearable suffering and public humiliation I’ve gone through because of you?”

“No?” I squeaked out.

“And this past year has been the worst.” She shut her eyes. “I’ve been so empty inside.” She shook her head as if to block out the voices commanding her to Kill Monty! “Oh baby,” she cried out. “I’ve been miserable without you.”

“I can imagine,” I said in a soothing voice and encouragingly nodded to lure her into a false sense of trust. My major celebrity should eventually kick in and turn her into a blubbering idiot, and then she’ll do whatever I command. “Your life must have been awful,” I said sympathetically.

Her eyes widened. “Oh well,” she said smiling. “Let’s not live in the past. For the very first time in my life, Fate has evened out the score. You have no idea what a delight it is with you being the helpless one and I’m the one in complete control.”

“If you let me go,” I pleaded, “I promise to give you whatever you want!”

“But I’m about to get what I’ve always wanted.”

“Don’t hurt me!” I cried.

“Trust me,” she whispered. Her twinkling eyes and joyful smile freaked me out to an all-time high. “You’ll never see this coming.”

With paralyzing fear, I watched her cover my eyes with the palm of her hand.