Chapter 2, Page 4

Sorry about missing the past few blogs. Last week, I sent my novel off for professional editing. Over a three-week period, I went through the entire manuscript. I used the editing corrections from the sample pages and saw my weaknesses (not staying in past tense) and I fixed them up. I also discovered that what I thought was Volume One, turned out to be Volume One and Two. My manuscript was too long, so it took me a day to decide where Volume One should end and Volume Two begin. The decision feels right. Also, it appears I’ve now written eleven volumes. This week’s writing topic: Historical reading. Since my manuscript was residing with another, I was now free for leisurely reading (which I rarely do when I’m working on something as I feel guilty for taking time away from my creation). At work, I continued reading “Life on the Mississippi” by Mark Twain. I’m enjoying it immensely. I have a small copy which I keep on me for reading at restaurants or in waiting rooms. Just the other day during my lunch break, I was reading a very scary chapter about back in the day in Munich, Bavaria, where it was the custom that a person must actually be dead before they buried him/her. Dah? I guess the grave robbers were finding scratch marks inside the coffin lid. Because of those occurrences, all the recent corpses were in a big room with a string tied to one finger and the other end of the string tied to a bell above. The watchman’s job was to stare at the corpses for movement and to listen for the bell to ring. I’m not a fan of scary material, but Mark Twain does tell some good stories. My lunch break was over and I finished the scary section. I then went to the bathroom and as I’m washing my hands, the bells start ringing. My heart nearly jumped out my chest, and then when I heard staff shout it’s a fire alarm, I started laughing. Coincidence? Synchronicity? I cannot say. I recommend “Life on the Mississippi” not just because of that story (Chapter 31) but because it is an interesting story. One of these days, I hope to travel the Mississippi River. I looked up on the Internet information about the Death Watcher in Munich, Bavaria, circa 1880s, and could not find anything. However, this would make a great novel or screenplay if someone would like to pursue it—who knows, Tim Burton or Johnny Depp may be interested in it. In “Life on the Mississippi,” I also read a family’s account of the battle of Vicksburg (imporant Civil War battle fought there with surrendering of the Confederates) and how during that 8-week siege, the citizens were pretty casual about being in the middle of the North and South. They would run to the caves depending on the sound of the cannons. This would also make an interesting story for a writer who doesn’t have a solid idea at the moment, also known as ICM (Inability to Create Magic). In the evenings, I’ve been reading poetry, specifically, “Changing Light,” edited by J. Ruth Gendler. The book is divided into the changes in the day—sunset, night, sunrise, etc; and the poems chosen deal with a specific topic. Very creative idea! There is some nice art work by Ms. Gendler. What I found interesting is the poems I was becoming attached to were by Rumi, who I feel writes longer versions of the Haiku. So, I got on the internet to learn more of Rumi, and wow did he have an interesting life. He lived from 1207 to 1273 and he was Persian, even though 3 countries claim him, but he is considered to be what is now known as Iran. He is well-known throughout the Middle East, and I’m kind of bummed out that we never knew of his poetry as I feel it is just as good as Angelou, Frost, Dickinson, Blake, Keats, Shakespeare, Psalms or L’Amour, etc. (Yes, Louis L’Amour wrote a book of poetry “Smoke from this Altar,” and a biography, “Education of a Wandering Man”—both were fantastic reads. At the end of “Wandering Man, he listed all the books he read given a particular year—very useful. (So Tough Guy, go to the bookstore and fork over some dough to be Literated.) If I had time, I would definitely write up a screenplay. But as you know, I have 11 novels to push, plus other novels and plays I’d like to do if I could quit my day job and focus on my writing all day. Also, if you live in my area, my serial killer skit, “Just Desserts,” will be performed by the MHS Drama Cub, 10/22, 10/23, and 10/24, at 7PM. I’m looking forward to seeing my words come alive. This week’s writing tip: Read about history. Current literature is great; it keeps us authors employed and the economy moving. But for my personal path of self-improvement, I enjoy reading historical fiction and nonfiction (they’re both sold at the bookstores). However, to me, it’s more enjoyable to read an author who was experiencing it first hand. For such a long time, I’ve wanted to read “Pliny’s Natural History—an account by a Roman of what the Romans knew and did and valued.” Also, historical novels are great, too. If you like creepy, then “Perfume: The Story of a Murdered” by Patrick Suskind, can teach you a lot about 18th Century France and especially interesting in how Perfumes were created back then…who knows, probably still today. But if you’re in a romantic mood, there is always the “Angelique” series by Sergeanne Golon where you’d learn about the Sun King, Louis IX and you’ll be exposed to a ton of other history—it’s a series don’t forget. And all writers should read poems on a regular basis—not just to connect to the poet’s feelings and passion and trying to figure things out, but also because you see and enjoy phrasing of words that are as delightful as eating the best chocolate ever. But more importantly, reading poems should be every writer’s daily affirmation of choosing the right word. By reading something entirely different, you might develop an idea for a poem, a short story, a novel or a screen play. Or take a trip somewhere because you read about it in a story. It’s all good.


*******All right! Mr. Celebrity will soon get some action. (For first time readers, please jump to the blog: Chapter One, Page One.)***


…I must be certifiably insane to perform on stage with actual people in the audience!

The worst cut of all was no fair maiden would wail in despair when dastardly Macbeth’s head is carried on a pole. Hell, Shakespeare never viewed Macbeth as a romantic lead. Why didn’t my friend Don Anthony pick Hamlet? Hamlet was a chick magnet and Shakespeare’s teacher pet. Mr. To Be or Not To Be was blessed with the ultimate universal appeal every human being could relate to: Doubts about doing the right thing. High school winter production, I acted the suffering, insecure Hamlet. My reviews proclaimed I was a natural on stage and should star in the next movie remake. Method acting was a breeze when your pathetic personal life matched Shakespeare’s greatest tragedy.

Twelfth grade! Yeech!

I hated thinking about my senior year, especially since I haven’t conquered my one shameful internal conflict. And because of my paranoia of anyone finding out about it, I turned down every persistent request from the alumni and reunion committees. My vow was to never step foot on my high school campus or be around those who knew me back then. My nightly prayers always included a P.S. of the tabloids never learning of her, either. I sighed. I may have matured since high school, but I never moved past to resolving that issue. After I fire Fremont, maybe I’ll discuss that tragic incident with my next therapist, Dr. Ruth.

I stared into the bathroom mirror. Inspection of my brown hair revealed further desertion of the troops and thinning of the army. Ugh, it was too soon to bring in the Rogaine!

I compelled myself to examine my face. Oh Lord, look at my eyes! The bags underneath were squeezing out every bit of blueness left in them! Ladies Home Journal will never again graciously describe these eyes as being sexy. This wasn’t fair! I ate healthy organic foods, I exercised with my personal trainer, Raul, several times a week, and more importantly, I didn’t smoke or used substances and enjoyed two glasses of wine each evening. I’m richer than…98-percent of the world population, but there was nothing I could do to halt the aging process. I refused to take the laser route. And face-lift, be damned; it was not natural—only narcistic women and insecure men did it. Truth be told, I was scared to try a simple chemical peel for fear of turning into a plastic surgery junkie like Fremont, who made quarterly pilgrimages to Dr. Bruno Swan, Hollywood’s A-list chop shop surgeon.

Man, I just turned forty but I still have not outgrown being Mr. Wishy-Washy—never making up my mind. If a deadline loomed, I allowed others to decide for me. If there was enough time, Stella’s guidance solved my every problem. The few times I made an important decision entirely on my own, immediately afterwards, I distrusted my choice and feared I’d get into an even bigger mess. This typically led to repeating the decision-making process until procrastination resulted in the situation taking care of itself. Decades of worry and paralysis not once provided an end result I was proud of or comfortable with. I sighed. I was exactly like good ol’ Charlie Brown.

Crap! I hate thinking about him and despised myself more for begging Mr. Ranger to cast me as Snoopy in You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown. It was my last performance in high school, and I desperately wanted to play Snoopy so the visiting casting agents could see I had range to play zany characters, not just the romantic lead or the tragic hero. But Mr. Ranger said I’d make a perfect Charlie Brown, and unfortunately, I was.

Since then, no other acting job sucked me deeply into the nuances of characterization like the role of Good ‘ol Charlie Brown. And sometimes…I don’t know…sometimes. I knew I sounded weird, but it was as if Brown’s personality never truly left me.

Chapter, Page 6

This week’s topic: Editing (Part 1). I don’t think any writer enjoys the actual process of editing, just sitting there, going over every single word, over and over and over.... However, we get off seeing that our sentences now run smoother…the words aren’t stilted anymore. In a sense, we’re no different than carpenters who sand down a rough edge. Self-respect and perseverance helps in the editing process because you’re going to want to repeatedly quit, thinking you’re never good enough. I’ve read how many writers handle the editing process, and it comes down to you’ll probably edit a piece at least 15 times. So this is how I do it: Of note, this method is for fiction writing--nonfiction, scripts or poems are an entirely different manner. 1) First draft, as I mentioned previously is by pen and paper—using the computer shifts your brain back and forth from the creative to the editing hemispheres of your brain—don’t edit on your first draft because you’ll have plenty of opportunity for that later; and besides, you’re supposed to be in the creative mode. 2) Type your work. Set it aside (try to set aside what you’ve last written for a minimum of a day, a week or longer is better for editing—you’ll have fresh eyes). 3) Then in double space format, edit from the last sentence of a chapter, to the first sentence. 4) From the first sentence to the last sentence. 5) Then format in 1-1/2 space with the page layout set for two columns, edit from the last sentence to the first (you’ll be surprised at how those inefficient words shake themselves loose). 6) Then from first to last sentence. To be continued…. This week’s tip: It’s very important to keep track of where you are in the editing process, especially if you have twenty-plus chapters in your novel. I’ll send you the grid I use, if you E-mail me at reneesbook@gmail.com, with the subject “Request editing grid.”

*****Isn’t it sad that the man who has everything, continues to expect everything?****

……and became use to the many, many…numerous quiet moments.

Lydia’s odd behavior was illogical because any gal with a pulse would brag to the nation that she was Monty Davis’ lover.

Maybe if women converse about subjects I’d be interested in, I’d respect them more.

And why is it so damn difficult for California to produce one woman who has deep thoughts?

I rolled up the magazine, wanting to smash it against something. Actually, I’d get off if I could swat a certain red-headed beauty. Maybe it would help shake off this feeling that she’s been using me.

But what is she using me for?

I studied Lydia’s magazine photo for more clues as to her true nature. Her perm must have been wound too tight for choosing to associate with that passionflower statement. Or is she remembering the wee hours of New Year’s Eve when she drank too much champagne and seduced me with a fervent passion? I now blame her horniness on the champagne because there was no drinking involved those few occasions we had sex since New Years with Lydia steadily losing her momentum of enjoyment. I was tipsy one that last time we made out, and the sex started off as…just okay…and ended...scary.

I’m not bragging when I say I’m use to better babes in bed.

And shit! I deserve a better lay!

Lydia is like some Jekyll and Hyde sex goddess. Her sexiness is reserved for just the magazine covers. Because when we had sex, she rarely said a word and barely moved a muscle. And the woman poses for magazines with articles that describe ways to drive your man wild. Doesn’t she read any of them?

I know I get hot when my lover yells, “I fucking love you!” Usually, I dislike women cursing, but during sex, vulgar words are acceptable. Unfortunately, sex with Lydia was merely adequate and progressed to nonexistent. My efforts to satisfy the frigid frizzy beauty were wasted because she never lost herself in the scene. Her nipples remained flat, and no creamy honey filled her warm hive.

She either has serious sexual hang ups or her reality is the fake person posing in those photo shoots. During down-and-dirty, true blue sexual intercourse, a gal is supposed to give herself to her man, not remain in total control the entire time.

What’s her problem?

No, what’s my problem?

And why can’t I be satisfied?

Before I turned forty, I decided to change the direction of my life with a goal to finally commit to marr…ah…to be in a stable relationship that should last longer than six months.

Okay, I want to get married!

And stupid me, I actually believed Lydia was my perfect mate.

Maybe every man in the world desires Lydia, but not this man.

Why not! What does she lack?

I can’t think of anything.

What do I want from a relationship?

I haven’t a clue…but my gut knows there should be something more.

So what is the “more” I long for?

Who the hell knows!

Okay, I’ve wasted four and a half months. But I’m positive that when I seriously think about marriage again, I’ll need to date the woman for at least two years, and it wouldn’t hurt to stay a few days in her home either. However, enough time has passed to confirm that Lydia ain’t the right gal for me. I shoved the magazines back into the cupboard and continued on my search for the elusive toilet paper.

“What I actually desire, Lord,” I said out loud, “is a real woman who…whose conversations aren’t boring and…and…and who subscribes to decent magazines.”

Chapter One, Page 5

This week’s topic: To be or not to be a writer. (Okay, it’s lame!) I’ve read many times that writer’s are born with the ability or talent and that it cannot be taught. Bummer! In my case, I knew I had a connection to writing after reading my essays out loud in front of my fourth grade class and observed how they appreciated and looked forward to hearing my words. I can remember after watching cartoon or children’s movie, my little mind continuing to write sequels or change parts of the story that I didn’t like. So maybe I was born with the writing gene. HOWEVER, for a college assignment I observed an AA meeting. I am ashamed to say I was jealous of the beauty of the words the alcoholics used to describe the heartaches they caused to themselves and to their loved ones. No politician or religious person has ever moved me as much as those recovering alcoholics and I believe they could be writers, too. Maybe writing is a method to share our passion. Years went by, and I spent uncountable hours writing in different genres (never a novel, though); some of my writings were modestly successful and some you can chalk up to OJT. While on vacation many years ago, I read several books by the most popular romance writers. Truthfully, they were the most boring books I have ever read and the characters were flat...not real people at all. I made up my mind to write the kind of romance novel that I, yes that I, want to read and deserve to read. Well, ten volumes later, here we are. This week’s tip: I can easily waste your time by asking you to write about some mindless prompt, but how will that help you find your passion? Give this a try: If recently or some time in the near future, you become irritated by what you’ve read, watched on TV/movie or seen in an advertisement, then FIX IT! Make it exactly how you want it to be. Go through the writer’s stages--Visualize, Rough draft (preferably pen and paper); retype onto computer; research; edit it repeatedly; and wait at least two weeks and then edit it some more. Finally, analyze the feelings you experienced during this little test. By then, I will become clear to you if the writing life is for you.

***If a Supermodel can’t make this guy happy, then no one can.***

…proved her lack of libido wouldn’t earn her a cover on Compost Weekly.

A copy of Women’s Esteem magazine distanced itself from the pack. I wonder which Supermodel is on this issue?

Surprise! Surprise! Its narcistic Lydia with her curly red hair teased out as large as a beach ball. She looks ridiculous with her tongue touching her top lip in a pathetic attempt at sexiness. Obviously, it was the photographer’s idea because Lydia never tried getting passionate with me.

Well that’s a lie. Our first time was magic.

Men are dopes for buying into her phony bony sexless image. And what was that stylist thinking by selecting that horrible green Lycra tube outfit? It minimizes Lydia’s nonexistent cleavage and total lack of curves. She resembles a green-striped kayak which coincidentally matches her stiff personality.

I don’t understand why this photo of Lydia is familiar to me, but I’m positive I’ve seen it before. Is it because Lydia’s $30,000-a-day smile appears genuinely heartfelt? I was the recipient of that glorious smile…but only in public, never in private. AND…I specifically remember not seeing it when I gave her that expensive black nightgown for her birthday, which she never wore.

In the magazine photo, I noticed a green doughnut-shaped barrette stuck between her coiled strands of hair. The color of the barrette reminded me of the unusual jade necklace Lydia wore the first night we met. It was the AmFAR benefit last New Year’s Eve, and that night ended just as wonderful as when I attended my first Oscars.

But the second day and since then, Lydia was…a bore.

How could a once-promising passionate relationship turn into two passing acquaintances who shared a one-night stand?

I can’t be the only one who thinks this situation is weird?

Actually, she’s just plain weird.

Whenever Lydia steps foot in public, she receives almost as much adulation as I do...or use to. But when it’s just the two of us, she’s silent and practically invisible, like a ghost. The only conversations she initiated with me revolved around her worthy subjects like AIDS charities, endangered animals, and which stocks have the highest P/E ratio.

Most of the time she watched that financial guy, Louis some body, and all the National Geographic-type shows. At first I found it adorable when she stifled her tears while the big bad predator caught his innocent prey. But after hours of watching scene after scene of lions viciously disemboweling foolish antelopes, Lydia became annoying to the point that I yelled at her to change the damn channel or else I was out of there.

I should have walked out the door and never looked back. If I had, maybe this miserable feeling would have gone away by now.

Of all my women, Lydia turned out to be the biggest drag, even worse than Cindy. Cindy was my girlfriend from beauty school long before I became the world famous, Monty Davis, movie star. And I’ve remained loyal to her even though everyone I know dislikes her. Actually, I’m stupidly loyal to all the people I care about; however, they forget about being loyal to me when I need them the most.

I covered Lydia’s photo with my shoe. God! She was such a bore during those few weeks in the Big Apple. Added to that disillusionment, she was neurotic about us being seen together in public. We received many invites to attend private functions where we wouldn’t encounter the paparazzi, but Lydia passed on them. For the most part, we were secluded in hotels where she needle-pointed wall hangings of endangered animals for charity raffles or else studied her fashion magazines for a pretend pop quiz. It goes against the actor’s code to have periods of dead silence, and eventually I stopped getting antsy and became use to the many, many…numerous quiet moments.

Chapter One, Page 4

Today’s topic of conversation: Writer’s Block. I rarely experience traditional writer’s block. The times I didn’t want to write, I also didn’t want to do any of my usual fun things either. I’d just veg out in front of the TV. But taking multivitamins, iron tablets and prescription medications sorted out that problem. I think the word writer’s block is a misnomer. I refer to it as the Inability to Create Magic (ICM). This is what we artists do—create something out of nothing. I’ve experienced ICM many times. I tend to be impatient and forget that my story will reveal itself to me at it’s own pace. A hard lesson to remember. You may be experiencing ICM because you have not thoroughly visualized where you are in your story and where the next scene should take you. So if you’re in the midst of ICM, do something else. Organize your notes, hard copies and computer files; review your research; highlight all your verbs and prepositional words; or study the thesaurus. Today’s tip: I cure ICM by placing myself in a location without access to pen or paper, a computer or my voice recorder, such as washing the dishes, taking a shower or driving my car. I keep the current scene in the back burner of my mind, and when the passion hits, I wipe my hands, dry my body or safely pull to the side of the road. I make every effort to capture this gift, because our muses are like fireworks—beautiful and awesome but vanishes quickly.

****Our main character tends to be self-absorbed. Wouldn’t you agree?****

…I bet models say the same thing about us actors.

However, I may have hundreds of videotapes in my house, but Monty Davis only acts in fifty of them. Actually, there are about ten of my performances worth viewing. The other movies were for spending money or because I cut a deal so I could make the serious movies I cared about. Fortunately, the boring movies were fun to make because of my co-stars and the crew. Hey, if you have to act in a stupid movie for a measly ten million, then get your friends involved in it.

From the cupboard, I pulled out a few more magazines. Oh lovely! One magazine claims to possess “357 beauty tips” and the other boasts “340 fashion styles.” Wow! A difficult choice. My tennis shoe made that decision by kicking the magazines onto the rug.

I sighed. After two monotonous days of the redhead staring back at me from the many photographs on the walls and magazines placed throughout this dump, I’m finally forced to agree with Fremont when he criticized that Saint Lydia leans towards egotism. If it wasn’t for her photos and magazine covers, I doubt I could remember her at all. Lydia’s becoming a pale memory that is fading faster than a dollop of whipped cream on a cocoa latte.

During our short time together, she displayed weird, mute-like OCD behavior but nothing that would make the hairs on the back of my neck stand in formation. Actually, she was unlike any of my ex-women as Lydia never made demands on me or pressured me into doing her favors. Not once did she ask about my previous lovers or want to discuss the direction of our relationship. I initially hoped our relationship would lead to a long successful marriage. But due to her shyness and being a woman of few words, it became difficult to know the real Lydia. I naively assumed the first phase of intimacy with Lydia would begin slow and then gradually progress to hotsy-totsy, and finally culminating to: Vavoom! Unfortunately, it took the opposite course—the hot wild sex occurred only during our first night together, and after that, sex went downhill to almost apathy.

Lydia left for Africa after my birthday the first week of February. I held fast to the belief that she possessed admirable qualities every man would want for a proper wife and devoted mother. I rationalized that my feelings were similar to a groom on the first day of his pre-arranged marriage—my bride will grow to love me more than life itself. Only time will determine if Destiny made the perfect union. And finally, I pray that the sex will keep on getting better.

Hah!

Lydia’s two-week job in Africa extended to over two months. I was banking on when she returns, she’ll be as horny as a sailor who’s been out to sea for four months.

And still I waited.

Or use to, because now I could care less if I mattered to Lydia.

I now noticed on one of the magazines, there was a caption over Lydia’s waist: “Don’t be a Passive Flower, become a PASSION FLOWER!”

Isn’t it ironic that particular statement is plastered over Lydia’s lower region? How is it possible for a boring person like her to become world famous? It's not because of my acting ability that I’ve been the Number One celebrity in the entire world, but because I’m fascinating and fun to be around. I remember gossip a few years ago of a Supermodel sleeping her way to a major magazine cover. I can rule Lydia out because my experience between the sheets with the frizzy-haired mannequin revealed her lack of libido wouldn’t earn her a cover on Compost Weekly.