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 5th 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.
