Chapter Two, Page 3

This week’s topic: Bookmarks. Not the paper kind with profound statements, cute pictures of kittens or with tassels or other dainty creations. I’m referring to the electronic bookmarks that are conveniently built into your computer. Gentle viewers (I think that was a common phrase used by Jane Austen or Harriet Beecher Stowe), if you are familiar with computer easing our writing life, then skip ahead to page 3 of Chapter 2. However, if you are navigating the Internet like Columbus on his first voyage, then stick with me kid and we’ll take that journey together. So what are electronic bookmarks and why should I waste my brain cells? Bookmarks are absolutely fantastic, especially if you’ve been on hundreds of web sites and found all this wonderful information. Instead of writing down the web site, and the numerous subheadings, with just a few clicks of your mouse, you can save the page you want and can access it at your leisure. There are also features that allow you to make subfolders. Let’s say, Writing for example. Under writing, I have agents, blogs, publishers, resources, misc. This summer I was planning my vacation and did not know where to go, just someplace in Southern California. Whoa! That was hours of looking up time. I make up a folder called Vacation: Then subfolders, Hollywood, Long Beach, Santa Monica (of note, these are not randomly chosen, they are areas in my novels where I planned to do a little research). So after viewing half a million web sites, I was able to compare and contrast and narrowed it down. I finally decided to spend a few days in San Simeon—I realized I could not handle the LA traffic, all the people, the central coast weather was most accommodating, and come on, I was on vacation from my writing, too. This week’s tip: How to access Bookmark. Pretend you’re already in a website looking for information. Go to top row that says “File, Edit, View History, Bookmark, etc.” Put your mouse on Bookmark, left click once, left click Bookmark this page.” A message box will appear, and save in the main folder and click Done. After you get about 20 of them, then make some folders. If you want to make folders, i.e,, writing, vacation, food, etc., then click from the top row Bookmark, left click once; left click once Organize Bookmarks, another message box will appear and left click once Bookmark menu (you may not have to because you’ll see down below a folder called New Folder). Then left click Bookmark Menu and right click it again. Then left click New Folder. A message box will appear that says New Folder. Where it says “Name” your folder, type the name of your folder, i.e., Writing. And then left click Add. You can then drag your files to that new folder, and later, make some new folders. And if you’re more adventurous, you can also have subheading in your main folders, i.e., under writing, you can have Editing, Agents, Blogs, etc. But I’ll let you experience joy in figuring that out.





****This young lady seems to be a fan of our Mr. Celebrity. How convenient. (For first time readers, please jump to the blog: Chapter One, Page One.)***



…TV Trade, last summer’s top-grossing film, which surprisingly received favorable reviews from the critics.



“Montgomery Davis!” She finally said in a melodious voice that was as rich and as deep as Norma’s famous chocolate peanut butter fudge. “I can’t believe it’s really you!”

“I can’t believe it, either!” I said returning her excitement. And boy was I excited. A luscious babe appeared out of nowhere to ease my boredom and rev up my lower torso.

“Sweetie,” I asked. “Do you know what I could really use right now?”

“I hope I do!” She grinned and lifted her eyebrows.

“Ah,” I paused. She seemed too eager. I pointed to the empty toilet paper dispenser. “How about giving me that package you’re clinging to like it’s a shield?” I wickedly grinned. “I promise I won’t bite.” I lied, feeling like the Big Bad Wolf making his move on Ravishing Red.

She tossed me the package and gave me a dead-on impression of Mary Richards’ irresistible expression of “silly me” that she reserved for Mr. Grant. Toilet Paper Chick left the bathroom without looking back and closed the door behind her. I then heard what sounded like banging against the bathroom door. I think it was her head. She wretchedly moaned, “Oh God. Oh God! Dear God!”

“Man, do I feel great!” I said.

After turning forty a few months ago, I feared I lost it, and Lydia’s frigid aloofness added to my insecurities. But now, in just a few short minutes, I was gonna get some, and that odd housecleaner appeared amply endowed to fulfill my lusty cravings. Afterwards, I’ll demonstrate my gratitude. After all, she was a devoted fan, plus conveniently nearby.

“Ms. Husky,” I said softly, “meet Mr. Horny.”

But after staring in the mirror at my over-the-hill, double-chinned, heavily wrinkled face, I had to accept my shelf life as a romantic icon was nearing its end.

Dear God! Please grant me more time in the Hollywood spotlight. There was nothing finer on this amazing planet than being an A-list celebrity. Forget about the million times I griped about minor inconveniences, like the lack of privacy and being unable to trust anyone. I never meant it; none of us stars did. It was an act to keep those low-life producers guessing. If we didn’t grumble about our fifteen-million movie deals with sideshow perks, then how could our agents convincingly demand twenty million and net of gross?

I sucked in my gut and scrutinized my saggy physique, which was deteriorating so quick that I’d be lucky if I get a puny five million for my next picture. I bet it won’t be the starring role, either. My fans will abandon me and start obsessing over the next up-and-coming hot young actor appearing on the silver screen. They’ll forget I once existed. Who could adore this haggard face that looked as if it used all two million frequent flyer miles? Has my worn-out face finally evolved to what film lovers charitably call “character?” I bet in two years, my movie roles will consist of the harmless toothless old-timer, like Walter Brennan’s, without the unique country accent or the intense gleam.

What if Lydia’s exotic housekeeper is my very last swooning female?

Character actor…oh shit!

Even though I was clueless my leading man roles would soon dry up, my subconscious sure in hell knew. Why else would I stupidly accept the role of Macbeth?

Macbeth!

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

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?

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.

Chapter One, Page 3

This week’s writing topic: Organization. I prefer to do major rewrites and editing on hard copy (paper). Last week, I was putting in my changes and was surprised (Ha! More like furious) to learn that when I typed those changes on my computer several months ago I never saved the electronic file. Tip: Every time you open a new file, rename it with the current date., ie, Chapter One, 7-18-09 and then Chapter One, 7-19-09. And save all the files, no matter if there are 20 just for a single chapter. You never know when you will need them. Same with the hard copy. Keep all of them. I had to retrieve my chapter from the file box and now get the fun in retyping it completely.

***Will this Monty/Miles/Montgomery character ever find the elusive T.P.?

.....Variety’s headlines will read: “Monty Davis, the new Ed Wood.”

S****! Even if Don Anthony hires the best set director, cinematographer and a half dozen production assistants, my film will still be as disastrous as “Plan 9 from Outer Space.” D******! Not to mention, I’ll be responsible for the hundreds of people involved in making a 110-minute film. Oh brother! I have no experience hiring crew members or auditioning actors! What if my friends show up? How can I tell them they’re not right for the part?

I just can’t say, “Don’t call us, we’ll call you”!

I grabbed my stomach again.

Toilet paper. Toilet paper. You’d think it would be in here with all the cupboards in this bathroom?

I remembered what my mother said during times like these.

“Miles, honey,” she’d say in her soft sweet voice that my boyhood friends all wished their own moms had. “If I was a cigarette lighter, where would I be?”

Every time we had to go somewhere, I’d quickly search for her glasses or wallet but took my sweet ass time hunting for her cigarettes or lighter.

When I was fourteen, her doctor diagnosed her fainting spells as symptoms of diabetes. From then on, her diabetic medication was added to the list of items misplaced daily. Surprisingly, she never lost her keys, which was very convenient since she was a motel manager.

Oh crap! I need to stop remembering Mom and start forgetting Lydia. If Fremont finds out I blew yesterday fixating on my dead mother’s birthday, he’ll want to admit me to a trendy inpatient psychiatric facility, and if I don't, he’ll threaten to inform the tabloids. The headline will read: “Monty Davis finally cracks up! Read celebrity shrink’s latest self-help book on how he glued Mr. Romance back together.”

I opened the cupboard above the toilet and saw a large clear plastic container with a four-inch red cross painted on its side. Surprisingly, it appeared to be well stocked with first-aid items. Wow! Who knew Lydia was that conscientious? I naturally assumed her idea of an emergency was flying in her personal manicurist to work damage control on a chipped acrylic nail.

Always the optimist, I tried the cupboard under the sink. There were cleaning products and clear plastic containers which appeared to be full of feminine hygiene stuff.

“Let’s try door number three.”

The next cupboard over was a no-show for the toilet paper, but I did discover a stack of magazines.

Excellent! Since being imprisoned at Lovely Lydia’s, I finally have something to read besides my Macbeth script. Late last night, the cable was down, and I was forced to glance through the fashion and home decorating magazines which were conspicuously placed throughout her condo. After scanning a few pages of that drivel, my mind went numb. On a positive note, I did have a restful sleep. In Lydia’s bookcase by her desk, there were many serious books, including the Bible, but I’ve been too uneasy to read anything of substance.

I kicked the magazines onto the rug, hoping for People magazine. Even though my most loyal fans would never describe me as…ah…smart, I’m so desperate that I’d even settle for Newsweek or The New Yorker.

Alas! My ill luck persists—more tiresome women’s magazines with Lydia's springy red hair and blue jean eyes gracing all the covers. Are Supermodels so narcisstic that they are compelled to display their fake faces throughout their homes? I bet models say the same thing about us actors.

Chapter One, Page 2

To get onto the writer's Blog sites, I must discuss aspects of writing. Right now it's a little frustrating as I could not get my font to be cohesive throughout the paragraphs. A dedicated writer will persevere...and I did.

***Now then, let's see what our fine fellow is up to now.***

...However, following his advice is an entirely different matter.

My stomach started to ache, which only occurs when I consciously think of Lydia.

Dang! Too bad she's in Africa; otherwise, I'd call and ask: "Where's the Charmin?" In about an hour, Tracy, my personal assistant is bringing me fast food from Spago's. Mental note to myself: Tell her to get me some damn T.P.!

Every time I'm in this dull bathroom, the only word that comes to mind is "Why?"

The porcelain sink, tub and toilet were all the color of green puke. The rug, walls and cupboard were off-white;, probably Lydia's conceit so the surroundings will match her complexion. Hiding the toilet and bathtub from bedroom onlookers was a large opaque glass partition, the color of...poop.

Man, oh man. What a dump!

I bet the mind of the lowest-paid Vogue intern would burst once Miss Supermodel Extraordinaire is exposed as the owner of this boring blah blah bathroom. And none of my devoted fans would ever believe that I, Montgomery Davis, would be standing in an ordinary putrid bathroom in a run-down condo, located in Anyplace, U.S.A.

Hmmm. If I remember correctly, the script for Corduroy Carrot was about an ordinary American family. And, there's this critical scene of the teenager overly enjoying himself in his mother's bathroom. If I do direct that movie, I'll make it easy on myself by having the set designer copy Lydia's bathroom exactly as is. We'll even include those handmade light green trinket boxes on the counter and don't forget that stupid-looking bottle covered with white crochet. A good actor, and future director, doesn't let anything go to waste.

Well, one worry resolved, leaving me with five million other details to obsess about. Man, oh man! If I screw up, my future credits will list me as the worst director in history. Variety's headline will read: "Monty Davis, the new Ed Wood."

Chapter One, Page 1

“Good grief! Where’s the toilet paper?”

I stared at the empty toilet paper holder next to the green toilet and hoped a new roll would magically appear.

That’s right! Less than an hour ago while on the balcony, I used the cardboard tube to spy on that overly affectionate young couple in the park across the street. I enjoyed being sneaky, too, just like all those paparazzi buzzards.

Suddenly, my gut cramped up, meaning only a few more seconds to get on my mark. Maybe Lydia’s ugly bathroom is causing my stomach pain? I wish I knew what crime I committed to be stuck in this dump. Since meeting Ms. Supermodel on New Year’s Eve, I blamed the champagne sloshing in my skull for choosing her as my lover. Unfortunately, my intention was to marry her, and I’m so damn lucky that boneheaded idea didn’t pan out. After four and a half months, Lydia is still a stranger to me, and I don’t want to associate with her anymore.

I’ve never viewed myself as a needy man, but why would I continue a downhill relationship with the dullest woman in the universe? Plus, she doesn’t have the basic necessities, like edible food, interesting reading material and, more importantly, toilet paper?

Even though eating disorders are the first requirement in being a Supermodel, these gals still need to eat, read and take a crap!

And the tabloids continue to proclaim me as the freakiest celebrity.

Hah!

Every week, my therapist, John Fremont, nags that Lydia isn’t the right gal for me. I suppose I should listen to his advice for once considering he’s been my psychiatrist for the past two-and-aalf years. Okay, this afternoon I’ll let him preach. However, following his advice is an entirely different matter.