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.