Chapter 2, Page 5

Yesterday, I experienced a sweet bliss. And you can have this same feeling, too. At my local Hollywood video store, they are now renting entire episodes from TV shows. Apparently, there was a show on HBO called “The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency” based on the novels by Alexander McCall Smith. It takes place in Botswana, Africa, and it was produced by Anthony Minghella, who directed my favorite movie of all time, “The English Patient.” The “No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency” is a true delight and I highly recommend it. It takes a little time to get use to since the characters seem too sweet and unnatural in their attitudes and behavior (unnatural as in a simple country outlook on life, not stressed out like our society or me in particular). But guess what! The characters really are sweet and charming. For real! The scene when Happy tells Precious of her mystery makes you feel like you are in the middle of a wonderful dream. This week’s topic: Movie remakes. I cannot imagine why Hollywood would remake any movie when there are many writers with creative ideas. (I know I sound bitter but many years ago I submitted a children’s story to Hyperion Books—a publishing company owned by Disney—and they rejected me and six months later, Disney did another remake of one of their own movies.) But if Hollywood does decide to do remakes, I don’t want a remake of a movie that had strong audience sentimentality like Bogart’s movies (Casablanca, the Maltese Falcon, African Queen) or True Grit or Seven-Year Itch or Little Big Man. We love these movies and the actors like we adore our beloved family members. However, there are a lot of very very old movies Hollywood could remake or movies that had a good plot but were considered a B movie back in the day and did not get the best studio resources. First up, I would like to see a new version of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. It was a good story, and recently on Turner Classic Movies I watched the silent version. (In case you are not aware, TCM does Silent Sunday’s, giving you a weekly opportunity to see those movies—we are very fortunate that TCM is doing this for us.) The actress Margarita Fischer played Eliza and I thought she did an amazing job (okay, a little bit too much swooning, but that was the style back then—Lillian Gish was famous for it.) I admit I have not read the novel and I understand the film took liberties of the novel. But you cannot deny the drama and human feelings that were evoked during the scene when Harry was taken away from Eliza on the paddleboat or the scene where Eliza and Cassy (who just learned Eliza’s secret) must fight it out at Simon’s Legree (Dang! What a great name for a villain!) Well, well, well. I just did some fact checking on the Internet and see that Uncle Tom’s Cabin was remade in 1987 with a very fine cast—Avery Brooks, Bruce Dern, Phylicia Rashad as Eliza, Samuel L. Jackson—so egg on my face, but I will rent the movie. I’m not stressing that Uncle Tom’s Cabin needs to be done with the setting of the Civil War period. Akira Kurosawa remade Shakespeare’s King Lear as Ran and Macbeth as Throne of Blood—both were very fine movies (When I was a substitute teacher, one entire summer I watched every samurai, Kurosawa, Toshiro Mifune and Japanese movie I could lay my hands on.) Throughout our world today human slavery is going on, Lisa Ling a renowned correspondent did an expose of girls in the slave trade in India. The following quote came from the Internet from a 2005 Fact Sheet from the U.S. Department of State. “According to U.S. Government estimates, 800,000 to 900,000 victims are trafficked globally each year and 17,500 to 18,500 are trafficked into the United States. Women and children comprise the largest group of victims.” My second runner up for movie remake: “The King and Four Queens.” This was a movie made in 1956 starring Clark Gable and Jo Van Fleet (a truly remarkable actress). He plays a con man who may or may not be friends with one of the outlaw brothers (three of which where killed and burned in the family’s barn by the lawmen; however, one brother escaped). The four outlaws were married to lusty women and unfortunately for the gals no one knows which brother escaped. The step-mother continues to believe the four gals were still married woman and will act respectable. And I forgot to mention, somewhere buried on the property was $100,000 stolen by the outlaw sons. So Clark Gable is the rooster among the horny hen house. (I verified on the Internet that the 1956 movie was the only one made). I really want to see this movie again and in particular remade with the likes of George Clooney and the female cast of the recent “The Women” (Annette, Jada, Meg, Eva, and Debra and Candice Bergen as the grieving step-mother). The only big change I’d make is to write the script with a little more sizzle. This week’s tip: Screenwriters! Think carefully if you do want to do a remake—make it better, not boring. In the “No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency,” Precious wanted to be a detective to catch the bad people who were bringing shame to her beloved country, Botswana. Screenwriters, you too, can write a movie that impacts so many people’s lives and might lead to positive changes in this world, too.

***Twink is upset for those previous pages full of self-reflection. I explained that Mr. Celebrity had to be positive that dumping Lydia was the best decision for him, and a great roller coaster ride always starts off at a snail’s pace.

…I know it sounded weird but it was as if Brown’s personality never truly left me.

“Good grief,” I muttered, “that was over twenty years ago.” And now I was forty and over the hill. I remembered the birthday card from my best friend, Buster. Inside, he quoted Victor Hugo: “Forty is the old age of youth; fifty is the youth of old age.” I hope he was right. It still amazed me that Buster Drew—the coarse possessor of willing beauties—for once, was insightful and mature. He was in post-production of his first reputable movie with major studio backing. I’d known him for ten years and he was nothing like the bad boy image, and I was glad the world will see him as a gentleman and a first-rate producer. However, if any gorgeous gals were nearby, then he was exactly how the media portrayed him.

Hey! Why waste time bemoaning my fate when the luscious housecleaner eagerly waited to be romanced by me. But first, she must fulfill my neglected urges. Maybe, I should step out of my comfort zone and imitated Buster’s impersonal relationship in regards to women and sex. After all, it was just an ordinary housekeeper I’d soon be bopping.

I opened the bathroom door and stepped into Lydia’s bedroom. Suddenly, I sensed a presence directly behind me.

“Hey!” I yelled.

Before I could turn completely around, a fierce punch to my diaphragm crumpled me forward, which forced the breath from my lungs. Then a Heimlich-type squeeze expelled out whatever oxygen remained. I dropped down to the pale pink carpet, and then my body was shoved into the deep plush pile. A yellow box of plastic wrap protruded from under the bed. Strands of dark brown hair dangled in my peripheral vision as a knee was roughly jabbed into my back while my arms were painfully wrenched together like turkey drumsticks.

Wasn’t the housekeeping bitch thrilled to meet me?

After a few more seconds without oxygen, I experienced the sensation of entering a house on a brutally hot summer day and only seeing black and gray images, with color and light gradually vacating the premises and quickly replaced by despair and bad vibes.

With my chin still aching from the fall, I endured new carpet burns to stare into the floor-length closet mirrors to figure out what the hell was going on! I watched Toilet Paper Chick quickly hogtie my wrists using the rolled up plastic food wrap. It sickened me how easy she accomplished the task—a common expression one attributed to a “professional.”

Oh God!

She obviously performed this a few times.

I now recalled Lydia mentioning a stalker harassing her. Big deal! I never thought further into it because every celebrity had an undesirable fan base.

So this weird woman was Lydia’s stalker.

What was I supposed to say? Or scream?

Also, words required air to be voiced, and air was a natural resource I currently lacked. Plus, I’d need to recite from a Stephen King script to penetrate her contaminated mind and convince her to stop. In the mirror, her solemn purposeful eyes briefly met my panicky ones. She obviously had an important job to do and no time for chitchat.

My tiny shallow breaths now made me dizzy and nauseous. I closed my eyes for just a second to pull my senses together, but I soon felt myself slowly doze off. My over-heated body felt like if I didn’t get out of the Jacuzzi soon, I’d soon drown.

Drown! I snapped my eyes open.

Crazy lady gently rolled me onto my back, and I greedily gulped air even though every breath hurt like hell. My diaphragm stilled ached from where she struck me with the force of a drunken stuntman. My arms continued tugging at my shoulders from my body weight, causing me to arch forward. I feared my arms would soon be disjointed like when I busted up a chicken to fit it into a soup pot.

Man, the pain was a killer!

T.P. Chick appeared to hesitate. Will she change her mind and set her idol free or did she have something more nefarious planned? She gently straddled my groin area and deliberately not bear weight on me. The typical Monty Davis stunned expression of adoration returned; unfortunately, it only lasted seconds. Crazy Lady burrowed her nose into my chest, loudly sniffed my cologne and moaned pleasurably.

Okay, it still fed the ego of a dying man to know the ladies still dug him.

She lifted her head, and her eyes were still closed, but her greedy smile seemed full of genuine satisfaction.

Creeeeeepy!

She was demented and I was doomed.

She finally opened her blue-gray eyes, with her smile changing to a forced tightness, which dispersed the remaining warmth in the room and infused my bones with a rigor mortise chill.

She was getting scarier.

“Oh, Monty,” she cried.

My teeth started to chatter.

“Why did it have to be you?” she pleaded.

I reflexively shrugged, causing intense pain to my shoulders.

She shivered.

I was positive demonic hallucinations were commanding her to eliminate her beloved.

Me!

Dear God! Because my insecure psyche demanded total attention, I allowed a deranged stalker to overpower me so she could begin the initiation ritual to become “Satan’s” Number One Fan.

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 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 2, Page 2

This week’s subject: Trying something different. This past week I worked on a script for the local high school Drama class. They’re putting on a creepy Halloween show. I tried my hand at a new type of genre—Horror. For ten years now, I’ve spent most of my energy on my novel, the romantic comedy series. When the day comes that I can quit my job and devote all my time to writing, I would also like to pursue some of the other plays and novels I’ve developed plots for. But my time is a limited resource, so I work on what I enjoy the most. A few weeks ago, I gave the drama teacher a 1-1/2 page synopsis of my skit (serial killer loose in the forest—it’s for two actors, approximately ten minutes long; E-mail me at reneesbook@gmail.com if you’re interested in purchasing it). I’m not the type of person who watches scary movies unless my favorite actor is in it, but that does not mean I don’t know how to scare the crap out of a person. The Drama teacher liked the synopsis, and as I mentioned, I worked on the script, which was revised four or five times. Future writers of the world---don’t say I never told you that rewriting is probably about 60-70 percent of our job. But I’m proud to say, my script looks polished and I really like what I did and one lady I know refused to read after the second page. I asked if she didn’t like it, but she said it scared her too much to read further. In a few weeks, I’ll get to see young actors perform it on stage, and I hope to scare the audience. This week’s tip: If you’re working on a long writing project, take a break and try a short little something something that may be a different genre for you. Make up your own commercial or tiny skit, and then hone in on it until you feel the pride of a job well done. Even the shortest piece of writing will benefit you in the long run when you edit it a minimum of four times. You’ll start developing your own writing style, author’s voice and tone. Or call up your local high school drama instructor. They can always use short skits which are relevant to teenagers or makes references to today’s topics—in my script, I mentioned an MP3 player and an English assignment of having to write a Japanese Haiku, which means high school students may identify with my script more and I hope to earn “props.”

***Great! Someone new has entered the story. Let’s hope she’s not as neurotic as our main character. (For first time readers, please jump to the blog: Chapter One, Page One.)***

…Or twenty years ago?

And why didn’t that friggin’ Lydia mention the most delicious housekeeper in the entire universe might drop by?

Actually, Lydia rarely spoke. We had one interesting conversation. We both commiserated how our fathers’ died too soon—my dad before I was born and Lydia’s when she was an infant. A few times, Lydia spoke with pride about a cousin whose obsession with Monty Davis was verging on cult-like status. Plus, her other cousin was a police officer who received many awards for fearless bravery. From what I remembered, Lydia’s cousins sounded like kooks, and I never want to be stuck in a dark alley with either of them.

I was tired of complaining to Lydia we were living like shut-ins, but she rationalized her Monty-obsessed cousin would be traumatized seeing photos of the two of us together. Not once, did I buy her phony bony story. Besides cooking, my other favorite hobby was reading and collecting mystery novels. I felt qualified to deduce the real reason Lydia lost interest in me was because she was being threatened by one of my psycho fans.

But that was ancient history.

In front of me, the transfixed beautiful housekeeper continued staring at me as her strong fingers squeezed the TP. I greedily smiled anticipating future physicality between the covers. She wasn’t wearing fingernail polish either, and I searched but did not see a wedding ring.

No surprise there. I bet Ms. Fem-machismo could pussy whip the ‘Cripts’ toughest homeboy as he pleaded for a touch of her sleek kindness.

God, I needed a woman so bad! It had been two and a half long months without the good stuff. If I didn’t get some soon, I won’t have enough energy to think straight.

I raised my eyebrows slightly at the human statue. She appeared lost in her own thoughts; hopefully, her goals were similar to mine. Eventually, as with all of my women, I became bored with the deer-in-the-headlights skit.

“Yes?” I asked, folding up Stella’s letter.

“You’re…Monty Davis!” she mouthed.

“That’s right!” I said enthusiastically, giving her the brilliant smile I typically reserved for little children and ancient grannies.

“I’m…ah…I’m,” she whispered. “Ah…I’m your number one fan.”

Doubt it!

Everyday, women threw themselves at me and screamed they were my number one fan. However, Stella had that esteem honor, and once again, her enduring proof was tucked inside my wallet.

“I’m…I’m,” she stuttered.

“I completely understand,” I said softly. Which was true because every day would were unable to form coherent sentences once that laid eyes on Monty.

That was reality talking…not ego.

And this gal was definitely exhibiting the typical fan’s response of ever-widening smile, intense shiny eyes and quick shallow breaths. It was obvious she needed to tell me something important—like how she was overcome with the vapors as she watched me in TV Trade, last summer’s top-grossing film, which surprisingly received favorable reviews from the critics.

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 One, Page 9

This week’s topic: movies/screenplays. Last week, I watched Born Yesterday, the movie written by Garson Kanin. (I’ll write more of him in another blog because he’s one of my ideal writers.) If you have not seen Born Yesterday, then you are denying yourself a wonderful treat. It’s also a mini-civics lesson and informative as to Washington D.C. back then…and how politics really works. The movie was made in 1950s and it’s in black and white. Can you believe that there are some people who refuse to watch any black and white movie? What a waste! Garson Kanin wrote every line of dialogue to near perfection. I watched the movie with the eldest high school daughter and told her that it’s not just my favorite but a lot of people as well. She laughed her tush off and was intrigued with some of the colorful old sayings that were common back then. The cast in the movie was wonderful, which included William Holden a fantastic actor in every way imaginable, Broderick Crawford, who plays the ignorant brute to perfection, and then there’s Judy Holliday. She won the Academy Award for her role as Billie Dawn. She is sincere in the role and her dimples were a supporting character in their own right. She can deliver one word or sound in so many different ways that she’s such a joy to watch. I get a similar feeling of actors having the best role of their life also while I watch the BBC Sherlock Holmes version with the brilliant Jeremy Brett as Sherlock Holmes. Jeremy Brett also can say everything with just a single word or glance. When I watch wonderful performances with witty dialogue, to me, it’s as if the angels are singing. Of note, I am curious to see how Robert Downey, Jr., handles the Holmes role; but I’m guessing he’ll be great, too. (But don’t take my word for it, watch him in Tropic Thunder, Iron Man and/or Restoration—not his typical role, but moving all the same.) This week’s tip: Screenwriters! Watch old Academy Award movies—there’s a reason those films, writers or actors won. Never give up on your screenplay; keep at it.. As we all know, Hollywood is famous for stomping all over promising scripts; but when the plot is believable and original and the dialogue is full of truth, it would be a crime for anyone in Hollywood to mess around with your script. Unfortunately, there are too many crappy movies out there, so be responsible to yourself, the writing profession, as well as us folks who live for that good movie that makes us forget our daily cares for a few hours.

…my best friend of nearly twenty years treating me like a ‘nobody’ and never telling me the reason why? (For first-time viewers, please jump to Chapter One, Page One.)

Let’s see. She repeatedly chewed me out regarding last year’s ‘Gays’ catastrophe; so she must be pissed about something else I supposedly did, said or thought. Stella’s other “I’ll never write to you…ever again” letter arrived a week after last Memorial Day, which gave me the impression there was some connection to the military that ticked her off. My foolish mouth may be big enough to store combat boots, but I’m not that stupid to speak ill of the Armed Forces, considering my father died while stationed in Germany. I’ll even swear on my dead mother’s Bible that I never made a derogatory comment about Japanese women, like Stella, who married military men only to obtain American citizenship.

I’ve spent hours studying this letter for clues to deduce what horrible crime I committed that I deserved to be abandoned by the only woman who I stupidly thought understood me.

Stella! If you don’t tell me, then how am I supposed to guess…I mean, improve the situation?

Oh my dearest, Monty! Today, my body aches for you. Venus wanting to go down on Mars or some suck gibberish.

Can you believe that me, Monty’s Number One fan, is not up to date regarding your current events? Is your latest flame another amazingly gorgeous but boring (illegible scribble)? How I envy the bitch!

Or are you still flying solo and scouring the world in your endless pursuit of firm young flesh. How’s that race going of Monty Davis never having a love affair that’s lasted longer than six months?

HOWEVER! If I do find out you were alone on your favorite day of the year, tears of desolation may send Yours Truly into catatonia land, especially since I’m without a date for Cupid’s prom.

Dang! She’s ruthless!

Did “without a date for Cupid’s prom” mean Stella is finally free of her abusive husband? For nearly twenty years, I’ve waited for her to divorce that creep. So if she’s no longer with the brute then why is she acting like she’s part of the witness protection program? She knows my wealth can get her out of any kind of sticky jam. But I can’t help her if she won’t tell me her location.

Oh Monty! I despise myself for perpetuating the silent-letter treatment, but I have to preserve what sanity remains.

Which contradicts with the following crazy sentences.

Since I have no more pride, you need to know that her Highness, Mistress Stella Lee, has forsaken the good fight. My castle is overrun with futility. The Queen has been ensnared, and her free continues under the magic spell.

My dearest love! Why couldn’t our souls connect long ago when we naïvely assumed poverty meant a lack of money?

If we had met sooner, would our lies be any different?

That last sentence still gives me the creeps. She probably meant to write “lives” instead of “lies.”

I didn’t hear the bathroom door open, but the yellow paper rustled from a slight breeze. Through the brown opaque glass, I saw the shadow of a blurry dark figure.

Well, well, well.

Ms. Supermodel has finally returned to her crappy condo because woman’s intuition alerted her that she’s about to be cruelly dumped!

They say change is good for you.

For everyone else, but not for me.

Chapter One, Page 8

This week’s topic: Movies. I’m switching it up because I really don’t think I can add more about the writing process until I get some reader input. There’s a book by Janet Evanovich titled, “How I write.” It is full of just about everything a new writer needs to know. So movies! I just saw the Inglorious Basterds, and I enjoyed it very much. I’m guessing here, but I think us writers get a bigger kick out of Quentin’s Tarantino’s movies than nonwriters. The pacing of the movie is brilliant, some scenes, especially the opening shot is breathtakingly beautiful, but most of the scenery is austere. The characters are also emotionally bountiful and other times aloof. The main issue I have with the movie is the outcome of the burning theater scene; I think Quentin pushed “suspended disbelief” a little too far. Because of it, my movie experience was like being at a wonderful feast and having the greatest time and then someone walks up and sucker punches me. The other issue I have with the movie is with the title. There is a war movie called Inglorious Bastards, which was made in 1978, but the plot is different. As a writer, I would never use a title that has been used before. Where’s the originality? Also, when someone is thinking of my work, why should I deliberately allow myself to be compared to someone else’s piece of work? I guess I’m selfish that way. Don’t think I’m hating on Quentin; I’m a big fan of his, having seen just about all of his movies. I was one of the few people who got the Kill Bill volumes. The summer before that movie came out, I had watched just about all of Toshiro Mifune movies. When people criticized Kill Bill for its violence, I piped in that Quentin was on the mark and accurate to the samurai genre. This week’s tip: Treat yourself to watching one of Toshiro’s movies. A good choice would be The Seven Samurai—which I feel is superior to the sentimental The Magnificent Seven. My personal favorite is Yojimbo, which is a version of Dashiell Hammett’s “Red Harvest,” an excellent short story. (Dashiell Hammett also wrote The Maltese Falcon and the Thin Man of Nick and Nora mysteries—not to be confused with the lovely teenage comedy, Nick and Nora’s Infinite Playlist). I still recommend seeing Inglorious Basterds while it’s showing on the big screen—that movie is too huge to watch on TV. And if you do see Inglorious Basterds, I have one word for you—Bon-jour-no!

****I hope this guy is being treated for his OCD.****New viewers, please jump to Chapter One, Page one.

…Another tiny hole has formed at a corner fold.

Thinking last year’s letter would be her last one, I photocopied Stella’s “Dear John/F.U. Monty” letter to keep in my wallet. I left the original at home, under my bed in the container full of Stella’s letters—over 300 of them. Unfortunately, the first time I made a rash decision, it backfired on me and resulted in the worst twelve months of my entire life. I don’t care if this current letter turns to dust because I’m leaving it in my wallet until she sends me another, which could be tomorrow…but probably never.

My darling Stella! You’ve been my divining-rod muse for twenty years. Not once have a made a big decision without your input.

Why did you stop loving me?

I carefully opened the yellow letter, and her handmade Valentine sticker fluttered to the rug. I picked it up and kissed the initials inside the little red heart. It’s killing me that you don’t write me anymore. Without your wisdom, Stella, I’m just Super-Celebrity Dude dining on a kryptonite-arugula salad.

I sat down on the edge of the tub to re-read her letter for the hundredth time.

February 4^th

Dearest One. A very happy Valentine’s Day to you.

Warm greetings from the Santa Monica pier.

I’m still irked by that reference to Santa Monica. Stella sent me letters from all over California, and her last letter just happens to be postmarked near my own back yard.

Another era has fizzled since I last wrote. Pardon me for not accomplishing any of my substandard goals. Every afternoon as I slug down my morning cup of Java, I meticulously choose which pain in the ass deserves my token effort of disagreeableness. Today, you won the coin toss.

Numero forty years old, right?

Sorry about no birthday card. Blame it on my misguided delusion to shun you forever.

I still can’t figure out what I did last summer to piss her off to the point where she halted all communications? There were way too many occasions to choose from when “Monty Davis” received bad publicity because I ticked off some idiot or some insecure minority group when I voiced my god-given “opinion.”

Which reminds me.

My lawyers need to hurry up and sue that backstabbing SOB reporter for a copy of our tape-recorded interview. Once it’s made public, the Hispanics will have proof that I never insulted them the way the unscrupulous Crest phrased it. I’m fortunate to have a good publicist like Evan who smoothed talk that Chicano group to postpone creating a big media stink until I first get the tapes. It would be cool if Evan comes up with a brilliant excuse to get me out of the guest of honor duty at the Cinco de Mayo festival in Orange Cove, California, wherever that is.

Damn! How in the hell am I supposed to find Orange Cove if I can’t find the toilet paper?

Get a grip, Miles! Tracy can make all the arrangements since that’s what I pay her for. Once she tracks Lydia’s ass down, then I’ll have Tracy rent a government satellite to zoom in on Stella’s location.

I don’t think regular people have the same type of problems as me—my best friend of nearly twenty years treating me like a ‘nobody’ and never telling me the reason why?