Perhaps I am fortunate in that I have never created a character from scratch. I once took a workshop at a small writing conference where we built characters from scratch. We started with physical attributes and appearances, then we dug into conflicts and personality. I think I even included the characters astrological signs. Fun workshop, but I don’t write that way.
Many writers over the years have told me that their characters come to them fully-fleshed out. Some characters even bring their stories along, but not the plots. True, even the flesh and blood characters come as new friends or adversaries that you get to know little by little. Sometimes in the middle of writing a story, a character confesses a secret he or she has been hiding. In my case, my character Lucy Yakamoto told me that she thought she was a lesbian so of course, I had to go back and rewrite the story prior to her confession.
Oddly, once I did that, Lucy wrote her own story while I just typed along blissfully and sometimes with some consternation. You want me to write what? Wow, there goes my reputation as a writer!
My first novel, (yet unpublished), Super-Nature Heroes features real life saints as magic realism characters. This story came about when I was in the midst of Julia Cameron’s “The Artist’s Way” program. I sat down one morning to write my three daily pages, and Saint Francis of Assisi showed up and gave me a what if statement. “What if I reincarnated in modern Manhattan and married Joan of Arc?” Thank you Francesco for dropping that delicious idea in my lap.
As the weeks flew by, the saints appeared with their myriad of stories and we (I had some help), wrote the novel 3 pages at a time and if you do the math, you will figure out that the novel only took several months to write the first draft. Typing the longhand took much longer and blogging early drafts, even longer. The real work, fixing the grammatical problems, cleaning up the plot, adding some new chapters, etc…took several years.
The characters Agnes Cass and Yves Gervais came to me when I found a submission request for a short script taking place in Paris. I believe that the requirements included one American and one French character. While the characters came to me in 3-D form, I still needed to research Pablo Picasso, Paris, San Francisco and then I brought in the circumstances to bring the two characters together. Magically, the supporting characters came to me fully fleshed out too. I saw them as cinematic versions in my mind. This magical stuff which is what keeps me in this chair writing stories.
Some times, I feel like a huge party is going on in my head with my characters (from novels, scripts and short stories), networking with each other. I wonder what stories could derive from this mix and match. Send all your characters to the same party and see what transpires.
How do you attract flesh and blood characters as opposed to building them from scratch?
Go for walks and observe the world around you
Ride public transportation and listen in on conversations
Do dream work and ask that your muse (or whoever) bring you characters
Use your imagination–go to a party and who do you meet?
Pick a story or plot and see who shows up to star in it
Network with your current characters and ask for introductions to their colleagues, friends and adversaries
Look among the people you know, would any of these people spark a character?
Write morning pages and once you get all the yucky stuff out of your system, see who shows up.
If you have any other suggestions, please leave them in the comment section. And start meeting your future characters.
When I first starting writing my memoir, I got caught up telling instead of showing my story. I waded in exposition that bored every tooth in my head, not to mention my eyelashes. In the past, I ran into boring exposition in other people’s memoirs too. Why do we equate memoir with boring story?
Well, I can think of two reasons: First, we’re afraid to include dialogue because we can’t remember the conversations we had with others verbatim. We’re afraid that someone will ring our neck and drag us into court if we put words in their mouths. Second, we worry that if we add an actual narrative with scenarios that include action along with dialogue that we entered the world of novel writing. But let me ask you this question. Do you really think that memoir authors such as Liz Gilbert remembered all her conversations as they were exactly spoken?
Now, there’s a huge difference between making things up and relying on memory to the best of our ability. The second scenario involves integrity and ethics because we’re trying to get it right to the best of our knowledge. The first scenario implies that we’re just making stuff up and placing words in other people’s mouths that we would have liked to have spoken. Wishful thinking does not equate an honest telling of the past. That lands in the fantasy realm.
The other thing I learned is to get all the anger, resentment and negative feelings out during the rough draft and a second draft if it is required. Then delve into a space of forgiveness and compassion for everyone involved in the story. While it’s still your story to tell and through your eyes and your memory, ask yourself what it would feel like to walk in the other people’s shoes. Psychoanalysis of others isn’t required and we’re best avoiding placing our memoir characters on the psychoanalysis couch. Also avoid the exposition that results from delving into someone else’ head space. Memoirs reflect our memories and our point-of-view which readers of this genre do get.
Avoid adding anything (especially that sounds bitter, self-pitying and resentful) to the story that actually doesn’t move the narrative forward. I cut out a lot of this type of writing from my first draft because I realized I was ranting and not sharing a cathartic story. I thought of readers wading through paragraphs, if not actual pages of me joining a pity festival. This pity party didn’t move my story forward and just made other people look like predators out to destroy me, which in reality wasn’t the case. So we can write dialogue that comes from the best of our memory and we can write scenarios in the same way that we write fiction, but it’s stuff that actually happened in our lives. We also have the right to invent structure so we don’t have to tell our memoir chronologically, meaning we can step back and forth through time. In actuality, I have never met anyone with a linear mind. How often does your mind wander into the future or into the past? Try meditating and you’ll see what I mean?
Even Liz Gilbert with her carefully structured three-part memoir travels back to her past. Even when she’s in Italy and India, she’s still bringing her divorce and marriage from the past into the present. That’s the way our minds work, especially if we have undisciplined minds, which most of us do have. Besides, memoir is French for memory and memory doesn’t occur in the present moment. This means that we can play around with structure. I encourage you to watch movies with unusual structures or books told in fragments to inspire you about creating the structure for your memoir. I chose to tell parallel stories in mine so I have ten interludes about suffering from multiple chemical sensitivities interlaced with my housing quest in 2014.
The final element required for a memoir besides dialogue/scenarios and narrative structure is a voice. The best memoirs feature a strong voice whether that’s a wry and funny voice or a spiritually powerful one or a fragile voice of someone coming into their own and beginning to acknowledge his or her personal power, I guess the word I’m looking for is vulnerability. Once you have the dialogue/scenarios, structure and voice, the last selling and reading point is strong writing. Work on sentence structure by varying length of sentences, balance exposition (telling) with scenarios (showing) and give the reader a good reason to read your memoir when they have thousands of other books they could pick up and read.
I’ll share more of what I learn during my memoir-writing journey as I work on my revising this spring. If you would like a intuitive coaching session for writing or other creative projects, sign up for a session at Metaphysics for Everyday Living.
Originally published on Bonjour Bellingham with musing about my second novel, “Agnes et Yves”
Before I fully understood the psychological and spiritual concepts of shadows and projections, I still managed to create characters with shadows that bit them. The easiest example of shadows and projections is with my character Agnes Cass (“Agnes et Yves”). When the novel opens, we flashback to Agnes’ insufferable childhood in Paris, living with a mother who spends too much time with the natives (Parisian men), getting naked.
Meanwhile, Agnes endures her mother’s irresponsible behavior, as well as, her mother’s sudden interest in everything “French” which includes listening only to French music, watching only French movies made in France, and eating only authentic French cuisine.
So Agnes does what any teenage girl trapped in Paris, she escapes and flies back to San Francisco where she hopes to severe ties with her mother and France. However, Agnes meets Jane, another journalist who soon becomes her best friend. Just like Agnes’ mother, Jane obsesses about everything French. She even has a French poodle.
While Jane waxes on about France’s many virtues, Agnes falls in love with a flamenco musician from Spain, who basically treats Agnes like another port of call during his whirlwind tours. Agnes doesn’t see the shadow that bites her and leads her to eventually lose her job, her reputation, and her grounding in the world. Until Agnes learns that she projects her own insecurities onto her mother, and French people, she’s trapped in her own machinations. In a sense she is just like her mother, only instead of chasing several Parisian men, Agnes chases after one Don Juan, but with a reputation for devouring women.
I won’t tell you about the transformation Agnes goes through, or how she ends up falling for a Parisian man who doesn’t fit her usual stereotypes. I won’t tell you this because I would like you to read my novel. However, I will ask you to find your own characters’ shadows and projection then see how you can work those more deeply into your fiction, short or novels.
Look for the following:
How your character relates to other people
Your character’s pet peeves, especially related to other people
The truth your character is not facing
Exaggerated behavior (also known as over-the-top)
Areas where your character trips her or himself up
To do this, you’ll need to wear the hat of a psychologist, even if that means remembering what you learned in your college psychology courses. You can also dig into self-help and pop psychology books to bring further depth to your characters.
Enjoy the process of sending your characters shadows into the light.
After working out the plot points, developing characters and reading notes from beta readers, the time arrives to go through the manuscript line by line. Take off the writing hat and don the editor’s cap because line editing demands total ruthlessness. Yes, time to kill those darling sentences, replace passive verbs with active ones and delete entire sentences, even paragraphs if they fail to move the story forward.
I actually enjoy this part of the writing process. The most challenging part of writing a novel is writing the first draft and including the plot points. But since I’m line-editing my fourth novel now, I’ll stay alert to common writing errors in future novels. So when we play the role of cleanup crew, what gremlins require ghost-busting?
While going through each sentence, read them out loud. Does the sentence sound clunky? Do you find yourself tripping over words? Can you draw up a distinct image or does the sentence appear foggy? Does the sentence propel the story forward or cause you to yawn and skip a few pages of details? Imagine if you feel this way the readers will also lose their patience.
You have two choices if the sentence doesn’t fit the above criteria (clear, concise, moves the story forward or provide imagery for the reader), rewrite the sentence or toss it.
Do you find long passages of the character musing about the past or their current feelings about a situation? The readers expect some musing from your characters, but they don’t want to drown in it. This is a good time to shorten the passage(s) by condensing sentences by using active verbs. Also look for repetition of sentiments, combine sentences or ideas into one sentence. Your readers will get your point.
Do you have too much dialogue? I have trouble with this myself because I tend to write chatty novels haven fallen in love with talky French movies. One solution is to cut up the dialogue by adding body language responses such as, “he shrugged,” “she pouted,” or “she jutted out her chin.” And if we listen to real dialogue we would notice that few people speak in full sentences unless they’re lecturing a class or giving a speech presentation. Characters cut each other off, complete each others’ sentences or if they’re nervous, stumble over their words. No one speaks in the Queen’s English any longer. So sharpen dialogue to get us into the characters’ head space or hearts and to move the story forward without dumping too many details on readers.
Decide how much description is absolutely necessary to give readers an image of the characters, setting and story. Some authors (such as myself who started out writing screenplays) tend to leave out important imagery details while other authors wax on like some literary giant of the golden era. Beta readers help with this process. This is why it’s a good idea to give beta readers a list of questions to answer. I like to include questions about imagery (too much or too little?), tone, pacing, character development, plot twists and this all depends on the beta reader’s background.
Finally, fact check your manuscript. Then look for silly errors (we all make) such as with the characters’ actions lacking congruency. For instance, while line-editing my current novel “Love Quadrangle” I noticed that in an earlier scene my character Miranda ambled away from Pierre’s Jeep but later, she slams the door of the Jeep. I chuckled and then fixed that glitch. You might notice that at the beginning of the novel a character has red hair and green eyes, but halfway through the novel she’s now blonde with blue eyes.
It’s actually easy to make these errors and not because writers are lazy. Some writers get caught up in their stories as if they are watching a movie. I often feel swept away by my characters and instead of seeing the finer details, I’m engulfed by the bigger picture. We space out and lose the plot or we ground ourselves so deeply in the story that we fail to give the story its breath or heartbeat.
The last thing I’ll mention is if you have professional characters, research those professions and find a beta reader who can give you advice on the details of their profession. Better yet, go to a site that represents the profession, check out the space, pay attention to the rhythms, colors, tones and nuances while also interviewing the professional. I’ve even heard of writers/authors doing this in medical and even police settings, so if you have an in, use it. Find these professionals on social media then follow through.
By doing our initial line-editing, we have a better chance of landing deals with agents and publishers. We prove that we are willing to sharpen both our writing and editing skills, and that we don’t mind the learning curves thrown at us. As authors, we get better and better with every book or novel. And who says that each step of the process doesn’t provide some treasure. Just like polishing furniture brings out the natural grain of wood, line-by-line editing brings out the essence of a novel.
My plan was to get started on my fifth novel last autumn, then life events sent me heading in the direction of a memoir. Now, I harbored misconceptions about writing memoirs which caused me to avoid them. First, I thought I had to conjure bad memories and write them down in a narrative fashion. And I thought that if I wanted to please readers that required a deeply disturbing confession of some kind… (archival article from Bonjour Bellingham)
Well, I since learned that writing memoirs does lead to gut-wrenching moments of rediscovery, but readers are more interested in a story they can relate to rather than a confessional. Besides, I’ve never had a reason to hide in a closet and I’ve never worked in the sex industry nor am I the daughter of a controversial or famous person. In fact, writing a memoir of any of my life stories seemed absurd to me, mainly because I find my life stories boring. That was until last fall.
While it’s easy for me to remember events from the past months, I realize that digging back into the past requires jogging of memory. Authors working on memoirs worry about accurate dialogue (isn’t going to happen unless you recorded your conversations) and portraying past events accurately, that is if they can even draw enough on memory to write a 200 to 300 page book. So I’m including some memory-triggering tips below.
Bring out the old photographs and photo albums from the time period of your memoir
Interview friends, family member, co-workers and colleagues involved in your story
Reread journal or diary entries from that period
Look up historic or media events from that period
Listen to music (extremely important for jogging memory) from the time of the events or situations featured in the memoir
Have a conversation with parents or close relatives about how they remember the event (this could prove healing too)
If the memoir involves illness or an accident, look up medical record notes
If the event was featured in the media, look up newspaper clippings or news audio clips
Look up current events from that time period
Visit a qualified hypnotherapist to trigger memories
Don’t worry if you’re story isn’t completely factual or accurate. The purpose of a memoir is to write from the author’s memory and perception of events. It’s not the same as writing a autobiography or an article. Authors who feel that they roam too far away from the actual events (poetic license) add a disclaimer at the beginning of the book explaining this.
I read two books recently on writing memoirs which include: Paula Balzer’s Writing and Selling Your Memoir and Bill Roorbach’s Writing Life Stories which I recommend. Paula’s book gives you the nuts and bolts while Bill’s book provides exercises (which I found cumbersome since I don’t like to stop the flow of a narrative to do an exercise). Writing memoir workshops are often offered at community colleges and writer conferences.
I’m an Intuitive Coach for artists and entrepreneurs. Sign up for sessions at Metaphysics for Everyday Living. I’m currently working on a memoir titled Woman Sleeping on the Couch (One Couch Away from a Real Home).
(I originally wrote this romantic comedy for a short fiction anthology featuring Latino writers. My story was rejected and I polished it over the years. The editor actually liked the story, but passed on it. During the time I wrote this story, I was a member of the Latino writers troupe, Los Nortenos in Seattle).
Actresses make me nervous. I never know when they’re just putting on an act. Take for instance, the mad crush I had on Carmen Miranda during my boyhood. Then in my early twenties, I fantasized about Salma Hayek and Jennifer Lopez, but when I experienced an affair with a Chicana actress named Maria Lopez, I finally choked on a dose of reality.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not the type of man who hangs posters of actresses on my bedroom walls. I’d rather experience the real thing as opposed to one-dimensional women staring into space. However, even the real woman, Maria stared past me and treated me like a pawn on her rise to stardom.
I met her at a party that took place in a friend’s Madison Park apartment. She had just turned twenty-three and celebrated the misfortune of her aging face. She tried to fast forward her career as she kept her ears open for any Hollywood connections, not that she would find many in Seattle.
Ears to the wall, she overheard a conversation that I had with my friend Ricardo in which I mentioned a bartender, Josh Mulligan who I met on at trip to Los Angeles. I made the mistake of referring to Josh as my friend and I added to the injury by mentioning that Josh served drinks to Robert De Niro. Maria’s ears went a-buzz after she heard De Niro’s name mentioned so she flew across the room like a duck with a mission and joined our conversation.
“You know someone who knows Robert De Niro? Could you introduce me to your friend?” She stammered, “Forgive me for not introducing myself. I’m Maria Lopez– actress.”
I handed her my business card in an offhanded manner. Maria talked in a rapid bilingual fashion and I was unable to get a word in edgewise to explain my true connection to the bartender that I met briefly on a trip to Hollywood with my parents.
Brimming over with excitement she acted like she had just discovered gold so I decided not to disappoint her by confessing the truth. She was my type and a slight chance existed that I would see Josh Mulligan again. I wanted to help Maria to achieve her dreams and by the look in her eyes, I sensed that she believed that she could manifest anything.
And as my luck would have it, she insisted on going back to my place. I threw caution to the wind even though we had just met. I barely made it through the door to my studio apartment when she began removing her clothing–slithering in the middle of the room she performed the dance of veils like an Arabian princess. Losing my breath in anticipation, I watched her slowly remove her clothing layer by layer–a scarf, a sweater and then a bra that sailed across the room. When she finished her exotic performance we made love on the tattered couch, if you could call it that.
She confessed, “I’d like to get the Hollywood couch routine out of the way.”
I didn’t understand why Maria uttered those words. Then later she confused me further when she confided that she could never move to Hollywood because she feared that she would end up acting in porno films. Performing her audition on a producer’s couch didn’t interest her either.
“Sure, the money’s good, but I’m a Catholic girl and Mama would kill me.”
“Why did you have sex with me?”
She pouted, “You must think that I’m easy, but I’m not. I got so excited when you mentioned your connection to Robert De Niro.” She added, “Besides, I had too many tequilas and lime juice makes me horny.”
“So, you have no interest in me.”
She ran her fingers through my hair and gazed into my eyes. “Let’s start over. Hi, my name is Maria Lopez and I’m thrilled to meet you.”
She extended her soft hand out to me so I held it tenderly. I leaned forward and found her slippery mouth and I sucked in her sweet lime breath.
A week passed by and Maria didn’t phone me. I chalked her up as a one-night stand and I tried to forget her. However, I couldn’t stop fantasizing about her perfectly round breasts and I couldn’t stop dreaming about her velvety brown eyes. I wanted to hear her breathy Chicana accent.
She sneaked out the next morning like a phantom. I probably just dreamt her up anyway. Why would an attractive actress like Maria have sex with me? However, just when I gave up hope, a frantic Maria phoned me.
“Paulo, I need your help! My landlady has just handed me an eviction notice because I’m three months behind on my rent. Can I move in with you?”
I froze in terror, but I found myself invited Maria to share my tiny apartment. After quick deliberation in which I wrestled with the fear that Maria could have been a con artist, I reached the conclusion that she was in fact the angel of my destiny. She didn’t mind the cramped quarters that we shared. She talked non-stop about how she always wanted to live on Capitol Hill, near Broadway. She didn’t miss her spacious Lake City apartment that she felt forced to give up and she adjusted quite well to her new surroundings.
“Actresses should live near Broadway, not just because of the famous Broadway in New York, but because this is action central. I can flourish as an actress living among these colorful types,” Maria rambled on.
I moved twenty boxes and her old futon into the apartment. I told her that she would have to rent a storage space for her belongings but she refuse to part with anything except her moldy futon. Hanging her dreaded posters of Hollywood actresses on the walls, Maria transformed my studio into something resembling an agent’s office. Relishing the effect, she gave a metaphysical explanation.
I sauntered into the kitchen where I prepared two burritos for dinner. I lit candles and played my favorite bossa nova CD. Maria spoke of Dolores Del Rio.
I inquired, “Who is Dolores Del Rio?”
She gawked at me in mock horror. “You don’t know who Dolores is? She’s a famous Mexican actress who acted in Hollywood films in the 1940s. She starred in Journey to Fear in 1942 and The Fugitive in 1947. I can’t believe you never heard of her.”
“I saw The Fugitive with Harrison Ford, but I’m not familiar with Dolores.”
Maria swallowed a large chunk of her burrito. “We’ll have to rent her films. She was so glamorous and despite the fact that she was Mexican, Anglos in Hollywood still respected her.”
I rose from the table then put in Nick Cave’s The Good Son into the CD player. I continued the conversation as good, old, Nick crooned in the background.
“Have you heard of Carmen Miranda? I had the biggest crush on her when I was…”
Maria cut me off, “You can’t compare Carmen to Dolores. Dolores didn’t dance around with a fruit basket on her head!”
I argued, “I’m not comparing them. Carmen had a lot more talent than she was given credit. She recorded music and it was the Hollywood directors who made her wear the fruit basket on her head because that was their cliché interpretation of Brazilian women at the time!”
Maria glared at me and she licked the food off of her fingers. She glided over to the couch as I pushed my plate away from me. “I still can’t believe that you can use Carmen and Dolores’ names in the same sentence.”
“Look,” I explained, “Hollywood used Carmen’s heritage against her. What makes you think that Hollywood won’t do the same thing to you?”
Maria crawled onto the couch and sobbed—always the drama queen. “I may never get to Hollywood. And even if I do, they already have their token Mexican actresses and they already have one Lopez!”
I rushed over to the couch to console her. “You can always change your name. Everyone does in Hollywood.”
Maria sulked, “Mama would be furious if I changed my name unless it was the name of my husband.” She smiled slyly.
I balked at the “M” word. I had just met Maria and I had no intention of marrying anyone before I turned thirty. Knowing Maria, she wouldn’t be happy unless she had children to blame the demise of her career. That kind of woman loved the idea of having sacrificed something important for love.
Two months passed by when Maria and I kicked our way through the February snow. She bought a pair of boots that shredded the heels of her feet and so I carried her as I climbed up Pine Street. We arrived outside of the studio where she was rehearsing for a play that would appear at the Fringe Festival. She exuded nervous energy and like the rest of her cast, was counting down the days until the performance.
“I’m nervous. What if I forget my lines or start laughing in the middle of a scene?”
My arms seared with pain as I carried her up two flights of creaky wooden stairs. I smelt a mixture of stale cigarettes and mildew so I felt nauseated. I dropped Maria off at the entrance and peered in at the actors who were performing yoga stretches and vocalization exercises on the cold cement floor.
“Why don’t you stay and watch me rehearse,” Maria begged.
“No, I’d like to go home and take care of a few things.”
“What things? Come on, stay and support me.”
I excused myself. “I can’t. I have to make some phone calls.”
Maria pouted, “Yeah, when are you going to call the bartender?”
She kissed me passionately so I dipped her. Her fellow actors applauded, she took a bow and I slipped out the door without making a confession about the bartender.
The night of Maria’s Seattle debut arrived. I sneaked into the makeshift theater in the Broadway Market and I sat in a plastic chair in the back row. I looked foolish reclining in the back row since the play attracted a small almost non-existent audience. A middle age man dressed in black plopped down in the chair beside me. He confided that his son starred in the play.
I bragged, “My girlfriend plays the housewife. Her name is Maria Lopez.”
He furled his brow, “Any relation to Jennifer Lopez?”
I guffawed, “No, but she wishes.”
The lights dimmed and butterflies climbed up to my throat. Fearing that Maria would flub up her lines, I prayed that she wouldn’t sabotage her debut performance. Maria crept out onto the half-lit stage. I trembled for her as she kissed her costar passionately and sailed through her two or three lines. Before I knew it, the play had ended and Maria pulled off the performance of her short life. In fact, one critic crowed that she was the best part of a badly written and poorly directed play. Even Dolores had to start somewhere
Maria was amped from her performance so we made sweaty love that night. She kept muttering something about an independent filmmaker named Denny who wanted her to star in his upcoming film, Intoxicated in Seattle. I didn’t want her to star in Denny’s film, but Maria ignored my protests.
“Paolo, indies films are huge at the moment. Just think, Denny’s film could get accepted at Sundance and I could meet tons of celebrities.”
I doubted that the situation would lead to Sundance, but I compromised and met with Denny and Maria to discuss the project. I planned on blowing his cover, especially if he was a porn filmmaker disguising himself as an independent filmmaker.
We met Denny at the Grand Illusion Café. A couple of latte-drinking bohemian filmmakers lounged on a couch discussing a French New Wave film that they just viewed and a pair of actresses played cards in the corner. We pulled up chairs at Denny’s cluttered table.
“So Denny, I asked, “Do you have any Hollywood connections?”
His jaw dropped then after a long pause he shouted, “I detest Hollywood!”
Maria gaped, “Why do you hate Hollywood?”
“Because,” he paused to gulp his latte, “Hollywood producers favor box office returns over artistic merit. Even indies filmmakers are expected to have a well-known actor in their film if they are to get distribution or backing.” He sneered, “You can’t get your film into Sundance unless Cameron Diaz stars in it!”
Leaning back in my chair, I assessed the situation. I knew my motives didn’t have Maria’s best interests at heart, but I felt animosity towards the pompous filmmaker. So I grilled him, “Why do you want Maria to star in your film?”
“She’s so incredibly beautiful to look at.”
Maria glowed. Turning towards me, she reprimanded me, “Look, I don’t care what you think of the film. I’m doing it!”
I argued, “But you heard what he said about the film not standing a chance at appearing at Sundance. Why waste your time?”
She countered, “I could use the on-camera experience and the debut will look good on my resume. Plus you can send a video to your bartender friend so he can pass it on to De Niro.”
I looked away from Maria and stared at the dirty coffee cups and plates that cluttered the table. I wish that I could connect to Josh since that would have been better alternative than her starring in Denny’s film.
Shooting for the film was delayed since the indies filmmaker’s backer pulled out at the last minute. Denny and Maria hit the Seattle International Film Festival hoping to meet an independent film producer, but most of them smelled Denny’s desperation and politely snubbed him. They found Maria charming though and wished her luck with her creative endeavors, but they had nothing to offer her at the time.
My relationship with Maria suffered from strain since she spent most of her time with her director. I prepared a romantic dinner complete with her favorite flowers, lilies and her favorite dish, salmon with linguini as a last ditch effort to save our relationship. My efforts were lost on her since she could only focus on how they would finance her film debut. I lit candles then slipped as Astrud Gilberto CD into the player. I pulled up a chair. I devoured the salmon as a favorite samba reverberated through the apartment. I wanted to wake Maria from her trance so I could clear my conscious.
“What are you thinking about?”
She glanced at me, “How we will come up with the money for the film.”
“Why don’t you just pull out of the film? Why are you and the other actors so whipped by Denny?”
Flames reflected in Maria’s eyes and resembling a demon she glared at me. “We’re not whipped!”
“Sure you are,” I quipped, “it’s as if you are in a cult and he’s the leader. You’re all devotees of the Jim Jones of the film world.”
Maria stabbed her salmon with her fork then she asked, “Can we talk about something else?”
I look down at my worn out Docs. “The thing is…”
The phone rang just as I was about to confess my true connection to the bartender. Maria scurried to the phone. Moments later, she jumped up and down after a couple of minutes of listening to the caller. She shouted, “Denny found a backer and we start shooting on Tuesday!”
Maria’s excitement led us once again to a sexual escapade on the old couch. This time we knocked a couple of springs loose. I thought to myself how nice it would be if Maria got paid for her work because we could use a new couch.
I barely saw Maria for the next three months and I heard a rumor about an affair she was having with her costar Robert. However, from what I knew about independent films and their grueling schedules, I didn’t think she would have possessed the energy to pursue an affair, not even a quickie behind the set. Besides, even if she did have the energy, her twisted Catholic guilt would’ve ended it, so I thought.
When the shooting of the film ended, I promised myself I would tell Maria the truth about my Hollywood connection. I figured she’d feel elated about her movie and wouldn’t take my news too hard. So I met up with the cast and crew at their wrap party, held at Denny’s new loft. Maria got drunk and spread the word that I had a connection to Robert De Niro. Maria’s costar Robert staggered over to me from across the room.
He slurred, “I heard that you know De Niro.”
Maria sashayed over to us and joined the conversation, “I hope you don’t mind, but I told Robert about Josh.”
A loud blast of music pierced the air and grabbed Maria’s attention. We gathered around the large screen to view the film’s outtakes. Footage of Maria kissing Robert filled the screen. They kissed passionately in a phone booth with sheets of rain pounding them. Normally, I would have felt pangs of jealousy watching Maria kiss another man, but I experienced only sympathy for Robert who resembled a troll and for Maria who looked like an adorable, but hardly an erotic marsupial. Maria screamed as she saw her disfigured face fill up the screen.
I suppressed my laughter and consoled her. “It’s okay. It reminds me of a Fellini film.”
She sobbed, “Who is Fellini?”
I looked over at Robert who glowed with pride. A couple of twenty-something blonde women dressed in retro-seventies clothing clung to the actor. He didn’t care how he appeared on celluloid. Maria, on the other hand, stormed out of the room. I grabbed our jackets and pursued her. I yelled to her to wait up. She stopped and she wiped her face on my sleeve. I put my arm around her back and feigned sympathy, though secretly I wanted to see the film fail.
She sobbed, “I can’t show De Niro that awful film! What was Denny thinking?”
I interjected, “He told you that he despised Hollywood so what did you expect? I mean, he wasn’t going to shoot you in the best light because he didn’t see you as the Dolores Del Rio type.”
She rested her head on my shoulder as we traveled up Pine Street. “At least De Niro will never see the film, but could you still contact Josh for me?”
I stopped walking then staring into Maria’s teary eyes. I confessed, “I have something to tell you. I only met Josh once and I doubt he’d remember me. I’ve been trying to tell you, but I kept getting distracted and…”
Maria shape shifted into a demon. “What! You lied to me? You never had a connection to De Niro? So then, why have I been wasting my time with you?”
She rushed up the hill leaving me crushed, emotions mangled. She yelled over her shoulder, “It’s over between us! I can’t live with a fraud!”
She slept at Robert’s house that night. The next day the new couple came to pick up her belongings while I was at work and I never saw her again, not even in a movie. I heard later that she married Robert and that they moved to Hollywood. Good riddance I thought. I swore that I would never get involved with an actress again.
Yet, I still dream about Carmen. She always wears a basket of fruit on her head when we dine out at chic restaurants and she kicks off a musical routine at the slightest provocation. Fortunately, she never mentions my connection to Robert De Niro. That’s why I love her.
By Patricia Herlevi, All Rights Reserved
Check out my YouTube channel, Patricia Herlevi, to listen to my short fiction podcasts. I also include my photography in the videos so I give you both a feast for the ears and the eyes.