Laini Giles's Blog, page 7

Since I don’t do enough self-promotion…

Here’s a piece I wrote for my friend Ella’s blog back in February.

Should have been talking it up here too. Take a look, if you’re so inclined.

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Writers Digest Dumps Author Solutions

Stumbled across this post by David Gaughran today, and thought I would share:

Writers Digest Dumps Author Solutions

This is VERY good news. I’m a bit disgusted to find out the extent of their exploitation of newbies. I enjoy reading the magazine, but this makes me angry, discovering the fact that they had been presenting these frauds at their conferences (which I’ve considered attending).

I saw Chuck Sambuchino in Edmonton when he was up for Words in 3D last year. He’s a bit of a pit bull in person, and certainly humorous, but when I asked a question, I was a little annoyed that he shot down my genre with a hasty “that doesn’t exist.”

I called it Fictional Biography. What would you call the spate of fiction based on real people’s lives that tells a huge chunk of their lives, loves and deaths, but is written as you imagine it in your head?

The part about his “shilling” for WD made me chuckle. If only for that.

Check it out. Gives me hope.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation, Part 2

After learning oodles more about writing when I was in Santa Barbara, I headed out on the next part of my vacation.

Funny story: In one of the SB workshops (Ernie’s humor workshop), I read an excerpt from my second book where a silent movie actress has to ride an ostrich. This was a hit, but they wanted more detail. How would that ostrich farm smell? In particular, the poop? I told them I had no idea. How would I discover that? Turns out, Solvang, California is just up the road from Santa Barbara (through the Los Padres National Forest, but that’s another story…), and there’s an ostrich farm there.

So, off I set, in search of research tidbits to liven up my scene. You can actually spend $1.00 for a pan of food, and those guys polish it off PDQ. Peck. PECKPECKPECKPECK!! Until it’s all gone. Then they look at you in that funny sideways way they have, wondering where the rest of it is.

One of my new friends at Ostrichland, USA

After Solvang, I headed for L.A. (with a stop in Oxnard for a Panera lunch and a Target visit). Yes, I really wanted to stop at one of the charming Danish-loooking cafes in Solvang, but I really wanted to make tracks south before rush hour. And yes, I know we have Target in Canada now, but it basically sucks, since the shelves are always empty, and I REALLY needed new underwear!

What was I up to in L.A.? Well, since I write about old Hollywood stars, how could I do that successfully unless I know about old Hollywood? Which streets are where? How visible is the Hollywood sign? And other questions I’d never know unless I saw this stuff up close.

Now, when I say OLD Hollywood, I mean OLD Hollywood. Even the ’40s are too late for me. I’m talking orange groves and The Ship Inn, Mack Sennett Bathing Beauties and heading down to Tijuana so you could drink legally. OLD old.

Friday evening, I knew the minute I checked in to my B & B (Hollywood B & B– highly recommended. Go see William and Nina. They’re great! Nina is an artist, and you will be amazed at the breadth of her work in that house. Trust me.) that I wanted to get to the Larry Edmunds’ Bookshop. It’s been a pilgrimage I’ve wanted to make for some time! How much money did I spend? OK, an obscene amount. But it was totally worth it. The nice guys there gave me a box to put all my books in too. I took my box and looked around for vittles. Turns out Musso and Frank’s is almost directly across the street. If I was looking for an old-fashioned Hollywood experience, unpolluted by Spiderman movies, Kardashians, and Seared Ahi Tuna, I knew I couldn’t do any better. Despite people staring at me and my box, I took notes on the interior, ordered Shrimp Louis (does it get more California than that?) and mineral water, and contemplated my plans for the week.

My first day, Saturday, I needed to do research at the downtown library– old city directories and old newspaper microfilm. Plus, I managed to score a tiny blueprint of the Hall of Justice before its renovation, and information on California’s Wright Act, a piece of pre-Prohibition state legislation. Yay me!

Sunday, I saw a bit of downtown, including the Hotel Alex. Stupid me, though, I forgot the ballroom has been preserved, and I missed it. God, what an idiot I am. Grrrrr…. I pinpointed where an old bank would have been (demolished now), and where an old lawyer’s office would have been (also gone).

Monday, I had an appointment at the Margaret Herrick Library (affectionately referred to now as “Aunt Maggie’s– I can’t take credit for that). Managed to work the entire day and skipped lunch (stupid, I know). By the time I left, I was voracious! Wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Tuesday, it was back to Aunt Maggie’s for various reference needs. The librarian found me a great bio by Mary Astor where she talked about her adventures filming The Rough Riders in San Antonio. Perfect!

Wednesday, I was meeting Philip Mershon for his Felix in Hollywood tour. A terrific guy, with lots of insights on old Hollywood. I took him to lunch afterward, where we ate at Off Vine. Unbeknownst to me beforehand, it used to be Earl Carroll’s girlfriend Beryl’s place. They have photos of her on the walls. A beautiful old Craftsman. Try the Grand Marnier souffle! It’s dreamy!

Thursday was my Paramount VIP tour. I loved the history, and finding out which studios were around when. The neat part is that the pages are given tablets so they can play movie and TV clips, so you can see your current location in the clip. We saw the Paramount Theatre (with amazingly comfy chairs), where they do test screenings, and they use the lobby to film lots of stuff. Rizzoli and Isles was filming in “New York” while we there. We also got to see the archives, where old costumes, old jewelry, etc are stored. We had lunch outside at the studio under the trees.

I must have caused a lot of confusion. I had no “official passport” when I arrived. I had an email receipt for my ticket that I had printed. The guard at the gate said nothing about printing a passport, so I didn’t know I needed one.

But I saw those passports everyone else was carrying (which had a map of the studio, AND which I needed for research) and asked our page about them because I wanted the map. Some fellow tour members said “Here, you can just have ours.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Sure,” they said. “We don’t need it.”

Turns out, they actually ask for that passport when you leave through security. I hope they didn’t have too hard a time. Sorry folks! I blame the security guard on the morning shift.

The ID culprit in front of the Bronson Gate

Friday, I visited the Hollywood Heritage Museum (also called the DeMille-Lasky Barn) on Highland (originally at Selma and Vine). SO glad I went! What a delightful little slice of history, with a copy of The Squaw Man playing on an endless loop, lots of neat artifacts, and Cecil B. DeMille’s old office made up much like it would have looked in the old days. Chatted quite a bit with Dave Bower, who was working that day, and is now pretty excited about my 2nd book. Now I just have to hope I can get the damned thing published soon! Also got an invitation to have a book release party there, which would be the most wonderful thing I could think of right now.

For food, I recommend takeout from Eat24. Wish we had it in Edmonton! On those nights where I was so exhausted I couldn’t even THINK about getting back out into L.A traffic and wanted something yummy. The Enchiladas Suizas from Gardens of Taxco were good, as were the Coconut Lamb Curry from Anar Indian Restaurant and the Shrimp with Lobster Sauce from Asakuma Rice (Heaven! WHY do Chinese people in Edmonton not know about this DISH?!! I’ve missed it!).

Also met a cousin at Canter’s Deli, another slice of history on Fairfax. Everybody’s eaten there. Everybody.  The Reubens are HUGE. Don’t count on finishing! Plus, they had me at 1 1/2 hours of free parking!

Stay tuned for more details about that ever-elusive 2nd book.

How I spent my Summer Vacation, Part 1

So I recently posted about my upcoming trip to the Santa Barbara Writers Conference, and now that I’ve had a chance to recuperate from that week, and the following one in Hollywood (doing research on a new book), I can post about my adventures!

On my drive up from LAX, I headed up the coast on the 1, passing Thelma Todd’s old place (thanks to Scott Michaels for the great website, findadeath.com).

I wanted to stop for a moment to really appreciate the look of the joint, but I was on a mission, and was actually pretty tired already.

I was booked around the corner from the Hyatt in SB, at a little inn called the Parkside (also owned by the Hyatt, and a little cheaper). I was prepared to be mightily disappointed, since I’d wanted to book at the Hyatt, but surprisingly the Parkside was comfy, and only a short walk down the street. For someone who’d been trapped inside during a long cold Edmonton winter, the walk past lush bougainvillea, jacaranda trees overflowing with lilac blossoms, and oleander trees dripping white fronds everywhere was totally worth it every morning.

The first night I ordered room service (thank God, the Hyatt delivered, even to the Parkside!) and crashed.

The next day, registration began around noon-ish, so I made a jaunt into town, found a Panera for breakfast, and did a little shopping. Didn’t buy much, because I knew the tsunami of spending that would follow!

The first night at dinner, I was delighted to find two more ladies from Edmonton at my table! We spent the rest of the week hanging out and getting to know each other. I’m convinced that Lesley and I were separated at birth.

New Edmonton friends Heidi and Lesley

I browsed around the hotel, tickled at its age. I have a scene in one of my WIPs where a writer has to come to Santa Barbara and speak to old Hollywood director Sidney Olcott and his wife, Valentine. This would be PERFECT. There were even some old photos that had been framed in the one common area of the hotel around 1930. I began framing the scene in my head and making notes about the interior.

Sidney and Val

After entering a low ebb with my writing, debating about self-publishing after racking up oodles and oodles of rejections (more than you can imagine. Seriously), I was pleasantly surprised to see the reactions to my readings during the workshops.

The speakers were delightful, the ones I saw. I had to miss Caitlin Rother and Maile Meloy, but I was really glad I got to see Jane Smiley, Mark Childress, and Laura Moriarty.

Jane Smiley

Laura Moriarty

More later, but I did want to begin sharing some of my impressions of my amazing experience.

Less than a week!

Back in 1995, I bought a book at Borders when I was still merely dabbling in writing, The Complete Guide to Writing Fiction, by a fellow named Barnaby Conrad.

At the time I had no idea who he was, other than that he worked with the folks at this thing called the Santa Barbara Writers Conference.

 

I loved that book. I loved reading it and daydreaming about writing, the writing lifestyle, and visiting glamorous Santa Barbara. And as I’ve gotten older and learned more about it, I wanted to go even more.

In 2006, I visited my third cousins at their home near Montecito and loved it. But I so wanted to be able to go to the writers conference one day. Life got in the way of that for a while. But….flash forward a few years.

I have the most wonderful husband in the world. When it looked like we might not be able to buy a house this year, he knew I was bummed, and knew that an instant way of cheering me up would be to let me go to a writers conference.

When I began looking at what was available, I realized Santa Barbara was coming in June, and I couldn’t sign up fast enough! I’m incredibly sad that Mr. Conrad and Ray Bradbury, both longtime stalwarts there, have both passed away. But I’m still incredibly excited to be around other writers, agents, editors, and the staff.

I leave on Friday. Can’t wait to let you know what I learn!

 

 

Springing forward and bouncing back

As a native Texan, March and April are truly difficult months for me to suffer through on the prairies of Canada. The allergies are just the icing on the cake.

Back home, fields are bursting with indigo and coral blossoms of bluebonnets and Indian paintbrushes, the temperatures are in the balmy 70s, and patios all over town are full of brunch-goers.

Up here, just when you get a short glimpse of spring for a day, or even a week, those hopes are dashed forthwith when the next blizzard moves in. It is now the second week of April, and we’ve had warmer temperatures for a few days. I planted about a hundred bulbs last fall, and I keep hoping for a view of little green sprouts. But at the same time, I worry that another blizzard will move through and kill them all. It’s kind of a parallel with what’s going on in real life.

I’m dealing with a recent rejection. A process that began in October and ended last week. A partial request turned into a full request. That full request turned into my very first revise and resubmit. I was so excited. I thought Olive might finally see the light of day. During the heaviest part of winter this year, I barely noticed the blizzards (for the first time ever). I had a purpose. I worked, nose to the grindstone, for two months, adding, polishing, and polishing again.

When I got the rejection, even though I had hoped for comments or observations on all that work I’d put in, I got nothing. I expect that with queries, but with an R & R? It was like a blizzard on top of newly sprouted tulips. I just shake my head anymore.

Querying can be a painful, soul-killing process, and the search for an agent has been a massively character-building experience for me. Every morning, I trudge into the lobby of my building, pull out my manuscript and notebook, and begin marking it up, or adding more content. And every lunch period, I do the same thing. At night, if I have the energy, I transcribe what I’ve written or tweak the material I had questions on. Everyone tells me that good writers are a dime a dozen. It’s hard work that gets the job done, they say. I’ve had readers, beta readers, and writers group members tell me my stuff is good– VERY good. I’m convinced that this is going to happen. Giving up is not an option.

Are you like me? Discouraged? Down at the mouth? A little sad? Fine. You’re allowed. Have your pity party– make it ice cream, red wine, Bailey’s– name your poison. My wonderful husband took me out to a great Scotch bar near our house, and we had appies. He had a fine aged Scotch, and I had two giant glasses of a great Malbec. We discussed strategies and what I should do next. He’s my greatest ally.

After this party, pull on your big girl or big boy panties, and get your ass back to work.

The night after my ugly R, it seemed like I was wearing a scarlet letter. I thought anyone who looked at me could see what a big fat loser I was. But you know what I did? I went to my writers’ group and shared a newer piece with them (the one I’ve been working on as the successor to my rejection piece). I have an awesome writers group– very supportive and they provide awesome, constructive comments. Hearing the great remarks they made, and knowing that I’m onto something good gave me the shot in the arm I needed to keep going.

Use whatever works for you– positive self-talk, a night out with the girls, pampering, a week off work if you can spare it. You HAVE to do it. Just keep writing. If you want to succeed, you WILL do it.If I can do it, so can you. Be the tulip.

                                  Lovely tulips in snow from sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net

What’s your most painful rejection story?

 

How Do You Write?

That’s been a frequent question I’ve gotten lately. “What do you write?” Or “How do you write it?”

And it’s one I love answering. Because I’m still discovering what works the best for me myself.

Because I’ve started writing about real people, the first thing I have to do is begin identifying what I need to come up with a blueprint of their lives. Usually, that is at least one nonfiction biography source. Sometimes, I’ll only have one, but for others, I may find several. Who were their best friends? Their spouse? Acquaintances of theirs in the movie business? All of these are potential books or data sources to be mined for information– life events, funny stories that I can use, personality traits I need to make sure to feature… all of it.

Where did they live? Did they move around? Did they have a favorite vacation spot? I need to research these locales.

My weapon of choice is Alibris.com. The majority of my money is spent on research books. I’ve also gotten very lucky that a Mennonite Thrift Store here in town has a lot of old Hollywood bios. So then what? I invest on one of those lovely 5-subject college-ruled notebooks (the kind with pockets), one project per notebook, a different pretty color per book. It’s a big thing for me, hand-writing my notes. Helps me commit the info to memory.

Then I google old news stories, names, places, pictures, maps, etc. I create a folder in my “Novels” folder for each project, and keep all the info in one place. Sometimes, I print the articles if I need to take some of this info with me. These go in the pockets.

Every day– as much as possible, I write before work for 30 to 45 minutes, then an hour for lunch. It’s a stressful job– it ain’t easy. But if you have a goal, you put in the work. It’s as easy as that. When people hear that I wake up at 4:30 every morning, they groan and say they can’t do that. Or “I’m too busy.”

Most of us are busy. I work an incredibly stressful day job. I just shrug. This is a system that works for me. If you don’t like waking up early, then work late. Do what you have to do to put in the work.

One of the first things I learned when I began writing seriously? Don’t work in order. That was the kiss of death for me. I had NEVER been able to finish anything, and I point at that as the cause. If I came to a scene I wasn’t sure how to write, I’d just stop. And chances are, I’d never pick it up again. If I did, I still wouldn’t know, and I would put it down once more.

Now, I write scenes as I think of them. I can put my brainstorms down as they occur. If they don’t work with something else I have, I go back and stitch things together later. I’ve discovered that fixing continuity issues is far easier for me than never getting the material down in the first place. One of my strategies is that when I switch chapters, I put a Chapter ____ at the top of the page. It works in a practical manner, so that when I cut and paste for timeline issues (which always surface, even though I try to prevent them), I never have to worry about renumbering. It’s also psychological. If I initially label it with a chapter number, it’s hard to picture that chapter playing a different role or being in a different place. This way, I can move them around wherever I want. No worries.

Does your work look like it’s becoming a narrative nightmare? Too much exposition and not much else? Dialogue is your friend. I examine every scene and try to figure out where I can add dialogue to liven up the proceedings. It works just about every time.

It’s not easy to start. That’s the scary part– writing down those first few words when you have what seems like an insurmountable mountain in front of you. You just have to keep going.

I compare it to using popsicle sticks to build a toy house. Or building a sandwich. First one piece of bread. Then, another piece of bread. That’s your initial structure– figuring out where the chapters will go. Then you add your meat (or meat substitute, for you vegetarians). More chapters, more research. A little cheese, finessing the timeline, and getting the content in the right place.

Some lettuce maybe? Tomatoes? Add in some details. I try to add the five senses in each chapter. What is this person seeing? Smelling? Tasting? Hearing? That kind of thing. Vivid details so my readers can be in the moment.

And then there’s mayo. Or mustard. Various toppings that I can schmear in the little spots that need livening up. One of the agents I contacted suggested reading Michael Chabon’s The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay to see how well he recreated 1930s-1950s New York. It was very effective in putting my latest work over the top for details.

When I have enough to get started, I print it. It looks more professional, and I think better when I see the words in print in front of me. I continue marking up the printed pages, and clipping my notebook paper scenes into the printed copy. Then I transcribe the written portions and add them to the Word version on my laptop. Then I re-print again after I’ve added several more chapters. I recycle several more revisions in so I don’t kill too many trees (and I buy recycled paper too). After a few months to a year, I have 90,000 words. I just keep revising and revising until I like the look of it. Or someone else does.

How do you write? What works for you? What can you not do? What’s your best quality for writing? Share them here.

A major distraction…

Happen to you? Trying so hard not to concentrate on a recent submission that you’ll do just about anything to keep yourself distracted?

I’m there.

I’ve moved on to another WIP, and I’ve dived in headfirst, trying like hell to do anything to stay busy. Work, sure, ok. Cleaning house like a white tornado? Yeah, that’s a whole day right there. Brunch with the hubby? Sign me up. Visit to the bookstore for inspiration? Yup. Volunteering with the work group at a charity, boo ya.

I can keep doing this indefinitely. Sure, I can.

 

 

Thomas vs Pickford (Backlots’ Third Annual DUELING DIVAS BLOGATHON!)

In this corner, weighing in at approximately 300 combined pounds, we have the team of Mary and Charlotte Pickford.

That would be “America’s Sweetheart,” the silent movie queen, and her mother, intent on managing the lives of her other two children based on what’s best for Mary’s career. Newly rich, the Pickford ladies look down their noses at their opponent, originally a workman’s daughter from Charleroi, Pennsylvania.

In the opposing corner, weighing in at a respectable 115 pounds, we have the challenger, showgirl Olive Thomas. Recently departed from the Ziegfeld Follies, and a newcomer to Hollywood, Ollie is intent on marrying Mary’s brother (and Charlotte’s son), Jack. But it may not be as easy as she hopes. After all, by Pickford standards, only LOOSE women become artists’ models and join the Follies or the Midnight Frolic.

**********************************************************

Mary and Owen’s Home, Los Angeles – June 9, 1917

    As we neared the house, I clutched the present in my lap. It was all wrapped up in festive paper, and I fidgeted, playing with the bow. Jack reached over and patted my hand, reassuring me.

“She’ll adore it. Don’t worry, darling.”

“I’m just nervous, that’s all.” Remembering what Owen had told me about these women, I’d have been nuts not to be.

I’d chosen my most demure dress, a deep navy in a simple style with matching kid shoes, and I’d worn my hair up to seem more ladylike.

“You’ll love Lottie,” Jack said, speaking of the birthday girl, whose party it was. “She’s the fun one. We call her Chuckie.”

“Why Chuckie?”

“It was our dad’s idea. Her real name is Charlotte, like our mother. But when she was born, my father thought she was a boy.      They were going to name her Charles, but…”

“Oh, I get it. Chuckie.”

We were let in by a colored maid, whom Jack introduced as Nina. I could hear the guests in the living room, so we crowded in. Jack stopped to speak to some of the party-goers, and as he did, Owen handed us both a drink. He was soused.

“How are you, Ollie?”

“Nervous. How are you?”

“Desperately needing another of these. Good luck with the dragon ladies.”

“Jesus, he looks like shit,” Jack said, as Owen moved off into the crowd.

The living room was elegant, but nothing at all like I’d imagined for a movie star. I was surprised that such a wealthy woman lived so frugally. I saw Mary and her famous blonde curls in a sitting room, speaking to a petite, pretty lady with silky chestnut hair wrapped in a tidy chignon. There were fewer people in here, but the same no-nonsense décor.

They both waved, and the brunette gave a big smile. Mary’s face lit up when she saw her brother, then stopped when it got to me. Her eyes, usually wide and blue, full of charm and spunk in her films, were now blank. She wore a dress that would have cost me a year’s salary- a blue tricotine number with black soutache embroidery at the cuffs and hem.

We approached them, and Jack introduced me.

“Mary, Frances, this is my sweetheart, Olive Thomas.”

I shyly took each of their hands in turn.

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

“Hello, Olive,” the other woman said. “I’m Frances Marion, and I’m a scenarist. It’s nice to meet the most beautiful girl in New York.” She winked, and I laughed.

“Your reputation precedes you, darling,” Jack said.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Mary said, taking my hand, but touching it as little as she could, like it was a rotten egg.

“I love your films, Mary. Ever since I first saw Willful Peggy,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said. The smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“Is Jack here?” I heard a smoky voice say.

A woman broke from the crowd, gathering him in an affectionate hug, and smothering his face with playful kisses.

“Chuckie!” he yelled.    “You must be Olive!” she said, reaching out a hand. “I’m Lottie!” She was darker than her sister, and her large dramatic eyes were her most attractive feature. She wore a deep burgundy dress with a mink collar and shoes of the same color. The aroma of Caswell Massey’s #6 and Murad cigarettes clung to her like a coat.

“This is for you,” I said.

She took the gift I handed her, giving me a sideways hug.

“This is so sweet of you!” she said, ripping at the red bow on top.

When she got to the box inside, she squealed. I’d splurged on a diamond bracelet in a bid for her to like me. She gave me another hug as she set the box on the bar.

“This is one of my favorite presents ever!” she said, fastening it around her wrist.

Right then, a little girl of about two or three crept out from behind Lottie, her face dwarfed by a pair of the same eyes as her mother.

“This is my daughter, Mary,” Lottie said, with her hands on the girl’s shoulders. I knelt down to be at the same level and smiled at her, opening my arms to see if she responded. When she scampered over, I was overjoyed.

“How sweetly she toddles! Do you talk yet, sweetheart?”

“Only when she feels like it,” Lottie said.

“Dat?” the little girl asked, pointing at Lottie’s glass.

“This is mommy’s drink, darling. Can you say Scotch?”

Lottie kneeled down and let her sniff it. Little Mary made a face.

“She obviously doesn’t take after my side of the family at all!” Lottie said with a guffaw. Then she downed her drink and poured another.

At that moment, the temperature in the room dropped. An older woman marched toward us. She wore a dark dress, of the style favored by withered matrons, and her gray hair was pulled into a severe bun. No one had ever stared at me so critically in my life. Anyone would have sworn she’d just stepped in dog shit.

“Mother, this is Olive,” Jack said. “Ollie, this is my mother, Charlotte Pickford.”

“It’s very nice to meet you,” I said, smiling.

“Charmed,” Mrs. Pickford said, holding her hand out for me to shake, but her glacial demeanor did not thaw one bit. Her face remained frozen and unreadable.

“Mother, see the gorgeous bracelet Olive bought for me?” Lottie shook her arm so it gave a little tinkle.

“It’s lovely,” said the iceberg. “But obviously very pricey. How does one pay for such a costly piece of jewelry?”

“I’m an actress,” I said

“I have it on good authority that your contract at Triangle pays you a pittance, Miss Thomas. So once more I ask myself what you had to do to pay for a gift like that.”

“Excuse me?” I said, almost snorting Scotch out my nose. “What are you saying, Mrs. Pickford?”

Sensing a change in the mood, Frances looked out into the living room.

“Oh, there’s Owen. And I haven’t said hello yet. Please excuse me. Olive, it was lovely to meet you.” I smiled back at her as she moved into the living room, but inside I was seething.

“Jesus Christ,” I heard Lottie mutter. She slipped behind the bar and poured herself another Scotch, then opened a jet cigarette case and lit one. Jack joined her and poured himself one too.

“As warm as ever, mother,” Jack said, using the flame from Lottie’s cigarette to light his own. “No ‘welcome to our home’ or ‘thank you for Lottie’s beautiful gift.’ You leap right in and call my sweetheart a tramp.” He crossed to a couch and sat down.

“I did no such thing.”

Just as I thought they were ready to pull on boxing gloves, Mary entered the fray.

“Yes, how did you pay for it? I didn’t think the Follies paid that well, unless you count the fringe benefits, of course.”

“I saved my money.” It was true, for once. I’d put some money in savings. And spent it almost immediately.

Between Mary and Charlotte, I had never felt such coldness. I’d always been able to charm almost anyone, but these two were a brick wall. So that was how they wanted it. Fine, I could play along. If I could deal with a professional bitch like Kay, I could handle ‘America’s Sweetheart.’ And her mother too.

She’s like buttermilk, I thought. Bright and sunny on the outside, but sour once you’ve had a taste.

Instead of sitting in the chair that she gestured to, I plopped down next to Jack on the couch, where he was already relaxing.    Then I defiantly took his hand and downed the rest of my scotch, setting it down on the table without a coaster, reveling in the determined clonk it made. The hard stare I received in return told me everything I needed to know. War had been declared.

Little Mary followed me and leaned on the friendly lap she had just encountered.

“I see you’ve met Little Mary,” the elder Mary said.

“Yes,” Lottie said, “She’s quite taken with Olive.”

“As is our Jack,” Mary answered, glaring at her brother as if to say “You idiot. How could you do this to the family?”

“So you were in the Follies.” Charlotte said.

“Yes ma’am,” I said, wary of what would come next.

“And the Frolic too?”

“Yes.”

“You took your clothes off for money, then.”

“Now see here, mother…” Jack began.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” protested Mrs. Pickford.

It didn’t matter what I said. I’d be damned if they’d condemn me like this. I was no whore, and I was ready to come out swinging on the old hag.

“Mrs. Pickford, Jack has told me that he grew up poor when your husband died. Do you know the same thing happened to my mother? My father died of pneumonia when I was five. I watched him die.” I narrowed my eyes to let her know I would not be cowed. Then I continued.

“She also had three children to raise—my two brothers and me. And like you, she struggled. For weeks and weeks we lived on nothing but cabbage soup. But she managed to get food on the table. When I went to New York and became a model and joined the Follies, it was the most money I’d ever seen in my life. And I was able to help her, just like Mary was able to help all of you. I’ve sent Mamma money and household gifts, and pretty things that she likes because I know how hard she worked to raise me. She’s never judged me for what I do, and neither has Jack. I’m perfectly happy with my life. I met some nice people at the Follies, and I loved working there. Anything else you’d like to ask me?”

From her reaction, I could tell that no one else had ever spoken to Charlotte Pickford that way in her life. She squinted at me.

“Respectable women do not take their clothes off for money, no matter how hungry they are. My son cannot marry a harlot who has been an artist’s model. Everyone knows showgirls are loose. Billie Burke is a lovely woman. You had a lot of nerve trying to steal her husband.”

“That’s very nice of you to give me the benefit of the doubt, Mrs. Pickford.” I tried not to roll my eyes. “For your information, Mr. Ziegfeld initiated our affair. He invited me to his apartment, and took me to Long Island for rides on his yacht. But first, he introduced me to fellatio. I’m sure you wouldn’t have heard of it. It’s an unusual practice, where a woman uses her mouth on a man’s…”

“Stop! I do not want to hear this. Lottie, send little Mary to her room.”

“No? The truth not fitting with your judgements of me? Even though he was the one who began the affair? Come now, Mrs. Pickford. I was a showgirl, and I was paid to dance, nothing more. Ziegfeld was crazy about me. I wanted to be legitimate, and I told him that for things to continue, I wanted the sanctity of marriage. He wouldn’t give me that.”

“He had a wife and a child!”

“He didn’t have the child yet, ma’am. Only the wife. And Mr. Ziegfeld told me sob stories of their life together, and how miserable he was. Any man that dedicated to his wife does not tell his mistress how desperately he wants to leave that wife. Does he?”

She had no answer.

“At one point, he returned home, and that was when she became pregnant. He had already left her for me. Then he went back to her. So in reality, I am the one who was wronged.”

“That’s all ancient history,” Jack interrupted. “We want your blessing to marry, mother. And we’d like it soon, so we can arrange things when we get to New York.”

Charlotte was obviously horrified.

“Absolutely not. This woman is the most common tramp imaginable, and I will not allow it.”

“How dare you,” I said, between gritted teeth.

Jack patted my hand to get me to calm down.

“Why the hurry?” Mary said. “Something you’re trying to keep secret?” She glanced pointedly at my middle. The nerve of her! Suggesting he’d knocked me up. She didn’t have anything more original in her arsenal?

“I could have asked the same of you and Owen,” Jack said, casually blowing a smoke ring.

Mary paled. Owen had told me they’d run away to Jersey City. Everyone knew that she was seeing Douglas Fairbanks now, but was keeping it very hush-hush. The only reason they hadn’t divorced their respective spouses was that Mary was terrified bad press would end both their careers. I saw red when I thought of a hypocrite like her standing in judgment over me. And since Owen was a friend of mine, it made me twice as angry.

“You are not good enough for my son,” Charlotte announced.

“Oh, mother, please…” Lottie said, lighting another cigarette.

“I love your son and I want to make him happy,” I said.

“No. I forbid it. Your behavior reflects badly on this family, and Mary’s career will not be damaged due to your shoddy morals. You are trying to use the Pickford name to further your career in Hollywood, and that is not going to happen. You can step off our coat tails right this instant.”

“Are you kidding? I’m one of the most well-known faces in New York. I don’t need the Pickford name to build a career.”

“Nevertheless, I refuse to sanction this marriage.”

Lottie rolled her eyes. “So she was a model and a showgirl. She’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, mother. Imagine how adorable their children will be. Think how those lovely grandchildren will reflect on you. Now do me a favor. Look at your son.”

Charlotte reluctantly glanced over at Jack.

“If you weren’t such an old prune, intent on managing Mary’s career at the expense of everything else in all of our lives, you’d see how in love with her he is.”

Jack’s gaze was a silent plea.

“I only dream of having someone love me like that. Alf sure didn’t. Why do you think we’re divorced now?”

Charlotte and Mary both sat silent, digesting what she’d said.

“If you value your relationship with your son, you’ll let him marry her. He’s not Mary. He’s a grown man, able to make his own decisions. And it’s obvious that he loves Olive. He loves you too, or he wouldn’t have asked for your blessing. For God’s sake, let him do what he wants. Love’s all we can really hope for in life anyway.” She gulped the rest of her drink.

The room was quiet for a moment, as if everyone were afraid to speak.

“When?” Mary said.

“We were thinking just after the New Year,” said Jack. “All Ollie’s friends are in New York.”

At last, Mary acknowledged us.

“Fine,” she said. Then she sighed. A momentary cease-fire had been declared.

************************************************************************

Lottie. A true romantic, and apparently, a good referee.

The above is taken from my (hopefully soon to be published!) novel The Forgotten Flapper.

Boardwalk Empire, how I love thee…

I used to love Steve Buscemi. Yeah, I’ve seen Fargo, The Big Lebowski, and any number of his other films. I even remember a short film called “Tonight” he did for MTV years ago where he walked around and around a girl he was trying to seduce, ending it with a silly neck move and the Michael Jackson quote “Sha-mo! Sha-mo! Who’s bad?!”

But when I found out that HBO was coming out with a 1920s based TV series a few years ago, I about wet myself. And when I saw the first episode, I knew that a TV producer was finally on the same plane as me. The dialogue, the set design, the costumes, everything. The detail is so spot-on, I hang on the edge of my seat for each new episode.

It’s amazing how productive I can be when brainstorming in front of the TV, taking note of the model of a car, the glimpse of a particular billboard for a well-placed product, the lace apron effect on a woman’s dress, or a man’s spats can give me a glimmer of an idea. All it takes is a little flash, and I can add a small detail I hadn’t considered.

The music keeps my toes tapping, and the violence keeps me watching. I mean, what’s synonymous with the 20s? Gangsters, of course.

Thank you, HBO, for getting me!