"My Little Secret" on Indies Unlimited - Celebrating Indie Authors

http://www.indiesunlimited.com/2012/09/22/book-brief-marilyn-monroe-my-little-secret/#comment-25344

Happy Birthday, Jane Lawrence

It’s hard to believe that 11 years have flown by since I first met Jane Lawrence. I still remember the evening of July 4^th, 2001, when my neighbor said: “My friend is looking for someone to help sell some stuff on Ebay. Some memorabilia. Probably some Marilyn stuff. I mean she really knew her, and Robert Mitchum and Ethel Merman and Lucy, too. She’s got tons of stuff to sell.”

          My ears perked up. “Tons of stuff to sell” was Wagner to my ears. I didn’t even care what the stuff was, but in this case it might be Hollywood stuff which probably beat the crap out of rubbers advertising auto repair shops, which, at the time, I had been peddling over the phone.

          The following day, I met with Jane, visualizing her to be a woman in her early 60s who was artfully nipped and tucked, glazed with perfect but slightly too troweled-on make-up, strutting in stilettos, and unable to let go of her platinum bombshell image that had served her so well 40 years earlier. I realize now I had been thinking of Marilyn’s best friend, Jeanne Carmen, the stylishly aging B movie actress who had ridden Marilyn’s coattails for so many years after her death. But my idealization could not have been more inaccurate. I was romantically anticipating a time traveler from Hollywood’s Golden Age, a vintage beauty ready to tell me the secrets of the stars.

          I was half right.

          Jane did have an encyclopedic memory of Hollywood’s Golden age, but she was no Jeanne Carmen. Jane was, as the snarksters might say, “short for her weight.” And I could see by her body language, and stress in the corner of her eyes, she was in pain. Barely the thickness of a Daily Variety over five feet, my eyes immediately scanned down her attire, from the fresh (egg, I believe) stained pocket t-shirt, to the worn, baggy jeans, to the unlaced tennis shoes. On top of the shock of snow white short hair was a ball cap adorned in a Rainbow Flag and ACT UP pins. And when she spoke, her little voice seemed to belie the woman I was seeing, someone with attitude, openly gay and a kind of salty old broad.

          I liked her instantly.

          Two months later, Jane and I formed a bond, as she took me down the ‘Marilyn Monroe rabbit hole.’ And on September 4^th (Jane’s birthday), I decided to throw her a surprise party. Not an easy task, considering many of Jane’s friends had either moved out of L.A., or simply ‘moved on.’ So, I gathered together a few of my friends, surprising Jane with a small spread of food, drinks and a homemade cake that I whipped up. On it, I placed a large car-shaped candle, in which I put Jane and Marilyn’s pictures in, reminiscent of the car that Marilyn had given Jane on her 16^th Birthday. Well, you’d think that I had given Jane the world. With tears in her eyes, she told me no one had thrown her a surprise party since the 70s, and how this party was the best gift ever.

          Looking back, Jane was one of the best gifts ever that the universe had given me. I met her at a time when I was fairly new to Hollywood; the bluffer’s paradise, where – to quote Woody Allen – “They shoot too many movies, and not enough actors who star in them.” Jane wasn’t an actress, so there was no hidden agenda. What you saw was what you got, and because of Jane, I got to experience various life lessons, beginning with trust. Jane trusted me to tell her story, and I trusted that she was telling me the truth.

          It’s been 11 years now since I first met Jane, and my trust in her story has never wavered. Granted, there have been the naysayers and skeptics since my book’s release who’ve been less than kind in their verbal attacks on my credibility, but I’ve learned to let that roll off my back thanks to Jane who also taught me to believe in myself.

          Now, as I was writing this post, I stopped to google a list of life lessons that we should all live by— When to my surprise, the first posting that came up was a quote by Marilyn Monroe. She said: “I've never fooled anyone. I've let people fool themselves. They didn't bother to find out who and what I was. Instead they would invent a character for me. I wouldn't argue with them. They were obviously loving somebody I wasn't.”

          Talk about a sign, I truly believe that Jane, on what would’ve been her 73^rd Birthday, is letting me know that we never fooled anyone, and those who think we have obviously didn’t bother to read my book to find out what Jane and I had: a true friendship.

          Happy Birthday, Jane…

"My Little Secret" talked about on The Young Turks news show.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IpdL_qpMqVY&feature=player_embedded

Relationship Expert Dr. Ava Cadell Talks about "My Little Secret"

Love & Relationship expert Dr. Ava Cadell blogs about Marilyn Monroe's "little secret" on her current blog. Click the link below to read.

http://dravablog.com/2012/08/marilyn-monroes-little-secret/

The Spotlight - Tony Jerris - Indie Author Network

The Spotlight -       Indie Author Network

Columbia Radio Station WRadio Interviews Tony Jerris

Free Book Giveaway on Goodreads.com

I will be giving away a FREE book on goodreads.com. The deadline to enter is July 21st, 2012. It's a great site for newly released books and doesn't cost anything to join.

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Marilyn Monroe

by Tony Jerris

Giveaway ends July 21, 2012.

See the giveaway details at Goodreads.

Enter to win

Extra TV Interview

Been busy promoting the book, with some great articles by columnists who really understand what the book is about. In case you missed the Extra TV interview, you can click the link below.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=akri-Cb56CI&feature=plcp

Launching Marilyn

The book is now available on 2 sites, with more to follow, including Kindle & book stores that will be carrying it.

https://www.createspace.com/3832780

http://www.amazon.com/Marilyn-Monroe-My-Little-Secret/dp/1475101406/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1337205655&sr=8-1

Some Like It Hot... Off the Press!

Two big Marilyn Monroe announcements this week. First, the 26-foot-tall statue of Marilyn that memorializes her famous subway-grate stance in The Seven-Year Itch has been moved from The Windy City to Palm Springs. Created by artist Seward Johnson, the “Forever Marilyn” statue was created by artist Seward Johnson and weighs in at 40-000 pounds. (They always did say Marilyn was rather curvy!) After spending nearly year on Michigan Avenue in Chicago, Marilyn’s new home (until 2013) will be at Palm Canyon Drive and Tahquitz Canyon Way in the desert, because as one corny news reporter stated, “Some like it hot!”

And speaking of hot – off the press, that is – (and I called the news reporter corny??), I approved the final proof of my book. It will have an official launch date on June 1^st, what would’ve been Marilyn’s 86^th Birthday. And while I’m thrilled to have finally completed the book, I’m also a bit sad because Jane, the woman who opened the door on Marilyn’s world and took me by the hand on a journey I had never imagined, is not here to celebrate with me. I had no idea our friendship and her story would become such an important part of my own life. And now, Jane, it took us a decade, but our journey finally ends with the pages of “our” book. You and I have finished the course…

Please check back for  links where you can purchase the book in the next week.

Life's A Beautiful Thing

Sorry for not posting lately, but aside from working on new writing projects, I've been working with the design team on the layout for the front and back cover of the book. No excuse, I know, because it's only going to get more hectic when the book comes out. I have lots of GOOD news that I promise to share with you in the upcoming week. Meantime,  here's a wonderful quote of Marilyn's I think you'll enjoy that was sent to me by a dear friend. Thanks, Pam!

"This life is what you make it. No matter what, you're going to mess up sometimes, it's a universal truth. But the good part is you get to decide how you're going to mess up. Girls will be your friends-- they'll acts like it anyway. But just remember, some come, some go. The ones that stay with you through everything-- they're you're true best friends. Don't let go of them. Also remember, sisters make the best friends in the world. As for lovers, well, they'll come and go too. And babe, I hate to say it, most of them -- actually pretty much all of them are going to break your heart, but you can't give up because if you give up, you;ll never find your soul mate. You'll never find that half who make you whole and that goes for everything. Just because you fail once, doesn't mean you're gonna fall flat at everything. Keep trying, hold on, and always, always, always believe in yourself, because if you don't, then who will, sweetie? So keep your head high, keep your chin up, and most importantly, keep smiling, because life's a beautiful thing and there's so much to smile about."
-- Marilyn Monroe --

‎

Editing Marilyn - Part II

Here is another excerpt that was edited from the book, which deals with my first physical meeting with Jane.

I had visualized Jane as a woman in her early 60s who was artfully nipped and tucked, glazed with perfect but slightly too troweled-on make-up, strutting in stilettos, and unable to let go of her platinum bombshell image that had served her so well 40 years earlier. I realize now I had been thinking of Marilyn’s best friend, Jeanne Carmen, the stylishly aging B movie actress who had ridden Marilyn’s coattails for so many years after her death. But my idealization could not have been more inaccurate. I was romantically anticipating a time traveler from Hollywood’s Golden Age, a vintage beauty ready to tell me the secrets of the stars.

            I was half right.

            “You must be Tony.” As I turned I fear my excited smile may have transformed into a slack jaw a little faster and bigger than was polite. I closed my mouth and forced a grin as I sized up Jane.

            She was no Jeanne Carmen.

            Propping the door with her foot, Jane was, as the snarksters might say, “short for her weight.” She used the door as a crutch and I could see by her body language, and stress in the corner of her eyes, she was in pain. Barely the thickness of a Daily Variety over five feet, my eyes immediately scanned down her attire, from the fresh (egg, I believe) stained pocket t-shirt, to the worn, baggy jeans, to the unlaced tennis shoes. On top of the shock of snow white short hair was a ball cap adorned in a Rainbow Flag and ACT UP pins. That little voice seemed to belie the woman I was seeing, someone with attitude, openly gay and a kind of salty old broad.

            I liked her instantly.

            “Jane?”

            “The one and only,” she said, as her eyes twinkled with a sweet innocence and her smile warmed the space around her. “Janice told me all about you.”

            I nervously used one of my favorite stock quips, “I was young, I needed the money.”

            “You’re even more handsome than she said,” finishing with a little giggle that I would come to know well.

            The ice sort of broken, I forced myself to abandon the fantasy and embrace the reality. Literally. I stepped forward, in more of a practiced move than an organic one, and made a clumsy attempt to hug her. Up close, I saw her eyes were a bright blue behind the wire rims and her tanned face was lined. As I put my arms around her, her squat little body felt like my grandmother’s. Despite an appearance that suggested she could handle herself, holding her I sensed her energy was delicate, even fragile. Between her face, her eyes, and her aura, I felt a life force that was not strong.

            I released her, stepped back, and to my horror, her already shaky balance sent her toppling backward, like a broken wind-up toy. A delicate hand caught the edge of the mailboxes – apparently, I would discover, in a move she was used to – and made the save before she crashed into the potted weeds.

            “Whoa,” she said, “my equilibrium’s a little off.”

            I rushed forward to help but she was already upright. “You okay?”

            She giggled. “Oh, yeah. Just the medicine. Sometimes it makes me dizzy. I guess the fact it keeps me alive is a small price for a little wooziness, huh?”

            I made sure she was stable before letting go. We were close, and for a brief moment, she studied my face. “Yup, definitely a looker,” with that little giggle again.

            “C’mon,” she said, hobbling away.

            We passed an open door with a screen on the unit marked “manager.”

            “Hey Mike,” she yelled. From somewhere inside, like a priest behind a confessional, came a garbled response. We stepped in the service elevator and she pulled back the metal accordion door and punched “3.” The elevator shuddered upward. At the second floor it inexplicably stopped and opened. There was no one around.

            Jane smiled. “Ghosts.”

            “Ghosts?” I repeated, feeling the word needed repeating.

            “Yup,” she said, as the car jerked, then continued up, sending Jane off balance again. She flopped gently against the wall. “Even my mother sees them. The ghosts.”

            “Your mother lives here, too?”

            “No,” she smiled slyly, leaving a theatrical pause. “She’s dead.”

            At her floor we stepped out onto more of a catwalk than a walkway. I watched her clutch the hand railing and waddle with great effort toward her apartment. I stood ready to wrest her back from the brink should she lose her balance again. I briefly imagined the headline in the Hollywood Reporter: “Former Monroe Pal Exits In Apartment Plunge,” cringing that they would probably refer to me as a telemarketer.

            But, no need to fret because we arrived at her door, with Jane still intact and fumbling for the key pinned to her shirt. I looked back over my shoulder. The walkway was outside and from that elevation, along with the fact that her building was on a slight rise just below Sunset, her view was pretty spectacular – slightly higher and far better than the view from my rooftop.

            “How long have you lived here?” I asked as we entered.

            “Nearly thirty years,” she said. “Rent’s only six hundred. Can you believe it?”

            Before I could register my shock that a top floor apartment just off Sunset would be priced like it was 1975, she added, “But it’s going up. Maybe as high as six-fifty.”

            I smiled to myself.

            “Girls! We’ve got company.”

            Girls? Janice had not mentioned that Jane had kids or roommates.             

            A smoky gray tabby darted past, and a large calico eyed me from an end table. The question of the girls had been answered. As we walked inside, the rush of punishing heat made the boiler room seem like Baskin-Robbins. The drawn shades didn’t help, as a matter of fact it made the place seem like a sweat lodge for geriatrics. A crappy little fan whirred a wholly inadequate breeze across the room. In the shafts of sunlight on either side of the shades I could see gossamer tufts of cat hair floating like little cirrus clouds on the breeze. I made a mental note to try not to inhale one.

            From an arm of the sofa, Lola, a white Persian shorn in a ridiculous lion cut, eyed me with penetrating blue eyes. It stared a hypnotizing hole through me, forcing my eyes away only to have them come to rest on Marilyn’s equally brilliant blue eyes, these gazing back at me from the Bert Stern litho hanging over the sofa. Jane’s oldest girl, Sally, lay across the back of the sofa, purring like a small motorboat in the distance.

            The sofa was draped in a wrinkled sheet and arrayed with all shapes and sizes of pillows, leading me to believe this was both Jane’s sofa and bed. At short arm’s length was a classic 50s TV tray that looked more like the pick-up window at a Walgreens pharmacy, covered as it was in pill bottles, vials and pill organizers. These were all in aid of Jane’s heart condition and phlebitis. This alarming pharmaceutical hodgepodge confirmed that Jane’s unsteady gait was no act and, despite having known her for all of five minutes, I was already concerned. I also sensed from this short encounter that we would become more than just two people trying to do a little business on Ebay.

            “Go ahead, sit,” she said. ‘That’s my mom’s chair.” I eyed the salmon chair and matching ottoman next to the sofa. Both pieces were reupholstered in cat hair, but I did as invited and began to lower myself onto the ottoman.

            “Watch my mom’s feet!” she blurted and I jumped slightly, causing Jane to giggle then laugh out loud. “Gotcha!”

            I sat, making sure I avoided mom’s feet.

            “Isn’t she beautiful?” asked Jane, as my eyes went back to the Stern litho, then realized she actually meant the faux mini-lion, Lola.

            “Yes, she’s beautiful.”

            Lola picked up on the attention and brushed against my arm.

            “She doesn’t take to too many people. She seems to like you. Go ahead and pet the lovely Lola,” she suggested.

            Before my hand could caress her head, Lola did a Ninja and put four perfect little slices across the back of my hand then leaped away. I looked down as the quadruplet lacerations filling with blood. Jane snickered. “Naughty girl.” She nodded to a box of Kleenex behind the chair. “Sorry. You can put that on it.” I grabbed a tissue and compressed the wound.

            Jane struggled to get seated and took a moment to get comfortable. She fumbled with several bottles of pills and found the one she wanted.

            I noticed several framed pictures of Ellen Degeneres and one of Gwyneth Paltrow. “I take it you’re a big Ellen fan?”

            “I love Ellen. She makes me laugh.”

            As Jane laboriously twisted caps off medicine bottles and popped various pills, we made small talk.

            “When did your mother die?”

            “Oh, it was about a year ago. I miss her. She lived in Arizona when she passed.”

            I pointed at the Stern litho of Marilyn. “Is that one you want to sell?”

            “Oh no,” then she smiled softly. “Marilyn watches over me at night when I sleep.”

            This confirmed the sofa/bed theory.

            As my eyes got accustomed to the shadows in the room I began to see Marilyn related memorabilia all over the place.

            “So Janice says you knew Marilyn really well. Is that true?”

            Jane nodded her head slowly, smiling wistfully. It was at that moment I realized that these were real memories and not just Hollywood hot air. “I knew her very well. We were the best of friends. And I mean the best.”

Editing Marilyn - Part I

For me, writing Marilyn Monroe: My Little Secret was like a magic act. Some days I could pull the words right out of my hat (or in my case, a baseball cap), while other days I hit the proverbial writer's block. When I finally did complete a manuscript that I was happy with, I sent a very alluring query letter to the ‘Top Dogs’ in the literary world stating the explosive nature of the book. Almost instantly, I received emails from agents who wanted to read the manuscript and, as I mentioned in previous posts, the response to the book was overwhelmingly positive. Their only concern was that Jane – who you should be familiar with by now if you’ve been following the blog – had since been deceased. And since I’m not a magician, there was nothing in my power that I could do to bring Jane back from the great beyond.

All of that is history now, since the book is in its final stages of being formatted for both Amazon and Kindle. However, I would like to tip my baseball cap to a couple of agents (who shall remain nameless) that helped me shape my book into the best it can be. You see, while they loved the relationship that had evolved between Jane and I, they reminded me that the story centers on Jane and Marilyn. So, I thought over the course of this week I would post  snippets of my initial chapters that were edited out of the book, keeping in mind that they don’t give away what the book itself is about. Just think of it as a  back history of how my journey began…

CHAPTER ONE

I parked my dusty Toyota Tercel in the lot, grabbed my briefcase, and what remained in my extra large 7-Eleven coffee cup, and headed inside to work. It was already in the mid-70s, a bad sign at 6:47 a.m., so I was dreading what it would be like in the boiler room. Technically, my employers referred to their company as a telemarketing firm and their employees as telemarketers, but it was a boiler room and I was a guy hawking cigarette lighters and condoms to gas stations and convenience stores all over the country.
          Now, I’m a really good salesman but I’m not a magician. The big sales hook was all of the items had the name of the establishment printed on them. Yes, the condoms, too. If you owned Big Bobbie’s Bass Farm in Bugtussle, Alabama, having your name on essentials like fire and contraception was a merchandising dream come true.

          And, in that respect, I was a dream maker.

I was also the best salesman in the place. Every week, my totals dwarfed everyone elses, but making seven hundred bucks a week schlepping imprinted tschotskes was not why I had moved to Hollywood. I had come here to be a writer. Actually, I was already a writer, and here I should make the extremely important distinction: paid writer.
          After moving from New York, I discovered that, to my amazement, most everyone here was a writer. Jagdish, the Punjabi at my 7-Eleven, Gwen, the sleeve-tatted barrista at Starbucks (where I would occasionally go when I was flush, but felt guilty about cheating on Jagdish), and even Abdul, the guy who fixed the air conditioning on my Tercel. All of them “writers,” all had screenplays or... “screenplay ideas.” Many were even “writers” who had not actually written anything yet. But again, the distinction. Not one of them had actually made any money writing.
          Not so with I.
          After graduating from The American Theater of Actors & Writers in Manhattan, unlike some of my fellow graduates, I did not go directly to Wall Street, but squandered my chance at riches and actually began writing. My Off-Broadway play, Tell Veronica! (an interactive theater piece that parodied TV talk shows) played to sold out crowds at the Grove Street Playhouse. We eventually brought it to L.A. where it debuted with “Dallas” star Charlene Tilton in the title role. I wrote other plays that were staged and won awards, and also penned a trilogy of published children’s books. I wrote screenplays that won awards (but haven’t yet sold), and even created two original reality television series that were optioned by KISS’s Gene Simmons. 
          Thus, I considered myself a real writer as I entered the sauna-like boiler room and braced myself to pitch various Joe Bob’s and Raylene’s lighters and rubbers to clutter the counter of their service station or diner somewhere in the mid-West or deep South. I grabbed my messages and walked to my desk, shuffling through the many call-backs, knowing these were as good as sold. I passed my fellow boiler-roomies, this crew of wannabes, hangers-on, and colorful collection of Bohemians -- many of whom would find this to be the apex of their careers -- and settled in to my four-by-six cubicle in the back. My eyes went to the desk thermometer. I estimated the countdown to 80 degrees as less than 15 minutes. 
          On my desk was good news. A glossy color flyer announced our newest product, one that every fiber of my salesman’s soul told me was gold: herbal Viagra. Dubbed Sta-Max, even the title was money to my eyes. I swept the crap back from my desk, tore open a pack of powdered ginseng and squared my shoulders for telephonic combat.
          As I carefully arrayed my call-back messages like Solitaire cards, I remembered one in my pocket. It was a yellow Post-it that I’d been given the night before. It simply said “Jane” and had a local phone number. This was not a call-back, and wasn’t even related to my present job, but it was the one that intrigued me the most. My desk calendar still had the date from the day before, July 4th, 2001. There was a factoid about founding rivals Jefferson and Adams both dying fifty years to the day after signing the Declaration of Independence, but my mind was on other things. I flipped the calendar to the 5th, thinking about how I’d come by the Post-it and what it might mean to me...

The previous evening, 4th of July festivities in L.A. were in full swing. The fourth floor rooftop of my West Hollywood condo was buzzing with partyers enjoying the wonderful vista of the surrounding city and hills. It was the perfect vantage point for various firework displays, from the Hollywood Bowl to Dodger Stadium. I sipped my wine and gazed at the sparkling starbursts in the distance when suddenly a sharp pain shot up my arm.

  I looked to see if a falcon had landed on me.
          “Is that something, or what?”

  Janice, my neighbor, had been a sort of rock goddess in the 80s, modeling for different products and rock bands. Her portfolio from that time, with the leather, lace and big hair, had rocked an Ann Wilson/Delta Burke vibe. Twenty years later, and now in her late forties, things hadn’t changed in terms of her still looking like them. Unfortunately. I looked down at her acrylic, mulitcolored press-on talons imbedded in my flesh and gently pried them back.

  “Yes, it is.”
          “Hey,” she said, out of the blue, “You remember my friend Jane I told you about?”

  My expression indicated I hadn’t a clue.
“At Christmas?” she insisted. “Your party? My friend I told you about? The one who knew Marilyn Monroe?”

  Marilyn Monroe, right. I used all my acting powers not to allow my eyes to glaze over and embarrass her. Since moving to Hollywood if I had dime for every time I heard of someone who knew someone...

  Concealing my lack of interest with a forced smile, I gushed, “Oh, yeah. Of course. How is she?”
          “Well, she’s looking for someone to help sell some stuff on Ebay. Some memorabilia. Probably some Marilyn stuff. I mean she really knew her, and Robert Mitchum and Ethel Merman and Lucy, too. She’s got tons of stuff to sell.”

  My ears perked up. Hmmm. Maybe she did actually know Marilyn and “Tons of stuff to sell” was Wagner to my ears. I didn’t even care what the stuff was, but in this case it might be Hollywood stuff which probably beat the crap out of rubbers advertising auto repair shops.

  I was in.
          “I guess I could help her.” My friends knew I was very experienced with Ebay and made a tidy profit on the side finding items at garage sales and turning them into green.
          Janice’s face lit up. “Good. Let me go get her number. Call her tomorrow. I told her I’d ask, so she’s expecting you to call.”

  I hated being predictable but I was intrigued. If this woman did have authentic stuff to sell there might be a little something in it for me. I hoped so, but acknowledged in the back of my mind that I’d probably end up doing it for free because, well... that’s who I am. I also had a fascination with all things Hollywood, being a guy from New York who chose to live here. Plus, I was a sucker for all things Marilyn. 

I sat in my cubicle, looking at the Post-it, thinking about something Janice had told me. She had glanced around at the other guests within earshot, leaned in close, then, as if to seal the deal, conspiratorially whispered something in my ear. What she told me was a bit shocking, if true, but I had heard rumors about Marilyn so it wasn’t exactly a bombshell. Then, with a twinkle in her eye she added a bit of information that was a bombshell.
          She smiled slyly at my wide eyes and whispered, “True story... and that’s our little secret.” 
          As she walked away to get the phone number, I thought about the Ebay items, if they existed. Then I considered this piece of intel on her friend, Jane. If it was true... and that was a big IF, then the writer in me had just stepped in line next to the salesman.
          Maybe there was something here.

Pictures of Marilyn

This morning, when I read that a vintage black and white photograph signed by Marilyn Monroe (to her longtime makeup artist, “Whitey” Snyder) sold for over $22,000 at Julien’s Auctions, I immediately thought of my friend, Jane. For those of you have been following this blog, Jane is the focus of my soon-to-be-released new book, Marilyn Monroe: My Little Secret, who headed the star’s first fan club at 20^th Century Fox. At one time, Jane had over 4,000 pictures of Marilyn in her possession, many of which bore Marilyn’s name. Of the signed pictures, Jane kept two. Both were from the same publicity sitting as the one that sold at Julien’s, only they were inscribed to Joe DiMaggio and Jane, respectively. Jane remembered the day Marilyn autographed Joe’s picture. It was in the early stages of their courtship when Joe had dropped by the Fox lot to pick Marilyn up for a date. (Jane later gained possession of the picture when Marilyn and Joe divorced.) The other one, addressed to Jane, read: “To Jane, My Friend – Love & Kisses – Marilyn Monroe.”

Initially, when I met Jane, it was to help her sell her ‘Marilyn collection’ on ebay. Jane was in ill health, and any monies at the time would help pay some of her medical bills. When I learned of Jane’s connection to Marilyn and her passion to write about their friendship one day, I offered to pay for her life rights and tell it for her. Jane wasn’t a writer, and was ecstatic as I was to get started. I had photographed, or photocopied, the majority of Jane’s treasured memories of Marilyn, including the signed photographs before turning them back over to Jane. A few years prior to us meeting, Jane got an appraisal from Christie’s Auction House of Marilyn’s signed photographs, which were estimated at $5,000-$6,000, each. Today, judging by the one that sold at Julien’s Auctions, they would’ve been worth… Well, you do the math.

To this day, I don’t know what became of Jane’s signed photographs of Marilyn, or the rest of Jane’s collection, for that matter. Sadly, I wasn’t told about Jane’s death until a few weeks after she had passed. And by the time I had hurried to her apartment complex to get more details on her death, Jane’s entire apartment had been gutted…

I’ll admit, when I first saw how much the signed photograph of Marilyn to her makeup artist “Whitey” sold for at Julien’s, my heart sank a little knowing the joy that amount of money would’ve brought Jane. I also know that Jane would’ve ‘shared the wealth,’ because that’s the sort of person she was. But I’m content in what I “do” have, Jane’s story with one of the most iconic movie stars of all time, which in itself is priceless.

To see photocopies of Jane’s signed pictures of Marilyn, please visit the Marilyn Monroe: My Little Secret Facebook page @ http://www.facebook.com/pages/Marilyn-Monroe-MY-LITTLE-SECRET/120852027954577

Marilyn VS. Snooki

I recently read an article on how Amazon is killing the publishing world. It began by saying: “When you see Snooki’s book on the New York Times Best Seller List, you know publishing is in trouble.” Publishers defended their case by saying that they’re only giving the public what they want. (Side note. I could live without knowing the sordid details of Snooki’s life.) In other words, publishers will pay an exuberant advance for a celebrity memoir that has a built-in audience instead of giving a new undiscovered author his or her shot. The article went on to say how this put the publishing industry behind the eight ball when Amazon stepped in and offered undiscovered authors the chance to publish their own books via ebooks or POD (Print on Demand), with higher percentages on sales compared to traditional publishing. What’s more, Amazon has offered favorably high advances to established authors to come aboard their new publishing arm.

As my new book “Marilyn Monroe: My Little Secret” nears publication, I’d like to share my own personal insight into what I’ve experienced in the publishing world. First off, publishers (like book agents) are the gatekeepers for an author. They play a key role in determining whose manuscript is worthy of being moved forward and, with any luck for the writer, actually gets printed. Now, I’ll be the to say that from a publishers standpoint, it would make sense to take on celebrities and fiction writers with a long history of best-selling books. What I don’t understand is how they’ve seemed to stop looking for the next Tom Clancy or Michael Creighton. (FYI: I’m not that egotistical that I’d compare myself to either.) I mean, even the best-selling authors and celebrities had to start somewhere. And this is where I applaud Amazon for allowing the undiscovered writer to share their talent with the world.

When I first completed my ‘Marilyn book’ a little over a year ago, I knew the subject matter would be a hot topic and spark attention, but first I had to write an alluring, eye-catching query letter. Once completed, I emailed my query letter to the top book agents and publishers in the business. Literally, within minutes I’d received responses from a majority of them who wanted to read the manuscript. Before I got too excited, I reminded myself that this was the initial stage of a very long reading process. I’d been there – and to date – am still going through the waiting game process with various screenplays of mine that have been optioned. Still, I had a gut feeling that this book was special… And my instincts were right. Instead of waiting the normal 6 months to a year, agents and publishers were contacting me within a month, and they liked what they read. Then came the million-dollar question about Jane (Marilyn’s once fan club manager), inquiring if she was alive. For those of you who don’t know the answer to that, I encourage you to read my earlier posts.

On the flipside, there were other agents who didn’t care about Jane’s mortality. Instead, they wanted to know more about my past writing endeavors. Again, as I mentioned in an earlier post, one of my biggest accomplishments was having a play produced off-Broadway— But to them, it was like Yeah, so? I’ve also self-published a series of children’s books, long before Amazon (or the internet for that matter) were conceived. One of them, “The Littlest Spruce,” won ‘Best New Children’s Book’ at the North American Book Exchange, was featured on Good Morning America, and later was picked up and distributed by Waldenbooks… Yeah, so?

In all fairness, these were the heavy-hitters in the literary world, and I am something of unknown. Still, there were some smaller publishing houses interested in taking the book on, along with a few managers who wanted to peddle the book for a year to see what they could do— But in the end? I made the decision to be an advocate for my own work. Thanks to a couple of investors who believed both in the book, and me, you will soon be able to buy “Marilyn Monroe: My Little Secret” on Amazon. My only hope is that it skyrockets in sales, making all those agents and publishers to think twice before giving the public another book written by – and I quote – “An over-tanned drunk who goes clubbing.”

And The Winner Isn't

I think it’s a fair assumption that the results of Sunday night’s 84^th Academy Awards ceremony were – as in recent years – utterly predictable. The winners in the major categories were already winners at guild awards, which usually leaves no room for upsets, shockers or surprises. The closest race this year was the ‘Best Actress’ category. Meryl Streep in The Iron Lady versus Viola Davis in The Help. But in the end, Streep snagged her third Oscar for her portrayal of former British Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, after a dry spell of 29 years. Her last win was for Sophie’s Choice in 1983, which came four years after her supporting actress win for Kramer vs. Kramer in ’79.

And while 62-year-old Streep has been referred to as the pre-eminent actress of her generation, there’s a list of great actresses who have never won an Oscar. Some of the legends from Hollywood’s golden era include Barbara Stanwyck, Greta Garbo, Judy Garland, Debra Kerr, Marlene Dietrich, Myrna Loy, Mae West, Lillian Gish, Rita Hayworth and lastly, probably the most celebrated of all actresses, Marilyn Monroe.

This poses the question: Are the Academy Awards overrated? Aside from the hoopla leading up to the annual event, do they really help boost an actor or actresses career and turn them into a star? This year, actor Christopher Plummer became the oldest actor to ever win an Oscar at the age of 82, yet he’s been a Hollywood legend for as far back as his role as Captain Georg von Trapp in the 1965 hit musical The Sound of Music. Sure, winning an Oscar helps boost a few thespians careers, but can you recall who took home a gold statuette for his or her best performance, say… 10 years ago? 5 years ago? Even 2 years ago?

Some would argue that Marilyn Monroe really didn’t deserve and Oscar, yet she still proves to be known as one of the greatest film stars without ever being nominated. Personally, I believe Marilyn was overlooked in her final film, The Misfits, which was popular with critics and the public alike. Granted, she won a Golden Globe in 1960 for Some Like It Hot, and was nominated for another Golden Globe in 1957 for ‘Best Actress’ in Bus Stop, but she was beat out by actress Kay Kendall for her role in Les Girls-- Remember Kay? Yeah, me neither, but in all fairness, Kay passed away at the early age of 32, cutting short what might have been an illustrious acting career. Ironically, Marilyn died at the young age of 36, leaving an iconic impact like no other.

In a weird twist of fate, I once had the pleasure of having lunch with Marilyn’s former roommate and 2-time Oscar winner, Shelley Winters. (Shelley won two ‘Best Supporting’ actress awards for her roles in The Diary of Anne Frank and A Patch of Blue.) At the time, I was in the early stages of researching my book “Marilyn Monroe: My Little Secret,” when a friend who knew Shelley well invited me to join them for lunch at The Silver Spoon restaurant in West Hollywood. Although she was on the rebound from a stroke, Ms. Winters was everything I imagined her to be: a witty, tough-talking, gutsy, dame! For over two hours, she entertained me with stories of old-Hollywood, including a few candid stories about her love affairs with leading men back in the day, branding her as the “bad girl” of Hollywood.

Amidst our conversation – the majority of which Ms. Winters monopolized – I conveyed that I was working on a new book about Marilyn Monroe and the woman (Jane) who started her first fan club at 20^th Century Fox. With her face slightly drooping, due to repercussions of her stroke, Shelley smiled and shook her head, as if to say, “That one there.” Then, she proceeded to tell me how the studios tricked Marilyn into believing that she was nothing more than a sex symbol (keeping in mind that during the 1950’s, Shelley too was considered a “sex bomb”). She also recalled that Marilyn was afraid of growing older, something I had already learned when interviewing Jane.

In retrospect, I think Ms. Winters and Jane were both right. I can’t imagine Marilyn as an aging sex bomb, dressed in a muumuu and baseball cap, which is what Shelley wore when I had lunch with her. On the flipside, can you imagine a world where Marilyn Monroe never existed? 50 years after her death, her face still graces the cover of magazines, while new Hollywood actresses try to emulate her. In her short 36 years, Marilyn set the bar high, appearing in 30 films that made her an enduring icon. Still, she never earned her an Oscar. What she did do was earn a lot of money for those who benefited off her in Hollywood, and Marilyn knew that all too well when she was quoted as saying, “An actress is not a machine, but they treat you like a machine. A money machine.”

My Years With Jane & Marilyn

As Hollywood gets ready for the 84^th Academy Awards, it appears that Oscar has taken a step back in time with the films and those nominated in their roles. The Artist salutes Hollywood’s silent era. Martin Scorsese’s Hugo pays tribute to turn-of-the century motion picture pioneer, George Melies, while The Help takes us back to Mississippi during the 1960’s, whereupon a southern society girl turns her friends’ lives upside down when she interviews the black maids who spent their lives taking care of their prominent families. (I predict that both Octavia Spencer and Viola Davis will walk home with gold statues.) Then, there’s My Week With Marilyn, starring Michelle Williams and Kenneth Branagh for their portrayals of Marilyn Monroe and Laurence Olivier during the 1957 problem-plagued movie The Prince and the Showgirl.

My Week With Marilyn is an adaptation of late writer, Colin Clark’s books “My Week With Marilyn” and “The Prince, the Showgirl, and Me,” which chronicles Clarke’s supposed encounter with Marilyn during the filming of The Prince and the Showgirl. Michelle Williams has received favorable reviews as Marilyn, and is said to have captured her appearance, attitude and mannerisms. I’m not sure any actress can capture the essence of Marilyn – just saying – but that’s not what this post is about. I wanted to address the issue of Clark’s books being a ‘supposed encounter’ with the renowned sex symbol. Williams herself admitted to having hesitations that the movie was being advertised as being “based on a true story.” And she wasn’t alone.

Amy Greene, widow of Milton Greene, who was a photographer and vice president of Marilyn’s production company was quoted as saying, “I was there every day, and I knew what was happening. Clark was on the set, and he was a gopher. ‘Hey, I need a cup of coffee,’ or whatever. No one regarded him as anything but a gopher.” While Greene’s son, Joshua, was quoted as saying, “It’s a complete lie. It’s a fantasy. He was a fourth-rate waterboy.”

Lighten up, guys. Gophers and waterboys have feelings too, you know?

The fact is, people who knew Marilyn are doubtful that there was ever a hint of a romantic relationship between Marilyn and Clark, yet it’s been said that the filmmakers never verified the authenticity of Clark’s memoirs. Clark died in 2002 and isn’t here to defend himself. The same could be said for the woman (Jane), who is at the center of my upcoming book, “Marilyn Monroe: My Little Secret.” But the important thing I’d like to convey is that Jane was very much alive when I initially started the project and optioned her life rights to tell her story about Marilyn.

Without giving away too much about my book, Jane was in ill health when we met and always wanted to tell her story about Marilyn before she left this planet, only she wasn’t a writer. Sadly, Jane passed away in 2007, however, while she was alive I played the role of a journalist, recording her fondest memories of Marilyn. I also have photos of her and Marilyn together, along with other personal artifacts (i.e. Marilyn’s signature on pictures and notes to Jane) that Christie’s auction house authenticated. And I also contacted people in the industry who knew of Jane’s connection to Marilyn. As I mentioned in my previous blog, it took me years to verify Jane’s story, let alone wrap my mind around it. Once I had, a few top literary agents in the publishing world and industry professionals were eager to take the book on until they found out that Jane had passed away. Keep in mind, a couple of them met Jane when she was still alive and couldn’t wait until the book was completed.

With that said, it’s out of any of our control when any of us are to leave this crazy planet. And I pray… (pausing to make the sign-of-the-cross), that I’m still kicking when the book finally is released. True, I put a lot of time and energy into it, but beyond that, this story was important to Jane, and I’m her mouthpiece. Once I really got to know her I understood, unequivocally, that the possibility that she made things up or stretched the truth was zero. She had a solid grasp on what happened, even forty years later. How many of us can say the same? But to reiterate, should anyone question Jane's story with Marilyn, I can state that having gotten as close as I did to her, it was not within her make-up, at that point in her journey through life, to fabricate anything.

So, while many of you raise your glass this Oscar night to toast your favorite star, I’ll be raising mine to Jane and Marilyn for what one day could be a “true life” best picture nominee…

The 11 Year Itch

With my new book “Marilyn Monroe: My Little Secret” nearing publication, I had the itch to start blogging about the book’s status and my long journey of how it came to transpire. Some of you who are fans of my Facebook page, Marilyn Monroe: My Little Secret, are already privy to the information how, for a little over a decade now, I’ve been working on a true story about the woman who started Marilyn Monroe’s first fan club at 20^th Century Fox. For those of you just learning about the book, I invite you to become a fan on Facebook and follow my blog.

Now, there’s only so much an author can reveal about his/her book before it hits the shelf – or in many cases today, Kindle – but it’s the stories behind “the story” itself that can be just as intriguing. For instance, I never in my wildest dreams would’ve imagined that one day I would meet (let alone write about) a person who shared a direct correlation to unarguably one of the most famous movie stars of all time. Granted, as a kid growing up in Upstate New York, I was fascinated with all things Hollywood. Where or how the fascination came about is beyond me. All I knew was that one day I would be involved in the movie world, be it writing, directing, and for a fleeting moment, even starring in one. At the age of 17, I had accomplished all three… by filming my own home movies. On weekends, I would summon together my cousins and neighborhood friends and tell them we were going to shoot a movie. No script. No budget. Hell, we didn’t even have sound, being that I used my parent’s old 16mm movie camera. What we did have, however, was fun. Since it was the late ‘70’s, we didn’t have access to laptops, iPads, iPhones or a Wii-- We were our own entertainment. And I was the Cecil B. DeMille at the helm.

One of my epic productions was a recreation of Alfred Hitchcock’s 1963 classic, The Birds. My biggest dilemma was how to tackle the climatic final scene when Tippi Hedren’s character is attacked by an endless array of birds. Using my artistic genius – at least I thought it to be genius back then – I created an endless array of birds out of tube socks with cardboard beaks. I filled the beaks with ketchup so when my cousin (who portrayed Tippi) was repeatedly pecked, it would leave an illusion of blood streaked across her skin. Damn! If only youtube was around back then, I’m positive that movie would’ve gone viral!

Fast forward to the mid-eighties. After receiving a B.A. degree in English and Journalism at a SUNY college in Upstate New York, I moved to Manhattan. Hell’s Kitchen, to be exact, where high crime, crack heads, muggers and prostitutes were everywhere. And while it made for good writing material, I knew deep in my heart that Hollywood was calling me. I had hit the 11-year mark, which seems to be a running theme in my life, when I had the itch to leave the left coast for L.A. Ah yes, the bluffers paradise. Or as Woody Allen once said, “A place where they shoot too many movies and not enough actors who star in them.”

Speaking of actors, there’s an old expression in Hollywood how, ‘you’re only as good as your last picture,’ meaning that an actor’s popularity depends on how successful his or her last movie did at the box office. Well, the same holds true for a writer. You see, when I moved to L.A. the only movies I had under my belt were the ones I shot as a teenager. What I did have was what most people in New York would consider a solid writing resume, which consisted of several plays I had written that were actually produced, including my off-Broadway comedy, Tell Veronica! But this was L.A. The movie capitol of the world, and unless my last name was Neederlander, my plays and their favorable reviews meant basically squat to ‘the suits’ in the business. On the flipside, I did interview with a couple popular TV shows at the time who found my resume to be impressive, yet I was too over-qualified to be hired as a writer’s assistant on the shows.

But I never felt overwhelmed or defeated. Aside from the fact that this is where I wanted to be for as far back as I can remember, I was a firm believer that the universe hands you a gift when you are least likely to be looking for it. And that’s when I met the woman who started Marilyn Monroe’s fan club. Her name was Jane, who led me down what I refer to as ‘The Marilyn Rabbit Hole.’ At one time Jane had over 4,000 pictures of Marilyn; some candid, others publicity photos from back in the day when she was a 12-year-old girl running Marilyn’s fan club. Then, little by little, I began to unwrap the gift the universe gave me, and it finally dawned on me that this wasn’t the place I wanted to be, it was where I was destined to be in order to tell the story of “Marilyn Monroe: My Little Secret.”