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.