HOW TO HOLD A PARIS RIOT

In The Phantom Lady of Paris, my hero, Paul, and the heroine, Bonnie, are caught in a Paris riot in front of Gilberts, a famous bookstore on the Left Bank. Parisians love a good riot, or so it seems. Look at history. So writing one was no stretch of the imagination.

 

Bonnie and I rushed to the window and stared out. Atop the shoulders of two muscular males sat a gaunt, longhaired man dressed in black. The two men transported their passenger across Boulevard Saint Michel toward Gilbert‘s. Protesters swarmed around the elevated figure as a sea of hands reached out, fingers extended, straining to touch the object of the adulation, to make contact with any part of him: his sweater, trousers, shoes, anything.

 

“Bonnie, who‘s the guy everybody‘s so worked up over?”

 

She glanced at me briefly before turning her eyes to the spectacle on the street. “Don‘t tell me you don‘t know?”

 

I glanced down at her. “OK, I won‘t, but I still don‘t know.”

 

“That‘s François, François the Incendiary. I thought everybody knew him.”

 

“Call me Mr. Nobody, because I don’t.”

 

“He‘s the leader of the student protest movement in France. When that guy speaks, demonstrators listen and act. Let‘s go outside and see what happens.” She headed for the door.

 

I grabbed her arm. “Why? To get caught in the middle of a riot?”

 

Suddenly, store lights flickered. “Ladies and gentlemen, Gilbert‘s is now closed,” a clerk shouted. “For the safety of all, management requests that you vacate the premises.” Customers inched toward the door, then stopped. “I must insist,” the clerk added, “all must leave.”

 

Outside, Bonnie and I filtered into a mass of chanting demonstrators. “François! François! François!” Voices were tides of sound, echoing up and down Boulevard Saint Michel. “François! François!”

 

“Bonnie, What the hell are we doing here in the middle of a mob? Let‘s get out, while we can.”

 

“Ah, come on, Paul.” She craned her neck to see over the people standing in front of us. “Don‘t be such a stuffed shirt. What are you so afraid of? I‘ve always wanted to hear François speak, just to hear for myself why students get so enthused by what he has to say. Let‘s listen.”

 

“François! François!” Herds of demonstrators swarmed down the boulevard. Others emerged from intersecting streets. “François!” Sidewalks fronting Gilbert‘s now overflowed. Necks craning, protestors clogged the thoroughfare, backing up traffic and enraging motorists.

 

“Have you people lost your damn mind? What‘s gotten into you?” one motorist yelled, leaning out his car window.

 

Horns honked.

 

François dismounted from his porters and, amid choruses of cheers, leapt onto a vendor‘s table where, arms raised, he signaled for silence.

 

“Quiet!” someone yelled.

 

“Yeah. Why don't-cha?” someone added. “François is ready to speak.”

 

One of the leader's aides handed him a bullhorn, and he pressed its mouthpiece to his lips. Immediately, Boulevard Saint Germain transformed into a sepulcher: total silence. “Fellow revolutionaries,” the Incendiary bellowed, “Patriots of France,” he paused, the intermission accentuating silence like an exclamation point. “Hear my words.”

 

Cheers exploded, followed by a chain of chants: “François…François…François!” The speaker once more signaled for silence.

 

“Comrades,” he continued, “comrades.” Again, an explosion of cheers.

 

“Quiet, let him speak,” a man yelled.

 

“The time,” François said, “has come, the day, the hour; the moment is at hand! Not tomorrow, as the bureaucracy would have you believe, nor some unnamed future date. Fellow revolutionaries, now is the time when we must end once and for all the university‘s inequalities, dismantle its archaic bureaucracy and curricula and make known to the world our grievances.” With a raised fist, he shouted into the bullhorn, “Now! Now! Now!”

 

The crowd responded: “Now! Now! Now!” Beneath the din of the throng edged another sound, the wail of police sirens, but the resonance of approaching sirens didn‘t deter François. “We have not gathered here,” he extolled, “to capitulate!” His words were now fireballs of passion. “We shall not be moved!”

“Never!” demonstrators responded. “Never!”
 

“Nor shall we cower,” intoned the speaker.

 

“Never!” protestors replied.

 

“Or be intimidated by billy clubs.”

 

“No.”

 

“Or tear gas!”

 

“No! No!” The crowd chanted louder and louder.

 

The screech of police vehicles slamming to a stop punctuated protesters' chants as officers with shields, nightsticks, and gas masks, poured from vans. “Form ranks!” barked the commander. “Double time!” Like automatons, lawmen scurried.

 

“The presence of policemen will not weaken our resolve,” François the Incendiary orated.

 

“No!” responded a chorus of frenzied voices.

 

Officers formed lines on the sidewalk across the street from Gilbert's. “This demonstration,” the commanding officer bellowed, “is unauthorized. You have sixty seconds to disperse.” No one moved. “Fifty-nine seconds.”

What is Paris like in April?

Paris in April. What is it really like? I thought I'd share a section of The Phantom Lady of Paris with you.

A few weeks afterward, spring arrived in Paris. Skies sparkled like diamonds, and the fragrance of blossoms was everywhere. Trees on Boulevard Saint Michel transformed into impressionists‘ canvasses and in the Luxembourg Garden, flowers dazzled with violet and gold. When you sat on the terrace of a café in Saint Michel Plaza, breezes whispered past, cooling and refreshing. Spring had come. It came early, weeks after Bonnie left.

Latin Quarter inhabitants who hibernated through much of winter reappeared and once again strolled boulevards. All the cafés on Boulevard Saint Germain were now open (many closed during winter months). Once again their terraces bubbled with laughter and conversation. If one listened carefully, one heard the gurgle of wine filling goblets, the pop of champagne corks, and hiss of espresso machines spewing the aroma of fresh java, an aroma that brought back memories of Sunday mornings and good times at home. It was the music and fragrances of spring in Paris. Spring came early that year, mere weeks after Bonnie left.

On Sunday afternoons, couples, their toddlers in hand, strolled Boulevard Saint Michel. Cradling toy sailboats, youngsters frolicked into Luxembourg Garden and as parents looked on, the young dynamos of energy splashed through wading pools, squealing and laughing—orchestrating the resonance of youth and immortality. Spring had come.

Gypsies once again panhandled on street corners, their favorite, the intersection at Saint Germain and Saint Michel, where they stopped passersby, glibly spinning tales of  hard times,  and starving babies, and the imperative need for a few francs to buy milk and/or medicine for their emaciated, near-death children. Translation? ― We need money to buy wine. When Gypsies returned, there could be no doubt, spring had come.

Neighborhood bums reappeared and bought bottle after bottle of vin ordinnaire, drank themselves into stupors, then snoozed away the afternoon. Spring had arrived. It came soon after Bonnie left. Yet its coming did not delight me, for the woman I loved was no longer in the City of Light.

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REVIEW BY AUTHOR GWYNETH GREER:
It didn't take long after downloading this delightful read to become totally involved in the story Mr. Davis so skillfully weaves. Having been a student during the era about which he writes, his vivid re-creation of protest and struggle made me remember and gain a new perspective on those days. Not only did I feel I'd been to Paris, I fell in love with the quaint shops and cafes the characters frequented. The characters are well-drawn and totally realistic, which made them all the easier to become vested in. Plot twists and turns give way to a bittersweet resolution, yet any other would have diminished the ultimate impact of the story.

I'M VONNIE DAVIS' HUSBAND--AND DAMN PROUD OF IT

Folks, who know me, know how much I love my wife. I often say I didn't start to live until she came into my life. When I tell her that, she gives me that sweet smile I love and asks me if I'm Irish 'cause I sound like I've kissed the Blarney Stone. Then she warms my soul with a hug and a kiss on the neck.

Yup, having that connectedness with someone who is like-minded and who loves you deeply in return is that refreshing pool from which our happiness sprouts. There's nothing like loving and being loved in return.

My wife spoils me in little ways: cooks me the foods I like; lays out a fresh towel and underwear before I shower; shops for me so I don't have to enter a mall (a tip for all you ladies, unless we're going to look at electronics or tools, men do NOT like going to the mall); keeps all my many medicines straight, stocked and in my daily pill holders; has a pot of coffee brewed, strong just the way I like it, as soon as I step out of the bedroom in the mornings; and she never reaches for the TV remote. Hey, some things are sacred to a guy...and remotes are our domain.

Vonnie is the kind of person others bring their problems to; they know she'll listen and offer support. Vonnie is a warm-hearted woman in a cold-hearted world. And she's mine.

She's also a great writer. Her first book came out 2 weeks before its official date of 7/15. If you could have seen her expression when she opened the box full of copies of Storm's Interlude. I'm proud of her for reaching for her dream. She worked. She persevered. She succeeded. I have as much pride in her book as I do my The Phantom Lady of Paris. For when you love someone, that person's successes are yours--we are two halves of a whole, after all.

Yup, I'm married to a writer--and damned proud of it.

MY BOOK IS FINALLY RELEASED!

The estimated publishing date on my contract was November 9th. She's a tad late folks, but The Phantom Lady of Paris is now available.

Surely you can understand my excitement!!

No one ever said the road to publication was easy. I mean, writing the book was the easy part, the fun part. Then came hunting for an agent. I'd queried over sixty before Dawn of Blue Ridge Literary took me on. She believed in The Phantom Lady of Paris and peddled it to oodles of publishers. Finally, Second Wind said, "Hey, we like this!" Edits were easy. But the waiting...ugh! The literary labor pains were horrendous.

If you've ever wondered what Paris was like, really like, allow me to take you there on a magic carpet ride of words.

I'd love to share my experiences sitting at sidewalk cafes and writing for hours, the hiss of espresso machines in the background and a constant stream of humanity flowing by.

Few cities can rival her beauty or her spirit.

The Phantom Lady of Paris is available in paperback and eBook versions at Second Wind Publishing and Amazon.com.



CONTEST

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THANKS FOR PARTICIPATING IN THE MALE

PART OF FINDING LOVE IN PARIS CONTEST.

FOLLOW ME...AS YOU CAN SEE I NEED SOME LOVE HERE...AND LEAVE A COMMENT.

BOUNCE BACK OVER TO MY WIFE'S BLOG AND CONTINUE WITH YOUR REQUIRED STEPS. http:www.vintagevonnie.blogspot.com

GOOD LUCK TO YOU!

A Brief Conversation with Nikki Giovanni

Vonnie and I attended the Virginia Festival of the Book in Charlottesville yesterday. As we meandered from table to table, a well-known lady, head high, shoulders back, eyes assessing floated through the crowd and paused next to us. I didn't hesitate to introduce myself to Nikki Giovanni. I mean, what writer would? Gracous and warm person that she is, she focused her eyes on me as if I were someone important. Me?

We talked briefly about poetry, writing and Paris. I passed her some promotional material about my book, The Phantom Lady of Paris. She smiled and said she remembered well the turmoil of Paris in 1968.

Vonnie remarked on the genius of Ms. Giovanni's poetry. I added that genius is often knowing how and when to revise, and that obviously this winner of The Langston Hughes Award knew how to revise. Ms. Giovanni smiled and patted my arm in silent agreement. I hope some of her genius rubbed off.

Thoughts on being a writer...

Sometimes I wonder if being a writer is worth it.

Don't get me wrong; I love writing, it's the other stuff that elevates my blood pressure. Thanks to changes in the publishing world, creating multi-layered characters...or an engaging story...or witty dialogue...or crafting meaty sentences isn't enough any more. No, a writer has to have an Internet presence and a fan base before a contract is offered.

Think about it, in days gone past, a writer could fill his day with what he loved: Writing. Now, the day starts with wading through emails, leaving a message on Facebook, so folks know you're still alive, checking hits on your website, blogging and tweeting or twittering or tacking a message onto the shimmering walls of the biosphere. I'm always behind with this. Why? Because I hate it. I'd rather be writing.

And while I'm venting, I'm going to take jabs at the publishing industry. A kind of "biting the hand that feeds you" rant. When I signed a contract in August, the projected date of release written on the contract was November 9th. Right. Of course there were those three little words after the date: publishing schedule permitting. Evidently the schedule hasn't been very "permitting" lately.

I received my proofs two weeks ago. A proof is like a sample book that the author must read, hunting for every error. Now, let me preface this with the fact that my agent, who once ran an editing business, had already proofed my manuscript. So had the editor at the publisher. All errors--punctuation, word choice, formatting, etc. were corrected through these two layers of editing (my agent's and editor's). So one would think the proof would be nearly error free. WRONG! Some chapter headings were centered on the page and some were left justified. Many paragraphs were not indented. Much of the punctuation, especially quotes within a quote, was wrong. Words were transposed. The word cafe needs an accent mark over the e, and although I made certain that accent mark was there, now over a dozen times, it is missing. Evidently the printer has no concept of quality. For a writer who agonizes over every word and comma he puts into his manuscript, this is especially frustrating, annoying--and, yes, disheartening. I don't exaggerate when I say out of a 312 page book, 25 pages were error free.

After I mail the proof back to the publisher, I go into the waiting mode once more as these corrections are made (hopefully) and another proof is generated (publishing schedule permitting). Then a second proof will be mailed to me, and I'll get to read my novel again, hunting for more errors. Want to make book on how many I'll find next time?

There are some days when I wonder if being a writer is worth it.

The Fighter -- Great Movie

Vonnie and I went to see Mark Wahlberg's movie, The Fighter, yesterday. Call me "strange," but I love it when a movie has a storyline. This one had it in spades. The scenery and characters were so rough, so gritty, so gawd-awful nasty that I forgot it was a movie. I truly felt transported to that run-down community.

Momma was a trip. I'd seen her a million times on the streets of Baltimore, in all shapes and colors. In this movie, Momma was white, slender and smoked like Winston's chimney. She ruled the family with her acerbic tongue and pugnacious ways. The woman had no qualms about putting Micky in a ring with zero chance of winning, just so long as he got paid and she got her generous cut of said winnings. Yet, even though she was living off Micky, she obviously preferred and catered to her older son, Dickie whose claim to fame was a fight years ago with Sugar Ray Leonard.

And then there were the sisters, categorized by whichever father they had. A meaner, rougher band of women I'd shudder to meet. I kept thinking that they couldn't be professional actresses; they had to be real women yanked off the streets of the 'hood.

Shakespeare's MacBeth had three witches. All totaled, this movie had seven--momma, sisters and girlfriend.

Expect this movie to garner awards. It's that good. Go see it.

Men tend to forget; it's a fact of nature...

The day started like any other--hugs, smiles and kisses from my wife. A freshly brewed pot of coffee, strong just the way I like it. We watched the news, laughing at the way newscasters speed-talk as if they'd taken a double hit of speed before going on the air. All was well in Calvin-land.

Vonnie checked her emails on her laptop while I perused the morning paper. Then somehow the day started going downhill. She went to my blog to see how many visitors I've had and noticed I hadn't mentioned her book contract. Now I meant to, truly I had, but it just kind of slipped my mind. You know how it is, fellas.

She cut her eyes to me and asked, "Why haven't you mentioned my book contract? I mentioned yours on my blog. Aren't you proud of me?"

I felt my stomach tighten, the acid sarted to roll. A voice whispered, Watch what you say now. I took the well-troddened path taken by many a husband--I feigned ignorance. "Didn't I do that? I'm sure I did. I meant to, honey." I ducked behind the newspaper, sliding so low that all she could see was the top of my 'fro.

"I don't understand how you could forget my book contract." I winced. She had that tone to her voice. "It's been over two weeks since I signed it and you haven't mentioned it once." I rolled my eyes heavenward, knowing full well how this was going to end. "Are you listening to me?"

"I'm all ears, dear."

Guys, she wasn't having it. When I peeked around the edge of her paper, I could have sworn her eyes were glowing that eerie shade of red like those vampires in the movies. And I'm not positive on this, but I'm almost sure I saw fangs grow. I mean the wrinkles in my neck were trembling with fear. I leaned over, took her hand and kissed it (she's a sucker for the continental approach--throw her a little French accent and she's putty in my hands).

There was no putty to be found in Calvin-land. No peace and quiet either. My sweet angel was on a tirade. I knew in an instant the weather forecast for the remainder of the day: Silent and chilly with occasional door banging. And supper? Hunh. There'd be no pork chops tonight. Nor seafood fetticine. I'd be lucky if I got a jam sandwich. You know, two peices of bread jammed together. I was a blues-singin' man in an angry woman's world

I'D LIKE TO ANNOUNCE THAT MY TALENTED AND LOVELY WIFE RECENTLY SIGNED A BOOK CONTRACT WITH THE WILD ROSE PRESS FOR HER CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE, "STORM'S INTERLUDE."

Still waiting...

There are many personality traits a writer must have. Talent, yes. Persistence, for sure. An active imagination, a given. Thick skin, akin to an alligator's, most certainly. Huh? What does thick skin have to do with writing? Rejection, my friend. As a writer, you should expect to be rejected. In fact, you'll probably be rejected so many times that you'll need that alligator skin.

Take Stephen King (12 rejections), Margaret Mitchel (38), Ernest Hemingway (rejected by "The Saturday Evening Post") and Thomas Wolfe, for example. Great names all and yet all faced multiple rejections. Only a minute number of authors are snatched up the first time they submit. You're more likely to be struck twice by lightning while cashing your twenty-nine million dollar lottery winnings check. Catch my drift? Kurt Vonnegut, author of Slaughterhouse-Five, had a large box full of rejection letters. Thank God he never gave up. Rejection is part of a writer's life.

So is waiting. When a writer submits a query and sample of his or her writing to an agent, hoping for representation, that writer should expect to wait months for a response. Once you have an agent and your manuscript is finally being "shopped out," expect to wait some more. Editors at large publishing houses often take months. One had The Phantom Lady of Paris for ten months. Small publishers have a shorter turn-around. God bless them.

Once you've been offered a contract, expect to wait for the actual contract to arrive. The waiting continues through-out the process. Publishing dates get pushed back. The release date of November 9th as stated on my contract did not materialize. Things happened and, so, I am still waiting....

There's something about a college campus...

We have several colleges here in the Lynchburg, Virginia, area. One is Randolph College. I'd read in our local paper about "No Shame" starting on Friday evenings at Randolph. The concept sounded intriguing: artists, free-spirits performing onstage for 5 minutes. The only stipulation was you must present your own work.

I chose a scene from The Phantom Lady of Paris, a scene in which Sorbonne students rioted under the inflaming words of "Francois the Incendiary."

After 40 years of teaching grammar and Shakespeare to students who could have cared less, I knew how to captivate and hold a crowd. If I were going to give a reading, I would use various voices, put feeling and actions into it--draw the listener in.

During the hour-long "No Shame," I was drawn in, as well. Drawn in by other performers running the gambit of poetry readings, to techno music, to puppets stripping clothes off each other, to a dramatic reading about vertigo. Creativity comes in infinite forms. Thank goodness for that!

I've always loved college campuses. The encouragement of free thinking that occurs in that insular environment. Minds are expanding. Personalities forming new aspects, stronger opinions and new ways of expression. There's something special about a college campus. For this reason I've visited many ... and discovered something special at each one.

A Solitary Profession

Writing is a lonely, solitary profession. Perhaps that's why I've spent countless hours writing in cafes, restaurants and Micky-D's, pencil in hand, ruthlessly destroying the pristine blankness of a sheet of paper. The buzz of humanity in the background calmed me somehow.

Take my time writing at sidewalk cafes in Paris, for example. I learned more about writing there than I did in the lecture halls of both Hampton and Howard universities. So, I challenge you to write, folks. The more you write, the better you will become.

And why do we write? We write because we have to. We write because our souls dry-up if we don't. We write to have that union, that completion that words, stories and characters bring us. We write because it gives us an insight into human beings--and into ourselves.

Edtis...Edist...Edits

I knew they were coming; my agent, Dawn Dowdle , told me to expect them--a list of edits the publisher wanted. What would they be? Would they object to a scene and make me remove it? Would they make me change my writing style, my voice?

Would I be required to kill-off my children, those sentences I had labored over, writing and rewriting them until every word, every phrase, every punctuation mark was pickled and penned in blood?

What about the ending for The Phantom Lady of Paris that I'd rewritten until I had it memorized? Surely they wouldn't mess with that...would they?

Would the editor understand the poetry I'd inserted into the prose? Would he get it? Would he enjoy the lyricism of my descriptions of the arrival of both winter and spring in Paris?

I'd worked myself into quite a state, feeling as protective of my literary baby as I had of Kelly when he first started school. I was so apprehensive about the whole ordeal that I asked Vonnie to scan through the returned manuscript and tell me what needed changed.

The editor objected to a few word choices. I write dialog the way people talk: "Lemme tell ya what happened." is now "Let me tell you what happened." Listen to how people talk and I'll bet you'll hear it the first way more so than the second.

Two scenes had to be rewritten. In the first, the editor wanted the ambulance drivers talking in French. Since the book is in English for English speaking readers, lots of sentences in French can prove problematic. But writers are creative souls, so this writer created.

In another scene, a secondary character is telling the main character about a newspaper article. The editor requested that I have the secondary character read the article to the main character. Which meant I had to write a clear and concise newspaper article without the twists and turns of literary phrasing. A doable fix, although a tad boring for my tastes. Now I know why journalism never appealed to me, even though I read three or four newspapers a day.

In all cases, the editor's suggestions and wishes made for stronger scenes. I'd agonized over the edits for nothing. They were few and minuscule, really. And I was grateful for that, for I am now one step closer to publication.