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.”

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

HI "PARTY 'TIL YOUR HEELS FALL OFF" CONTESTANT!!

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.

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.

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.

The Anxiety of THAT Day!

Second Wind Publishing had projected November 1st as the release date of my book. That day is approaching at a snail's pace. One thing for certain, on that day the sun will rise, the tide will roll in and McDonald's will flip burgers. The headlines in the papers will not read "The Phantom Lady of Paris is here!", nor will newscasters announce that lines of eager readers are at the bookstores waiting for the doors to open so they can rush in to buy copies of my beloved lady of Paris. Life always has a way of going on...

To be sure, I'll be on Cloud Nine at the chance to hold my novel--the other woman in my life--in my grubby hands. An idea that germinated in 1968 that I worked on sporatically over the years until Vonnie told me I needed another serious writing project. I blew the dust off the notebook and began entering the story into my computer. This process was followed by an almost infinite number of revisions. It is a story I love, set in a city I call the spiritual birth of my soul.

With all the latest changes in the publishing industry, most authors are now responsible for the promotion of their works. I will have to schedule book signings. I will seek out TV, radio and print coverage of my novel. It's a process I abhor. Creative people are expected to morph into marketing wizards, an uncomfortable process. Even so, I am pleased that my publisher will make my novel available in eBook format--the wave of the future. How many of you own Nooks or Kindles or iPads? Hey, buddy, wanna buy a book?

Signed my book contract today!

After weeks of nervous waiting, my contract with Second Wind Publishing was ready to sign. As I put pen to the dotted line, memories of many lonely nights (before Vonnie) staring at a blank computer screen came to mind. It's been a long journey from concept to contract.

I would never have gotten to today without my agent, Dawn Dowdle of Blue Ridge Literary. She edited my manuscript to the last period. Most importantly she believed in The Phantom Lady of Paris and kept pushing it until she found a publisher who believed in the Phantom Lady, too. Vonnie also played a large part with her encouragement and praise. As I wrote and rewrote, she brought cups of coffee and light lunches to me in the den, pressing a kiss on my forehead.

Now the business part of book promotion and sales begins. I'll need to schedule book signings and interviews and readings. With all the recent changes in the publishing industry, less monies are available for promoting unknown writers. Publishers have cut back their budgets; authors have become their own publicity agents. Believe me, I'm not looking forward to it. What I am looking forward to is holding that book in my hands. What a journey it's been.

The Phantom Lady of Paris is coming...

Second Wind Publishing is giving a tentative date of November 1st for the release of The Phantom Lady of Paris. You may purchase the novel in paperback or eBook format.

One is never happy with one's work!

I had the pleasure last night of reading a section of my novel to our writing group. Dawn, the facilitator of Hillcity Writers, orgnized a potluck dinner to celebrate my book contract. I'm still drooling over the variety of foods presented. The celebratory cake was an added bonus, even for this diabetic--and, yes, I did indulge.

Hillcity Writers is a varied group of talented people: novelists, playwrites, non-fiction writers and authors of children's literature. However, it is the size of their hearts and the joyfulness of their spirits that touch me.

Somehow I'd missed the fact that the potluck dinner was in my honor. When Vonnie came into the den, carrying part of my manuscript and teling me I was expected to read it, I was not exactly pleased. You see, I know how I am. If I read it to anyone, I knew I'd want to rewrite portions of it or would agonzie over a word choice or ask myself why I'd used a particular phrasing. A writer is never satisfied with his or her work. The urge to tweak it or modify elements nags the mind, niggles the spirit. "I can do that better. Let me fiddle with it, rewrite it one more time."

Still, giving my first reading of "The Phantom Lady of Paris" was an experience I'll remember forever. I've been blessed with many fond memories in my lifetime: a secure, loving home created by my mother, the first time I saw Paris, the birth of my son and every day of wonder that followed as he grew-up, his graduation from MIT, my first glimpse of Vonnie, the wonderful day in Berlin when I gained a daughter, Katrin, via marriage and on and on. If life is made richer with fond memories, I am a wealthy man.