THEA GILMORE_ALICE WENTWORTH'S theme singer

THEA GILMORE --

the best singer you never heard of. Alice Wentworth has, of course. Thea sings her song of her feelings when she first met Victor Standish, THIS TOWN.

Thea Gilmore's 70th birthday tribute to Bob Dylan takes the form of re-recording her favourite Dylan album in its entirety,

triggered by her acclaimed 2002 cover of "I Dreamed I Saw St Augustine", which sustains its solemnity despite the inclusion of congas.

Elsewhere, piano, dobro and mandolin lend natural illumination to "Dear Landlord",

while Gilmore's take on "All Along the Watchtower" is pitched midway between Dylan's and Hendrix's, as a relaxed strummer with delicate guitar highlights.

The man himself will probably be tickled by her faithfulness to the original's sense of solitude; reflectiveness is something Gilmore does well, in a voice that becomes more beautifully burnished by the year.

There are some triumphs: accompanied by finger-picked guitar on I Am a Lonesome Hobo, she's a lost soul;

the autumnal weariness of Dear Landlord is equally affecting.

Captain Samuel McCord and I are great fans of her JOHN WESLEY HARDING, that noted Robin Hood of Old West outlaws.

***
Alice's theme for Victor that first night they met : THIS TOWN -

THE GHOST OF MARLENE DIETRICH_ a visit, a lesson on writing, and wicked promises

The ever-entertaining Henry Mazel has written a provocative post, THE SECRET LIFE OF MARLENE DIETRICH (Her ghost pointed it out to me) :

http://www.ahro-at.blogspot.com/

Henry has also written a thrilling book : THE PLOT AGAINST MARLENE DIETRICH :
http://www.amazon.com/Plot-Against-Marlene-Dietrich-ebook/dp/B00588T5NW/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1309534786&sr=1-2

Now, on to my ghostly midnight visitation --

The sound of a book hitting the floor hard awakened me. I pried open protesting, heavy eyes. They flew wide when I saw her.

Marlene Dietrich. Or her ghost, actually.

In a frilly black night wrap and not much else. She rose like the spirit she was, picked up the book and threw it down once more. Harder.

"Deine mutter hurt in der stadt!"

"Ah, do I want to know what that means?"

"No!"

She spun her ghost chair around, sitting with easy grace upon it so she leaned upon its high back, and looked hotly down at me. "HOW TO SELL A MILLION eBOOKS! Its author ... oh, there are no good English words. Dorf trottel!"

Marlene smiled wickedly. "And no, you do not want to know the meaning of that either."

She shook her head. "It is like listening to a good joke told badly. Much build-up for little pay-off."

Haunted eyes stabbed into me. "Liebling, the end of the rainbow is just another lonely place where hopes and dreams slowly fade away."

Her long blonde hair slid to half cover her face as she leaned forward and down to my air mattress. "Do you want that single moment they call fame ... or do you want to touch the heart?"

"You have to ask?"

Her smile illuminated her lovely face, showing the lonely soul within. "Ah, Ich liebe dich."

"Do I want to know the meaning of that?"

Her smile rivaled Mona Lisa's. "No, but later, if you are lucky, I will show you anyway."

She suddenly frowned. Not bending to pick up the book, she merely pounded a pretty foot on it.

"He wants that moment ...

and the money that writing bestsellers will give him. Ha. He promised secrets to success and gave endless pages of self-praise and using people as means not ends. Bah."

She jabbed a long, slender finger at me. "You want to touch the heart, to write a story that others will come back to again and again?"

"Certainly."

"Then, you must give them dreams, danger, mystery ... and most importantly, you must give them love."

She sat up, running those long fingers through her wavy tangle of hair.

"And you must not make it easy, liebling. There must be two problems : one inside the hero -- one outside him."

She looked intently at me, her eyes sparkling like knife points.

"Your hero must be his own greatest enemy not some Nazi. Nazi's. Ha! They give him something to hit when all he wants to hit is her - I mean - himself."

Marlene sighed, her eyes looking into places that seemed to break her heart.

"If we have the wit, we can conquer those who would bind us. But against ourselves ...."

She bowed her head, slowly raising it.
"Against ourselves, we need help. We need love. The fire burning from one good heart will draw us out of the darkness of ourselves and onto the road leading to healing, to the light. Perhaps not triumph but ...."

She hugged herself. "Ah, but to die in the arms of one you love and who loves you ... that is a victory no Nazi can take away."

Marlene tapped the laptop by my air mattress. "Here is the stuff dreams are made of, liebling."

Her eyes looked beyond me.

"Set your stage quickly. Bring all the players on stage in the first three chapters. Be honest with the audience : let them know who the hero is so that they can attach their hearts to him or her -- tell them the theme :

does money equal success, does fame, or does the trust of one good man mean your life has not been in vain?"

She blinked back sudden tears.

"Let the readers have fun with your heroes. Toss everything in the air. Snatch happiness and safety from their heroes. Give the hero one slim chance to get it all back. Take that all away."

Marlene smiled bitterly.

"Life is quite good at that. But fiction, unlike life, must end well if you would have publishers buy your tale. Give them that happy ending. Oh, after much darkness, storm, and strife, of course."

Her smile was brittle. "Bring everything down to a single, seemingly impossible showdown. Make the enemy unbeatable."

Marlene leaned down, and her lips brushed my ear. "And unlike life, let the hero win and come away wiser, better, stronger."

"Marlene?"

"Yes, liebling?"

"You did walk away a winner : stronger, wiser, and better."

Marlene cocked her head, letting her hair become a wavy waterfall.
"Dass Liebe, die aus Trümmern auferstand,
Reicher als einst an Größe ist und Kraft."

In a husk, Marlene translated,
"And ruin'd love, when it is built anew,
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater."

"Shakespeare," I said.

"Truth," Marlene smiled sadly.
*********************************************

FORGIVENESS IS A RAZOR_LOVE LIKE DEATH_FRIDAY'S ROMANTIC CHALLENGE

It's time for Friday's Romantic Challenge again from Francine and Denise :

FORGIVEN

http://fridaynightwriters.blogspot.com/

My 400 word entry comes from LOVE LIKE DEATH and explains a bit how Blake Adamson was left chained to a tree by Fallen to starve to death.

Prior to this moment, Lerner, the corrupt New Zealand police officer has chained Blake to a tree in the wilderness to torture some secret about Sennacherib (DayStar) from him.

Alas, poor Blake hasn't a single secret to buy his life or a quick death. Just as Lerner is about to use a blow torch on his eyes, Fallen appears behind him, slitting his throat with a mystic fae dagger :

"Thanks for saving me," I said.

Slanted eyes glittered. "Who said I was saving you? It is a fearsome thing to love and be loved by a Sidhe. And it is over before our first kiss."

"K-Kiss?"

Fallen’s lips almost touched mine but pulled back. "I will not make a mockery of our love."

She murmured, "Do you know what Sennacherib would do to you?"

"No."

"You would lose everything : dignity, hope ... innocence."

She traced a design on my chest with her dagger’s point. She stopped at my heart.

"The price of love is always death," I whispered.

"What?"

"Something I once told someone."

"I would thrust now, ending it quickly. But Sennacherib and I are linked."

She sobbed, "Soon you will be dead. Yet I will go on with the dark memory of what I must do tonight."

"Don’t …."

"No, Blake, to spare you, I must kill you. But not cleanly. Sennacherib senses when I kill, and he would come and save you."

She backed away.

"Don't do this to yourself, Fallen."

"To myself? You still love me? Why?"

"Love just is. Fallen, there has to be another way."

“Tell me how you can definitely defeat Sennacherib, and I will go through hell at your side doing it. Oh, tell me!”

"I don't think that there are any 'sure things,' Fallen. Life is short, bitter-sweet, and mostly pain."

"You are not helping your cause."

"Don't you see? Because life is like that, if love ever does come your way, you grab hold, and you never let go.”

Fallen made a soft cry and pressed her body against mine, kissing me, hungry, wild. She kissed as if trying to force all her dark love into one fury of passion. Suddenly, she pulled away.

"Y-You do not know Sennacherib. I have to do this!"

She backed up, never taking her eyes off me. She was at the edge of the clearing. Three more steps, and she would be gone. I had to say something. Something that would help her in the long nights to come.

"Fallen!"

She slowed.

"I ... forgive you."

She hunched over. "Damn you. Damn you!"

She mewed like a hurt kitten. "I love you, Blake. I love you so much I ache with it. I will never kiss another. Never!"

She ran into the dark woods. The chains weren’t as heavy as my heart.
***

ELIZABETH MUELLER interviewed at MEILORI'S by OSCAR WILDE!

http://elizabethmueller.blogspot.com/

It was the witching hour at Meilori’s. The shadows flirted with the dim shapes of the customers at their tables as if the Night were somehow trying to seduce them.

Elizabeth Mueller sat erect and watchful, her author’s eyes studying every facial expression and social interaction for future use. “This is quite a place.”

To my right, Samuel McCord smiled. “No harm will come to you at my table, Miss Elizabeth.”

“Just Elizabeth,” she smiled, then jerked in shock as a tall man in Victorian evening clothes sat down beside her to elegantly kiss her hand.

“Oscar Wilde at your service,” he beamed.

“Hey, Oscar, this is my interview,” I began.

He carelessly waved at me, then turned to Elizabeth. “Do not mind Roland. He is really not so ugly after all, provided, of course, that one shuts one's eyes, and does not look at him.”

Sam sighed, “This is an interview with Miss Mueller about HER book.”

Oscar nodded, “Of course that is why I came … to do it correctly.”

He smiled at Elizabeth. “Be not alarmed. We are but the zanies of sorrow. We are clowns whose hearts are broken.”

Oscar sighed, “When one has weighed the sun in the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped out the seven heavens, there still remains oneself. Who can calculate the orbit of his own soul?”

His blue eyes fixed on Elizabeth. “Growing up, my dear, what were your hobbies? And why on Earth did you include writing?”

“Ah, as a young child, I spent a lot of my time roller-skating around my neighborhood with my friends. We did tons of dramatic pretending that carried over a timeframe of weeks!”

“Really? I am somewhat of a playwright myself. What else?”

“I also enjoyed telling stories with paper puppets I made, with Barbie or My Little Pony, or through daydreaming. Most of all, I loved drawing—still do. I drew stories on 24X18 inch sheets of paper until the pile grew into an inch thick.”

Oscar looked into the shadows. “Art finds her own perfection within, and not outside of herself. She is not to be judged by any external standard of resemblance. She is a veil, rather than a mirror.”

Elizabeth patted his hand gently, and he smiled down on her. “Do you remember your own writing process? Did you ever get discouraged like I so often do?”

Elizabeth said, “My process consisted of letting loose my muse. She led me into every which direction that gave me the freedom to do anything I wanted on paper. The only time I became discouraged was when I wrote my first short story and showed it to my sister. I was devastated because, rather than share her enthusiasm for such a fantastic story, she put on her editor’s cap and scribbled away—I was only 11!”

Oscar nodded. “The most destructive critics are those closest to you. Still, how have you changed over the years from the first time you wrote a book? How have you stayed the same?”

“My plot development has deepened as well as my characters, and of course, my grammatical skills have matured, too. My first full-length novel is poetic prose because that was what I got into in high school. I’ve stayed the same as in that the magic for writing has never died for me!”

Oscar studied her closely. “Art is a symbol because Man is a symbol. In a strange twilight, man is seeking for himself, and when he has found his own image, he cannot understand it. In what genre are you seeking yours?”

Elizabeth paused a moment then said, “In what they call Young Adult. I didn’t start paying attention to YA until 6 years ago when a good friend of mine explained her reasons:

YA was a whole lot cleaner in a comparative view to adult books. This piqued my interest because it was then that I was tiring of all the explicitness. I kept running into it in adult romance—and I love romance. I want to keep my books clean and worthy for everyone, especially young people.”

Oscar sighed, “Ah, yes, I fear my most scandalous work would prove quite tame these days.”

He laughed. “Speaking of which, I am often compared to my Dorian Gray. Who would you be in your DARKSPELL?”

“Winter Sky would be the character I’d love to live her story through. She faces so many obstacles and incidences that shake her conviction, but she holds tight to her true self and comes out the heroine. I truly admire people who face many awful hardships and still remain strong and faithful.”

Oscar’s sad eyes lit up as he spotted the pages in Elizabeth’s hands. “Oh, your book! May I read a passage aloud?”

“I- I would be honored.”

In his rich Irish baritone, Oscar read :

“Alex reached out and took my hands. A spark of magic passed between us. I didn’t resist, and his gaze deepened. Another wave tore through me, and I felt his powerful drive to protect me and the desire to share the rest of his life with me. I could see forever. Eternity was wide and deep.

I would never be alone again.

Having tasted Alex so strongly, so close, so dear, left me empty; a starving sensation that could only be filled by him. I had no idea he felt so intensely for me. His love washed away all doubt from me.

I leaned into Alex as my world spun fast on a crooked axis. I breathed him in. I was intoxicated with his burning hold. I was so alive. Every sound was louder; the wind richer as it flowed through me. I was so free, so alive, so untainted by any wicked thing. I closed my eyes, shivering with desire, and imagined the breeze encircling us; bringing us to our feet and drawing us closer like a child’s ribbon.”

Oscar suddenly sprang up, the typed pages clutched against his chest.

“What are you doing?,” cried Elizabeth.

“Why, I’m stealing your delightful words. Shaw did it to me all the time.”

“You can’t do this!,” she shouted at his retreating figure.

She turned to me. “C-Can he?”

A flurry of stardust settled on the table, forming into a book entitled, DARKSPELL by Oscar Wilde.

As Elizabeth let out a sharp “Yeep,” Samuel chuckled, “Oscar’s just funning with you, ma’am.”

Elizabeth poked a forefinger into the book. “This is not funning. This is criminal!”

She shot to her feet. “This has been the most infuriating interview I have ever had!”

Father Renfield appeared at her side. “I will personally see that not one of those purloined volumes leaves Meilori’s.”

Elizabeth relaxed. “I feel better hearing that, Father.”

Renfield smiled wide, exposing his long, sharp canines. “Call me Padre.”

Elizabeth hushed, “A vampire priest? I am so out of here!”

Victor Standish, settling into her empty chair as Elizabeth fled Meilori’s, flashed his gypsy smile. “Another satisfied customer.”

Samuel cocked an eyebrow. “You think?”

Victor laughed, “No.”

I groaned. Life with my creations was going to be the death of me. I rose to catch up to Elizabeth and apologize.

JOHN LOCKE … thru the eyes of Victor Standish

I walked up to Captain Sam’s table where Alice, my ghoul friend, was lost in a book. “What’re you reading?”

Alice looked up absently, “This system by John Locke to sell millions of Kindle books. I want to discern if there is any merit to it so as to help Roland.”

{http://www.amazon.com/How-Sold-Million-eBooks-Months/dp/1935670913/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1309895373&sr=1-1 }

Her British accent sent tingles through me, but I was Victor Standish, and I don’t let girls know they’re getting to me. But her Mona Lisa smile said I was only fooling myself.

And talking about fooling, I said, “Oh, I read that last night for the same reason. Boy, Old John must have pretty broad shoulders.”

Alice frowned, “Why do you say that?”

“From the way the guy kept patting himself on the back all the time. ‘I have made 3 separate fortunes. My posts are timeless, forever relevant. I write 7,000 words a day when I write a novel. I have the system guaranteed to make you a success. My snake oil will make you live forever.”

Alice frowned like an angry librarian. “He wrote no such thing.”

“Yeah, but he probably will next week.”

Alice sighed as if at a dim-wit (and no snide comments from you guys out there!) “I have read where this Amanda Hocking, herself a Kindle wonder, said that it is more likely a Kindle author will only sell less than a 100 copies of their eBooks – not anywhere close to a 100,000.”

I sat down beside Alice. “Yeah, but she’s not hawking a “How To” book for $10 a pop either. I mean, look – he’s made $20 just from the two of us.”

Alice puckered her pretty lips. “But he’s sold so many books.”

“Yeah, but have you looked at the covers? Sex sells. Even if they’re only sexy legs.”

Alice glared at me. “And just how do you know what the covers look like, Mr. Standish?”

“Hey, he’s got them plastered at the top of his blog. { http://lethalbooks.com/ }

That guy sure knows how to manipulate :

soft-soaping poor people on Twitter to be his shills;

writing only what he thinks will sell, not what’s in his heart;

singing the praises of sport and sick Hollywood greats, then twittering those legends’ fans with a link to his blog.”

Alice looked troubled. “Mr. Locke may be sincere.”

“Yeah, maybe. But I’ve lived on the streets all my life and had to fend off panhandlers that whole time. When a deal sounds too good to be true, it ain’t.”

“Isn’t,” chuckled Captain Sam as he sat down beside me.

“I’ve read his book for the same reason you two did. So that makes $30 he’s made. Still, he did have a sound idea or three. Maybe lightning just struck as it sometimes does. Or his system does works. Time reveals the truth eventually.”

Alice cocked her head, blonde waves becoming a waterfall. “But what of all the people who will follow Mr. Locke’s system in the mean time?”

Captain Sam smiled sad. “Sometimes faith will heal you even if the pill you swallow is sugar.”
***

WE FORGET THE HEROES_JULY 4TH THOUGHTS

We forget the heroes. Evil, however, clings to our memories like scars on a beautiful woman's face ... or heart.

On one of Marlene Dietrich's last pictures before WWII broke out,

a lowly assistant director was sent home with a high fever, along with harsh words for ever having shown up. He awakened late in the evening to find a woman on her hands and knees scrubbing his kitchen floor.

It was the star of the picture he was working on : Marlene Dietrich.

She had heard he lived alone and had brought over some hot chicken soup. Finding his kitchen floor could stand a washing, she was doing the job herself.

For three solid years during WWII, Marlene entertained our troops on the front lines, despite a death sentence on her head. She was with the troops in winter frosts and under broiling sun.

She bathed out of a helmet like an infantryman, slept on the ground, and refused to be evacuated when artillary pounded the ground around her. She was willing to do anything to amuse the troops : playing musical saw and wearing a jeweled sheath over long G.I. underwear to parade to the sound of enemy fire in the distance.

3 years. And she didn't make one movie all that time and cared not a bit. She was awarded the Medal of Freedom. Hitler would have given her a bullet ... after long hours of torture.

Marlene came back from her three years on the front lines of WWII very much changed. She never got over the horrors she saw there. She slept for months in jeeps, on floors, even on bare dirt.

One afternoon after VE Day, she was walking through a little French village. All around her was rubble, and she couldn't understand why -- all the buildings along the street were still standing with curtains blowing frilly and snapping clean-crisp in their windows.

Then, she looked through one of the windows to see that there was nothing behind it. The fronts of the buildings were still standing, but everything behind them had been destroyed. There wasn't a single living person past the false fronts of those caricature buildings.

With her face cupped in trembling hands, she stood in front of that window, weeping silently, refusing to be comforted ...

"... for there is no comfort for the dead," she whispered.
*********
Ernest Hemingway also wrote this of her : "She is brave, beautiful, loyal, kind, and generous. She is never boring and is as lovely looking in the morning in a G.I. shirt, pants, and combat boots as she is at night or on the movie screen.

She has an honesty and a comic and tragic sense of life that can never let her be truly happy unless she loves. When she loves, she can joke about it -- but it is gallows humor.
***********



***************
Ernest Hemingway wrote of her : "If she had nothing more than her voice, she could break your heart with it. But she has that beautiful body and the timeless loveliness of her face. It makes no difference how she breaks your heart if she is there to mend it."

THE SIMPLE ART OF MURDERING ... YOUR BOOK

Light drifted as a red fog in front of my eyes. I blinked them with an effort.

Consciousness teased me at the edge of the dark of my mind. I tried to move my hands. They were thick, heavy ... far from me ... not my hands at all it seemed.

"Son, you awake with all the clarity of a hot rock," softly laughed a familiar voice.

Raymond Chandler.

With that realization, I finally opened them. I groaned without words.

Chandler was holding my dented copy of THE PASSAGE that the ghost of Mark Twain had taken to show Ernest Hemingway in the Shadowlands. Gypsy, my ghost cat, thumped off my air mattress and onto his lap.

Chandler shook his head at me and gestured to the vacant apartment I was having to live in until repairs were made to my new apartment.

"At least you don't feel crowded."

In his ghost chair by my air mattress, Chandler made room for Gypsy by tossing the big book to the floor. "Don't worry, Roland. I only came to return this travesty of prose. Not to belabor the obvious."

"Ah, Mr. Hemingway ..."

"You know how prone to depression that old boxer is. He's still wandering the Shadowlands, muttering about million dollar book and movie deals."

"I take it you didn't like THE PASSAGE either."

He sat back in his plush leather ghost chair, scratching behind Gypsy's twitching ears. "What's to like?"

He filled his pipe with tobacco. "It is grim and depressing without any true sense of tragedy. You have to care about the people life mangles for there to be tragedy. And it's clear that Cronin doesn't care for his people so we end up not caring either."

He lit his pipe. "No, he just plays with his characters like a child with toy soldiers. And who cares when a toy soldier dies? A personality doesn't die ... just a pawn."

He bent down, picked up the book, flipped the pages for a bit then read : "He could no longer envision his parents' faces. This had been the first thing to go, leaving him in just a matter of days."

He looked at me, more sad than angry. "I had an uncle in Omaha, a minor and crooked (if I'm any judge of character) politician."

His eyes looked off into the shadows, becoming sadder. "As a very small boy I used to spend a part of the summer with him all the way up to the fall."

His voice softened with the remembrance of long ago seasons. "I remember the oak trees and the high wooden sidewalks beside the dirt roads ... and the heat and the fireflies and a lot of other strange insects and the gathering of wild grapes in the fall to make wine ... and once in a while a dead man floating down the muddy river."

He looked into the burning bowl of his pipe silently for long moments then turned back to me. "I remember all that. And Cronin writes that a man forgets the faces of each parent, dead at different times, after ... a few days? I regard his two sentences as disgraces to English prose ... and to the human heart."

His lips twisted into a bitter smile. "But he is a highly praised author while I am but a forgotten hack."

"As long as I'm alive you won't be forgotten, sir."

"You're not getting any younger, Roland."

"Gee, thanks, sir. You have any other reason to visit besides showering me with rays of sunshine?"

"The McGuffin."

"What?"

"Exactly."

"You've lost me."

He smiled crooked. "Not that hard to do so, son."

"I can see you've been talking to all my ex-girl friends."

I covered a half-yawn. "What is this McGuffin? And please don't say 'exactly.'"

He smiled wide around his pipe. "It was the hitch in Hitchcock."

"He made films. He didn't write books."

"Ah, Roland, each novel is a film. Every author is its director. You get to choose the angle of the reader's view of each scene. You choose the lighting, the stars, the script. Your film can be a work of genius."

He made a sour grimace. "Or it can be THE PASSAGE."

"You're singing to the choir, sir. You haven't said what the McGuffin is."

"It's the tagline to your book, Roland. The thing that grabs the attention of the agent and the reader ... and is just as meaningless as all the false fronts to the buildings on a movie set."

He smiled at my frown. "It's what Cronin was trying to use but failed. A McGuffin is a plot element that snares the viewer, drives the plot along, and essentially is not what the movie or novel is about at all."

"I don't understand."

Chandler chuckled. "Take Hitchcock's NOTORIOUS. A spy drama about Nazi agents and a plot to use the evils of uranium. A woman is sent to spy on her old boy friend, a Nazi. Surprises, suspense, and thrills ensue. But the essence of the movie is about two men trying to prove they love the girl. Who does she believe? And why?"

Chandler stabbed at me with his pipe. "That's where Cronin failed. You have to stay with the girl to care. She has to be center stage most of the time. Cronin spends so much time on backstory for characters who stray off the stage, the reader loses focus and attachement."

He stroked Gypsy absently. "Hell, you have to chew a third of the way through his book before you get to characters who stay awhile. Most readers will throw down the book long before then."

He leaned forward, still gesturing with his pipe. "Take NORTH BY NORTHWEST. Hitchcock himself says it contains his emptiest, most nonexistent McGuffin. Halfway through the film, the hero, cursed with being mistaken for a deadly American agent, finds out only his enemy is an importer and exporter of govenment secrets."

Chandler sat back. "That's all the hero gets for his explanation. But you in the audience don't care ... because by then you care for the hero, for his apparently doomed love for a beautiful, deadly girl."

I nodded. "It's like what my mother told me : "Life is staying with the one you brought. Loyalty."

Chandler nodded back. "Yes, tell your epic story. But tell it through the eyes of someone the audience can stick their hopes, worries, and heart on."

His long face shone with the light of a teacher. "The McGuffin is your tagline, son. But it will be your strong characters placed in jeopardy as they struggle for their heart's desire that will sweep your readers along."

He thumped his pipe on the book in his lap as Gypsy wrinkled her nose at the trailing smoke.

"These days movies and books are just McGuffins ... the idea without structure or characters to care about. Or worse, a tease, like a shill crying out at a carnival, promising one thing and delivering quite another."

Chandler sighed, "PSYCHO. Now, we know what it is about. But first viewers of the film thought it was about a stolen $40,000."

He smiled knowingly. "That robbery was only to get us into the Bates motel and a lovely young girl in jeopardy. In bloodier and sloppier fashion, the same could be said of FROM DUSK TO DAWN."

Chandler looked from me into Gypsy's heavy-lidded eyes. "The author is a magician, son. You distract with your McGuffin to hit your reader out of the blue with a sudden surprise and delight."

He blew out his cheeks. "But if the magician bores the audience to sleep with too much distraction, they are all nodding off when he pulls the rabbit out of the hat."

I smiled big. "You know, sir, you're the one who taught me how to write dialogue. And now this."

"How much are you paying me?," he smiled crookedly.

"Ah, nothing."

"I'm worth twice that." He grinned and disappeared.
************
Do you care about the rider in this trailer?