The Kingdom of My Love

The Kingdom of My Love

Chapter 1   

    I have got news for you.  It rained last night, so this morning the roads were still slick.  It’s cold outside.  It’s been cold since the beginning of this month.  It has been a long November.  Our new Mercedes is in the shop for brakes.  Our mom says it was the cold that froze them, and now they don’t work right.  That’s fine, the boys at Monument should know how to fix a car with only eight hundred miles on it, and bad brakes.  Bad brakes aren’t just what’s wrong with it.  When we bought that car two months ago, my father bought me and my brother Brooks Brothers sweaters, the same color brown as the new Mercedes, in celebration of buying the forty-five thousand dollar car.  It was a fun way to celebrate buying a new car.  I can’t believe how much wear I get out of just one brown sweater.  When it rained yesterday, my sweater got soaked.  The soaking wet wool clung to my white shirt I had on underneath.  I’m lucky I didn’t catch cold, or worse, miss a day of school.  I like the fact that I am not old enough to drive a car yet, and that I’m still only in the eigth grade.  My brother Patrick is in the sixth grade.  My brother Patrick keeps his brown sweater folded on top of his bureau, as though he never knows when he is going to wear it next, but that he may need to at any given moment.  Patrick is obsessed with the new Mercedes-Benz now in our possession.  He says a V8 motor is the best type of motor money can buy.  We live in Connecticut, outside of New York City.  Our father works in New York City, and has for the past eighteen years.  Our mother takes good care of us at home, and does not work. 
    I can’t deny the fact that I love my new sweater, too.  Brown is a great color.  Brown signifies a deep down intelligence that not everyone can distinguish until they see it for themselves.  Our new Mercedes is the same color brown.  I wonder what people think of it when they see it.  Most people compliment the new car whenever we are spotted riding in it in town.  The first night we bought the car, our father stopped at a gas station, and a pretty blonde girl, older than me, was waiting outside of it.  She said brown was her favorite color, and wanted to know if she could go for a ride in the new car.  Our father told her that we had just bought the car, and that the car, and the two brown sweaters on both of the boys inside of the brown, four-door sedan, were on their way to Dexter’s Steak House tonight, in light of their having just been bought, and that another passenger could mean another 20 minutes waiting on a table at Dexter’s.  The girl smiled and stated she knew what Dad meant, and that she only was kidding, but that she still liked the car.  She would have looked so good in our new brown car.  Her hair was so blonde that the only things standing out were her hair, the car, and the two new sweaters our father had bought us just before we drove out of the city, everything else seemed black and white.  It’s always nice to be greeted by a girl with blonde hair as blonde as hers, but on today, it was good.  She noticed me looking at her while my dad was inside, and she smiled at me and waved.  She looked happy that someone else besides my father was taking any interest in her.  There seemed to be so many things going on there at the gas station, that I don’t remember our dinner at Dexter’s Steakhouse.  Before we left the gas station, my brother Patrick rolled down the window of the new, brown Mercedes-Benz, and let in a cool, autumn night’s chill into the car.  The fresh night air mixed and blended well with the car’s new leather interior.  I sat there breathing it in for a moment.  My brother Patrick was busy sticking his head out of the window, watching the evening’s Saturday night traffic pass by, and all the while, being looked at by the girl with the pretty blonde hair.  She had taken a genuine interest in my brother Patrick, even though it didn’t appear that he was doing anything of any great importance to me; moreover, of any interest of mine.
    The girl standing outside of the gas station did not appear to have any company, and that she was all alone.  It did not seem obvious that she had a car of her own, or that she was waiting on one to come pick her up, but that she was satisfied looking at ours, for the meanwhile.  I wondered if she had ever before seen a brown, V8, four door, Mercedes-Benz sedan, with a mother, a father, and their two sons with matching brown sweaters inside.  She wanted to go with us, wherever we were going, but our car’s proud new owner would not allow it.  She had pretty eyes.  Her eyes were the bluest blue, and I could feel them looking at me.  I loved having her eyes looking at me.  I loved being in that car with her looking at me.  I felt I owed them enough respect to glance back at them, and perhaps hold a stare for a few seconds, permitting they let me.  Maybe it was the new car, but I felt hot all over, like a dozen pretty blonde girls were at that gas station, all looking at me.  My father resisting letting her go for a ride with us and then going to dinner at Dexter’s.  She must have been around nineteen years of age, her adult looks told me this.  I remember seeing some very pretty women downtown, in the city, earlier on our departure, but this new girl, standing in front of us with the shiny blonde hair, was managing to steal all of the eventful evening’s attention, and all of us, including her knew it.  If we were to let her into our car, she was sure to start complimenting my brother and I on how handsome we both looked in our new brown wool sweaters.  Both my brother and I knew how good we each looked in our new wool sweaters, but it would be nice to have her crawl in with us, into the fresh, new backseat and begin complimenting us.  This was sure to unveil before our very eyes if we were not going to be more careful.
    Now she was in the car.  She had made it into the car, just as we all predicted.  It seems our father, after exiting the gas station, and buying a new map to put in the glove box, asked her if she would’ve liked to come along to dinner with us, seeing as how it was overcast, and getting dark, and that she looked like she was in need of some sort of ride home.  She agreed with him, and said she would go to dinner with us.  When she got into the automobile, she asked if the car she’d just entered was brand new.  Patrick explained that it was in fact a new car, and that we’d spent all of Saturday afternoon at the dealership in the city, and were just arriving back into Connecticut for a steak dinner to finish off the evening.  Our new passenger seemed to take great delight upon arriving at the conclusion that she had gotten into the right car.  The rest of Saturday night was ours.  Our blonde, our night, our car.  Our new car was already beginning to show signs of promise.  My brother and I felt good to have on our new wool Brooks Brothers sweaters on in front of what promised to be a fun rest of our evening, safe now that we were back in Connecticut.
    As soon as Joy got in, the car ride to Dean’s, now that we were back in Connecticut, in our new brown Mercedes-Benz, was an adventure.  Blonde, Joy.  The blonde Joy we picked up at the gas station.  That was her name.  She said, “I like to eat at Dexter’s.”  She must have been of some degree of sophistication to eat at a place like Dean’s all of the time.  It seemed as though as soon as Joy stepped into our new brown car, the night had changed from new car add, to small town joy ride through our wildest imaginations.  Joy looked at my brother and I for a long time.  We looked at Joy.  Joy was very pretty, the type of girl you would expect to see outside of New York City.  The new car made it hard to look just at joy, though.  This wasn’t as exclusive as driving home in a new, brown Rolls Royce, but it was fun.  It had taken almost two hours to get home from the city.  I was hungry.  I wondered if Joy were hungry.  “I like to eat steak at Dexter’s , too.”  I told Joy.  “When I was younger, we used to eat at Dexter’s, once, every week.  I would always eat a steak.  So would my brother, Patrick.”  I told her.  I was trying to introduce myself, and my brother, but I wasn’t having much luck.  We both looked at Joy.  Joy looked at us.  Our parents looked straight at the road.  My father was doing a good job of driving our new car.  My mother was enjoying my father’s driving.  Our newest passenger, Joy, seemed perfect for the ride home.  The daily struggle had ended, as we headed toward Dean’s in our new brown, luxury town car. 
    Now there were two women in the car, not just one.  My mother had enjoyed the ride back to Connecticut from the city.  Now Joy was along for the ride.  I wondered if she were going to go home with us after Dexter’s.  I was getting hungry.  I needed to get something in my stomach, fast.  We’d had something to eat for lunch in the city.  We ate lunch at one o’clock in the afternoon.  Now it was getting late, it was almost seven thirty at night.  The night’s sky was beginning to get very dark as we drove to Dexter’s.  When we had picked up Joy at the gas station it was still light outside.  I was beginning to look forward to our having dinner.  I wondered who else would be eating at Dexter’s now that we had picked up a second party.
    Joy had on white nylon stockings covering all of her nice, long legs.  Joy’s bright blonde hair lit up the inside of the new car, as well as what she had on.  She would have looked perfect in a pair of big sunglasses.  The dark, navy blue skirt that Joy had on, fit snug around her thighs, and it looked like it was from a higher end store, where she must have bought it from.  One thing that I liked about Joy, was that her breasts were very big.  She had on a white button up shirt that was short sleeved, and had been tucked into her skirt.  I bet she had on pink cotton panties.  Maybe they would have been white.  I didn’t know what color panties Joy had on, but perhaps I wanted to find out.  Surprised as I was just to have Joy with us along for the ride now, was I surprised by the fact that Joy had on a pair of nice, women’s white pumps.  It seemed odd that Joy didn’t have on a girl’s blazer as well.  The best part about Joy, though, was her bright blonde hair, that fell along nice, onto her big breasts.  I think that Joy noticed that I was looking at her.  She seemed to notice me, and she smiled at me.  Joy had a beautiful smile that seemed to fall into, with perfect harmony, the rest of our evening in the car, in the dark night. 
    We had bought a very nice car.  The ride home had been very smooth.  You couldn’t here the tires, and my brother Patrick had nearly fallen asleep in the comfort of the new automobile.  It was a fun ride home.  There had been one point, where we drove through a field of rye when it was still bright outside (before it had gotten cloudy, and eventually become dark), in our new brown car, it made everything seem very peaceful.  Now we had Joy in the car, and she made everything seem very exciting.  Other cars were coming into sight from where I was sitting in the back seat.  The bright red tail lights on other cars seemed to start to swirl around us, whipping around in the darkness.  The evening, now that it was dark, seemed to intensify itself.  Now in the blackness, the car’s spirit had become enlivened, perhaps because of its full occupancy.
   
   
***this writing up to this point is the “calm before the storm”…big night/day…intensity grows as night proceeds          

**jump 30 years into future with new woman….fantasy woman…then add a new woman character who is human, and like him for end of novel.  Before each chapter, include fragments of her saying something in reference to her character.

Chapter 2

    Los Angeles.  I woke up at five o’clock in the morning, and found myself drinking freezing cold water out of a glass with ice cubes in it.  I needed something to drink.  I stood in front of the glass sliding door in my apartment, looking out at the Pacific Ocean.  It seemed like the world had come to an end, and I was the only person still alive.  Usually when I looked out of the apartment I was renting, I’d see people on the beach in front of me, or boats in the water, or even an airplane with sign trailing behind it saying something like, “TOM’S BOATS”.  I didn’t expect to see anyone this morning.
    I sat back down on the edge of my bed.  My room was a cool blue, because the sun hadn’t risen…. it was only five o’clock.  I turned on the television with the remote control that happened to be lying on my bed, I must’ve left it there last night, I couldn’t remember.  When I turned on the TV, an advertisement for women’s bikinis lit up the room.  The bikinis were not your ordinary bikinis, they were very modest looking around the large breasts of the female models that were in the ad, and when the models would turn around, you could see every part of the girls’ rear ends.  All of the models on TV had long blonde hair and fake tits.  The slogan for the company went, “Don’t be afraid to bare it all.”, or so it goes.  I found myself getting a morning reminder that, as it were, I was in fact watching almost naked women showing off their beautiful assets on TV, before my very eyes, and that I was beginning to sport an electrocuting, hard erection, while sitting there at the end of the bed with the television screen in front of me.  The feeling would pass as soon as it arrived, I was in no mood for a hard on like the one I felt coming on so sure and quick, at such an hour of the morning.
    The TV advertisement went on for another thirty minutes.  This was not out of the ordinary, these days there were lots of television commercials and infomercials that lasted for thirty minutes, or even up to a full hour.  This was great though, a commercial that had nothing but gorgeous girls in neon green, pink and orange string, and I mean string, “floss” bikinis.  Forget calling these things swimsuits, they looked more like they were straight out of the back of a porno magazine ad section.  The models they were using were not your average swimsuit models either.  The way the girls on TV were moving, slow, with succulent lips, looking straight at the camera, like it was some marketers second job after getting kicked off of the set of an adult movie set, it looked like at any moment, some tall, muscular Californian guy was going to step out of nowhere and start nailing one of them right there, all at once.  No wonder they were advertising this at five o’clock in the morning.  If any normal person ever saw this on TV, it would be taken off of the air for sure.  I was surprised that even I was catching myself watching this.  It didn’t matter though, because even if I did try and get up and do something else, the girls on TV weren’t going to stop what they were doing.  Besides, the commercial wasn’t bothering me, it was just the feeling of being alone in my bedroom that morning was what was bothering me.
    I was finished drinking the little bit of water that was left in my glass, now just the ice cubes were left, and I was not the type of person who bothered those things.  The glasses had been a gift from my brother Patrick, who still lived in the part of the world that I had tried calling home most of my life, but had had little success with thinking back.  They were the kind of glasses you’d remember seeing in a movie where everyone parties, and lead successful lives where everyone has a lot of money and nice cars.  They were the kind of glasses you’d expect to find at the bar of one your friend’s nice homes in some expensive neighborhood.  It would have made more sense to be drinking a gin and tonic out of one of these glasses, not just a cold glass of water to wake up with in the morning.  It didn’t make a difference to me, I was thinking more about the girls on TV than the glass I drinking water out of that morning.
    Finally, at five thirty in the morning, the TV advertisement had stopped, and so had the eruption in my pants that had caused me so much trouble while I had been sitting there at the end of my bed.  I didn’t get up though, not yet.  I sat there on my bed while the sun and the tide continued to roll in, sunlight was beginning to fade in over LA, just beginning to creep into my room.  I still felt the silence that surrounded me there in my room, and it made me feel full of life, that early in the morning…no one was going to interrupt what I had going for me, not yet, at least.  I wondered if my brother was awake where he lived.  Today was Saturday, so he probably wouldn’t wake up for another two hours or so, I assumed.  I decided I was going to sit there on my bed for maybe another hour and enjoy this solitude that I had somehow found.  The silence was nice.  I’d turned off the television set with the remote, and continued to sit still.  I could feel a wave of peace wash over my entire being and it felt good.  I knew that I could keep this up, this sitting here, feeling myself reaching nirvana, and that it wouldn’t leave me, not as long as I didn’t get up to make coffee, or use the bathroom.  I was alright, I didn’t have much use for the toilet yet, and I figured that a cup of coffee wouldn’t do much for the pleasantness I was already receiving.  My mind and body told me that everything was fine, and that was okay with me.

Chapter 3
    Lakers game.
Chapter 4
    I don’t know when I am going to write again.  It’s been two years since I published a book.  There aren’t any good stories out there, so why bother.  Maybe I’ll start writing for the movies.  There’s always room for more.  There is always time.  Manhattan Beach is a great place to live.  I don’t feel like doing anything anyway. 
    I like living here.  It gets busy during the day.  Where I live I don’t even have to drive a car, I can either walk or ride a bike.  The people that live here are all very nice.  I like most of the people that I meet here. 
    There are some very interesting things going on around this place, too.  Last night I went to a Lakers game, but for the past two weeks, I’ve been spending my evenings at my favorite restaurant, eating good food and having drinks.  There is always someone there to talk to, so chatting is popular, often with the women who frequent the place.  Since I have never been married, I still make good conversation with the opposite sex.
    During the day, I like to walk around since it is the middle of summer.  On a nice day, the beach is packed with sun bathers, kids, people on bikes, young people in their bathing suits, cops, dogs, people playing volleyball, people flying kites, good looking women, people in the water, people broadcasting live radio or television.  Lots of activity.  It seems I’m not the only person who likes to walk around on the streets or close to the beach.  There are lots of people doing the same thing as I am, walking, perhaps with no real destination.  Sometimes, I see groups of teenagers, hanging out with their shirts off, or in their bikinis, some of them holding hands with each other.  Not only are there a lot of people on the streets, but a lot of cars too.
    Where I live in Manhattan Beach there are a lot of three story condos.  These condos are expensive.  I live in one of these, not a house.  I like mine, because no one else lives in the building, so I treat it more like a house, and it feels like more of a home to me that way.  If I walk out my bedroom, through the sliding doors, I am on the beach.  It’s comfortable.  If you walk a little further out onto the beach, and look down the beach, you’ll see that there are hills covered with grass behind the beaches.  These hills are the typical kind of hills that you will find when in Los Angeles, except these hills are on the beach.  Not only are they covered with grass, but there are any number of different kinds of trees and bushes on them, too.  I do not live on one of these hills, though.  Where my, and many other people’s condos are, in Manhattan Beach, the ground is flat, and there is nothing but narrow streets and beach homes.

Chapter 5
    Tonight I thought it would be smart if I started to write something.  My publishers in New York are all very supportive of me any time I decide to write, so I figured since I am having such a good time here in California that I would begin to do so.  I have had over ten books published over the last twenty years.  Most of the books that I had written did well, and I hope that what I am getting started on does well also.  I am a writer of fiction, and when I write a novel, I enjoy it.  All of my books that have been published have done well, and five of them have made The New York Times Bestsellers list.  I am proud of my success, and my experiences as a writer have been fantastic.
    When I start to write a novel, I have no idea where I am going with it, I just want to start, or I never will get off of the ground.  I have had several experiences where I am meaning to write a book and it never gets finished because I started at a bad time, or there were ideas in my head that I wanted to get onto paper more than I knew what I was doing, or the timing was bad, but I have learned from my past experiences, so far, and am getting off on the right foot tonight, instead of the wrong foot.  It is tough for some writers to find good times in their lives to begin working, because of either their fame, their family lives, or because of their complicated attitudes toward work.  I feel that a person requires discipline and a good, clear head on their shoulders.  Some writers write bad books, I don’t feel like I am one of those people.
    I have never felt that work should interfere with how I like to live my life, and I don’t think that how I live my life should interfere with my work.  In the past I have written stories in places like, Colorado, New Hampshire, Los Angeles, and New York City, as well as London, Greece, and Hong Kong, but right now, Manhattan Beach is where the opportunity is knocking on my door, so I’ll have to answer it.  I do like my situation here in Manhattan Beach, the air is nice, and I feel right at home.  My work has always been fun for me, and I’d like to keep it that way, because it makes sense to be comfortable and happy when taking on such a responsibility, like writing a novel.  This is the happiest I’ve ever been , so I am sure I will write something of real worth, and it should be a pleasure in doing so.
    The first time I ever wrote a book that was published was in New York City, in 1979, when everything was going great, and no one seemed to care about anything.  The second time a book of mine was published, it was 1982, and things were great then, too.  Since then I have published eight other works of fiction, and the timing was always right, so I am pleased to say that after twenty five years of having books that I’ve written published, I am in a great place, in the middle of a beautiful summer in California.  I would just like to say, that for the record, my history, and the lineage that it has created has been a good one, and that it only goes to show that people get better at things as time allows them to.  It’s been an interesting twenty five years of writing stories about interesting people, places, and what goes on in the middle, and I hope it will be another good twenty five years, starting today.
    One of the most memorable experiences I’ve had writing was in 1989, on-board a cruise ship sailing from New York City to London, during the winter months.  New York City has always had boats that leave harbor around Christmas time, but there never are really any people on them because of the extreme weather conditions that one would encounter, if one were ever to board such a ship.  I remember never going outside, because of how frightening it was outside, because of the high winds, and the huge waves that accompanied our voyage, but I do remember looking outside once, during a rainstorm, and feeling all alone, like the only person who’d ever braved the Atlantic Ocean, sort of like Columbus had, hundreds of years ago.  In my cabin, I’d brought with me a typewriter, but that didn’t limit my writing to just one small room.  I was free to bring my typewriter with me anywhere inside of the ship, and I found myself there on that ship as I wrote an entire novel during the course of the a month, as I had decided to ride, once arriving in London, back to New York City, and then back to London, and back to New York City, again, in total, a month’s worth of travel, in all.  This was the best time I had ever had writing a novel, and the adventure that I felt I was on, lasted the entire trip, as well as the four thousand dollars I’d shelled out for the experience.  The novel that I’d written was put together in all sorts of places inside of the massive cruise liner.  I started writing my novel, of course, inside of my cabin, sitting at a desk across from my single bunk that I’d been assigned by the travel agency that’d been advertising for the one thousand dollar, one way trip to London, from New York City.  Soon after the first couple of pages though, I’d decided to bring my typewriter to another part of the ship, the big lounge they’d put near the front of the ship.  This was an interesting place to write, because here, you could feel the ship bounce as it hit the enormous waves that the ship would meet head on during the night, or during the awful rainstorms.  This added to thrill of writing for me, because I’d never written anything while moving, including having never written on plane, or in the back of a car, like a Rolls Royce, like the one I used to own years ago.  From the lounge, I managed to move myself to one of the dining rooms, on-board the ship, during hours when people were not dining there.  The first dining room that I had chosen to write in was very ornate, and it was a nice experience writing in such a place.  The boat was in fact, sixty years old, and so, the dining room that I’d chosen to write in was still decorated in an old, pristine fashion.  While in the dining room, I managed to meet lots of the staff that were on the ship as well.  I wasn’t the only person on the ship who’d had work cut out for them.  Many of the people whom I’d met that worked on the boat were friendly, and very interested in how my writing was carrying along during the month that I was aboard.  I felt obliged to let them in on the progress I would make, informing them about every new transgression that took place within the confines of the book’s first draft, telling them in detail about the characters, and what was taking place in the story.  This, I found was helpful, and sometimes, a crewmate would try to suggest what should happen next, or what he or she thought about what had happened so far.  This was an experience that I was having in the dining hall aboard the ship.  After spending almost a week inside of the dining room, I decided it would be smart if I relocated, because I was beginning to feel like too famous of a writer, and I didn’t want the scrutiny that my typewriter and I were dolling out as I’d watch the workers preparing for lunches and dinners for myself, and the other passengers.  So it was that I left the beautiful dining room to another part of the ship, a hallway, located at the top of a giant set of stairs.  The stairs had started out big and became small near the end, coming from the ship’s middle region, on the second floor, with the desk, perched just beyond the stairs.  During the winter months, you can only imagine how alone I felt writing there.  Because of the lack of people aboard the ship, I was no longer greeted by anyone asking questions about my writing’s progress, and it was there that I made my greatest attempts at writing, insofar, along my voyage. 
    As for the rest of my writing experiences, nothing could compare to writing a novel in the confines of a hotel room, forty stories up, in an exclusive Japanese hotel in Hong Kong, in 1997.  I lived in this hotel room for four months, constructing my most successful novel, The Killing Days .  The Killing Days was a book about Japanese hit men that traveled the world over, killing big businessmen, glamorous women, and American government agents that tried to stop and put an end to their game of pursuit.  This was a fun book to write because of being in Japan at the time, and seeing people who fit the descriptions of the characters I was writing about.  Looking back, not only did I have fun writing a book like this, but I learned a lot about how I fit in, in a place like Hong Kong.  The Japanese have a culture like nobody’s business, and it was interesting being at, what I considered, the top of the world, free to let my mind travel the world over, much like the characters in my novel were allowed to do, but with guns, and licenses to kill.  The Killing Days took place in a two month time frame, where everyone but the bad guys got murdered.  When the book was published, The Killing Days landed a number one best-seller spot for almost an entire month, yielding a lot of respect from the people who bought the rights to it, and published it, my readers, as well as from my contemporaries.  I have never forgotten the feelings I experienced there on the fortieth floor, of a seventy story hotel building, and probably never will.
    So here I am, eight years after writing The Killing Days, in my home, trying to get started on a new work, of what, I need to be my greatest contribution to the literary world, up until now.  Writing a novel on a laptop computer can be a lot of fun.  Between writing a story on a type writer and writing a story on a computer, I choose the laptop, because I can always go back and revise, and the process seems to be more of an experience, and technology has become my friend.  I started writing books on a laptop in 1995, and since then, I’ve noticed that a lot of other writers choose this mode, too.  It certainly works nice in my writing room, which is where I am now.
    Chapter 1
    The man had been walking down the same road for six hours.  His helmet had been tucked underneath his left arm for most of his journey.  His uniform was still clean, but he wondered if it was going to be his only uniform, or perhaps, he wouldn’t even be in one for that much longer.  His legs ached, and his boots were beginning to feel like they were made of wood, not leather.  He knew that he was going to have to find a place to rest, sleep, and eat by the end of the day.  Italian villages were usually only several miles apart, and he’d passed several of them already, and maybe it would be two more until he could find a lodge to settle into.  He was thirsty and hungry, he had his canteen, the one he’d used to drink water from, and had refilled several times over the course of the day.  Maybe the next town would be a smart place to find some rations that would help him continue his path. 
    The World War was now in full swing, and he had received orders from his subordinates to walk to a town that was twelve miles from where the rest of his American troops were stationed, and to set up a checkpoint there, and to remain there until notified otherwise.  He approached the top of a hill, and from there he could see a village.  Perhaps this village was the one he had been instructed to go to.  In fact, this town was the place he’d been ordered to set up a checkpoint.  He was relieved that he’d made it, and that he wouldn’t have any more walking to do, and that he finally could relax and have something to eat.  The local villagers were happy to have him there, and he was greeted by smiling children, and women, who’d come from inside of there homes to see the American soldier that had just arrived.


***during the course of this novel, the writer needs to be working on his newest novel, as he interacts with his dream girl..should his novel be about “a dream girl”;  include excerpts from the novel as it is being written (Misery style); start each excerpt with a chapter number.  Write The Killing Days.

Chapter 6
      I wrote ten pages yesterday.  Ten pages is a lot of progress when it’s something new that I’m working on.  So, in celebration of beginning a new novel, I’ve decided to go for a swim in the ocean, and spend a greater part of my day on the beach, and later on, write some more.  My novel is already beginning to take shape in ways that I like, so I need to feel good about everything else that I’m doing here, and I think that that means taking the time to make the time to be like everybody else and enjoy the great weather that we’re experiencing here in California. 
    I walked about a half of a mile from where I’m living, and found a nice place on the beach to make my own.  I spent about an hour in water, the Pacific Ocean is great to get into and not come out of for at least that much an hour, if you ever get the chance, I recommend it.  Among the other people on the beach, I spotted a number of children, old people, and couples, taking advantage of the same thing I was, getting wet, and not getting out of the ocean until they too had had there fair share of the water, and the hot sun.  It felt great to swimming, and the water felt good.  When I was done swimming, I made my way back to my L.L. Bean beach bag, and towel, put on my sunglasses, and laid down on one of the beach chairs that were made available to anyone using the beach.  I pulled out a copy of a book I’d bought two days ago, and began to read it.
    The book I’d bought was written by a famous author, whom I’d never met, but had heard lots about.  The story was set in the late nineteen hundreds about a man who’d come from New York City to California, in search of oil.  The book had become interesting fast, and I was enraptured in its characters and plot.  The main character, a man named Went Simmons, had made a fortune all over the country discovering oil, and making rich friends as he did so.  By the time he had reached California, the oil boom had started and he manages to find himself in the very heart of rush, including lots of money that surrounds the story’s plot.  Went Simmons had begun to assist in the erecting of an oil derrick when all of a sudden, this person walked straight into me while I was sitting in my chair, knocking me out of my seat. 
    When I’d managed to sit up, adjust my sunglasses, and look up, I found a person looking right back at me with a big smile on her face, apologizing to me for knocking me over.  She was very good looking, about five feet and six inches tall, with great blonde hair, and a nice pair of breasts that were resting behind a yellow bikini top, and already beginning to catch my attention, despite the soft, friendly voice apologizing to me for walking into me by accident.  I told her it was okay, and when she asked me if I were alright, I told her I was fine.  She told me that she’d been walking on the beach all afternoon, and that she must not have been looking where she was going, and that it had been an accident that she’d run right into me.  I said that those things happen when it’s a really hot day, and so many people are on the beach, and that if she’d like to take a break from her walk, that she was welcome to sit down next to me and rest.  She said that she was in fact feeling tired and that it would be a good idea if she sat down. 
    She told me that her name was Baby, and that she lived very close to where we were both now sitting on the beach.  In a way, that made sense that she lived close by, but I told her that it was funny that I’d never seen her before, even though we lived so close to one another.  She agreed, and said that she’d never seen me either.  I responded by telling her that there were, actually, a lot of people that lived here during the summer, and that I was always seeing new faces where I lived.  Around Manhattan Beach, a person could see thousands of people that they’ve never met during the course of few summer months.  She said that she’d been renting a home there for a while, and that she was in fact from Los Angeles.  If that weren’t enough to convince me that every girl you meet in LA is gorgeous!  Baby was amazing to look at, and she seemed comfortable asking me if I’d like to go back to her place and have her cook dinner for me that evening.  I told her that that sounded great, and included that I’d moved here a few months before the summer started, and that I’d been eating at nearby restaurants every night, hardly enjoying a home cooked meal, and that it would be nice for a change to have somebody cooking for me.  She said that she was sorry that she’d walked into me, and that it was the least she could do for me, and that it might be good for me to finally meet somebody whose home I could go to, in the event that she lived close by.  I told Baby she was right.
    Baby and I sat on the beach together for awhile longer.  I told her about the book that I was reading, and that it was very good, and that I was a writer myself.  She said that she’d never met a famous writer before, and that she was pleased to have met one.  I explained that I’d moved to Manhattan Beach, from New York, and that I was working on a novel as well.  The fact that I was writing a novel interested her, and I explained that it was about an American soldier in World War One, who was stationed in Italy, and that I hadn’t gotten much further than that, but that it was going well.  She asked me if I’d thought about what else was going to be in the novel, and I told her that I hadn’t come that far, but that I would be willing to fill her in on the details as my writing went along.  She said that she would be interested in finding out more about what was going to happen in my novel and that perhaps we should be friends.  I said that sounded like a good idea and smiled, she liked that.
    So, by the time that it was starting to settle down on the beach, and everyone had headed home, and the sun was beginning to go down, Baby and I got up from where we were sitting and collected my belongings.  We were going to walk to her house from there, and I wasn’t going to go home to change clothes, but instead we were both going to go back to her place in our swimsuits.  Baby had on a pair of red, short running shorts over her bottom, and pretty sandals, she’d taken off her sunglasses that now rested on top of her head over her shiny blonde hair that fell onto her shoulders, close to her breasts.  The two of us walked further down the beach away from where I’d been on the beach toward her house.
    Baby’s house rested on top of a hill, close to the beach.  Her house was a white, one story, with lots of plants around it that were growing wild, but not too out of control.  There were a lot of houses around it that all resembled beach homes, and were rented out during the summer to people.  It had a porch that was screened in, and was going to be where we were going to have dinner.  She said she lived alone, and that everybody that she knew in LA had either moved away, or still lived in the part where she’d grown up, nowhere close to here.  I was relieved to know that it was going to be a private moment that the two of us were going to be sharing together tonight.  Once we were inside, Baby told me to make myself comfortable, and to sit on the nice brown leather couch that she had in her living room.  I set my things down on the floor near the screened front door, and made my way over to the couch.  The inside of Baby’s home was decorated with framed prints on the wall, some vases with fresh flowers in them lined the living room’s interior, and you could see the kitchen from where I sat.  Baby looked cute inside of her home, but I didn’t say anything that would’ve made me come off as strange, seeing as how she’d invited me into her home only after just having met me.
    Baby told me that she liked to cook, and that she often made dinner for herself, adding that she didn’t eat dinner at any of the nearby restaurants, but that sometimes she liked to go into the city for that sort of thing.  Then Baby said that she’d like to change clothes, if that were alright.  I told Baby that that was fine, and when she came back, she looked amazing.  Baby had put on a black dress that clung to her  great body, and ended just below her ass, revealing her perfect legs.  She had also put on a pair of black high heels, a fresh pair of panties too.  Baby had also washed her face, and when she reappeared, she had put on lipstick and make up, too.  Her hair was now smoothed over, and she looked too good to be just having a complete stranger over for dinner.  I mentioned that she looked nice, and that I appreciated the gesture, adding that the hospitality was going over well.  Baby said two words, “Thank you.”
    That night, Baby and I enjoyed a terrific dinner.  Baby’s cooking was excellent, and my dinner manners were welcomed by my hot hostess.