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Thursday, May 5, 2016

The Writer's Life 5/5 - Audition

It's Cinco de Mayo and the weather is still stinco. Fortunately, I wore my heaviest coat today. A stiff wind was blowing along Avenue Z, making it feel like early March. At least it didn't rain, and the sun actually poked through the clouds for about 30 seconds. My thanks to the gentleman who purchased Michael Connelly's Blood Work and to Paisano, who bought a romance novel.

Here's the opening of the novel I plan to self publish in January 2018. It's title is Present and Past. It's about lifelong friends in their late 30's, opposites in most ways despite their common background:

"Fred Canto?"
"Right here," said a tall, dark-haired, well-groomed man, ris ing.
He squeezed through the cramped space between the rows of seats, carefully lest he trample toes, inwardly amused at the irony, as the trampling of toes seemed what it was all about here
"From the top."
He climbed onto the small stage, script in hand. The sleeves of his flannel shirt were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms of a wiry muscular definition. He had no idea how to tackle the part. He thought the writing weak, colorless. He sens ed it was comedic, but wasn't sure. The actors who’d preceded him had shed no light on the subject, nor had any of those still awaiting a turn. He'd encountered many of them at previous audi tions. None seemed comfortable, although he suspected some might have been playing dumb in order to gain an edge.
He doubted the play would ever escape the tiny theater. He was kept in place by a shred of uncertainty as to its worth. He would hate himself if it turned out he'd turned his back on a work destined to become a cult classic. Besides, he'd been told by his teachers that any audition was valuable. In ten years, how ever, he'd yet to grasp of what value they were. He was no more comfortable now than he’d been at his first open call, but he kept at it, determined to land a role, however insignificant, before he died.
"Okay, we'll call you," said the director, scanning his notes.
"Yeah," Freddie scoffed, louder than he would have liked.
He paused, stunned at this rare loss of self control. He'd allowed his inner voice to betray his feelings. He was averse to showing emotion to people who weren't important to him.
The director was staring at him. Freddie avoided eye contact. Several of the actors were covering their mouths, amused, pleased that a competitor had eliminated himself. How he hated them.
H e stifled the urge to protest. What good would it do? He'd given his best. If three minutes was all they would allow, why should he be upset? The hour he'd spent commuting, the two wait ing, would have been passed in bed. He'd rather be up, doing. He didn't want to sleep his life away. There wasn't time enough any more. What difference did it make if he didn't earn a living as an actor? He still had his classes, where he performed the work of masters, not hacks. Fame didn't matter. It often had nothing to do with excellence.
Sour grapes, he told himself, hanging his head as he reached the exit.
Vic's Short Works:
Vic's 5th Novel:'s 4th novel:
Vic's 3rd Novel:
Vic's Short Story on Kindle:
Vic's Short Story Collection:
Vic's 2nd Novel: Kindle:
Vic's 1st Novel:

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