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Why Does Everybody Want to Be an Author?

March 26, 2020 By John Blumenthal

 
During my extensive travels throughout the cyber-asylum known as Facebook, I have noticed that some members have affixed the word “Author” to their profile names, as in “Author John Doe” or “John Doe Author.” When I first observed this phenomenon, I thought that a great many people were named Arthur and that each of them had misspelled it.

Sometimes, the word appears in parenthesis; sometimes the word is “Writer.” Same difference. When the word follows the person’s name, there is seldom a comma, which calls into question the so-called author’s grasp of punctuation

But never mind that.

Granted, I have not explored all the nooks and crannies of this cyber-wasteland, nor do I have any desire to, but it seems that “Author” is the only term applied in this manner for I have yet to come across anyone called “Appliance Repairman John Doe” or “Jane Doe Neurologist” or “Bob Smith Ramada Inn Concierge” or “President of General Motors Joe Schmo.”

Frankly, if I wished to add a profession to my name, I would not choose “Author,” as this vocation is a lonely practice characterized by many years of toil, endless rewriting, general anonymity, frustratingly inattentive agents, awful reviews, a tragic paucity of groupies save perhaps for the random starry-eyed librarian, and that it seldom produces more than a poverty-level livelihood.

On the bright side, it is a passable form of self-expression when accomplished with style and eloquence and, more importantly, requires only a laptop computer and a cursory knowledge of basic spelling and sentence structure which most people with an ounce of wit can recall from their school days and thus easily reproduce on a grocery list. Or 250 pages filled with words and called “A Novel.” I have noted that many of these so-called novels are published by a company known as “Createspace,” which must be quite profitable as this name appears with amazing frequency.

Is there perchance some glamour or status in being an author that I am not aware of? Is it the librarians?

Now if I were to add a profession to my Facebook moniker, I would choose something really cool, albeit equally far-fetched, such as “Rock Superstar John Blumenthal” or “Owner Of Strip Club Franchise John Blumenthal” or “Yankees Pitching Sensation John Blumenthal” or “Swashbuckling Pirate John Blumenthal,” or “John Blumenthal King of Belgium.”

But “Author”? Surely you jest. Everybody’s a goddamn Author.

Filed Under: Writing

Rave Reviews for The Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird

February 18, 2020 By John Blumenthal

“This quirky love story is a delight. It is at the same time humorous and poignant. And the literary references are refreshing and give the book it’s own peculiar charm. This is a most enjoyable read.” — Mark Burley, Executive Producer of Orange is the New Black

“Blumenthal’s hilariously descriptive language is a delight.” —The Washington Review

“John Blumenthal has created in his narrator Ishmael Archer a character who is at once charming, entertaining, and thoroughly original. Archer’s courtship of the beautiful Abigail may indeed be strange, but it is also poignant and heart-meltingly romantic. A delightful read.” —Lindsay Maracotta, bestselling author of Dead Hollywood Moms Society and Adorably Dead

“Literature is the aphrodisiac in this charming and hopeful love story between delightfully eccentric characters.” —Cherise Wolas, author of The Resurrection of Joan Ashby and The Family Tabor

“Blumenthal has a Woody Allen-like ear for dialogue.” —The Kindle Book Review

“There are belly laughs among the pangs of heartache, loss and discovery. For a humorous novel, the book is surprisingly touching, the depth unusual. Such a gloriously refreshing change.” — Sue Russell, award-winning author of Lethal Intent

“Blumenthal has a jaundiced eye and a wonderfully ironic style” —LA Daily News

Filed Under: Writing Tagged With: orange is the new black

Excerpt: “The Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird.”

February 18, 2020 By John Blumenthal

      My parents instilled in me a deep affection for literature that commenced shortly after I had achieved the age of six, at which time I eagerly consumed “The Mayor of Casterbridge” by Mr. Thomas Hardy. Thoroughly enchanted by this captivating tale, I would remain awake throughout the night, a brazen violation of my parents’ bedtime decree (which they seldom enforced), my fingers flipping madly through the book’s magical pages, my head covered by a blanket emblazoned with images of barnyard animals, my sole source of illumination provided by a miniature flashlight. 

      Yes, this was the book that first awakened me to the wonders of fiction. I adored the sensuous feel of a book, the glorious musty smell of an old hardcover, the heft of a lengthy tome, the colorful symmetry of a regiment of volumes standing side by side on my bookshelves, the very act of turning pages. Thus I have always eschewed the use of flat, aesthetically barren electronic devices. From that point on, I devoured the works of Austen, Trollope, Dickens, Thackeray, and the Brontë sisters, eventually moving on to noted American scribes and those of other nationalities—Stendhal, Hugo, Dostoevsky, Mann, Marquez, Proust, Kafka, and all the rest. My gluttonous reading of the nineteenth-century British classics during my formative years resulted in my somewhat stilted and admittedly verbose manner of speaking which, in my youth, was nearly incomprehensible to most of my young classmates and often considered snobbish, although that was never my intention. Simply put, I have always harbored a distaste for the vernacular as well as all manner of slang, both of which I find somewhat pedestrian. 

      Yes, I was a precocious lad, beloved by my grade school teachers for my superior intellect, flawless grooming (I customarily sported a starched white shirt and bow tie to class), and admirable behavior (I was a quiet, brooding sort of young man who caused no disruption in class). Yet to my dismay, my mostly gushing report cards (written in a loopy cursive mode of handwriting and frequently containing a few minor but egregious misspellings or questionable grammar), there was always a sentence or two regarding my profound lack of social skills—“Ishmael would benefit from more interaction with his schoolmates. He seems to be quite shy.”

      Having consumed many of the classics, I found it somewhat absurd that in grade school I was expected to read and discuss a thirty-page, poorly illustrated, ineptly plotted book involving the insipid escapades of various dimwitted characters and their equally insufferable pets. Simply put, I was entirely devoid of friends, as my schoolmates and their activities held no interest for me. The only connection I had to those in my age group consisted of a passion for such delicacies as Snickers chocolate bars, Black Vines Licorice Twists, Twinkies, Cheese Puffs and other items one might describe as unhealthy victuals, but that was the full extent of my shared interest. As this was insufficient to inspire a true connection with my colleagues, I remained virtually friendless during those early days of my education. 

      And so I invariably ate alone in the school cafeteria, my briefcase by my side, consuming the repast (which usually consisted of a ham and cheese sandwich) that my mother had hurriedly prepared for me the night before, and filling the remaining time with the perusal of a book. Although I later made several acquaintances during my teenage years in high school—most participated, simply to eliminate that last annoying sentence from my report cards, a failure that so displeased Mother and Father. 

      Besides, croquet seemed like a simple, civilized pastime, one that would require an economy of movement and an inconsequential risk of injury, not that I would have excelled at it. It was an abysmal waste of time of course, but perhaps a strategy with which to improve my woefully inadequate social skills. 

      “I hate to tell you this, Ishmael, but I’m afraid croquet will not become part of the school’s athletic curriculum,” Mr. Ramsey, the school’s gym teacher, said one afternoon as I sat quite alone in the school cafeteria. I had by that time submitted a formally written request that a croquet team be organized. In spite of my aversion to sports I had a fondness for Mr. Ramsey, who took a great liking to me and thus violated school regulations by allowing me to abstain from gym class activities, mostly because I was so pathetically inept at them. He, too, was an avid reader but I had no idea what sort of literature lined his bookshelves, not that it mattered, mattered, for Mr. Ramsey was my sole friend. 

      “I am not surprised to hear that, Mr. Ramsey,” I said. “Truth be told, I held out little hope for the acceptance of my application, but I am most thankful that you were kind enough to propose it for me.” 

      “Well, I’m sorry,” he said, with sympathy in his tone. “Principal Thorndyke didn’t think standing around hitting wooden balls through hoops was good exercise.” 

      Although this was the precise reason I had suggested that the school adopt the sport, I did not address his citation of Principal Thorndyke’s reasoning. “C’est la vie,” I said. “But I fear my parents will be quite displeased by this news.” 

      “Why is that?” 

      “Because, alas, it appears that I have no friends,” I said. 

      “Well, you’re not the only one.”

      “Oh?” Mr. Ramsey glanced around the room and I followed his gaze until it fell upon a young bespectacled fellow who sat at a nearby table. I observed that he was quite alone as he consumed his lunch with great concentration, his eyes squarely fixed upon a yellow cupcake as if it were an ancient relic from an archaeological exploration. It appeared that he was myopic as he held said cupcake two inches away from his visage. 

      “That’s Jerome Duckworth,” Mr. Ramsey told me. “He’s a loner too. Maybe you two could eat at the same table. He doesn’t talk much.” 

      “Hmm,” I said. “Perhaps this suggestion is worthy of consideration.” I placed a bookmark in the novel I had been perusing. Mr. Ramsey peered over my shoulder. 

      “What are you reading today, Ishmael?” 

      “Dead Souls by the Russian author Mr. Nikolai Gogol.” 

      He nodded. “Sounds like a hoot.” I chuckled at his witticism. Just then the first warning bell rang signaling the end of the lunch hour, so I folded up the remains of my lunch in the tin foil my mother had wrapped it in and placed the novel in my briefcase. 

“You sure do a lot of reading, Ishmael,” Mr. Ramsey said. “Every time I see you, you’ve got your nose in a book.””

““Reading is my primary form of gratification, ” I said. “Yet I also do it for inspiration.” I glanced around at my schoolmates as they sucked noisily through the straws in their miniature milk cartons and then proceeded to unload their trays into the trash receptacles. 

     “Inspiration for what, Ishmael?” 

      “For my work.” 

      “You mean your homework?” I hesitated. Should I tell him? Would he laugh or make a condescending remark? After all, I was only eight.

      “No,” I said. “A slightly more formidable project.” 

      “And what would that be, if you don’t mind me asking?”

      “Do not inform a soul, but I have recently commenced writing the Great American Novel!” 

      He raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? I must say, I like your ambition, Ishmael. It’s very admirable for a young fellow like you to think big. I look forward to reading it.” 

      “Thank you,” I said. I had yet to inform my parents of my lofty goal for fear that they would find it a trifle too ambitious and therefore discourage me from undertaking it at such an early age. Mr. Ramsey’s encouragement was most welcome. 

      “What’s it about?” he asked. 

      I looked at Mr. Ramsey. In some ways he reminded me of Charles Bingley, Miss Jane Austen’s delightful fictional character, in that he was a cheerful fellow, although the whistle that resided around Mr. Ramsey’s thick neck was not a fashion accessory Mr. Bingley would have sported. “I am not entirely certain of that yet, Mr. Ramsey,” I said. “Perhaps a memoir disguised as fiction. Something along those lines.””

““A memoir, huh?” he said. “But you’re kinda young, Ishmael. Have you had a lot of memorable adventures?” 

      I gave this some thought and said, “Well, I once purloined a package of Hostess Ding Dongs from a convenience store.” 

      He appeared to be stifling a chuckle. “Why?” 

      “I had just completed reading ‘Oliver Twist’ by Mr. Charles Dickens and I wished to experience the art of theft, although I did not possess the derring-do to attempt the picking of pockets. Please do not tell anyone as I do not wish to be taken into custody by the local constabulary.” 

      “I won’t,” he said. His expression told me that he was being truthful. “So how far have you gotten in this book you’re writing?” 

      I removed my spectacles and wiped them with a napkin. “Alas, at the moment I have written only two words.” 

      “And what might those be?” 

      “The word ‘Chapter’ and the word ‘’One.’ I have not yet decided whether or not to pen the words ‘Part’ and ‘One,’ but I may do so, thus doubling my word count.””

      “Well, you’re off to a good start,” he said with a smile. As the second warning bell sounded, he put an arm around my shoulders and together we ambled out of the cafeteria and into the commotion of the hallway.

Filed Under: Writing Tagged With: abigail bird, excerpt john blumenthal romance love story

How “The Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird” Came to Be

January 20, 2020 By John Blumenthal

Where did my inspiration for “THE STRANGE COURTSHIP OF ABIGAIL BIRD” originate? I’ve been writing novels and screenplays professionally for years and I still don’t really have a clue how that phenomenom works, but in this particular case, I knew two things from the get go—that I wanted to write something about two extremely bookish people who fall in love and that I wanted to start the novel with the words “Call Me Ishmael.” (It was distressing to learn later that some other writer, a guy name Melville, had opened his novel with the exact same sentence.)

But I’m not sure that counted as inspiration. It was really just a vague premise, not nearly enough to start writing. Vague premises pop into my head all the time but most of them never develop into anything beyond that stage. In fact, I abandoned the Abigail idea several times before it finally clicked.

Since I tend to write in the first person, one of the most diffcult tasks for me is finding the voice of the protagonist. I have frequently abandoned novels because the voices I tried just didn’t ring true or because the main character was not sympathetc enough or because I just didn’t like him or her that much. In my opinion, it should be fun to write in a character’s voice; if it’s not, if it’s drudgery, and you find yourself uncertain about his or her motivations or actions, then the voice is probably not right.

In the case of Ishmael Archer, the novel’s main character, finding the right voice was blessedly simple. I knew that he was a man who had been obsessed with novels, primarily the classics, from the age of six. Therefore, it would not be much of a stretch to give him the somewhat archaic speaking style of a character from a 19th Century novel. He would be somewhat haughty, a bit stuffy but his formal language style would be so out of place for the 21st Century that he became something of a fish out of water, not to mention a stickler for grammar.

Once I felt comfortable putting words into Ishmael’s mouth, creating his love interest, Abigail Bird, was relatively simple, as she shared his obsession with literature. Yet I knew that I could not have Abigail simply mimic Ishmael’s style, so I made her a bit less formal and stuffy. For example, she uses contractions and some vernacular phrases; Ishmael never does.

In any case, that’s all I had at first—an opening line and a vague concept. No story, no beginning, no end. The Anna Karenina stuff came much later.

As for the rest of the book, I just winged it. I’ve used outlines for screenplays, because producers generally require them and because I secured most of my deals from pitching stories to studio development execs. My Hollywood writing career began the usual way—by writing spec scripts. But after my first movie came out (“Short Time” — 20th Century Fox), I was suddenly a known quantity and was able to pitch (although I was godawful at it.)

But I don’t use outlines for novels. I seldom have a precise ending in mind when I begin, which can be dangerous if you get to page 300 and have no idea where to go. But for me, the discovery process is enjoyable and I find that if I follow the character’s voice and motivation, and if I throw a few balls in the air, so to speak, I can usually invent a fairly interesting ending, one with a few twists and surprises.

Of course, it’s important to love to write, and I do, Finishing that first draft and typing the words, “The End,” can be a real kick. But then comes the hard part—rewriting, aguably the most important part of the process. By rewriting, I do not mean proofreading. I mean editing out or adding whole chapters, changing and refining characters, locating and changing discrepancies, making the language sing and so on. I often find myself rewriting 20 or 30 times and even then I am seldom completely satisfied but I know that eventually I will have to stop.

It’s the next part that I despise the most—handing the manuscript in to my agent, waiting for her to read it, doing more rewrites, going nuts as the she sends it around to editors, trying not to bug her with nagging phone calls. Yes, you will be joyful if the novel sells, but in my experience that euphoria is short-lived because the next chore is particpating in the marketing (readings, utilizing social networks and so forth), knowing full well, that if this book does not do well, it will become much more difficult to sell your next one.

Filed Under: Writing Tagged With: john blumenthal, novel

Noah Tells The Real Story

December 21, 2019 By John Blumenthal

First of all, I wasn’t 500 years old. They totally made that up. I was maybe 75, max, which — don’t get me wrong — was pretty old back then. Decrepit actually. When God chose me for this genius shipbuilding project, I should have said, “Thank you very much for the honor, Your Holiness. I’m flattered, but please, do me a favor: Find somebody else like maybe… I don’t know… a carpenter? Do I look like a guy who can schlep 3000 tons of lumber back and forth, all day and night? I’m lucky if I can sit down without fracturing my hip. Technically, I’m not Jewish but I can’t even change a candle.”

But the Lord said unto me… um no, that’s not actually what happened either. He didn’t say things unto me. He yelled things unto me.  It wasn’t like we had a little chitchat over cocktails and Brie in my goat tent. 

The first thing I asked was the obvious question: “Why, oh Lord, do you want me to build a boat? I live in the desert. We get a little sprinkle from time to time but…” And then he lays this story on me: He made humans, but he’s not thrilled about the direction that went in so he’s going to make a big flood and drown everybody. 

O……… K

He told me men were wicked and married their daughters and had children with them and whatnot and that they did other evil violent things, whereupon I said unto Him, “nobody’s perfect.”

This did not amuse Him. Basically, he wanted a do-over, a celestial mulligan if you will. He decided to save me because He thought I was a righteous man but evidently He hadn’t heard about that shoplifting incident, and I wasn’t going to tell Him about it now.

Of course, I thought he wanted me to build a small boat just for my wife and my sons and their wives and me. But then He gave me these measurements — 500 cubits this, 2000 cubits that. Basically, He wanted me to build an aircraft carrier. I wanted to say, “God, you made the earth and the seas and the mountains and the trees, you can’t just make a lousy boat yourself and save me the aggravation?” But I didn’t. I could see that He was a little moody. 

Then there was the animal business. OMG. Somehow, I was supposed to round up all the animals on earth — most of which didn’t even live close to my neighborhood — and get them all on the ship. I have a dog, and I can’t even get him to sit; now I’m supposed to round up lions and tigers and bears and say, “Yo, giraffe, get on the ship?” All I could think of was who’s supposed to clean up two months of animal shit, but I didn’t ask him that. 

So I built the ark according to His annoyingly precise measurements and somehow I got the animals on which was a struggle because treats didn’t work. Then, it rained. Boy, did it ever rain. Try drying your clothes in humidity like that. Of course, I had to wonder why I was the only guy on the entire planet who had a boat. 

The animals were supposed to mate once we got to land. Guess what? They started doing it on the ark. It was okay for the bears and the chimpanzees to mate; not so much the mosquitoes. 

But it all worked out for the best. It’s so comforting to know that Mankind isn’t evil anymore.






Filed Under: Writing

A Template for Writing an Amazon Customer Review

December 18, 2019 By John Blumenthal

Here’s a template that should make it less tiresome for readers to write Amazon customer book reviews: 

I found this (novel) (story) (insufferable twaddle) to be (engrossing) (charming) (moronic).The plot was (engaging) (fast-paced) (like watching paint dry) and the characters were (lovable) (lifelike) (mostly shallow simpletons). The prose style employed by this (writer) (literary genius) (total illiterate) was simply (marvelous) (delightful) (incomprehensible). I read this book (in one sitting) (with great enjoyment) (in awe of the author’s total lack of talent), and I will (recommend it) (gift it to everyone I know) (see how well it works as kindling). 

PS: If you review THE STRANGE COURTSHIP OF ABIGAIL BIRD please be kind. 

Filed Under: Writing

Brief Plot Synopsis of “The Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird.”

October 30, 2019 By John Blumenthal

Ishmael Archer is a young man beset by a profound lack of social skills, an obsession with classic literature and the peculiar speaking style of a Dickens character, He seems destined for the lonely life of a literature professor at the academic backwater of Longfellow College. While he yearns for female companionship, a recent acrimonious divorce followed by a series of romantic disasters have left him in a state of emotional fragility. 

Struggling to pay his rent, he is obliged to undertake the dreaded task of teaching a summer creative writing class. Convinced that he will be saddled with a group of student malcontents who care not a whit for Tolstoy or Dickens, Ishmael is delighted to encounter the luminescent Abigail Bird, whose passion for literature equals his own. Unfortunately, her past failures at love also equal his own so their romance proceeds undeclared as they both shyly dance around the subject.

This undefined relationship is cut abruptly short when Abigail suffers an accident that causes fiction to become fact and vice versa. Although Abigail is inexplicably changed, Ishmael decides to resume his courtship but must find a way to connect with the Abigail Bird with whom he had originally fallen in love. Will Ishmael’s strange new courtship of Abigail succeed? Will she change back to her original state? Will he find the nerve to risk rejection and declare his love? Did she love him prior to her accident? 

The novel is peppered with a cast of eccentric characters—a college dean obsessed with orchids, a Greek landlord with a deep affinity for the works of Ernest Hemingway, and a self-important writer who vies with Ishmael for Abigail’s affections. 

Winner, 2019 Next Generation Book Award for Fiction.

Filed Under: Writing

My Acknowledgements Page — to Readers Everywhere.

June 4, 2019 By John Blumenthal

The following is the Acknowledgements Page from “The Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird.”

Whom, I wonder, shall I acknowledge this time around? My old college English professor who encouraged me to become a writer without mentioning the possibility of starvation? My agent who encouraged me to make the book more marketable without telling me how? My editor, who pointed out that it might have been wise for me to have paid more attention when my teachers were explaining grammar? Or to the cumbersome Dewey Decimal System, now, sadly, no more than a vague memory among those of a certain age?

Nah. 

Since “The Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird” is the story of two people whose lives are utterly consumed by classic literature, I think it appropriate to pay homage to those who love to read, that noble minority of souls who still look to books for engaging stories and endearing characters, for clever turns of phrase, for the joys of well-wrought interior monologue. 


They say that we booklovers are an endangered species. I think not. My meanderings throughout the maze of social media have led me to believe that reading is indeed quite alive and prospering. One can easily find a plethora of those dedicated to reading on Instagram and Tumblr; Goodreads reaches twenty-five million people, twice as many as the previous year; book bloggers abound; Facebook offers hundreds of groups dedicated to a variety of books, not to mention countless author fan pages, many with thousands of followers. 

Amazon’s cybershelves contain the largest collection of books in the history of the written word and the retail giant has given birth to the most innovative approach to reading since the invention of typesetting. Thus, thanks to Amazon, I may now travel with hundreds of books without increasing the weight of my suitcase by more than a few ounces, giving new dimension to Stephen King’s famous observation that “Books are a uniquely portable magic.”

#thestrangecourtshipofabigailbird

Purchase a Copy


Filed Under: Writing Tagged With: goodreads amazon instagram readers books abigail social media abigail bird

Assorted Photos

May 14, 2019 By John Blumenthal

  • With Stef in Nantucket
  • My beautiful daughters, Julia and Lizzie
  • Julia on her wedding day
  • Kids with Dave Chapelle at premiere of Blue Streak
  • In Morocco
  • Father & daughters
  • In Berlin
  • Kenya safari
  • My Mom
  • With Stef, buried in the sand in Nantucket
  • Our neurotic dog, Schatzi
  • Crazy days as an editor/writer at Playboy
  • Kenya Safari
  • Relaxing in Germany
  • Me and my girls
  • With Stef and my Dad
  • Two tough hombres (that’s me on the left)

Filed Under: Writing

The 20 Most Recycled Movie Plots

May 4, 2019 By John Blumenthal

An ex-CIA assassin goes on one last mission. 

It’s Britain, 1845, and the comely young daughter of an Earl falls in love with a man below her station. 

A dysfunctional  family gathers for a reunion.

Newlyweds buy an old, decrepit house. 

Two drifters find an abandoned suitcase full of cash on the side of road

A retired detective re-opens an old unsolved murder case.

Four young women go on a wild trip to Las Vegas.

After a retired pilot singlehandedly repels an alien invasion, he is separated from his family and must find them. 

Two guys who don’t like each other go on a road trip.

A retired gunslinger reluctantly straps his guns back on when a rich landowner and his gang of hired killers threaten his family and his town. 

A teenager is unpopular in high school until he gets a touchdown in the state play-offs.

A deadly virus threatens to destroy life on Earth. 

A mediocre boxer gets badly beaten up in the ring but wins the fight because he is stubborn and courageous. 

It’s 2045, the Earth has been destroyed by climate change and a man and a woman must fight a nasty band of futuristic bikers to survive. 

Astronauts are stranded on a strange, forbidding planet.

A bookish ten year old walks into a closet and suddenly finds himself in a fantasy land. 

Sinister things happen to two campers in the woods by a lake. 

Accused of a murder he didn’t commit, a man is convicted and sent to jail, but his crusty lawyer doesn’t give up and uncovers the identity of the actual murderer. 

A cantankerous older cop is partnered with a young arrogant rookie. 

Three old friends in desperate need of money rob a bank


Filed Under: Writing

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  • Excerpt: “The Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird.”
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  • Noah Tells The Real Story

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