A Hard Man is Good to Find....

 

A hard man is good to find. ----Mae West

 

It had come to this.

The squeaky bogus leather cushions of the psychiatrist’s couch. Me, hugging myself—partly in defiance at finding myself here, partly against the arctic blast from the air conditioner.

Antonio was stoic as always, arms stiff at his sides, no expression on his face. Nothing ever seemed to penetrate his solid emotional veneer. But, then, that's one of the things I love so about him.

Dr. Craggly sank into the loud cushions of his own fake leather chair and twisted the dented blue cap of his Bic pen between his teeth, biting on it intermittently. He scanned Antonio and me over the rims of his thick, black-rimmed glasses.

I recognized the doctor’s well-camouflaged mix of puzzlement and humor. Not the kind of humor when one finds something delightful, but the brand induced by bizarre things—you know, a naked man stepping onto a subway or a woman parading through Macy’s wearing only a bra and panties.

Finally, yanking the pen from his mouth, Craggly glanced from the chart on his lap to me and Antonio and pointed the Bic in our general direction. His voice, obviously concealing an attempt not to laugh, was strained and quiet. “And who is your friend?” Tossing another quick look at the chart, he shook his head. “I don’t believe you’ve....introduced…him.”

 “This is Antonio.”

Craggly cocked a eyebrow and nodded. The wheels in his brain turned, I could hear them, as though he charted to build a bridge across the Grand Canyon with nothing but a hammer and a ball of twine. He cleared his throat. “It’s nice to…meet you…Antonio.”

 Antonio didn’t return the greeting.

 The doctor settled his thin frame deeper into the chair, poised the pen over the tablet resting on his crossed legs, and opened the Pandora’s Box so clearly looming in his mind. “And what has brought you and….” After clearing his throat, he continued, “Antonio here to see me?”

 Drawing a deep, resigned breath, I proceeded to explain.

First of all, Antonio must NOT to be confused with his cheap competitors who are mere imitations of who...rather what…he actually is. They are ridiculous blow-up dolls. Antonio is body guard doll, popularly known as Safe-T-Man. Big difference. Huge difference.

So there.

 I know you think I'm crazy. 

Let me tell you what I told Dr. Craggly. Let me list for you the reasons my darling Antonio is a much more suitable companion than a—close your ears, Tony dear—real man.

How many men would actually let you NAME them? You know love Italian men, right? Fine. Safe-T-Man is now Antonio. Why, tomorrow, if I'm in the mood for a Greek fellow, his name can quickly be changed to--let me think--Zorba. Next week he might be Sven.

How many men would let you write, uninterrupted, every evening, and still sit placidly while you did? The freedom to work work and yet the welcome companionship. A seemingly impossible scenario made very possible with Antonio.

How many men can be deflated and discreetly transported about in the trunk of your car, or simply stored away in your closet in their own personal custom-crafted carrying case? To be at your side when you crave companionship, but easily stashed away when you don't?

How many men do YOU know who can double as a life raft? I, for one, am not a good swimmer, and I find this handy feature valuable for trips to the beach. Certainly beats the old boring floats, don’t you think? Ah, the exquisite luxury of being able to ride the waves on my faithful Antonio. Oh, and in case you’re concerned—Antonio is equipped with a repair kit. Punctures (no, I would never intentionally puncture Antonio) are never a problem. A quick patch-up and he’s good as new. And that alone is another priceless feature! Real men squawk and whine when they stub their toes. Not Antonio. The boy can take a run-in with a cat or dog without making noise and never complains when he's being repaired. Oh, talk about your Alpha man!

 Antonio does not snore. Well, unless you count the occasional leak of air. But, as mentioned above, even those rare occasions are a cinch with his repair kit.

Antonio watches chick flicks and soppy historical romances with me, and never, never, never says a word. Never interrupts the film, never makes smart comments while I’m trying to concentrate.

Antonio doesn’t cost much in the way of groceries. He doesn't even eat. 

On that note, he IS the perfect dinner companion. He does not slurp, does not burp or belch and--since he doesn't even eat--does not spill food or drinks on the carpet.

Jealousy is never an issue with Antonio. He never looks at other women. When in public, women may give Antonio curious glances, but never returns the attention. A faithful sort, he is.

Antonio, thanks to his handy size and cushioned comfort, can not only be a companion in bed, but he can also BE the bed when needed. Especially when camping.

There are never disagreements over what Antonio will wear. He wears whatever I want him to. In fact, Antonio and I never have any disagreements at all. He never argues with me.

Antonio listens to me, always giving me his undivided attention. Actually, he never says much at all. He is the strong, silent type. Another one of his Alpha male features.

Antonio has no problems aiming for the toilet. He never leaves the toilet seat up.

Some might complain that Antonio makes his companion do all the cooking. Oh, that doesn’t bother me. Sure, I love a man who cooks, but it’s a small sacrifice for such perfect company.

Antonio’s ONLY disadvantage is that he is highly flammable. No, I don’t mean his temper. He never loses his temper. He is, however, susceptible to go up in flames if too near a fireplace, heater or bar-b-que pit. I must always be careful, but that’s okay.

I could go on and on about Antonio. His benefits are countless. Sure, there are the obvious things that Antonio cannot do, and I forgive him for those, as he makes up for them in many other ways.

But can’t you see? I’m not crazy at all! Antonio and his type really can be quite a sensible solution for companionship while addressing concerns such as space and convenience. And taking into account the fact that Antonio has a life-time warranty, he's actually quite a bargain.

And, of course, you can see why Antonio, aka Safe-T-Man, is not to be confused with his inferior competitors, the standard, overrated blow-up doll.

Dr. Craggly isn't convinced that Antonio isn't a sign that I’m a wing short of an airplane. 

But I think Antonio is beginning to grow on him.

 

 

 

 

 

WHO'S CHARACTER IS THIS, ANYWAY?

 

He’s fleshed out in my head. Perfect. A Gene Krupa look-a-like. Check. A big guy, a thug. Check. Dark hair. Check. Sleepy eyes. Yes. Full lips. Oh, yes. Age? Forty. Good. That’s him. That’s the hero of my story. Ready, set, go.

 Wait.

What’s that? Betty says he needs to be younger. He should be in his thirties. His thirties, she says? Okay, okay. That’s doable. Thirties it is. Once again, hands poised over the keys, I’m ready to begin.

Stop.

What now, Betty? Oh, he should be more refined, not quite so thuggish. A step up from a thug, perhaps just a gentlemanly mobster. Yes, I can see it. Of course. Drop the street talk, let him be more educated. Own a joint, not just work it. Back to work I go.

 Well, hell.

Excuse me? What difference does it make if he has a hairy chest or not? Betty, you are joking, right? What’s wrong with a smooth chest? Ah. Betty thinks hairy chests are sexy. She would never be attracted to a smooth-chested man.

Not being a selfish author, I would never dish up a character to Betty who she wouldn’t be attracted to. After all, Betty is my female eye, my pulse on the sex appeal of my book.

By now, my character has been transformed—only slightly, just minor tweaks here and there—but he’s still recognizable, still looks like Gene Krupa. Hell, though, with Betty’s alterations, he is Gene Krupa. I can pull it off, produce a gangster-type hero who still fits into my original vision. Who knows? The changes may make him even better.

 Hold your horses!

Now Betty disapproves of my character’s girlfriend, says she’s too young for my Gene Krupa look-a-like. I must take Betty’s opinion into serious consideration. Betty is a mature woman, after all, whose age group will encompass a good deal of my reading audience. So now my character’s girlfriend has been changed to be a woman closer to his age.

 But who knew?

 Now Mary, another reader, weighs in. Mary is younger than Betty, and feels passionately that the character should be with a younger woman. Not only that, but she insists that the heroine be a virgin. The hero, Mary is convinced, would never marry a woman who is not virginal. Mary feels so strongly about this that she says she will not read the book if the heroine is not a young virgin, and, furthermore, she will not speak to me anymore it this demand isn’t met.

 Literary blackmail.

Betty and Mary are now mortal enemies. Who wins? Does a coin toss now decide my hero’s fate? Eenie meenie miney mo?

You think I’m joking. I’m not. This scenario actually happened to me during my first book.

What did I decide to do? Who won…Mary or Betty? Neither. The hero won. I decided to rely on the old tried-and-true decision maker: my gut. It took some cleansing, but I managed to sterilize my brain of all suggestions and start from scratch, just let my man evolve from his origin in my imagination. I put him in the driver’s seat, told him, you steer, buster.

A writer has to be careful. Sometimes you feel the need to mold the character to someone else's vision, not your own. Sometimes others have characters in their own heads and want you to bring them to life for them. And that’s when their contributions can be deadly for your writing. You might, like I did, find yourself torn—even to the point of damaging your friendship—if you can’t accommodate their ideas.

One of my current beta readers? We agree, we disagree. Most of the time, I fight his suggestions tooth and nail, just to let him know I’m in charge. More often than not, I incorporate his suggestions into the work. I trust his judgment and, more importantly, his instinct. So far, I've been lucky, because my own instinct has coincided with his. When it doesn’t, it just doesn’t, and we agree those indecisive issues will be an editor’s call.

So far, he hasn’t threatened beta reader blackmail over any of our differences. And, remembering my ordeal with Betty and Mary, I suppose I must be really, really grateful.

Who reads your work while you’re writing? Close friends? Strictly other writers? Actual critique partners?

How far do you allow them to go with their input? How seriously do you take that input? How do they respond when you disagree? When you stand fast to your own idea and have to say no?

 Have you ever had a Betty/Mary situation? And if you did, how did you resolve it?

I’d love to know.