Justice: The Long, Terrible Journey of Sadie Mae Glutz

Once, in a different place and lifetime, she met a man whom some described as holy. He, in fact, had the look and intensity of a biblical prophet; eventually, he came to live in the desert where, with the aid of his followers, he planned to effect a monumental social change that would reverberate throughout the world for years to come. Some people likened him to Jesus Christ, others to Hitler. When he welcomed her into his fold, he promised her unconditional love and a new beginning. He re-christened her Sadie Mae Glutz and, for a brief while, she seemed to have found the love that had eluded her for most of her life. She would do anything for this man who seemed to be a miracle in the flesh. Later, when asked to do the unthinkable, she complied without hesitation. When she was finally tracked down, along with her leader and her fellow disciples, she sang and giggled and bragged about the prominent role she played in what was, arguably, the crime of the century. By this time, the world knew her by her real name, the name of the person she'd once struggled to put behind her. By this time, the whole world knew her as Susan Denise Atkins, and she would forever be linked with evil and madness and the calculated butchery instigated by her mentor. His name was Charles Manson, and he taught his followers that this butchery would be the foundation for an apocalypse that would be known as Helter Skelter.
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From a hospital on the grounds of a California women's prison, Susan Denise Atkins recently petitioned the courts for compassionate release, revealing that she is dying of a brain tumor and not expected to live beyond the next six months. She is asking that she be released in order to spend her last days in the care of the people who love her. Ironically, it was similar claims of love, from a very different sort of family, that helped land Susan Atkins where she is today.
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By now, thirty-nine years later, most people are familiar with the facts of the case; they have been preserved in the indelible amber of infamy. According to testimony at the ensuing trials, on the night of Friday, August 9, 1969, Charles Manson, savage messiah of a group of youthful misfits and runaways, dispatched Susan "Sadie" Atkins, Charles "Tex" Watson, Patricia "Katie" Krenwinkel, and Linda Kasabian to an address high in the Hollywood Hills. Once there, they were to use the knives and gun that had been provided, and kill everyone in the house in as gruesome a manner as possible. Before the quartet of young killers left on their mission, Manson instructed the girls to "leave something witchy" behind after the slaughter was complete.
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Sharon Tate was a beautiful, 26 year old movie actress, whose star was on the rise. Married to noted Polish film director, Roman Polanski, Sharon had recently achieved a measure of fame with a starring role in the film version of Jacqueline Susann's bestseller, "Valley of the Dolls". Eight months pregnant with her first child, the actress was happily anticipating the birth, as she and her husband set about creating a home in a rambling rental house overlooking L.A.'s Benedict Canyon.

In August of 1969, while Roman was in Europe, Sharon remained at home, foregoing travel at that late stage of her pregnancy. Staying with her in the Cielo Drive house were houseguests Wojiech Frykowski, Roman's friend from Poland, and his girlfriend, the coffee heiress, Abigail Folger. On the night of August 9, the noted Hollywood hairstylist, Jay Sebring, stopped by. Once Sharon's suitor, Sebring had remained on friendly terms with her, and on this night he joined Sharon, Frykowski, and Folger for dinner at a popular restaurant. Another arrival that night was Steven Parent, a local boy who had driven in from the eastern suburbs to visit the property's caretaker, who resided in a detached cottage several hundred feet away from the main house. Parent had hoped to sell a clock radio to the young man.

There's not much point in recounting the ghastly details of what followed. The events of that night have been reported on ad nauseum via bestsellers, newspapers, magazines, television, movies, and the web. Suffice it to say, that Atkins, Watkins, Krenwinkel, and Kasabian entered the property at sometime around midnight, with Watkins shooting a departing Steven Parent as he sat in his car, pleading for his life. While Kasabian served outside as lookout, the other three entered the residence and proceeded to bludgeon, stab, and shoot the occupants in an orgy of violence that must have seemed endless to the terrified victims. Wojiech Frykowski, alone, had somewhere in the neighborhood of 50 stab wounds, in addition to being shot and beaten. Sharon, the last to die, lay on her living room floor, tied by a long rope to a bloodied, lifeless Jay Sebring. As she cried and begged to be allowed to live and have her baby, Susan Atkins stood over her, knife poised in hand, saying, "Look bitch, I don't have any mercy for you. You're going to die and you'd better be ready." When the killers were leaving, it was Atkins who dipped her hand in Sharon's blood and wrote the word "PIG" on the front door, leaving the "witchy" something that Manson had requested.

The Tate house was neither the first nor the last murder scene at which Susan Atkins found herself in attendance. The following night, the same crew of assassins, along with Leslie Van Houten and Steve Grogan, dropped in on grocer, Leno LaBianca, and his wife, Rosemary, in their home near Griffith Park. Their bodies were found the next night, in much the same condition as the Tate victims. The words "Political Piggy" and "Healter Skelter" were scribbled in blood inside the house.

Soon enough, the connection was made to a murder that had happened a few weeks earlier, towards the end of July. Atkins freely admitted that she and Manson follower, Bobby Beausoleil, went to the home of a music teacher named Gary Hinman. Manson briefly joined them to aid in the torture of Hinman, who was terrorized for more than a day before Beausoleil finally killed him.

Upon her arrest, Atkins, commenting on the murder of Sharon Tate, said, "You have to have a lot of love in your heart to do this for somebody."
* * * * * *

Before her second coming as Sadie Mae Glutz, she was born Susan Denise Atkins in Los Angeles County, only a year after the Paris Peace Treaties officially ended the second world war. By all accounts, Susan Atkins was a shy and withdrawn child, raised by alcoholic parents who moved the family to San Jose when Susan was still young. As she got older, Susan, in spite of her introverted nature, joined her school's glee club; when her mother was in the last stages of terminal cancer, Susan arranged for the club to sing Christmas Carols outside her window. It is useless to speculate what went on at home during Susan's formative years but, following her mother's death, the alcoholism of Susan's father seemed to grow steadily worse; drifting from job to job, he found it increasingly difficult to stay employed. At age 18, Susan left home, dropping out of high school and heading for San Francisco, where she supported herself with gigs as a topless dancer.

At some point, Susan was introduced to Anton LaVey, founder of the American branch of the Church of Satan. The depth of their involvement is speculative, but, through him, she somehow managed to cross paths with Charles Manson. Manson and his "family" were about to embark on a road trip to southern California, and Susan gladly got on the bus--literally, it seems, as the group owned a school bus that they had painted black.

It was during her involvement with the family that she became pregnant and gave birth to a son, whom Manson named Zezozose Zadfrack Glutz. Susan was apparently uncertain of the baby's paternity, since it was commonplace for "family" members to engage in group sex. She was also rumored to have chewed off the umbilical cord following her baby's birth. According to various "family" members, including Susan, herself, sex and drugs constituted a large part of the group's nomadic existence. With a coterie of friends that included at least one member of the Hell's Angels motorcycle gang, as well as one of the original Beach Boys, Manson came to exert no small amount of influence among a growing and diverse contingency. He had dreams of becoming a rock star, and was making the contacts to help him put these dreams into place. However, his expanding ego was soon put in check, as the music career that he was hoping to launch fell flat when show business honchos were unimpressed with his efforts. By now, Manson was already preaching about the coming race war, and of how he and the "family" would be instrumental in its inception by killing rich, white "piggies" and making it look like crimes committed by blacks. Manson and his followers would hide out in the desert until the race war was over, at which time Manson would emerge as the new leader of the survivors. No matter what it may sound like now, Manson apparently believed it would work, and if his followers had doubts, they didn't dare voice them in his presence.

The rejection by the music industry executives only exacerbated Manson's anger and paranoia, which had reached dangerous levels by the summer of 1969. Add to this the fact that some of his closest associates were doing time in jail, including Bobby Beausoleil, who had recently been arrested for the murder of Gary Hinman. It was time to ignite Helter Skelter.
* * * * * *

The press dubbed them "The Manson Girls", and Sadie, Katie, and Leslie were only too happy to preen and pose and indulge in outrageous antics for the media, as they were taken from their jail cells to the L.A. County Courthouse. When the girls weren't giggling, crying, chanting or otherwise misbehaving for the spectators, they shaved their heads and carved X's into their brows. They declared their mutual love for Charlie, and demanded that he be set free. At the time, Sadie seemed to be especially agressive in her attempts to shock and dismay, and displayed an almost naive lack of concern for her own plight.

The lead prosecutor on what became known as the Tate/LaBianca Murders was a young, ambitious attorney named Vincent Bugliosi. Very early on, Bugliosi expressed regret that Sadie was going to be their star witness and would, thus, receive special treatment--immunity from the death penalty if convicted--in exchange for her testimony. Sadie obviously relished her role in the bizarre murders, and spared no detail when describing the gruesome events; she was all over the news, along with Manson and her co-defendents, and for the first time in her life, Susan Atkins a.k.a. Sadie Mae Glutz felt like she was somebody. She had arrived. As Bugliosi prepared to take the cases to trial, he was struck by Sadie's callous, insipid behavior. In his bestseller, "Helter Skelter", he referred to Sadie as "ever the animal".

Much to Bugliosi's relief, Sadie repudiated her testimony, and Linda Kasabian, the young woman who'd acted as lookout during the Tate killings--the only person who didn't actually commit a murder--agreed to testify, thus allowing Sadie Mae Glutz to be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Kasabian's testimony was damning to the defendants.
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When it was all said and done, the trial of the Manson Gang (excluding Tex Watson, who was tried separately) lasted nine months and wound up with all the defendants being convicted. During the sentencing phase, they remained unrepentant, even attempting to blame Linda Kasabian for masterminding the murders, to no avail. Sadie, Katie, Leslie, and Charles Manson were sentenced to death. Except for a certain period in which defense attorney's would file appeals, the entire sorry spectacle appeared to be pretty much over.

As it happened, that was only the beginning of a slow, sad freefall for just about everyone involved.

In 1972, the California Supreme Court ruled that the death penalty constituted cruel and unusual punishment, and thus invalidated all death sentences imposed prior to that time in the State of California.

Like many others, the Manson Gang's sentences were commuted to life in prison. Meaning that they could eventually be eligible for parole. Meaning that, every few years, each of them would be presented to the parole board in a special hearing which would determine if they were still a threat to society, if the debt for their unspeakable crimes had, indeed, been paid. Meaning that the families of the victims would periodically make the journey to testify before the parole board and give reasons why the murderers of their loved ones should remain in prison. This process, of course, keeps the past churning, dredging up nightmares and ensuring that old wounds remain open, never healing; it demands a level of pain that must be endured by the diligent participants, still waiting for an ending that will never satisfy everyone.
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During her many years as a prisoner of the State of California, Susan Atkins has found the wherewithal to cope with life behind bars, possibly because of the enormous changes she has, allegedly, undergone. For starters, she found Jesus. But, they all say that, don't they? The perpetrators of the most heinous crimes seem to find religion in the unlikeliest places, during times when it may seem like a miracle is all that will save them. In the case of Susan Atkins, there's no harm in giving her the benefit of a doubt. Maybe she did find Jesus in a prison cell, and maybe He did wash the blood from her hands with his own. Who's to argue? She once thought that Charlie Manson was Jesus, so at least she got past that delusion. She's also reported to have saved the lives of a couple of fellow inmates during her incarceration. While the details of these deeds weren't readily available for this blog post, it says something that the woman learned to appreciate the value of human life. After her earlier performances, it actually says a lot. Like maybe Susan Atkins finally grew up and realized the magnitude of her actions; maybe she believed that she could somehow absolve herself through acts of kindness and contrition. Reading about the exemplary life she's led in prison--over a period of more than 35 years--does give one pause. Did she, the giggling assassin who once claimed to have tasted the blood of Sharon Tate, really change? And, if she did, was it because her conscience could no longer deal with the scope and nature of her crimes? Or was it because she knew that the joke was over and that she was no longer laughing? Did she think that by keeping up a well-rehearsed performance, she would eventually be released from her long-standing bondage? Was she truly, finally repentant? Does it even matter at this point?

Susan Atkins is dying. She has an inoperable brain tumor that, according to her doctors, will kill her before the year is out. They say that she's unable to speak more than a few sentences a day and can't care for herself. She had one leg amputated a few years ago, for reasons that aren't entirely clear, and now her other leg is paralyzed, as is one entire side of her body. In other words, she probably isn't going to flee the country. She's almost certainly not a menace to society anymore.

But, the question is, menace or not, has Susan Atkins paid her debt to society? Has justice been served? It would seem, given the state of her health, that justice has been long, slow, and painful. Some might say that she is getting exactly what she deserves. Some might call it karma, or the retribution of a vengeful God in whom Atkins claimed to find comfort. It's probably just the luck of the draw we mortals face when we come into this world; some of us will develop diseases that will take our lives, some won't. But if this is justice, it's much more cruel and unusual than the gas chamber in use by the state back in 1972.

Just last week, on July 15, the California Board of Parole Hearings denied Susan Atkins' request for compassionate release. They have, reportedly, the final word on the matter. Barring unforeseen circumstances, Susan Denise Atkins will now die as a prisoner of the State of California.
* * * * * *

Some time back, she was interviewed on one of the evening news programs--"60 Minutes" or "Nightline", or something similar--and it was astonishing to see how different Atkins' appearance was from the persona who dominated news footage during her days as one of the Manson Girls. She hadn't been seen much since her trial, and in the present, all prim and attractive and well-groomed, she looked like a woman who could have been equally at home as a Sunday School teacher, or whispering over margaritas with a lover, on a remote beach in Mexico. Sadie Mae Glutz had vanished into the annals of criminal textbooks; Susan Atkins, the shy, quiet glee club singer smiled sadly and apologized for unforgivable crimes. Of course, she still had all her limbs then, and wasn't sick with the cancer. Not yet.

It was sad, really, to look at her--her appearance and manner suggested someone you might meet in any supermarket, someone you wouldn't mind having as a friend. If you didn't know the truth about her past, you'd never guess what she'd been up to during that terrible summer of 1969. But, the fact is, we do know. And now that her life's long journey is finally winding down, she has the audacity to ask for mercy, for compassionate release. And the State of California--i.e., society--has denied it. It seems that we can't allow her the final comfort she requests, because we can't be sure, can we, whether justice is still being served, whether showing mercy and compassion will give the appearance of some sort of impropriety? If appearances are an issue, wouldn't it look better if we were to show mercy to one who--in another lifetime, as Sadie Mae Glutz--chose to show none? At this point, the gesture of keeping her in prison seems purely symbolic, anyway. Who gains from her continued confinement? The truth of the matter is that there are no winners here, there never have been. The co-defendants--Watson, Krenwinkel, van Houten, and Manson--are all still imprisoned; the cycle of parole hearings and denials will continue long after Susan Atkins is gone. While her life's actions have had an enormous effect on any number of other lives, her death will change nothing. Loved ones of both the victims and the condemned will continue their trips to the prisons, recounting their anguish, repeating arguments, until finally, they are all dead and buried, the guilty and the innocent, alike. In the quest for justice, there is mercy for no one.

What In the World Happened to Matt Lauer?

Can anyone remember a time when shows like "The Today Show" and "Good Morning America" were actually worth watching? I was a religious "Today Show" watcher for many years and it was part of my routine to watch it as I prepared for the daily grind. Matt and Katie were my primary sources for what was happening in the world. They were my generation's version of Walter Cronkite or Huntley & Brinkley. They were respectable, intelligent, approachable--like revered members of the family with whom you spent a small portion of each morning just to get things started off right. Even when the news was bad, you could count on Matt and Katie to be there for you; there was a calming reassurance to their presence, even in the face of disasters such as 9/11. Then, at some point, something happened and "The Today Show" became an entertainment show, with news filler thrown in (instead of the other way around). Unable to stomach the sight of Matt arguing the merits of psychiatry with an omniscient Tom Cruise, or Katie's eyes glazing over as Brittney's latest exploits were analyzed by a trio of cackling show biz vultures, I decided that I'd had enough. I jumped ship and switched over to Diane Sawyer and "Good Morning America". Much to my chagrin, I found that the exact same situation existed over on ABC; Diane & Co. were in much the same boat as my good friends, Matt and Katie. Their long-running news show was reduced to fauning, self-congratulatory, mind-numbing, celebrity non-news. By the time I found my way back to NBC and "The Today Show", Katie had also jumped ship, landing with an unfortunately resounding thud at another network's evening news desk. She may have lost a good portion of her audience but at least she doesn't have to embarass herself with the kind of slackjawed, ass-kissing "reporting" that has come to characterize the news show she left.

Part of me believes that "The Today Show" stopped being a news program shortly after 9/11, when the people at the top of the network food chain decided to divert attention away from the real news--and believe me, there is still real news happening all the time--in order to play upon the American fascination with celebrity, to spoon-feed us meaningless slop while the world went to hell in a handbasket. How else do you explain two terms with George W. Bush? Most Americans were asleep at the wheel, their minds reeling from the asinine antics of LindseyBrittneyParis; their collective misadventures, arrests, and incarcerations garnered more media coverage than the Kennedy assassination! And to what effect? Were we just too numbed out and dumbed down from the endless barrage of LindseyBrittneyParis photo-ops to give a damn anymore? So what if the administration has been involved in more lowdown shenanigans than any other in recent memory? We're already exhausted from all this Hollywood business! It's dispiriting to see Matt Lauer stooping daily to the level of middle school wiseguy, jousting with, then cozying up to various showbiz entities. It's unworthy of him, and unworthy of his fellow castmates. And I'm not sure what's up with Meredith Viera; she took Katie's place, yet her seat is vacant on more and more weekdays when I tune in. Maybe she's had enough already.

I think that "The Today Show" should get back to reporting the news, and talking about real issues, and interviewing people who really matter, people who really make a difference in our lives and make our lives better. I know that, in many cases (especially mine!), IQ's could probably be raised a point or two just from having been exposed to the real events that are going on in our world right now. I'm not against interviewing celebrities, but for God's sake, interview celebrities who show some sense, who have contributed something, and who aren't out to get their mug plastered on the front page for stupid, reckless behavior. It's distracting, and in this day and age, we need to be paying attention to the people that have been (rightly or wrongly) placed in charge of leading our country.

Book Review: "The Monster of Florence" by Robert Preston and Mario Spezi (originally posted on Amazon on 7/14/08)

I'm not sure what I found more shocking in "The Monster of Florence", the sensational, new book by Douglas Preston and Mario Spezi: the brutal murders of a serial killer prowling the Tuscan hills, or a local judiciary that appears to be rife with incompetence and corruption. In fact, it's sometimes hard to separate the fine line between the overreaching ambition of certain judges and police officials (apparently willing to do anything for power), and the dogged, seemingly idiotic, determination with which they pursued any number of disparate lies and half-truths, bogging down an already labyrinthine investigation and resulting in still more deaths, and the ruination of many more lives. You find yourself questioning whether or not these people, in charge of protecting the populace, are actually so heartless and conniving, or are they possibly that stupid? I suspect it's a little of both, given the number of law enforcement agencies involved, but whatever the case, the most egregious "official" offenders need to be held accountable for their actions. Because of the outrageous behavior of these authority figures, the atrocities of the Monster of Florence, and the unbelievable chain of events following the crimes, "The Monster of Florence" may sound more like a fictional crime thriller than the terrifying true story that it actually is. Spanning several decades, the book recounts the deaths of a number of young couples viciously murdered in various lovers lane areas in the hills surrounding Florence, the often conflicting efforts of police and journalists trying to apprehend the killer, and the various aftermaths of their actions. Working for the Italian newspaper, Nazione, reporter Mario Spezi was involved in the case from its beginnings on a boring Sunday morning back in the early seventies. When his co-worker on the crime desk asked him to cover his shift, Spezi hurried to the sight of a double murder and suddenly found himself drawn into an increasingly complex web as more murders and intrigue followed. Aware that the police investigation was seriously flawed, especially as more jurisdictions became involved, Spezi became determined to eventually unmask the killer, despite the efforts of public officials to mislead residents, and deter any theories not aligning with their own. What Spezi obviously didn't count on was the absolute authority with which certain individuals pursued personal goals, which ultimately, did not bode well for the writer.

As luck would have it, bestselling author, Douglas Preston ("Tyrannosaur Canyon", "The Relic", "Dance of Death", "Brimstone") moved his family to Italy and was working on a new novel. During his research on the novel, Preston found himself meeting with Spezi and the whole story of the Monster of Florence unfolded. Intrigued, Preston became involved in Spezi's quest to find the monster, and a whole new chapter opened up, eventually paving the way for this book to be written and published (but not before Spezi was arrested and imprisoned, and Preston interrogated and virtually thrown out of Italy). "The Monster of Florence" is both exciting and inciting; it's unputdownable and it makes one yearn for true justice to be done in this case.

Writing

Not long ago, I found myself naked and on my back in the cardiac catheterization lab of a large hospital. What's wrong with the previous sentence are the words "in the cardiac catheterization lab of a large hospital", as I was assuming a familiar position in order to undergo a somewhat less familiar (and much less desirable) procedure. It had been four years since the last stents were placed within the plaque-blocked arteries of my heart but, due to the progression of an inherited heart disease called artherosclerosis, I was back for another round. It's really not that bad of an ordeal. First, you are stripped and your pubic hair is shaved off. This is not an entirely new concept for me, although in the hospital, they tend to only shave one half of your pubic area (the area where they'll be working) so I've found it helpful to ask them to just do the whole thing so it appears uniform, and thus, more pleasing to the eye. They then wheel you into the cath lab and insert some IV's, one of which renders you, more or less, unconscious (but still able to answer questions). The doctor then makes an incision in the groin area, basically where the right leg connects to the torso, so that he can feed a very thin wiry device into the femoral artery. Once the device is in the artery, the bloodstream carries it up into the heart where the doctor maneuvers it through various other arteries to see where there could be a problem. I've been lucky because the problems have, so far, been treatable with the insertion of stents and haven't required open-heart surgery. Once an area of blockage is discovered, the doctor inflates a balloon on the wiry device, and your artery is popped open. The stent--an often drug-coated, metallic mesh "box"--is then fed through the femoral artery and stationed in the problem area, where it will presumably prevent further blocking in that area of the artery. Once the procedure is completed, a collagen plug is inserted into the cut in the femoral artery so that you don't bleed to death. The plug eventually is absorbed into the body and that's that. The last time I'd had it done, they weren't yet using collagen plugs, and a nurse was required to use both hands and push with all her might on my groin until the blood flow ceased and said groin looked as if it had gone ten rounds with (insert name of boxer of choice here, as I don't keep up with that stuff). The worst part, to me, is ripping off the sterile mega-tape that holds the gauze in place over your groin incision. This usually occurs a day or so later, and generally feels as though the skin is being ripped from your bones.

There is a point to this rambling narrative but, to get to it, I need to go back a bit, rewind, as it were, to the part where I'm lying naked on that table in the cath lab, woozy but not yet in a completely altered state. There was a woman standing next to me and her name was Jerri. Jerri was fiftyish and I'm not sure exactly what her title is but maybe she was a nurse. Whatever the case, Jerri's job was to monitor my blood pressure and elicit answers from me during the time that my speech was still intelligible. I happened to mention to Jerri that I was working on a screenplay--I guess I felt that someone should know this in the event of my expiration during the procedure--and she told me to keep at it, because she knew a little bit about the business since her nephew was--is--a producer in Hollywood. Groggily, I seemed to perk up for a moment, and informed her that it was still the first draft and she suggested that maybe when I was satisfied with the screenplay I could
Yes, that's what I thought, too. The next thing I knew, the procedure was finished, and I was in a recovery area listening to a goddamned sports channel (Why? Why? Why?) on the television affixed to the wall. Since I was the cath lab's final patient of the day, the crew, including Jerri, had gone for the day. And once the mega-tape was peeled from my wound, I was released from the hospital, never to see Jerri or know exactly how she finished her provocative sentence. I assumed--and still do--that she meant for me to get the screenplay into shape so that I could give it to her to look over, before sending it on to her nephew, the movie producer in Hollywood. Perhaps this is wishful thinking on my part; perhaps I was deeply under the influence of whatever drug had been induced into the IV and hearing what I wanted to hear. Perhaps I even misunderstood her name. Was Jerri what I'd heard her say? I wouldn't bet the farm on it. Perhaps she was actually a Bambi (although she certainly didn't look it). Or a Constance? She'd had a New Englandish accent, from what I remembered, and Constance is certainly a New Englandish sounding name. You know, Constance McKenzie, Peyton Place, and all that. At any rate, contacting Jerri/Bambi/Constance was not in the cards, at least not until I whipped my screenplay into shape.

So, full of enthusiasm, and Jerri/Bambi/Constance's encouraging words, I returned to my computer, prepared to work out a screenplay that would make me proud (and, hopefully, rich). I sat at the desk typing, watching the words turn into sentences, and then into dialogue, dancing bountifully, joyously across the computer screen as idea after idea leapt from my fired mind onto the virtual pages presented before me. On page 25, I decided to take a break and read what I'd written thus far. And I came to the realization that it was trite, it was contrived, it was downright silly. How could I write that? Was my mind still reeling from the after-effects of the IV's? I hated the script! The next day, I sat down at my desk, having worked an entirely new scenario out in my mind during the night. Once again I began to type, the words dancing joyously, bountifully, etc., etc., and when I reached page 25, or thereabouts, I, once again, decided to have a look at what I had accomplished. Dear God, had I lost my mind? What was I thinking? How could I write that kind of crap? In two days, I had segued from writing a psychological thriller about the symbiotic relationship between a troubled gay psychologist and his disturbed and closeted patient, to a sci-fi extravaganza about a drug produced from interdimensional creatures and the resulting havoc of having this drug (and the creatures) smuggled into our world. At the time, they'd both seemed like good ideas. I resolved to stay away from the keyboard for a few days until I could rearrange my untidy thoughts into some semblence of a producable screenplay. The days turned into weeks, and then into a month. I sat back down at the computer and then proceeded to start an entirely new screenplay, with entirely new characters, this time about an unemployed, would-be artist, an elderly neighbor, and her missing cat. At page 25, the usual roadblock occurred. The next day, the screenplay was a film noir concerning an amnesiac, a seedy motel, and a crime ring in Hollywood, Florida. Page 25 arrived and it was DOA. I am trying to write, to create a professional product, something that can be produced or published, something that I can look at and say, "See, I'm a professional writer." Not because of an overwhelming desire to be rich, and certainly not to be famous. But because this is what I have always done, writing (not professionally), that is, and this (writing professionally) is what I have always wanted to do. Eventually, I will snap out of this creative limbo, the curse of Page 25, and I will get my script completed, though God knows what it will be about. There's a screenplay that I wrote 3 years ago, still waiting patiently in a drawer to be edited (once it was finished, I couldn't go back to it right away) while I stew and procrastinate. The thing I have to do right now, what anyone who really wants to write must do, is sit down and, well, write. It may not be a workable screenplay, it may not be a feasible novel, it may not be anything more than a bunch of words, which is basically what I'm putting into this blog, but at least it's something, at least it's writing, and someday, the inspiration will come, the block will lift, and the words will transform themselves into something that a professional writer can be proud of.