Sunday, January 17, 2016

Aspiring Novelist Jacqueline Woods interviews her author father, Anthony Maulucci

Tell us about your new release, ELORA, a Goddess, and what sets it apart from your other novels about Italian American culture? The new novel is about a beautiful young woman from Boston who becomes a high-fashion model in New York in the early 1980s at a time when shallow mainstream culture began to take over the spiritual counterculture movement of the 1960s. She becomes caught up in all glamour of being a successful model and all the decadence of the time and she loses her innocence and her natural, soulful beauty.  So in a way she is a symbol of the destruction of the 1960s counterculture by the greedy capitalists who control the mainstream media.

My fiction about Italian American life depicts an authentic subculture that is on the verge of extinction. It is also intended to show that we Italian Americans have much more richness and depth than the media and movie stereotypes of mafia gangsters.

Was there a time when you wanted intellectual recognition as an author as opposed to now, do you see the book and art world differently? These are two separate and very big questions. To answer the first one only, I’ve always wanted recognition as a serious artist. That hasn’t changed. What has changed is that I hope to reach more readers by offering them a compelling story about successful people who are engaged with mainstream society instead of stories about struggling artists, loners and outsiders, stories about human suffering and self conflict. I want to show that these so-called successful people have paid a high price for their success in the loss of their soul, their humanity and their natural beauty.

What do you want your readers to get out of ELORA? Hopefully what I put into it, which is to believe in themselves, to hold their life as a sacred trust, not to sell themselves for a shallow success, and not to compromise their integrity for any reason whatsoever. There are some explicit sex scenes in the new book which are meant to show the reader the depravity of the characters who use Elora for their own ends, and I hope readers will not be offended by them. They are intended for shock value only.

How has your personal life affected your writing style, and the content of which you write? I explored many different types of work – bookselling, theater, journalism – in addition to several odd jobs before settling on college teaching as a long-term career. I’ve lived in 7 major cities in three countries for extended periods. I now live in Mexico. I guess you could say that my life has been a bit unrooted and bohemian, yes, definitely bohemian. I’ve learned a great deal from every place I’ve lived. This lifestyle of the bohemian artist has given me an open-minded perspective on life. Change has been a constant for me and I take it in stride. My  philosophy can be summed up as “each to his own” and “live and let live.” I’ve been told I have the knack of being able to talk to anyone. I find people fascinating. I love talking to people from all walks of life. This carries into my fiction, which is definitely character driven. 

How do you see young writers of this generation, and do you have any advice for them?
Explore the world first-hand, and never lose your sense of wonder and curiosity. Writers need to learn about life, about themselves and about other people. My first advice would to get out there and live, get to know yourself, learn about life and what makes people tick, always  write because you love to, write with passion, from the heart, be a truth-teller and don’t worry too much about technique and don’t edit yourself too much in your early drafts. Write with honesty and tell the truth about life and people as you see it.

My overall impression of young writers of your generation is that they are in a rush to get their work out there on the web before it’s ready to “go public,” i.e. be published. My advice is to take your time and allow your talent to develop. You need to have your work read by someone whose opinion you can trust and value rather than a crowd of strangers. One good mentor-editor is worth a thousand times more than random opinions on the web. Hemingway’s early writing style was nurtured by one editor-friend, Gertrude Stein. Find someone who believes in your talent and cultivate a personal relationship with her. Just keep writing and don’t publish until you have found your true voice.

I see them as striving to be their best but perhaps being too focused on technique rather than powerful storylines and in-depth psychology. I don’t read a lot of fiction by young writers, so it’s hard and really unfair for me to generalize. But based on what I’ve read in the media about new books by these writers I’d have to say that they seem to be mostly concerned with writing about identity and romantic relationships. They are writing about the need for love and finding a connection. That’s really no different from what writers of my generation are writing about – the need to connect. My advice to them is to write about their own experiences, what they know first-hand, yes, but also to stretch their imaginations and write about characters who are older and different from them. Write about people as they are and not about how you would like them to be.

Finally, read as much serious fiction and drama as you can, especially the world literature classics. I repeat: Read, read, read the classics.



What made you want to write? Neither of your parents were writers. My parents weren’t writers but they loved a good story. My father told amusing anecdotes about people he knew and my mother had a keen interest in human psychology. I just had a natural need to put stories on paper. It was a kind of self-validation. I started out trying to imitate the stories I loved as a boy, namely adventure stories and tales by Edgar Allen Poe. Later on, one of my high school English teachers and several of my college professors encouraged me. I won first prize in two national student writing contests.

Have you ever known an Elora in your own life? Yes, I’ve known several. They were beautiful young women who were more than willing to pay the price of becoming “stars” or “celebrities” by “selling out,” that is, cheapening themselves and vulgarizing their natural beauty.

In general, how many drafts do you write before your novel is satisfactorily complete?
Inspiration versus hard work. I need both. I used to write many drafts of a story because I needed that process to get rid of the bad writing and find the story I really wanted to tell. Now I’ve simplified the process. I’ve also simplified the stories I tell. I try to make them purify them by eliminating the unnecessary details and reducing them to their essence.

As Mark Twain said, good books write themselves. I’ve found that to be true. I meditate and think a lot about what I want to say before I sit down and start writing. If the voice I hear is a true voice, then I let it take over, I do not interfere with it by and self-editing at that early stage. Later on, once I have a completed draft, I set it aside and let it incubate, then I read it over with a more objective eye. That’s when I start editing and polishing. At some point I have to let it go, otherwise I would be tinkering with it forever. Even after a book of mine has been published I still want to make changes, but I have to hold back and let it be as it is.

If I am captivated by a story and compelled to write it, then the writing goes very fast and very smoothly. I won’t say “easily” because writing is hard work and if you think too much about how challenging it is you may never start. But once I have hit the right groove it just unfolds on its own, the characters come alive and I become a conduit for their story. It flows through me and I marvel as I write, and the writing becomes a kind of ecstatic experience which cannot be repeated. Every book for me is new and different even though I may be telling the same story over and over again – my personal take on life.  

Do you base your characters on people you know in your life, or even famous people? My characters tend to be composites of people I’ve known. I prefer to write about “ordinary, real people” and people who are true to themselves, who are a bit eccentric, and who do not fit into the typical molds and patterns of conventional life. I do not write about celebrities.

Tell your readers about other accomplishments in your life. I’m also a fine art figurative painter in oils, and I listen to a lot of jazz and classical music. Somehow this helps my writing, but I can’t explain how exactly. I also write for the stage and have had my work performed many times in the US, Canada and Mexico.  You can see some of my art work at my web site www.anthonymaulucci.com

Tell us about the time period of when you wrote ELORA, and how it directly affected the novel? I had moved to New Haven, Connecticut after living in Manhattan for a year. My roommate was a graduate student at Yale. We had many discussions about art and culture. He was having trouble getting started on his master’s thesis, I wanted to write a novel about my time in New York. So we challenged each other to see who could make the most progress on his project by a certain date. That’s how I got started on the book, as a kind of competition.


Finally, what are you trying to say in ELORA that could be important to young people of today? Think hard and long about the choices you make. Never sacrifice your personal ideals, never violate your moral and artistic integrity for the sake of money and fame. Success at any price is just not worth it. Fame is fleeting but you have to live with yourself for the rest of your life. You need to make it a life well-worth living.

Tuesday, October 27, 2015

Chapter 4




A Mythological Force

It was noon by the time Phil DeMarco got to the office. No
explanations were necessary and none was given. His secretary looked up
at him from her desk when he walked in and said simply, “I re-scheduled your
ten o’clock appointment for next Tuesday at three. You’ve got a story meet-
ing at two. You’re screening slides at one. I’m going to lunch in five.”
Phil DeMarco smiled. It was a rare thing, he knew, to have an
assistant as bright and competent as Kate who was also extremely attractive.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “Any phone calls?”
“They’re on your desk. I’ll get Susan to take over for me. Want
something from the deli?”
“Yeah, a roast beef and Swiss on a kaiser, plenty of mustard. Thanks,
Kate, for holding the fort.”
“All in the line of duty,” Kate said, hooking her purse over her
shoulder and closing the door behind her.
Phil DeMarco went into his office, walked around behind the massive
teak desk and stood looking out of the window. There it was, he thought, the
monster . . . sometimes I think this city is trying to devour me . . . but
not today, no, not today anyway. He turned away from his eighteenth-story
View of Third Avenue and Midtown and sat down at his desk, still a little
shaky from the morning’s anxiety. What a weird thing, he thought; I’ve never
experienced anything like that before. It felt good to be sitting at his
solid desk, surrounded by the familiar tools of his trade: a typewriter,
sheets of color transparencies from which the photographs in his magazine
were made, a hardcover dictionary, newspapers, magazines, the telephone . . .
One of the lines lit up on the phone. Evidently Susan was not at her post
yet, DeMarco thought, picking up the receiver and depressing the square
plastic button that was flashing at him.
“Sheik Magazine. Phil DeMarco speaking.”
“Phil, this is Hélène Bachmann . . . at the Venus Agency. I’ve been
trying to reach you all morning.”
DeMarco loved the raspy sound of Hélène’s voice; it made him think
of Lauren Bacall with a French accent. She was reputed to be a lesbian.
Too bad, he thought. “Hi, Hélène. I just got in. Haven’t had a chance to
go through my messages yet, otherwise I would’ve called you. What’s up?”
“Phil, I am having some difficulty with a client and I would
appreciate it very much if you could give me some advice.
“Why come to me? I’m not in the rag trade. My models take their
clothes off rather than put them on,” he chuckled goatishly at his own joke.
“Your business is nonetheless related. I can’t go to a competitor
now, can I?”
“I don’t know what kind of advice I can give you, Hélène. Why ask
me?”
“Well . . . because you are an American and you know what makes
Americans tick.”
“Not exactly. I just--”
“Please, Phil. Do this favor for me?”
DeMarco paused for a moment. He knew he could not say no to this
woman, not to any woman with a voice like hers. “Do you know the bar at
the U.N. Plaza Hotel?”
“Of course. The Ambassador Lounge.”
“That’s it. Meet me there at six.”

At six, Phil DeMarco was sitting on a stool at the bar of the
Ambassador Lounge drinking a Jack Daniels and soda. His left hand was moving
automatically between his mouth and a silver bowl of salted almonds and cashews
on the black glass surface of the bar. The place was dark and full of state
department people an travelling businessmen -- there was little chance that
either Hélène or himself would be recognized here. He had chosen the place
for that particular reason -- that and the fact that he wanted to stay away
from the usual beautiful people crowd at the bars he assumed Hélène frequented.
He detested the artsy-fartsy ad men types who hung out at places like Sardi’s.
The men who drank in chic bars were wimps, the women were rapacious, and the
whole lot of them were nothing more than a tribe of cannibals on the make.
They sickened him.
DeMarco ordered his second Jack Daniels and soda. I’ll give her
one more drink, he thought; hell of a way to spend a birthday. Halfway
through his second drink, five minutes later, Hélène walked in.
There was no question that she was a stunning woman. Tall,
slender, and refined, with good teeth and glinting shoulder-length blonde
hair and large smoky blue eyes rimmed with mascara, she could easily have
passed for one of her models. Phil DeMarco had spent the last five years
looking at photographs of women, mostly naked women, but he had never seen
anyone like Hélène, neither on film nor in the flesh. She had qualities
which most American women lacked -- sensuality, earthiness, and sophistication
were the words that came to mind as he tried to describe these qualities to
himself, but DeMarco knew it was more than that, he just couldn’t put his finger
on it. It had something to do with the way she looked at you, the way she
arched her back as she walked, the way she held herself, her shoulders and
neck, the way she tuned her head when she looked at you -- maybe the old
Hollywood screen stars had it, or maybe they were just made to appear as
though they had it. He’d have to examine some old film footage some time
and see if he could solve the mystery.
DeMarco stood up to shake hands with Hélène. She was almost two
inches taller than he was.
“Do you want to sit at a table?”
 “No, let’s sit at the bar,” Hélène said, sliding her left thigh
over a bar stool. Her legs were so long that she only needed the stool to
prop up her buttocks while her right leg, the one that was angled towards
DeMarco, was stretched out straight to the floor. Her satin wrap-around skirt
slipped off her thigh. She ordered a vodka and tonic.
“Damn, I’ve had a rotten day,” Hélène said.
“That makes two of us,” DeMarco replied.
They laughed easily together. Hélène lit a menthol cigarette
and leaned her left elbow on the brown leather padded edge of the bar. She
studied DeMarco for a moment.
“You’re a handsome man. I never realized it before,” she said.
“You only met me once before.”
“How many meetings does it take?” she asked in the lower registers
of her throaty voice. “I like your Julius Caesar hair and your Mediterranean
looks.”
This is a switch, DeMarco thought.” Listen, Hélène, what is it
you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Not so fast, please. It still amazes me how quickly you Americans
want to get down to business.”
“I like to get business over with as soon as possible. It leaves
more time for other things.”
“What did you have in mind, Mr. DeMarco?”
“Humph,” he snorted, “I never reveal that to anyone.”
“You leave them guessing?”
“Not exactly.” DeMarco was silent until he realized he should say
something more. “I like to leave them thinking they’ve outsmarted me.”
“You’re a hard man.”
“Not hard enough. But I’m learning.”
Hélène paused meditatively. “When it comes to making a new fortune,”
she said without preamble, “an old fortune is a good thing to have.”
“Oh yeah? I wouldn’t know about that. I was born poor.”
“I was born twice,” Hélène asserted, “the first time rich and
the second time poor.”
She’s a strange one, DeMarco thought. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I was born into a very wealthy Parisian family, I am in
fact descended from nobility, the old country nobility, but when I decided
to come to New York to be a model -- they disinherited me. Cut me loose.
I lived a privileged life in France, but I had to start from the bottom when
I came to this country.”
“Why bother?”
“To come here? I wanted to learn English, and I had a romantic idea
of becoming a Hollywood movie star like Katherine Hepburn.”
DeMarco smiled. “I can relate. I wanted to be another Clark Gable.
Just like every other dreamy American kid.”
They mixed their laughter and the smoke from their cigarettes.
DeMarco ordered another round.
“Why don’t we take our drinks to a table,” Hélène said. “I think
it’s time to make ourselves a little more comfortable.”
They moved out into the half-filled room where three-piece-suiters
discussed the problems of nations and multi-nationals. The elegantly dressed
men interrupted their flow of verbiage to take a good look at the tall blonde
and the hefty, surly-looking guy who was with her. Hélène walked over to a
crescent-shaped table and they settled down into a concave seat upholstered
in gray velour attached to a gray column paneled half way down with smoked
mirrors. A black-vested waitress bought them cocktail napkins, a plate of
hors d’oeuvres and a clean ashtray.
“What’s up?” DeMarco repeated, leaning back into a more relaxed
listening position. “What can I do for you?” Hélène gave him a level stare
and for a moment DeMarco felt as though he were being sized up, as if his
psychological blueprint were being sketched out in Hélène’s head for present
and future reference. “Why are you looking at me as if I were a piece of
meat being marked for butchering?” DeMarco asked her.
She looked away. She didn’t like that comment. “I am about to
sign up a new model, very young -- seventeen -- and I think very innocent.
Her name is Elora Adrian. She is from Boston, or somewhere near there. Her
parents are both surgeons with Massachusetts General. They are divorced, and
she has been living with her mother in Cambridge.” Hélène paused long enough
to catch her breath sharply. “She is very, very beautiful. She has a certain
quality which only appears maybe once in a hundred years. It’s classic, and
extremely rare.” Hélène’s cheeks flushed as she spoke; her lower lip and
chin seemed to quiver. “I tell you, Phil, I get goosebumps -- I love this
word -- I get goosebumps just talking about her.”
A spark leapt in DeMarco’s dark brown eyes.” Why are you telling
me this? I thought you were having problems with a client?”
“I had to tell you something to get to see you, didn’t I? Please
have patience. Listen to what I am saying. This girl, Elora Adrian, does not
know how beautiful she is, how perfect. Her face and her figure are absolutely
extraordinaire. When I saw the test shots they took my breath away. I know
that once she has appeared in the right magazines, she will become a force.
It frightens me.”
“Could you be more specific? What kind of a force are you talking
about?”
“A mythological force, like a goddess.”
I hope it’s the liquor, DeMarco thought; I hope she doesnt always
talk like this. “Is that all you wanted to tell me?” he said, growing ir-
ritated. He expected this kind of crap from the psychologists who wrote
articles about his magazine, not from a hard-headed business woman.
“I am afraid that once I have trained her and Put her face in the
right places, then she will leave me. It has happened before, with girls
who only had half, no, only a fraction of what she has.”
“It doesn’t sound like she needs much training.”
“It’s not just the training,” Hélène said with an angry edge to
her voice. “It’s everything. You don’t know what it’s like. These girls
are like my daughters. I give them everything. Do you understand what I’m
saying? I give them everything, and then they leave me. No, not this time.
This one is too good to lose. And she will go the minute the phone call
comes from Hollywood, I know it. She will fly the coop, as you say, and then
where will Hélène be?” Hélène cried passionately. There was a fire in her
eyes and her chin quivered. “I will be left holding the bag.”
“I can relate,” DeMarco said. “But what can I tell you? Those
are the chances you take. Every line of business has its risks.”
“Granted, but I believe in protecting myself. I prefer to take,
let us call them, precautions for the fixture.”
Hélène smiled mischievously. The smile fit her face perfectly.
DeMarco felt a prickle of sexual desire. He knew in advance that he would
do whatever she asked him to do.
“What kind of precautions did you have in mind, Hélène?”
“I want you to take photographs of her for your magazine.”
“Are you kidding?” DeMarco sat upright. “She’s only seventeen!
C’mon now, Hélène. Be serious.”
“You don’t have to use them, just take them.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I just want the photographs on file in case I have to use them.”
“What do you mean, have to use them?”
“Don’t be dense, Phil. I mean, the photographs will give me a weapon,
something to threaten her with when Hollywood calls.” DeMarco looked startled.
“Yes,” Hélène went on, “I could teach you a lot about being hard.”
“I could be sued.”
“Not if she signs a release. But in any case I’ll cover all your
expenses.”
“When does she turn eighteen?”
“I’m not sure, but I can find out.”
DeMarco was looking away, pondering his next move, considering all
the consequences like a good chess player. He was in conflict. His antennae
quivered. His conscience suggested to him that it was not right, but his
business sense told him it was a damn good maneuver. There were many possibi-
lities in this scheme. He would need time to think them through.
Hélène squeezed his hand. “These photographs will be my security,”
she said, “and I will be able to sleep at night. If you are wondering how
you will profit from this, and I’m sure you are, rest assured that in exchange
for this favor you will have a good line of credit with Hélène.” She patted
his hand and gave him a leer like the madam of a French whorehouse. “I will
provide you with the choicest morsel you have ever tasted.”
“I need time to think about it.”
“Fine, I need time to make the arrangements.”
“How will you get her consent?”
“Don’t worry about that. She does not know how beautiful she is.
And she is willing to do anything to get into modeling,” she lied.
Phil DeMarco and Hélène Bachmann looked at each other and smiled.
“Power is a wonderful thing,” Hélène said, raising her glass.
They finished their drinks.
DeMarco looked at his watch. “I’ve got to run,” he told her. “Which
way are you heading?”
“That’s all right, Phil. I’m going to have another drink and then
call my chauffeur.”
“You do live well.”
“The Spanish say it’s the best revenge.”
DeMarco stood up. “I’ll call you in a few days.”
Hélène nodded. “Good night, Phil.”
“See you.”
Phil DeMarco left the Ambassador Lounge via the hotel lobby. The
night had turned wet with a drizzle of rain. He flipped up the collar of his
blazer and waited under the portico for a cab. He didn’t have to wait long.
He was going to get some dinner and then he had a business meeting with a
film producer. He would not be home in time for the birthday phone calls
from his family. Just as well, he thought; I don’t feel too good about myself

tonight.

Some Notes on the Novel and How It Came to be Written

ELORA, a Goddess was originally written in 1981-82, when I was living in New Haven, Connecticut. It was accepted by Diane Cleaver of New York's Sanford Greenberger Literary Agency. She represented the book for a year and half (1982-83) and was unable to find a publisher. Although there was keen interest, the ending proved to be problematic. In my youthful hubris, I refused to change it, believing everything I wrote at the time was "perfect." It was foolish of me, I know, and now with age has come wisdom, as they say, but after re-reading the novel I realize I was right not to violate the artistic integrity of my vision. The passage of 30-odd years has brought the opportunity to publish the book myself with the original ending intact, just as I wrote it back then when I was a callow youth. I have been waging war on corporate publishing ever since that first rejection, and in 1995 I founded Lorenzo Press to bring out my own books. My list has grown to over 20 titles.

The story of ELORA, a Goddess is set in Manhattan in the early 1980s. The pre-internet world it depicts no longer exists and is now a part of America's cultural history. It paints is dark picture, where innocence is quickly undermined by cynicism and young people are corrupted by their pursuit of success at any price. I believe the story is a mirror for today's rampant mainstream materialism and consumerism, both of which are hastening the destruction of our natural environment.

The story does not have a happy ending, but I hope it has the emotional power of a Greek tragedy, with a catharsis for the sensitive reader. In allegorical terms the central character is a symbol of the death of American culture, which I believe began in the 1980s. Too subtle perhaps but it might work on a subconscious level for some. Many readers will want to see good triumphing over evil, and it does in the sense that the villains in the book are punished by what I believe to be divine justice.

The book was inspired by my experiences as a year-long resident of Manhattan. I knew several people involved in the fashion business -- stylists, models, photographers -- and learned the details of the business from them. The details about the men's magazine run by Phil DeMarco is based on my first-hand experience as an editor of a Canada's only men's magazine in Montreal in the 1970s.


On a final note, I began writing the book as a challenge from my roommate at the time I was living in New Haven. Mitch was a Yale graduate student in architecture and was having trouble getting started on his master's thesis. We held long discussions on art, architecture, fashion, sex, and American culture in general. These discussions provided the impetus we both needed to get started on our respective projects.