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Executive Director of Ghost Writer, Inc., Karen S. Cole writes. Ghost Writer, Inc. is an online affordable professional ghostwriting services agency. We help book authors, ghostwriters, copy editors, proofreaders, coauthors and rewriters. We do book covers (front and back), graphics and CAD, digital and other photography, and publishing assistance. GWI has book and screenplay writers, editors, developers and a paid analysts service. We also do high-end pitch and presentation services for your book and/or screenplay ideas to major TV and film industry representatives.

Woody Allen Books

Woody Allen at 79

A short, serious about tragedies in life, referring somewhat to the scandals horror pastiche by book ghostwriter Karen S. Cole

Subtitled: Woody Allen meets his Bête Noire, Adolf Hitler!

One day around midnight, Woody Allen was chewing on his lower lip. You see, Woody had finally noticed his fixation on God. He woke up, startled, from his reverie, and realized he was in love with Death. The infamous D-word. Not the B-word, not the N-word, but the altogether underwhelming D-word. Woody, you see, had recently attained the marvelous age of 79. The D-word was looming ever closer. Step by step, inch by inch, it was creeping up on him that he may have hurt a little boy and a little girl’s feelings. Without anything really bad having happened to him, while he got away with doing so. Meanwhile, his memories told him that it had all been done for publicity purposes. No, that was impossible; this made no sense to him. How could that be?

Suddenly, Hitler was there. He was playing with Eva Braun’s long blonde tresses, lovingly stroking it. But he had that look on his face again. That look that implied all he really cared about was, Kill the Jews. Kill all the Jews, over and over again, until all that remained on the face of the planet was wealthy, well-off American Jews, who had to prostitute themselves through comedy and news programs forever. Until it changes, Woody sighed. Until then, I can’t recall whether or not I ever…gave Mia an enema. There was the night I gave her an enema, because she was sick and constipated and couldn’t get her bowel movement out. Gee, why are you never allowed to talk about things like that?

“I…had to give Eva a bowl of coffee once. I took some coffee beans, ground them up, waved them right under Eva’s nose…she frowned, didn’t know what it meant. “Adolf,” she told me, Hitler sighed right then and there in Woody’s bed, “You must be crazy. Why are you doing this?” She got up, Hitler sighed, and went into the next room. “You know, Woody, she’s intelligent enough to have figured it out. I think I punished her later for it by standing her up at the altar. But she wouldn’t pick up on my hint about drinking some coffee. Wouldn’t have done her much good, is what I thought at the time. Must have been that reference to my dying mother. Mom was home when she died in Austria, and for some reason I frigged out and thought Eva was her. Well, you know, I always used people for political purposes in order to get ahead.” Hitler sighed, scratched. “I thought there was something wrong with me.”

“No…You can have it. Take everything, take it all away from me. Later. They were all packed in there. Like sardines in a can. Yes, it was overpopulated where you were every other time, and underpopulated the rest of the time, wasn’t it, Adolf?” Startling, Hitler looked askance. “I just want a cigarette. Wow, they took over Bosnia on TV again.” Both of them glanced perceptively at the screen, but Woody wasn’t agonizingly happy about what he was seeing there. Not because of politics in Bosnia, but because the TV was suddenly on. He noticed now that Hitler had turned on the TV by using the remote control.

Like a giant misunderstanding, Allen thought to himself. You like one, I can’t. “I don’t have sex with boys. You think I am a boy, Adolf, and you’re not much taller than me. Say, want to check on that? I have completely forgotten whether you’re taller than I am.” And I’m surely dreaming all this, he mused nervously. I need to change medications soon. I thought I was only neurotic, and this is verging on psychosis now.

“What has happened to me?” Hitler suddenly asked Woody, who leveled a stare at him designed to melt Kryptonite.

“They obscured everything about your death. They wanted to make another Jesus Christ out of you, promo everything and pretend you came back later…are you Jewish, Hitler?” Startling again, as though coming out of a strangely veiled reverie, Woody reached for the pack of cigarettes. He threw them across the room. Hitler thought, they bounce as much as those Jews did when they hit the ground. The ones we sicced the dogs on, those German shepherds, easy to breed to kill people. Like that guy. He thinks I want to have sex with him. Gee, I just wondered what that was about. Well, it’s a mistaken premise, one where you pretend you can make the other guy pregnant. Then it works, obviously, Adolf reasoned…”I hate to be annoying, but are you gay?”

“I’m a greater man than you are…evil person wannabee.”

“That’s impossible.”

“You mean you took on more than I did. That doesn’t make you greater than me. I know what a woman’s breasts are for. They are for squeezing, not for ridiculous farmland references.”

“I went down in history as a homicidal lunatic.”

“You went down in history on Hermann Goering’s…twat.” Slapping his own thigh, Woody leapt out of bed. “I’m going downstairs, after I check on my two teenage children. Then, I’m going to fix an aging Austrian dictator a sandwich. You’re going to have to settle for a ham on rye with mustard. That’s what we have for someone like you in the house.”

Must be weird irony, Allen mused. He opened the fridge door just a crack. Heaving a sigh of sweet relief, he saw the sandwich sitting in there, untouched. The ghosts that had been haunting him all of his life, the voices, the imaginary sexual touching…he grabbed the sandwich and briefly thought about putting it into a bowl. Of course not. It’s on a plate, with an artful pickle perched right next to it. Something about a boy at the next desk, whom I wanted to love only in a humanitarian manner. Whom I wanted to show off as the guiding light…somehow nobody is able to do that other thing. The one where I’m all things to all people. Wait a minute, maybe I’ve got something in common with Hitler back there, but he’s just a spook and I’m somehow just imagining things. Well, if he doesn’t eat this sandwich, I will!


Executive Director of Ghost Writer, Inc., Karen S. Cole writes. Ghost Writer, Inc. is an online affordable professional ghostwriting services agency. We help book authors, ghostwriters, copy editors, proofreaders, coauthors and rewriters. We do book covers (front and back), graphics and CAD, digital and other photography, and publishing assistance. GWI has book and screenplay writers, editors, developers and a paid analysts service. We also do high-end pitch and presentation services for your book and/or screenplay ideas to major TV and film industry representatives.

karen@rainbowriting.com

www.rainbowriting.com

Remember, only one “w” in both!

Sample from a Sales Book

“You’re either part of the solution, or you’re part of the problem.”

– Eldridge Cleaver 

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“Is it possible for business to get any slower?”

These words echoed all around the sales floor, wafting on conservatively a 75-yard trip from Anthony’s mouth over to me. I was sitting at the far end of the floor; between us, a showroom filled with perfectly aligned cars glowed, each fender neatly parallel to the one next door. I knew instantly that the major recipient of Anthony’s comment was without question not my own ear. As I looked toward him, it also became apparent that he was completely oblivious to whether I had heard him, or was even in the room for that matter.

Anthony’s words piqued my interest. A voice echoing deep inside mentioned that I should consider listening, no matter what the intended cost might be. I decided to take my chances, do a bit of detective work – and pivoted directions. I headed backward, going for where he might be, thinking this could mean something “big” and interesting.

I meandered back across the sprawling sales floor, looping the tightly packed cars. Behind the large rectangular glass display case that presented modern auto-oriented merchandise near the walls of the showroom, while keeping my distance from where Anthony was standing, in order to avoid alerting him to my presence. But I kept hidden behind the case, which offered the perfect amount of room to shield me from his sight.

Using the display as my camouflaged watchtower, I found a better view. Anthony stood flatfooted, legs akimbo like perfect suited straws, inside the spacious lounge area – one arm propped up against the cabinet, the other clutching a Styrofoam cup with steam rising in lazy coffee curlicues from it. Friday afternoon, 4 pm, and the July air hovered moistly at 90 degrees on the thermometer. The sun blazed through the glass façade of the showroom. Despite the noble efforts of an air-conditioner, cranked up full blast, the urbanely alive showroom dripped with humidity. I wondered which one of us was suffering the worst.

Anthony nervously cradled the auspices of civilization: a coffee cup. A sizzling brew wasn’t my first choice of beverage. It sat perched in one meaty male hand, like a torch held by a pedestrian considering what to do with it. Perhaps he wasted time rather than taking a break, or at least that’s the impression I was getting. In front of him, standing cross-armed and appearing far, far too interested in the words flowing from Anthony’s mouth stood Matthew. Too late, I realized that these two men were altogether too familiar to me. Broad shouldered, wide-eyed and a good 15 years his junior, Matthew made a decent salesman like Anthony, but the similarities stopped there. One knew more than the other, plain and simple, about sales.

Both men were veterans of the U.S. sales force, but I had never seen them interact much socially, and based on my experiences with both I never would’ve guessed Matthew to be Anthony’s “ear” of choice. Describing them as opposites severely underestimated the two poles: formidable, pointed and competitive. They both warranted attention, but one of them had more to say than he himself could find within him.

“I’m telling you Matt, something’s headed straight downhill with our advertising. They must’ve cut the budget…I don’t think I’ve talked to a real sales prospect in a week!” Glancing skyward, Anthony took a long, slow sip from his half-filled toss-a-way mug. I continued peering in, neither man realizing I owned both an ample eye and earful of their conversation.

As I continued eavesdropping, my mind drifted – stark contrasts defined these two men. I hadn’t given much thought to it prior; both were good performers, but hardly on par with one another. In this regard, Matt was far superior. As I’d known for several years.

Anthony wasn’t a bad salesman. More accurately, he was an average salesman. His results were barely good enough to avoid any sort of recognition, positive or negative. But now, framed within the context of this peculiar set of circumstances, I began to see, even to paint it as a vivid picture clearly showing why one man could be accurately described as the consummate overachiever, while the other was better defined as the consummate underachiever. From my unique perspective, Anthony’s failures began illuminating themselves.

Although Anthony never did or said anything that specifically bothered me, there was always something about him that nagged my subconscious. It was as if my instincts alerted me that something was off, every time we crossed paths or his name came up. It was never personal; that argument held no water. From the day he started, Anthony acted in a manner nothing short of professional and courteous. He spoke eloquently, proud of his constantly dapper appearance, articulate while selling – and had a knack for making conversation easy and pleasant. In fact, the combination of his meticulous combed and parted jet-black hair, coupled with his horn-rimmed eyeglasses, made him appear to be a middle-aged Clark Kent. Tons of experience, and an impressive degree from a prestigious alma mater. On paper, hardly a better resume in terms of predicting success. However, despite the aesthetic comparisons – Superman he was not! His results were precisely as I’d described, only average. Until this strange day, I had been too preoccupied to ask myself why?

As I listened to him continue to spew complaint after complaint, aggravation began to manifest upward through my body. His mouth arched snidely, a runaway freight train of bad news with no brakes. I sat silent, listening as he blamed his most recent sales drought on everything from management’s advertising failures, to the downturn of the economy, to whether matters were “too good for anyone to want to buy anything.” Staying stoic, I trembled and listened in disbelief as he rattled off every possible culprit that excused his own personal sales droughts. He was the sole non-guilty party, himself alone of course.

At some point during his rant, I tuned out – because it dawned on me that I finally had put my finger on what had been eluding me for years. Finally I fully understood what made me so uncomfortable with Anthony’s presence. Under normal circumstances, it was difficult to properly explain; but framed within this bizarre scene, it became too obvious to miss. Anthony’s problem was Anthony. Clearly this was not his first rant in public. It was a character trait that he had carried with him for a long, long time. Anthony spent so much time fixating on his perceived problems that there wasn’t any time left to even consider solutions.

As I remained hidden behind the cramped display case, I listened as the complaints kept coming. At this point it became obvious that the content of Anthony’s grievances was irrelevant, even if there were some element of truth to his words. Hardly anything else mattered as he besieged Matthew with countless trivial observations founded on conjecture. What did matter was what I saw as plainly obvious, a man who was genuinely enjoying the sound of his own voice. He had little else to offer to the bored gentleman in front of him.

Convinced by his own honey-dripping words, the more he talked, the more it became evident that despite all the abilities in the world, left to his own devices, Anthony’s attitude ensured he would remain mediocre forever. His complaining had stunted his abilities. His thinking engraved permanently in concrete, his rank sales failure was complete.

The adequate success he’d managed in days gone by involved leveraging his natural wit and charm, with probably quite a bit of luck sprinkled in. Anthony was blessed with all the right tools and abilities to be great, but was obviously unwilling to take it from there. He was a walking, talking, breathing example of wasted talent.

And as this notion began to sink in, I understood that my latent frustrations had been validated – sighing, I kicked myself for not having seen it sooner. How had this not dawned on me before? I thought to myself. Standing there listening made it so plainly obvious. I couldn’t believe it had taken me this long! Breaking the habit called him was now a more difficult proposition than it would’ve been, if I’d addressed this years earlier when he first started with our company. How could I break the awful news gently? My thoughts of “fixing Anthony” were soon interrupted by an even more alarming sight: Matt wasn’t just standing there listening. He was nodding his head in agreement, as if in tune to Anthony’s beat!

That traitor! If my blood pressure wasn’t already sky high, that pumped it up beyond the furthest layers of the stratosphere. My brain screamed at the tops of its lungs, Matthew can’t conceivably be buying into his crap, right? Not Matt!

END OF SAMPLE WRITING – WRITTEN BY CLIENT, EDITED BY KAREN S. COLE

Executive Director of Ghost Writer, Inc., Karen S. Cole writes. Ghost Writer, Inc. is an online affordable professional ghostwriting services agency. We help book authors, ghostwriters, copy editors, proofreaders, coauthors and rewriters. We do book covers (front and back), graphics and CAD, digital and other photography, and publishing assistance. GWI has book and screenplay writers, editors, developers and a paid analysts service. We also do high-end pitch and presentation services for your book and/or screenplay ideas to major TV and film industry representatives.