Hollywood Savage

by Kristin McCloy

  Ssh, I’m saying. Hush now, you’re here—it’s okay, Magpie, ssh, ssh … you’re home now, baby, you’re safe, you’re gonna be okay—

  Still muttering the same quiet, timeless phrases—the international language of reassurance—I carry her up the stairs, half-struggling under her weight and half-alarmed at how much weight she’s lost.

  (They’ve been doing drugs, I hear Connor saying over the phone, & I remember her going into the bathroom with Lear’s ex-wife, her eyes too bright when she came back, how fast she talked—& then that bullshit cigar!…)

  I go from fear for her to bemusement to an annoyance that borders on fury (the boundaries one establishes in marriage—the outer limits that cannot be crossed, not if you expect to wake up the next day and still coexist), an entire rainbow of emotion before I’ve even reached the bedroom door.

  She sees the suitcases, the boxes taped and stacked in the corner, and in one wild movement she’s out of my arms and up against the wall, palms out.

  It’s such a melodramatic gesture I have to stifle a laugh. She cuts her eyes at me, chokes down the last sob.

  God, she says. She covers her face with both hands (déjà vu!). Everywhere I go, someone’s leaving…

  Connor, I think, but don’t say—he left, I take it, and did not invite her …? I’m filled with a sudden indignation (who the hell is he, to turn down my wife?).

  Gee, I say. Wonder what they have in common?

  She doesn’t acknowledge this, doesn’t look at me.

  This bedroom, she says. It’s huge…

  As if she can no longer support her own weight, she does the same slide down the far wall to slump on the floor, where she squints against the angle of the setting sun, the light rushing in to flood her face.

  I feel like I’m on a raft, she says, so quietly. With no motor, no sail, no map…

  She looks up at me, and in her eyes is such naked vulnerability, the cracked-openness of heartbreak, I can’t stand it. I walk over to sit next to her (God I know how she feels)…

  She smiles for the first time, pure gratitude. When she holds her hand out, I take it, fingers entwining on their own.

  God, Miles, she says, I’m so tired … you wouldn’t believe how tired I am…

  Oh, but I do, I say, I know, I say (and I do), I know…

  She puts her arms around my waist, buries her head in my flank. I stroke her head, feel the tensile strength of her clutch.

  What are we going to do now, she asks, nothing but despair…

  We’ll go out, I tell her (already inventing the next ten minutes, the next hour): We’ll go to some honky-tonk dive, get a drink, play a game of pool w/ the locals—we’ll go somewhere we’ve never been before…

  She keeps her head in my lap, inconsolable; there is nothing.

  We lie there on the rug together and the sun sets in our eyes. We stay there a long time; there is nowhere to go.

  A raft, I think, it feels so apt—it’s like being shipwrecked, the sense of injury close, everything broken off, drifting up against some nameless shore.

  How the bones of her face fit against the curve of my hand, as if they had grown, as if they had been shaped, around each other. We are shipwrecked, it’s true, but we have both crawled out of those wild waters to look around—& realize that (once again), we’ve washed up together; there is nobody else in sight.

  Don’t leave me, she whispers.

  How could I, I think (do I say it?). You’re my creature.

  It’s a desperate kind of thing, how we all want to be saved—until the sun rises once again, and you think, From what?

  What from?

  We are only animals, but our heads are luminous caves, filled with language, lit so high and wide we’ve forgotten what all the other animals know: that life is for surviving.

  Acknowledgments

  To those for whom thanks is but a pale word, but the only one I got:

  First and foremost always always always Jean, who has never been anything but on my side, for which I remain eternally grateful. Second only to her stands Peter, my tall and gallant most whitely shining knight, who waited (and waited … and waited for this to get done), and then led me back through the trail pointing gently here and there—which is to say, he gave me his outsider’s exquisite, untainted point of view—the best, the ONLY kind of editor one should have. (I dream of stapling him to some part of me so that he should never get away…)

  To everyone and everything who provided harbor in which to concoct this wicked little story—most intensely, all of those amazing artist palaces, the colonies that said yes, said come, then gave me a spot where (alas!) nobody would bother me: NYC’s the Writers Room, the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, the MacDowell Colony, Byrdcliffe, the Ucross Foundation, my mother’s house, A’Cuppa Tea in Berkeley, Craig Lyons’s uncluttered, sunny home, and finally, the place I ended up, still thanks to the generosity of one Samuel Williams, Editor at Large and Friend to Man (well, more Woman, really)—indeed, a more large-hearted lion of a man you’d be hard-pressed to find … and of course, thanks very much to one child Lander, who showed me what it was to be a charming little boy.

  I can’t leave out the people who make everyday obligations a little bit sweeter: Deborah, Velma, Bernard, Janice, and Sharon; not to mention Dave, Archie, Ted, and the Professor; nor those who read it, both painstakingly and in little bits, encouraging me when I got lonely: Ben, Chris, Mark, and Thor.

  And, of course, while they never read it, in some ways these companions were the most important of all, for the steadfast, unwavering, constancy of their love: Sweet Pea and Titu, Max and Milo, Lulu, Oliver, Napoleon, and Zelly, perhaps my favorite souls in the world … I could not have lived through these last years without them.

  For cheering me, always, on, John, Mimi, and the inimitable Carly, possibly the sweetest person I’ve ever known, and of course Jamers and Maureen.

  Finally, to everyone who helped by simply having faith when mine failed—most especially Craig, whose strength and love shored me up during one of the hardest times of my life.

  Hollywood

  Savage

  KRISTIN MCCLOY

  A Readers Club Guide

  Introduction

  Miles King is a well-known author who finds himself headed for the big time when his popular book is pegged to become a film. Holed up in the Hollywood Hills as he works on the first draft of his screenplay, Miles suffers from writer’s block and a host of other insecurities, including the nagging fear that his wife is having an affair. Slowly he spirals into a world of lies and manipulation, drugs and sex—all of which he faithfully records in daily entries in his journal.

  Eventually, Miles fears about his wife’s possible adultery, coupled with his own sense of crippling loneliness, drive him into the arms of Lucy, a Nietzsche-reading wife and mother who’s looking to be saved from her own list of grievances. As Lucy and her son, Walter, gradually enter Miles’s life, the two adults find themselves moving inexorably into a passionate love affair, a potent broth of guilt, infidelity, and loss—one that will change both of their lives forever.

  Questions and Topics for Discussion

  1. Miles King can come across as brash, and he often makes choices that are less than honorable. But he can also be brutally honest about himself and his own failings. Did you find yourself put off by some of his less admirable characteristics? Did you give him credit for attempting to be honest about his own shortcomings?

  2. Some of the characters in the novel pride themselves on their honest, unflinching self-awareness. The novel is, in fact, Miles’s scrupulously maintained diary, and he consistently notes how forthright and direct both Maggie and Lucy can be. Yet characters rarely tell the truth. What do you think this says about these characters and their perceptions of themselves? Also, what do you think of Isabel and Walter, the only two people in the book who actually seem to say what they mean?

  3. The catalyst that sets this story in motion and causes Miles
’s “lost weekend” in Los Angeles is an answering machine message from Connor asking Maggie to meet him. Why do you think Miles never asks Maggie about this message and whether or not she’s having an affair?

  4. The book compares LA and New York City extensively, with New York coming out as a clear favorite. In the debate of real vs. fake, do you think LA seems as fake as Miles says it is? Discuss this in relation to the people that Miles meets there: Lear, Lucci, Bonnie, etc. Also consider Miles’s relationship with Lucy. Are there aspects of their relationship that seem false or self-serving?

  5. Why do you think McCloy chose to write an epistolary novel rather than opting for a more standard literary format? Did you find that the journal entries, with their shorthanded, off-the-cuff familiarity, drew you into the story and helped you to understand what drives Miles to make the choices he makes?

  6. Miles writes and thinks a lot about fame and its meaning; “… I’ve become acquainted with the peculiar greed for attention that any kind of public praise seems to incite … ultimately it can only be a weakness” (p. 31). Do you think Miles is a weak person? Does striving for personal recognition in the public arena, on a large or small scale, make a person weak?

  7. Lucy constantly tells Miles how awful she feels about cheating on her husband, and yet she continues to do so. In fact, most of her feelings of guilt seem to spring up when she finds herself in very intimate situations with Miles. Discuss these conflicting emotions. Is it possible for a person to act in direct contrast to their emotions? To do one thing and say another, all the while believing that both are correct?

  8. Almost the entirety of the novel takes place as Miles attempts to adapt his critically acclaimed novel for the big screen, and yet we’re never treated to any samples of his writing—only his journal entries. What do you imagine Miles’s book to be? Do you think there is any significance in the fact that Miles gives his main character the name of Savage?

  9. The characters of Walter and Connor occupy an interesting place in the story. In some ways Miles loves both of them, and yet his love doesn’t seem entirely appropriate. After all, Walter is another man’s son and Connor has possibly slept with Miles’s wife. Why do you think Miles feels an attachment to both of these young men? Is it possible that they remind him of himself in some way?

  10. The topic of love is much discussed throughout the course of the novel, ranging from cynical, “love is a conspiracy” (p. 286) to romantic and maybe even a little bit naïve, “love should pull you further toward selflessness” (p. 319). What do you think Miles’s final stance is on love? Considering Miles and his relationships with Maggie and Lucy, do you think it’s possible that different people need to be loved in different ways?

  11. Miles and Lucy have multiple discussions about language, etymology, and how language is used as a means of both describing one’s innermost thoughts and also of concealing them. Taking into account Miles’s chosen profession, do you think he is writing in an attempt to understand himself more fully, or are his journal entries a way of hiding his own thoughts from himself?

  12. Miles often compares Lucy and Maggie. Discuss their similarities and differences. Does it make sense that Miles would fall in love with both of these women?

  13. At one point Lucy tells Miles, “You imagine everything about me” (p. 51). Do you think this is true? Does Miles will people into playing certain roles, whether they want to or not? Does Miles turn real life into fiction?

  14. At the end of the novel Miles and Maggie seem to be headed for reconciliation. Do you think this is possible, or have they become too firmly ensconced in their new, separate lives? Do you think that Maggie’s supposed affair with Connor, as well as Miles’s own infidelities, will still plague their relationship, or do they matter anymore?

  A Conversation with Kristin McCloy

  At one point in the novel, Lucy wonders if it’s okay to ask Miles how much of his book is autobiographical and he responds, “You may not.” Do you also bristle when people ask how much of your work is autobiographical? In the case of a book like Hollywood Savage, do you have to make a conscious effort to separate your personal life from your work?

  Well, I think the book speaks for itself. I’m not a man; neither am I—nor was I—separated from my spouse while suspecting infidelity and adapting a bestseller (that hasn’t—yet—been my privilege) for the screen, nor have I ever worked with a European director. Basically, I always try to find some way that will automatically turn what I’m writing (particularly in the first person, which does make it hard not to identify) into fiction, not journalism.

  The book criticizes Los Angeles and Los Angelenos. What is it about the city that rubs Miles the wrong way? Do you share Miles’s opinion on the city and its inhabitants?

  Absolutely, I do. I found LA to be a one-trick pony (“the Industry”—nothing but TV and movies) and the people who lived there all enslaved to the notion of fame, ranking everyone according to their position in the fame line. Everybody was thinner, younger, and cooler than thou; worst of all, the only possible reaction to this was to act just like them. “Hey, you turn your nose up at me when I walk into a dining or drinking establishment, and then immediately your back? Well, fine, I’m not in any way interested in you, either.” Thus, nobody interacted. It was all emotional detachment and disdain. After a while, it was very difficult not to take it as a blow to your self-esteem; you simply were not worthy.

  Early in the novel Miles mentions the “writer’s fury to get it down” (p. 7). What does “it” mean to you? Do you think you captured “it” with this novel and this particular set of characters?

  “It,” I guess, is what you feel particularly passionate about—in this case, I would have to say I was trying to get at the root of infidelity, from every angle possible: from the plot of Miles’s own book (the young man in it, whose name is Savage, becomes a double agent when forced by the CIA—who imply his own now-dead father told them where he could be found—to work for them during the Vietnam War, ultimately defies this dictum by becoming a double agent, something Lucci refers to as “monstrous”). And the adultery is compounded; not only does Miles cheat on his wife, he cheats on his mistress too, as if the latter will cancel out the former. My own question, I think, was ultimately this: Should one be true to one’s vows, said long ago, or to one’s self right now? (Or, put another way, was Shakespeare right when he wrote, “To thine own self be true”?)

  Miles can occasionally be a difficult character to root for. Could you discuss some of the difficulties that arise from writing a character who isn’t always likable? Were there times when you yourself didn’t like Miles much?

  I must confess, I never found Miles unlikable. I think he’s just a human being, who has every human being’s weaknesses and ambiguities, who is reacting to his own feelings—of course it’s not rational, necessarily, but isn’t that the definition of emotion? I also think that this tendency to sanctify and idolize the main character is very much a Hollywood thing; it is just verboten ever to let us see the lead in any other context than likable, and frankly, I think that’s nonsense—who is likable all the time? Do you yourself always act beautifully to other people, never gossip maliciously, never goad or gloat, never be pompous or hateful or envious? What person doesn’t have a dark side? Nobody I’ve met, myself included.

  The book has a very distinct male voice at its center. Did you find it at all difficult as a writer to write a character of the opposite sex?

  None. When people have asked me the same question previously, I liked to quip, “No, because I realized I may not have a man’s main equipment, but I do have balls.” I know that makes it sound trivial, but in effect, it’s as close to the truth as any other answer.

  Miles really runs through a wide gamut of emotions in this book, and most of them are less than pleasant. Did you ever find yourself becoming emotionally involved or affected by what he was going through—what you were putting him through?

  I don’t think the rough
patches of life—for example, doubting your wife, then acting the way you think she is (a form of revenge)—are “ever less than pleasant.” Who, after all, has never been pushed into a corner, made to feel low, filled with doubt, and found themselves reacting according to the saying “The best defense is a good offense”? (Especially true, I think, for men.) No, I wouldn’t say “less than pleasant”; I think the more accurate term is devastation, the shaking of one’s identity’s cornerstone, a form of desperation. Then again, that’s where the real drama lies; who after all wants to read about someone whose life is all sunshine and roses? Wouldn’t that character be the truly hateful one?

  Why did you choose not to divulge whether or not Maggie and Connor actually had an affair?

  I was writing from Miles’s point of view, and since he refused to confront his wife directly, even cutting her off when it seemed she was about to confess, he himself never knows for sure. The reason for his inability to confront the question is twofold: first, if she says she is, he, as a proud male, would have no choice but to say “then it’s divorce.” And he is not ready to cut her off, to let her go. He has loved her too long. And let’s not forget at that point that he is deep into his own affair; how can he castigate or confront or convict his wife when he is behaving exactly as he believes she is? It would make him truly hateful: a real hypocrite. So he refuses to bring everything out into the open—the only result of such behavior is surely nothing but destruction.

  At one point Lucy says that she hopes all of her philosophy classes will teach her to “learn how to die.” Can you elaborate on this? What does this mean in the context of Lucy’s character?