Introduction

A scalding exploration of love, marriage, fidelity, and betrayal.

"Meet me at five,"

the voice said on the answering machine.  Four ordinary words yet, when heard by the wrong person, enough to change the course of a marriage.

Marooned in Hollywood while writing a screenplay based on his latest bestselling novel, Miles King records in his journals his escalating conviction that his glamorous wife, a New York-based journalist named Maggie, is having an affair with Miles's favorite student.  

Amidst the sun-buffed egos and the longing for connection and fame he encounters at every cocktail party and no-name bar in Hollywood, Miles finds unexpected comfort in an affair of his own with Lucy, a young mother whose open, eager mind sparks an irresistible passion in him. A potent brew of lust, guilt, anger, and betrayal, Miles's journals reveal his constantly shifting emotional state and the perils he must navigate as his fantasies become increasingly hard to distinguish from reality.

In Hollywood Savage, acclaimed novelist Kristin McCloy probes one modern man's psychological depths with stunning accuracy, and illuminates the ways men and women try desperately to reveal themselves to one another, while still always keeping a part of their hearts a secret.  

Kristin McCloy was born in San Francisco and spent her childhood in Spain, India, and Japan.  A graduate of Duke University, she is the author of the novels Velocity and Some Girls.  Her novels have been published in more than fifteen countries.  She currently lives in Oakland, California.

Editorial Review

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Excerpt

Nothing so blinding as a simple piece of white paper. Haven’t begun, still waiting for the phrase that comes from somewhere else—the one that surprises when later read. Of course, no one knows better than a writer the myth of inspiration (or, as Stephen Crane observed, “inspiration’s nice, but it’s good to be sitting at the typewriter when it happens”). The real work is the keyboard, the chair, an empty room, a silent phone; the stack of books, those you admire most—the only company allowed. (The pain of such deliberate deprivation, day after day. After day. And how, months into it, you sit at a dinner party empty of comment, your own life peopled by characters only you know.)

Walking around town, making calls, drinking coffee, going out—feeding the bank, the question nags, or simply procrastination?

I rifle my bookshelves, glancing at random pages, hoping something—anything—will spark. At the very least, sifting through the collection for my heroes—in particular, the ones who might help me now; with this. (Bukowski, Gogol, Salter, Duras. Vonnegut, Salinger, Phillips, Hempel. Jones, Bass, Carver, Moore.) The ones who have taught (and continue teaching) me whatever I do know. Among which is that the beginning cannot be ground out, thought through, reasoned with; it comes from someplace else—surfacing, I think, or maybe I mean alighting—whether it comes from above or below, all I know is the beginning has to soar; has to begin that inner high-wire act, all the while knowing that every word must be worthy of somebody—of anybody—else’s eyes.

When I refused to sign with the studio unless I was given the right to do my own adaptation (or got first shot, anyway, as Maggie immediately pointed out), it was all swagger and master, the cool strut. How hard could it be, I’d thought— then. Now (of course), the effort required looms monumental.

But then, I’ve always balked at beginnings. Fine when I’m in the middle, when I’ve hit my stride, but something about starting strikes me false—the need to work oneself up like a horse behind the gate, rearing before the bell.

Start in the middle, then, my editor suggests. Yes, I think (I’d said)—those suggestions, they sound so simple in his office, the two of us high above midtown, looking down, broad daylight making everything safe, our problems practical, simply requiring solution (“yes, that’s it!”), so that both of us smile, pleased, two colleagues sitting in a room, a gulf of knowledge between us.

Try to talk myself down from the absolute blank of it, the stunned ignorance as to how to proceed. Type. “Exterior, Day,” then sit with my hands on the keyboard, minutes, an endless period of time. “My wife” the single recurring phrase.

It’s three hours later in New York—where everything, as she pointed out to me, happens first. Where is she right now—at the gym, hair pulled into a tight ponytail, she’s stepping, determined, up and up and up, going nowhere, sweat her sole purpose, the single destination; it is, I think, the only mindless thing she does all day.

Outside, the sun shines relentlessly, mocking. How can anyone think seriously in this town—the light crowds everything out, every nuance, every shadow.

Finally leave the hotel, get in the car. Drive up into the hills along Mulholland, see the Hollywood sign, enormous letters crooked on a hill. A town that advertises itself.

Went back down and east on Franklin with no destination until I saw the sign: Griffith Park. Turned on Western and followed the winding road into the canyon and further, all the way to the top. Solitary men parked along the sides, glancing at me, their looks brief but penetrating—am I one of them. Avert my eyes, half-envious, half-aghast at how, left to themselves, men seek sex out like predators, roving anonymous, nothing exchanged but the tacit enactment of some pornographic fantasy, furtive, illegal.

At the top, busloads of tourists unloading before the observatory. Didn’t stop the car, just drove back down, aimlessness like a nervous disorder. Parked at the bottom, near some picnic benches. A woman sitting alone, reading, a child playing at her feet. When I sat at a table nearby, she didn’t even look up.

Took my notebook out, still can’t suppress the wave of self-consciousness inevitably felt when attempting to write in public. Want the solace of other human faces around me, the sense of having escaped solitary confinement, but always end up paralyzed—ultimately, the act too private; feels like sitting on the john with the door open, pretending you don’t care if anyone sees.

I sit hunched over my paper, sunglassed, fraudulent, and all I’m thinking is whether she’s married or not. Does she love her husband. Does she still fuck him when they go to bed at night. Does she look at other men—she hasn’t, as far as I can tell, acknowledged my existence, not even for a second.

But I know how women can be. How Maggie is. Walking down the street, staring straight ahead, she seems oblivious to the men around her, catches everything. Who looks at her, how. That man, she’ll mutter about some Bowery drunk, staggering to gape after her, needs to get some sleep.

Women: they’ve trained themselves to notice everything without ever seeming to look around. To look invites atten-tion, Maggie says, and I get enough unwanted without having to ask for more.

Keep flashing on her that last night, how she changed out of her slouchy clothes before Connor came over, how she darkened her eyes. How every time I sat next to her she jumped up, muttering—check on dinner, she’d say, hate it when the bread gets burned—but then it did, and she forgot dessert altogether. . .

Sit here now obsessing, can’t shake it, about the way it was—the way she was—that last night in NYC. Coming out of the bedroom when Connor arrived, capable, despite the twelve years we’ve (somehow) stacked between us, of surprising me with her beauty.

She was possessed of an energy she calls forth sometimes, a kind of fire, wild; you can feel it in the air around her, see it in her eyes: it’s a passion, not just for life (life, she likes to say, is drudgery) but for this particular moment, now, and now and now and NOW—so that being with Maggie, when she’s like that, heightens everybody’s awareness, makes people greedy for her, makes them crave proximity—and maybe because it’s not entirely under her control, it makes her giddy, too; it has a sexual edge, always, but it also, especially when we’re with friends, creates a fine, sweet camaraderie.

At home with the two of them that night, like so many other nights before, she was a brilliant thing, my wife, glimpses of her mind like flashes of light, the sting of her wit a fine lash, always balanced by her goofiness (she was Mata Hari with knobby knees, tripping over her own laces).

Giggling, sexy, falling into Connor’s lap, she was the evening’s star, and while it made of us collaborators (Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid indulging the woman both adore), none of it was—none of it is—possible for me, neither the intimacy nor the ease, without the absolute certainty, so strong it has its own presence (or so I’ve thought), that come the end of the day, the end of the evening, when she’s tired, when it’s all over—that come the end of everything, the years of our lives themselves—it is, it would always have been—me whom she had entrusted it all to, her secrets and her lies, her brilliance and her bitterness—that it was me and only me who had to know her, to whom she had to tell it all . . . and me only who kept her warm and sacred and close . . . so that ultimately it never mattered whose lap she fell into, or upon whose shoulder she momentarily rested her head, because she would still, always, choose me.

Meet me at five, he’d said; that was all. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

From the Publisher:

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 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?

Enhance Your Book Club

1. There are many books, movies, and TV shows that take an inside look at the moviemaking business and all of its highs and lows. Seek out some of these for a different perspective on the industry and life in Hollywood. How do they compare with Hollywood Savage? Here are a few ideas to get you started:

Play It as It Lays
Singin’ in the Rain
The Player
Short Cuts
Postcards from the Edge
Soapdish
Annie Hall
Entourage
Mulholland Dr.
Ed Wood
Swimming with Sharks
Sunset Boulevard
Hollywoodland
L.A. Confidential

2. Many writers have encountered difficulties when working in Hollywood, including William Faulkner and F. Scott Fitzgerald, as well as more contemporary authors like John Irving. Research some popular movie adaptations of books you’ve read and see how faithful the film stayed to its source material. Then ask yourself that age-old question: Which is better, the book or the movie?

3. If you were a Hollywood director, who would you cast in the roles of Miles, Maggie, and Lucy? Why?

4. The debate between New York City and Los Angeles—which is better?—has been raging pretty much since the Dodgers hightailed it out of Brooklyn and headed for the balmy LA climate. Now that you’ve heard Miles’s opinions on the topic, it’s your turn to weigh in. If you had to choose between NYC and LA, which would you pick and why?

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