Dr. Lewis B. Turndevelts Big Book of Forewords | Page 7

would do
when the world is their oyster: I starved.
Turns out that for some reason they didn't need my expertise in.... well,
anything. They pretty much had most things covered. I lived on various
and exotic varieties of bologna and managed to scrape by cleaning up
at the dog tracks (after the dogs, that is). One of my coworkers, an out
of work transvestite party clown by the name of "Whistling Trixie,"
actually got me my first foreword assignment. I remember the day well,
as Trixie walked up with a shovel in one hand and the hem of his dress
in the other and said, "Shhh-ugar, didn't you tell me that you was a
writer?" all the while pursing his lips as if a rubber band was keeping
them tightly together. I stared silently at his latest outfit for the better
part of half a minute because I couldn't even comprehend how it came
to be an actual outfit that someone would wear. Fishnet stockings on
top of ripped pantyhose underneath a pink party dress, complementing
a leather bikers jacket with 'Road Queen' beaded on the back. It was
almost as if a flea market exploded and smothered the poor man...
woman... or party clown. I finally tore my eyes away long enough to
manage, "I'm sorry, what did you say? I couldn't help but stare at your
ridiculous clothes."

"Oh stop it, you tease," he whistled, apparently thinking that we were
always playfully going on this way. "I have this friend that needs a little
help with her book on makeup for the modern woman, you see? And I
told her, I said 'There's a guy scooping poop with me at the factory that
does some writing!'" (Trixie was always referring to the dog track as
"the factory," not simply as a reference to the industrious evacuation of
our particular canines, but I suspect also as an effort to imbue our plight
with more masculine undertones, which suited him/her just fine.)
This friend of Trixie's, the one writing this book about makeup for the
modern woman, was also neither modern nor a woman. Nor was (s)he
doing much writing. So the previous request for "help" was a touch
misleading, but I'm always up for a challenge. I pride myself in being a
versatile writer with an array of styles from which to pull. And given
the fact that I had seen lots of magazine advertisements for different
types of makeup, I decided to give it a shot. Two weeks and five
eyebrow pencils later we had finished the book: I, the ghostwriter, and
Maxine - or Max for short - providing the important role of makeup
tester.
At some point during the photo shoot phase, Max pointed out that we
should really have a foreword to the book, explaining the importance of
makeup to the modern woman. I thought this sounded like a reasonable
idea, because since the book was indeed about makeup for the modern
woman... well, it just made sense. And really when he mentioned that
"we" should have a foreword, that of course meant my putting one
together. I used my own name, because to be perfectly frank, it was a
very good foreword. I challenge anyone to find a better foreword to a
book about makeup for the modern woman.
That book went on to sell over five copies, one of which made its way
into the hands of my current agent, who still claims that he purchased it
for his aunt. The rest, of course, is history, primarily because it also
happened in the past.
Since then I have written well over three filing cabinets full of book
forewords, with more work in the wings. It's funny how life can pull a
detour sign out from behind its back and send you down a two-lane

country road in the middle of nowhere. But I really can't complain. Oh,
I've still never been able to finish that novel I started - the one about
aliens living among us, intended to fix some of the problems with the
movie we saw as teenagers - but there's always a desire to make room
for a good story.
But forewords are why we're all here today. There have been other
prominent writers in the field - Fizzlepot and Cranwreath come to mind,
usually as the result of heartburn - but it is my hope that my work in
this collection will finally get the art form out of its infancy and up
walking around and bumping into coffee tables. The coffee tables, of
course, that I'm sure will all be holding copies of this book, as well as
remote controls for flipping between television channels of the many
late-night shows featuring an appearance by yours truly describing the
bizarre