This chapter is pure background on the heroine's life. If it's boring, please don't be discouraged. The later stuff gets much better.

1~The Beginning

I was fourteen when Linda McCartney died. Sure, I could lie to you and say I was a lot older-twenty-four, maybe-but I wouldn't do that. My age may not seem very important and it isn't, at least at this juncture. I will divulge into it a little later.

I was a war-child as kids born in a war are called. Born in the early eighties, in the midst of the Cold War. My parents were war bride and groom, too and were married that same year. I grew up in the latter half of the eighties and in the nineties. My generation was of broken homes, violence and corruption in society. The President of the United States was having sex outside of marriage and made

America, my country and one I was fiercely patriotic to, despite my tender years, the laughingstock of the world. People were dying on the streets, many innocent bystanders, during drive-by shootings. I had been walking home from school with a friend when one occurred in my neighbourhood a couple years back. Prostitutes stood out on corners in "South Central" ready to go home with anyone. But though this had been happening for years, it hadn't the feel of the "free love and sex" of the Sixties or anything since then. Children were constantly and continually exposed to filthy sex-related jargon on the tube, in the school, with friends and sometimes even in the home. Parents took steps to regulate the violence and other crap on TV, but their kids still knew and know a lot more about some topics

they shouldn't.

Innocence protects us to an extent but sometimes we can't help

understanding what we hear. I was lucky to have been born into a good, hard-working family. We were not rich, but we weren't poor either. We lived in decent homes even if the town left much to be desired. My parents loved each other very much and I, being

the eldest, soon had two younger siblings. There was a lot of strain on my parents' marriage. My father was in the Navy and was gone a lot, missing quite a bit of his first years of married life and of my baby years. He hadn't been with my mother and I when I had been born; he'd missed a slew of wedding anniversaries and other important ceremonies. But in spite of all this and of all the fallen marriages around them, their love kept them together and gave me a "real family." That was something I had always been proud of, but never realized until I moved out of a near-seaside community in Southern California and up a bit to a smaller town. "Where the hell is Windy Falls?" was a common self-mocking joke. In that town, population 400 before the building boom of the mid-nineties sent families like mine in search of better places to raise children and find new opportunities, many of the kids I went to school with had single parents. I told my mom that one day and realized what I had. Three years later I was to hear the realization spoken by a stranger's lips: "What! A real family!"

I was (and still am) a huge Beatle fan. I spent most of my life without a band to call my own. Everyone at school was into rap and r&b, but that didn't hold an interest for me. I was music-starved. My father had no idea I even liked music, but I did, very much. No one, last of all myself, knew that there was a whole other side to me-my musical side. It showed itself when I got interested in playing the piano when I was seven. But with bands-I liked a group called All-4-One for a little while, but no big deal.

Though I didn't know it, I had wide musical tastes. I knew many of the "old" songs from the eighties by heart, but it was something I never thought about. I didn't know about CDs or anything. I was just a little ignoramus in regard to music. But on my twelfth birthday I got a CD player of my own and started my own collection of CDs. I had three-two All-4-One CDs and one from Mariah Carey and that was it. Until my dad brought home a movie titled A Hard Day's Night. He wanted me to watch it, but I shrugged it off, not really caring too much. I remember him sitting down with my mom watching it one afternoon and he was talking about the scene where the Beatles were being chased by fans in the train station. I was vaguely interested, but didn't pay attention.

Finally, after my dad asking me again and promising that it would be good, I sat down and watched it.

And I loved it!

It appealed directly to my wacky sense of humour and I just…well, I just loved it! The first time I watched it, I picked up the jokes and listened to the dialogue while trying desperately to name the characters. I knew who the Beatles were-I knew their songs (though I hadn't any idea they had done "Hey Jude"-I thought a nineties' band had done it) a little and I was a bit aware of the tragedy of John Lennon in 1980. The names John Lennon, Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr were familiar to me, but not George's. I knew Ringo was a Beatle in some way-I saw his name on Shining Time Station and knew he was somebody important. But I didn't connect John and Paul to the Fab Four. My dad told me their names and pointed out who was who, but I kept forgetting, so whenever a close-up came, I'd ask, "Who's that?"

The second time (we'd rented it for three days) I watched it, I was more intent on putting the names to the faces. A line from a book popped into my head-something about some girl trying to find some way to identify some twins-so I applied it here. I looked at them all, trying to think of some characteristics to tell them apart. My dad knew what I was thinking and as I saw Paul singing, I was struck with how incredibly good-looking he was. I figured that'd be how I'd remember him and as I thought that, my dad said,

"Oh, Paul's the easiest to remember. He's the cutest."

Now, being a full-fledged Beatlemaniac and a lot more educated on the band I finally found a home with, I read about how much Paul hated that stereotype and how the others-John as smart and witty, Ringo as funny and sad and George as quiet-detested theirs. I slowly came onto the music and my dad started to buy me Beatles albums and dug out an old tape he'd bought in the Seventies called Something New. I was disappointed no pictures were with it, but the music was great. I borrowed Beatle albums off of friends and didn't appreciate their full value-I listened to about three or four songs on Sgt. Pepper and didn't bother with the rest! Imagine that!

But I did as a few months passed. It never occurred to me to buy my own Beatle album-my dad went to the record shop occasionally and I could only hope for something new (no pun intended). The music was affecting me in a way no music ever had. And I wanted more. I had only A Hard Day's Night, With the Beatles and the Something New tape to listen to. I knew there was more and kept hoping that my dad would get more. One day he brought home the movie Help! which I loved also (and was dismayed to find, a couple years later, that they had hated it). My dad casually remarked that I ought to get the Help! soundtrack. I was so happy and pleased by the suggestion, but hid it by saying how I'd like to hear "that spooky music" of the scene where the killer-people were invading the Beatles' apartment in search of Ringo. I saved and bought it, blushing very hotly as my mom tossed of a teasing remark and of my friend's inquiries of what the album was. (She listened to all the 'in' groups. The Beatles are still 'in' in my book and they always will be.) I hadn't much experience in buying it myself but believe me, I got plenty. I ended up saving all my money towards buying albums or anything Beatley instead of buying the junk I had been wasting my precious few bills on.

I became an avid Beatle reader. I was always hunting for information on them and found many books on them. I wasn't twelve anymore. I was thirteen, older and a little more educated. I was fiercely loyal to the group (and still am) and knew why I hadn't had a band before them. I hadn't realized I could go back years and not stay with the nineties. The Beatles opened doors for me. I loved all of their music-drugged-out or lovingly mop-toppish and found that I loved good ol' rock and roll.

Fourteen. I turned fourteen on the eighth of April (Julian Lennon's

birthday. What a coincidence.). I invited about ten people to my party, but no one showed up. My first disappointment of being fourteen and I hadn't been it long. But my mother bought me Anthology 3 as a consolation, which was fine by me.

About a week later, I lay stretched out on my bed, a lamp by my bedside casting a soft, cozy glow into my golden-greenish brown eyes and causing shadows to form on my blanket from my fingers swiftly writing a poem before the verses left me. I closed my eyes and envisioned Paul and Linda walking hand-in-hand on their farm. Paul's All the Best album played softly in the background. I wrote a poem as a loving tribute to him. It may not have been

very good, but there was love behind it, which was all that counted. When I 'finished, I wrote "Friday, April 17, 1998" in the top margin. And then I went to sleep.

I walked to school Monday morning ignorant of any news. I entered my classroom and my friend said to me,

"Did you know that Linda McCartney died?"

******

Oh, I didn't know! And it hit me that she died when I was picturing the two of them so happily loving each other. My heart went out to Paul and his family. For a little while after that, I felt a pang of pain whenever I saw Linda's picture-those beautiful blue eyes staring back at me with that smile on her face. And she would never again smile at Paul, not until he was with her once more.

A few days later, I started writing a story about Paul and Linda to focus my thoughts somewhere. I was a writer. I had been having dreams about Paul alone on his farm and I was always going to meet him and being his friend.

I had many daydreams about them, too. I just decided to put everything into a story. I thought I had a pretty good plot and the dreams outlined what to do.

I spent eight or nine months writing, editing and rewriting it. When I finished it, I leaned back and watched it come out of my printer, proud. When I saw Paul someday, as something told me would happen, I wanted to give it to him. Many girls swore that they'd meet a Beatle when the Beatles were the Beatles and didn't, but somehow I just knew I'd meet him. I got the story published on the Web and looked into book publishers. Some "big wigs" in the publishing business accepted it and a beautifully bound copy of it arrived in my mailbox one day.

In that same year, I attended a modeling school audition and made it into the school. I graduated, signed with the agency that ran the school, and got "discovered." When other sixteen-year-olds rejoiced over their driver's licenses, I rejoiced over landing the part of Maria in a remake of West Side Story that hit the box offices and took in about 90 million with much critical acclaim. I had made my mark. I was no longer just a dreaming young hopeful girl from a small town named Lynne Lewis. I started getting frequent calls

for jobs. I was now a famous, well-known actress, model and writer. I had written a few books, guest-wrote for quite a few magazines, did many runway fashion shows and photo shoots and starred in a number of movies and shows. I did so many things. But I was most pleased that my writings were really picked up by people and did not resent the fact that my acting and modeling had made it so.

Many people asked me not just the same reporter questions

about my new movie, book or modeling shoot, but about how I felt when I wrote things. I was a writer to the core, though the actress in me was quite there as well.

Not one critic said I'd be just a child actor. I changed roles and was a good, convent schoolgirl in one flick and a seductress in the next. I retained my Windy Falls feel and remembered Home as I left it often. I graduated from high school an honored graduate. I applied to many colleges and was accepted to Oxford in England. And not once did I forget that my favourite band was the Beatles.

Go on to Chapter 2.
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