BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Being on a book tour is hard work.

On the outside, looking in, it probably doesn’t seem that way to most folks. But, trust me, it is. Take, for instance, this most recent tour.

Each day, Morrison and I would get up at the buttcrack of dawn. As in 4AM or even a bit earlier. Sometimes a bit later, but not by much. This would immediately be followed by us complaining about how we were too old for this crap. Instead of giving up and going back to sleep, however, we would take our turns getting a shower, then stuff all of our “possibles” (as Morrison calls them,) into our respective suitcases, and then spend a few minutes disassembling and reassembling the 3 dimensional puzzle that was the trunk and back seat of the rental car. Once we had jumped up and down on the trunk lid a few times, finally getting it to latch, we would hop into the vehicle and hit the road. Our first stop would usually be the office of the motel for a cup of coffee and a stale donut. If no such comestibles were available to us, we would find a Dunkin Donuts, local diner, or even a stop ‘n shop where we could grab the aforementioned caffeine and carb fix.

Then, Jane, AKA “the bitch in the box” would bark her orders at us as we navigated the streets of unfamiliar cities, eventually making our way to an unfamiliar highway, then striking out on the next leg of our journey. The drive could be 4 hours, or it could be 7. It all hinged on where we were expected to be next (as outlined in the sacred blue folder, which lived for 15 days tucked behind the sun visor on the passenger side of the car…) Sometimes we had to be in one place by 11AM, only to turn around and be in another place by 6PM. Somewhere in that mess we also needed to check in to our motel, freshen up our road weary faces, and do what it is that one does when your job is signing books and entertaining workshop attendees.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. Both of us truly enjoy going on book tours and meeting folks. I’m simply pointing out that this is NOT the glamorous life you see depicted in movies. It’s work. It’s tough work. And, it involves long, long days and nights. Typically, our work day is 14 to 16 hours.

You will notice in the above diatribe that nothing is mentioned about lunch. Just the stale donut and coffee at 5AM or thereabouts. Why no lunch? Because, when your schedule is that tight, and you are zipping across entire states going from bookstore to bookstore, lunch isn’t always an option. That stale donut/bagel and weak coffee is your primary sustenance for the day.

By the time you get finished with the appearances for that calendar date, it is almost certainly close to being the next day. As in, 11PM or after. You climb back into the car and head for the motel…or to the home of a friend where you are going to crash…and set out again. Sometimes the friend or motel is close. Sometimes it’s two hours down the road so that you are just that much closer to your next gig. It’s just the way of things. When you get where you are going, you suddenly realize that the donut and coffee are fully digested, every single nutrient that could be gleaned from them has been and has been used to its full potential…It also dawns on you that your adrenal gland, which has been keeping you upright for the past 8 hours is now tapped out. So, before you climb into bed to get your 3 to 4 hours of sleep, you roll into a diner and get a hamburger…or a cheese sandwich…or you even drop by the Quick E Mart and toss down one of those not so appetizing, pre-made, pre-packaged chicken salad sandwiches. (Well, I ate a sandwich, Morrison had M&M’s. I think she was looking for comfort food that night, and the Quick E Mart didn’t have a steak.) Anyway, the point is that you dump some kind of fuel into your system so that you can keep going.

So, what does this have to do with Pizza? Glad you asked.

After one of our gigs…I think it was in Rehoboth, MA, but don’t quote me, because I really did lose track of where and when I was (this is not unusual)…we had a one and a half hour drive to get to our crash point. We were staying with some friends who happen to live in Salem, MA. Since we had never been to their place before we had some directions with landmarks. A few minutes outside Salem, Morrison mentioned to me that one of the landmarks was the fact that their apartment building had a pizza joint on the ground floor.

Neither of us had eaten a thing since that morning. The magical word PIZZA had been uttered. We both looked at one another and said, “Pizza!” Our stomachs began to growl. Our mouths began to water. And, we said PIZZA! yet again. The monster was out of the proverbial closet.

We arrived at our destination, and with the help of our friends Kim and Alec, carted our luggage up to their spacious and exceptionally cool apartment. Kim called downstairs to order us a Pizza, primarily because we crawled out of the car and didn’t even say hello. We just kept saying, PIZZA and sighing wistfully. Fortunately, Kim and Alec are very bright and on the ball, which meant they were both able to quickly decipher the inane ramblings of two wiped out authors on tour.

The Pizza place was getting close to closing time so they told her they were only serving slices, and not making whole pizzas. Alarms went off. Eyes watered. Emotional breakdowns were on the verge of ensuing. Pizza was what we needed. Pizza was the only thing that would sustain us at this point. Without pizza we would wither and die. So, we all marched downstairs right into the pizza place. If nothing else, we were going to get a slice.

That was when Morrison gained a momentary spark of lucidity and genius. She looked at the girl behind the counter and said, “Are any of those pizzas back there whole?” The girl said, “Why yes, we do have a whole cheese pizza.” Morrison waved money at her and said, “Give it to me.” Note, she did not say “please, may we have that one,” or “would you be willing to sell us the whole pizza.” No, she said “Give it to me.” Obviously, since she was waving money she didn’t mean that the girl should literally “give it to her,” but it was obvious to everyone in the place that Morrison wasn’t leaving without that pizza.

I was reaching for my wallet. At that point we were both willing to toss all of the green we had onto the counter in order to obtain the sacred pizza. Fortunately, they were scrupulous folks and didn’t take advantage of us in our deteriorated states. We got the pizza, went back upstairs then stood in Kim and Alec’s kitchen, a slice in one hand, and a nice, cold, hard cider in the other. And we ate.

And we ate…

And we ate…

All in all, I can guarantee you that the pizza was pretty much average as pizzas go.

But, that night…Well, let’s just say on that particular night, it was the best damn pizza either of us had ever eaten in our lives.

More to come…

Murv

PS. In a day or two I’ll tell you about round two…New York style pizza (actually, they call it “pie”) purchased in New Jersey…

Being the marketing whore I am, I belong to several e-lists, forums, and even social networking sites (other than MySpank here). I would like to point out, however, that I am more along the line of a high-priced call-marketer, rather than the street corner quickie. Why? Because I try to show a little class.

I take great pains to avoid being one of those incredibly ridiculous, in your face authors who twists any and all subjects around to a mention of their latest book. For example, say you have a thread where someone says “I like oranges”…If for some odd reason I was to throw my two cents in there, it would be something along the lines of “Yeah, me too. Especially the navel oranges because I don’t like seeds.” Whereas, some of the cheaper, street corner author-whores might seize upon that opportunity to post something like, “Well, if you like oranges you should read my latest novel because in chapter 15, my protagonist, Buck Naked, eats an orange before going out to track down the bad guy, Chronic Halitosis.”

I know…It sounds utterly ridiculous, doesn’t it? Well, even though I have never seen a post specifically about an orange, I have seen some just as convoluted…Some, even worse. We call this Blatant Shameless Self-Promotion. (BSSP or BSP) While self-promotion is an absolute must for authors, being so completely insane about it is…well…just icky.

What in blue blazes does this have to do with pink toenails? Not a damn thing. I just wanted to make it clear that while I’ll readily admit to being a whore, I’m neither cheap nor easy. And, “I gots class.”

Okay…So now that we have established that, back to the topic at hand. Actually, the above really does have some small amount to do with this– that being the fact that I belong to so many different lists, forums, and social networking interfaces on the web. What it comes down to is that I see a whole mess of discussions on a whole mess of different topics. Some of them so-so, some of them interesting.

And there you have it. One of these topics on a forum recently caught my attention. In fact, it has appeared on several forums, and even as commentary/questions in my personal email. While I didn’t feel a need to toss my two cents in on it at the time (nothing had been mentioned about oranges in any of the threads or emails, so why would I?) events of the last day have led me to blog about this subject…

The topic in question was, “What do authors do in their free time?”

Some of the speculation was interesting. People commented about different authors they had met in person, stating that they seemed like down to earth folks who would fit right in with their personal circle of friends. Some wondered if it was a taboo to offer to buy lunch for an author or would you be seen as a stalker (for the record, we like free lunches…but not stalkers.) Others waxed prophetic about how much fun we must be having in our multi-million dollar homes with the indoor-outdoor pools, and high-caliber celebrities coming over for parties. I am sincerely hoping that those commentaries were tongue in cheek, because I have yet to be issued my mansion and yacht…

So, in addition to the “wonder if authors hang out with their friends who knew them before they were authors” kind of questions (yes, we do, BTW), there were the typical “what’s a day in the life of an author like?”

Well…I could ramble on for hours, boring you with the details of getting up in the morning, getting my wife off to work, my daughter off to school, doing dishes. cleaning up cat barf from a geriatric, diabetic feline, spreading notes out on the table and plotting a chapter. Then, typing for a couple of hours, deciding it isn’t right and cutting and pasting for a while, only to go back and write it all over again. Making a fresh pot of coffee while eating a sandwich over the sink…Answering the phone only to discover that it is a radio interview you forgot you were supposed to do but your mouth is full of braunschwieger and swiss on whole wheat with a bread and butter pickle slice…So you wash it down and get on with the interview only to discover that the interviewer has never read your books, or even a synopsis–just two lines of the press release. Therefore, she has concluded that you must be an FBI agent and you spend 11 minutes of the 15 minute interview fielding questions you can’t possibly answer about the inner workings of Quantico while trying to convince her that you do NOT work for the FBI…Finally, you get that done and say to yourself “now where was I?”. You manage to get back to what you were doing (writing…after all, that’s what we do) and if you are lucky you get your self-imposed quota written for the day just in time to get your happy ass into the kitchen and make dinner before evil wife person and the kid get home…And, you do ALL of this without ever once wearing a tweed jacket with elbow patches. (My preferred mode of dress is much classier. Cargo shorts, a t-shirt, tube socks, and if I have to run out to the post office or something, my tan Crocs…See a previous blog for details on those…)

Not very glamorous, eh? Kind of like going to the office, working on a project only to discover the data you got from Fred is wrong, so you have to redo half of it…however, you get interrupted by the boss because he/she needs you to stop what you are doing and take care of something else, even though it is something you aren’t qualified for and would be better done by Sally in accounting. Only to wind up your day picking up a bucket of chicken on the way home because the spouse has to take the kid to soccer practice. But, when you arrive late you discover the dog couldn’t hold it so he crapped in your living room…

See the parallel’s there?

“But, Murv! What the holy hell does this have to do with pink toenails?” you demand.

That should be obvious from paragraph 10. I have a daughter, and she’s at “that age.” No, not the age where she brings boys home and I sit in the living room cleaning guns. That’s a few years off yet. She’s still a munchkin and she is at that stage where she wants to be a girly girl (which is fine) but she also wants everyone around her to be pretty too.

So…What did this author do with his free time yesterday? After doing the grocery shopping and other exciting crap like that, he let his 7 year old daughter paint his toenails pink (along with a good portion of his toes).

My wife claims there’s no nail polish remover to be had in the house. I’m pretty sure she’s lying. I can tell by the evil grin.

Till the next time…

Murv