BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

…also known as, “Why don’t you…”

It seems that when I get questions from folks, that is usually the qualifying preamble.

“Why don’t you write Zombie books?”

“Why don’t you do book signings in Little Chicken Neck, Arkansas?”

“Why don’t you give Rowan a break?”

"Why don't you leave your wife and come shack up with me?"

Yeah… Sometimes some fairly weird stuff, and yes, I have actually been asked that “shack up with me” question, among various others I’m too polite to mention here. I’m flattered, but let’s get something straight – not gonna happen.

However, the “Why Doan-Choo” of late has actually come from colleagues in the field of book authorin’ as well as quite a few aspiring writers, and it has to do with Brainpan Leakage. Not actually grey matter running out your ears or anything, I mean Brainpan Leakage as in this blog. Their question, while taking many forms – simplistic to complex – always boils down to the following:

“Why don’t you write about writing in your blog?”

In answer to that I normally point toward the entry “I Can Haz Blog?” However, since that is way back in the archives and such, I figure I’ll post another, far more vitriolic missive about this subject.

So, here’s the answer – As a rule, writers who blog about writing tend to piss me off. (Just watch, one of the aforementioned offenders will see this and yell at me about ending that sentence with a preposition.)

Now, let me clarify this a bit. Not ALL writers who blog about writing piss me off, just a good portion of them. There are a few gems out there who actually give some thought to the process and are simply answering questions about how THEY go about writing a story. Those types of blogs are interesting. That type of advice is worthwhile.

However, the vast majority of “blogs about writing” – that I have read – tend more toward:

“Hi, I’m [insert name here]. I (pick one) –

1. Has jest have my first book publishified.
2. Reeded a book won tyme.
3. Write ingredient copy for Campbell’s soup labels.
4. Can burp the alphabet while drunk.
5. What’z uh buhk?

– and because this makes me an expert in the field I am going to tell you exactly how it is done. I am correct, you are incorrect, and if you don’t write exactly the way I tell you to in my blog, then you are a big moron who doesn’t deserve to live.”

Yeah… Okay… So I’ll admit to exaggerating things there, but I think you all realize I did so to make my point. The basic gist of the above is that there are far too many self-important, pseudo-pedantic blogs out there with folks stating opinion as fact, many of whom don’t actually have the necessary qualifications to do so. And this goes for plenty of subjects besides just writing…

However, as the subject of writing goes many folks make an assumption that having a book published automatically grants them expert credentials. Well I’ve had 9 books published, several of which have won awards and all of which have spent time on various best seller lists.  I also have a few short stories out there and contracts to write a few more books, and guess what? I am NOT qualified to tell you how to write.

The simple fact is that nobody is, plain and simple…

Unfortunately – and this goes back to my entry “I Can Haz Blog” as well – there are also too many “how to” sites telling new and aspiring authors that in order to create a web presence and get their names known they need to blog about writing and position themselves as experts.

As Felicity O’Brien would say, “Cac capaill!” (for the Gaelic challenged – Horseshit!)

However, since I keep getting the question I am going to cave for a moment and give folks what they want. So here you go. This is my blog about writing,  and my personal, foolproof, guaranteed 10 point process for authoring… And dare I say this is the definitive blog about writing… (at least as far as any you are ever going to get from me.)

And so, here they are in no particular order:

1. If you want to write, then write. Don’t talk about it, DO it.
2. The only thing you can be taught is the mechanics and you should have picked these up sometime around your first English Composition class. In fact, per a dear friend of mine who is an English teacher you should have picked them up by the 4th grade. Ability and talent come from within, not from a book, teacher, or unsolicited advice.
3. You can ask advice about nuances of writing, but that’s about it. Ability and talent do not come from solicited advice either. Don’t ask someone to teach you to be a writer. That movie with Sean Connery and the kid? Didn’t really happen. Get over it. But always remember, just like the Baz Luhrmann song says: Be careful whose advice you take. And to add my two cents, it’s just advice, not gospel.
4. You are going to forget shit from English Comp. We all do unless we teach it for a living, and even then I’ve personally caught teachers making mistakes. Your best bet is to keep a couple of grammar reference books handy, but you should use them just like the Pirates use their rules – as a set of guidelines. Don’t be afraid to paint outside the lines, just don’t spill any and make a mess.
5. Use a proofing sheet. It saves your editor headaches and if you save your editor headaches you save yourself heartaches. You are going to have a love/hate relationship with your editor, so do as much as you can to skew the scales toward the love. It’s better for both of you and you’ll save on antacids.
6. When and if you have some success at this game, don’t take yourself too seriously, or believe your own press.  If you do, you are in for a big surprise. Your shit stinks just like everyone else’s, and someone is bound to tell you so. The farther you have to fall, the worse your ego is going to get bruised on impact.
7. Read Strunk and White’s Elements of Style and The Chicago Manual of Style. Then use them to hold up an uneven table leg and never touch them again. Again, they are guidelines, but they are not the definitive word on how to write. Ask any linguist – our language and its usage are evolving on a daily basis.
8. Ignore anyone who tells you that to be a writer you must follow the rules set forth by Elmore Leonard. If they persist in following you around and spouting this nonsense, hit them over the head with a cast iron skillet and knock some sense into them. Even if it doesn’t knock sense into them they will probably be quiet for a good while afterward.
9. Observe life around you and soak it up like a sponge. When creating a character look inward and draw from personal experience. That is what will make the character believable and real.
10. Marry someone with a trust fund or a good job who doesn’t mind supporting your ass. Not all of us get to be a Laurell K. Hamilton, James Patterson,  John Grisham, et. al.

Here’s the thing – Writing, just like painting, is an art form. It is open to interpretation. That’s just how it is.

And, lest you think I have now crossed over to the dark side of the pseudo-pedantic, self-important “how to write” bloggers I so disdain, let me say just one more thing…

The above is my opinion and nothing more than my opinion on the subject of the authoring biz. It is how I write and how I view writing. It may or may not work for you, so feel free to take it or leave it.

Okay, enough with all this serious crap… I’ll try to make sure my next blog returns to the realm of bizarre humor. That’s way more fun…

Oh, and by the way. NO. I am NOT going to leave my wife and shack up with you.

More to come…

Murv

Continued from: Enhanced Husband Torture Techniques…

Part 2 of 2…

Return with us now to the thrilling days of a Christmas past – When last we left our intrepid blogger, he had asked his wife – the evilest of all evil redheads, Queen Eebil Kat – what manner of offering she demanded be left beneath the sacred scratching post tree on Eebil Katsmas Eve. Her  demand was, of course, for nothing less than “Cool Socks”. Unbeknown to our lovable curmudgeon, Queen Eebil Kat was hatching a sinister plan which would place him in serious peril – a peril she would use for her personal amusement while she laughed and filed her nails…

Okay… Everyone all caught up? Good. Let’s get on with this, because it’s painful for me to even think about.

So, I was feeling pretty good with this. “Cool Socks”. Definitely couldn’t be that hard. I’d been in the sock room before, so I knew what generally constituted cool in her eyes. I also knew her shoe size, so if the socks were for some reason classified by actual sizes, I could cross reference it somewhere.

I was all good. I’d already ordered up another gift she had made noises about throughout the year, so the socks were going to be the perfect distraction. Truth is, I was more than good. I was flat out golden.

Then, as they say, the hangin’ day came round… (Who is they? Mason Proffit, of course…)

At any rate, I cleared a bit of my schedule one day so that I could run to the store. Now, I didn’t imagine it would take long for me to obtain the sacred socks, but just to be on the safe side, since it WAS the Christmas (aka Katsmas) season after all, I scheduled myself the whole late morning and early afternoon to accomplish said task.

Now, something you need to understand about me is this: I absolutely hate shopping. Despise it. Seriously. I am one of those folks who knows exactly what he is after, goes to get it at the least busy time of day he can find, then zips in and right back out of the store, avoiding all unnecessary contact with insane shoppers that he can. The only – and I mean ONLY time I enjoy shopping is when I take E K to a nice store and do the whole “Pretty Woman” thing with her.

1. Because she is, in point of fact, pretty. EXTREMELY pretty. (Wayyyyyy prettier than Julia Roberts if you ask me.)
2. Because I get to sit in one place and watch. Not much crowd dodging involved. Life is good. E K gets new pretty clothes, I get to relax and watch a hottie trying on said clothes. The only thing that would make it better is a cooler full of beer.

Unfortunately this particular spree did not fall into the “E K / Pretty Woman” category. It did, however, fall into the “must obtain offering for the Eebil Queen” category. And, I’m all about making sure The Evil One is placated, lest I end up whimpering in the back of a closet with a variety of size 7 woman’s shoe prints all up and down my torso.

So, with my schedule cleared, off to the mall I went.

Not being a regular shopper for women’s wear, I wandered aimlessly through a couple of the stores at Northwest Plaza. Up the escalator I went. Down the escalator I went. Wander, wander, wander… Dodge, dodge, dodge… Up, down… Down, up… Wander some more.

Then I frowned really hard. Why? Because I found no cool socks. In fact, the only socks I managed to find were mens tube socks, six in a bag, your choice, black or white.

Definitely not cool.

So, with my shoulders starting to slump, I started again through the mall and decided to bite the bullet. I would go into one of the high dollar department stores. I don’t want to name it here, but let’s just say the first half of the name is a kind of pickle and the second half rhymes with “cards”.

We had played pretty woman here before, so surely they, of all stores, would have “cool socks” befitting of Queen Eebil Kat.

I did the up, down, wander around thing a bit more. Then, like the point of a shovel striking a buried chest, I rounded a corner and found, yes, you guessed it, socks. But, that wasn’t all. As I made a beeline toward this treasure trove of offerings for my Evil Queen, I met what you might call resistance. You see, just as pirates buried dead dudes with their treasure chests, apparently big, fancy stores bury dead, angry salesladies with their socks. Before I had made it two steps into the department, the departed souls of one of them popped right up in my face. With the path to my prize blocked, I immediately took evasive action and tried to sidestep her. Well, apparently the angry spirits of dead old salesladies are pretty nimble, because I didn’t make it an inch before she was right there barring my way. I tried feinting to one side and then shifting to the other, but it was like she could read my mind. I simply wasn’t getting in.

I stopped and stood there for a moment, while the sales zombie looked me over, then she opened her mouth. I started to back up, fearing that she was going to try to eat my brain, but instead she simply barked with unmistakable disdain, “Can I help you?!”

You could just tell by the way she said it that she had to have been a redhead before all the color drained out of her.

“Socks,” I said. “I need to by some socks.”

“Mens apparel is downstairs,” she growled.

“They aren’t for me,” I replied.

She eyed me with suspicion then demanded, “Who are they for?”

“My wife.”

“Your wife?” She didn’t sound as though she believed me.

I couldn’t help myself. I was starting to get a bit impatient so I blurted, “Did I stutter?”

“Don’t be a smartass or I’ll eat your face!” she hissed in return.

“Yes ma’am.”

Continuing with her interrogation she spat, “Why are you buying socks for your wife?”

“A Katsma… I mean Christmas present.”

“Present? Socks?” There was absolutely no mistaking the fact that she didn’t believe me at all this time.

“Yeah, she said she wanted some cool socks.”

“Cool socks? What do you mean, cool socks?”

“You know. Socks with interesting patterns. Argyle. That sort of thing.”

“Yeah, right,” she mumbled, standing there working her jaw and smacking her lips. I imagine she was trying to get an errant bit of brains from the last poor schmuck dislodged from her false teeth. She looked me over in silence twice more, then stepped aside. “These are all the socks we have.”

“Thank you,” I said, slipping past her to inspect the rows of polka dotted, striped, argyled, fuzzy, and otherwise “cool” feminine foot coverings.

Now, not having an absolute inventory of the sock room floating around in my head, it took me a bit to make a decision on a few pairs of the sacred socks. Obviously I wanted my offering to the Evil Queen to be perfect, especially with it being Katsmas and all. My task, however, was not made any easier by the fact that the Zombie Sales Lady Jackal didn’t stray from my side. She just kept following me up and down the aisles, never less than a half dozen inches away as she shuffled along, grunting and wheezing. I have to admit, not only was it psychologically disconcerting, but I almost succumbed to the Ben Gay and Polygrip fumes that were wafting around me in thick clouds.

Finally, I chose some especially cool socks for my dear and lovely. Before I could even start toward the register, Zombie lady snatched them out of my hands and demanded, “Cash or charge?”

“Visa…” I mumbled, extracting the plastic money from my wallet.

“You want these gift wrapped?” she spat, wobbling off to the register stand.

“No. I can handle that,” I replied.

“Uh-huh,” she grunted. “I thought so, you pervert.”

By the time I arrived at my truck, mall security, the local police, and a SWAT team had surrounded it. I was taken into to custody and spent several grueling hours trying to answer questions about sock fetishism.

But, that wasn’t the scary part. When they finally turned on the overhead lights in the interview room, who do you think I saw? Yeah… E K sitting in the corner, giggling to herself in a very satisfied way, all the while painting her nails.

I’m no longer allowed within 100 feet of the women’s sock aisle in any department store in the United States. I can hang out in the lingerie all I want, but if I go near the socks I end up getting tackled by security. These days I have to shop for my offerings to Queen Eebil Kat online. Even so, my guess is all those sites are tracking my IP address just to be sure I don’t do anything perverted.

More to come…

Murv