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  • What I Wanna Know Is…

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    Yep, it appears that it is once again time for a FAQ answer session filled with FAQ’s and “not so FAQ’s” that are asked a bit more rarely. A few of these are pretty normal questions – exactly the kind you would expect. However, some of these queries are a bit on the odd side. Still, the one thing they all have in common is that they have actually been asked at least once, and in many cases more than once.

    True story…

    And, you know, I have a strange feeling I’ve answered some of these before… So, since some of them are “Not So F A FAQ’s” with a bit of a weird bent,  I think maybe I’ll answer them with “Not So Answer Answers” and my tongue planted firmly in cheek.


    1. What is your safe word?

    I’m not entirely sure what makes you think I have one. I mean, what good would it do? E K doesn’t respond to such things.

    2. How many more Rowan Gant novels will there be? (This one really is frequently asked, but it bears repeating at this juncture.)

    I’ve always said that when people stop buying them I’ll stop writing them. Well, with that statement in mind I’ll give you the only answer I can – Let’s hope the economy and book sales pick up soon or the end of the RGI series will be wayyyyy sooner than I’d like.

    3. What is E Kay’s shoe size?

    So, what’s your story here? Retifism, Podophilia, or since they go hand in hand a combination thereof? Or should I say foot in foot? Foot in hand? Foot in mouth? Hell, I give up…

    In any case, I’ll let you ask her that yourself, and you’d best be prepared to tell her why you want to know. If it’s an innocuous reason – though I’m not entirely sure what that would be, unless maybe you are wanting to give her free shoes or something – then all good. If not, then I want to be present so I can see her go ballistic on someone besides me for a change, whereupon you  just might get the answer to your question when you are finally able to dislodge her shoe from darker regions of your person. Of course, maybe that’s what you are trying to accomplish and well… good luck with that.

    4. Do you really cut your own grass?

    Nope. Not really. The magical garden gnomes from the land of Zoysia do it with the golden scissors of Fescue…

    Of course I mow my own lawn. (ROFL!) Who else is going to do it?

    However, if that question was some kind of metaphor, then it doesn’t even apply. Not my thing.

    5. I’m an amateur filmmaker. Can I have permission to make the Rowan Gant novels into movies?

    Are you going to sell the movies? Are you going to publicly display the movies? There are tons of questions that go along with such things. Better you ask my publisher. They handle the legal stuff.

    6. How long have you and Dorothy Morrison been married?

    Well, let’s see… As of 10/31/09 E K and I have been officially married 22 years.

    Morrison has been married to her husband, Mark, for something on the order of 10 or 11 years I think, but you’d have to ask her to be sure.

    Oh, you mean you thought we were married to each other? Nope.

    7. Will you tell your publisher to publish my book?

    Are you kidding? They don’t listen to me. Next question.

    8. Are you Wiccan? (Another frequent query)

    No. I studied Wicca for many, many years and at one time self-identified as Pagan, though I no longer do that either. I actually self-identify as a Secular Humanist with Pagan roots who does NOT deny that magic can work. Try fitting that one in the “religion declared” box on a hospital admission form. You have to write really small.

    9. How long did it take you to learn Gaelic so you could write Felicity’s dialogue?

    Forever. Studying day in, day out. Long nights. Weekends. It was grueling…

    Truth is, I don’t know Gaelic. What little I do actually “know” I cannot pronounce to save my life. However,  I do have English to Gaelic dictionaries, phrase books, and more importantly, Anastasia – who does know Gaelic – to help me translate Felicity’s “excited / agitated” dialogue.

    10. I heard M. R. Sellars is actually dead and that his books are being released posthumously by his children, and that you are just a shill for the family. Is that true?

    You caught me. I’m not actually M. R. Sellars. I’m a paid actor and my real name is Buck Nekkid, wanna see my SAG card?

    Sheesh… Are you kidding me?

    It amazes me that this rumor is still circulating. Okay, for the umpteen-hundredth time:

    My father, M. R. Sellars SENIOR – who never, ever wrote a book – passed away in 2003.

    I, M. R. Sellars JUNIOR – the guy who writes the books – am still alive.

    Also, I have a child, not children, and she’s only 10. So, in short, no. It’s not true. It’s false.

    11. Why a female serial killer? That’s not right. Women shouldn’t kill men. It goes against the natural order of things.

    Dude… People shouldn’t kill, period. But, it happens. And,  in my experience, women probably have way more valid reasons to kill men than the other way around. Do yourself a favor though. Don’t ask that question around E K or you might end up being a statistic. Oh, and from the implications behind the question (and the missive surrounding the question, which I am not reprinting here) you appear to have a bit of a misogynistic streak.  You might want to consult a therapist about that…

    12. What ever happened with Fuddrucker’s and that blog you wrote about the bad burger in Detroit?

    They were actually very nice and tried to make good on it. Unfortunately, I thought the gift card they were going to send me was for their restaurant and that I’d be able to use it while traveling. Instead, for some odd reason, they sent me a gift card to Wal-Mart. As many of you well know – or perhaps not and maybe I should blog about it sometime – E K will NOT allow me to shop at Wal-Mart. She is militantly ANTI-Wal-Mart… Bumper sticker and all…

    So, I gave it to a friend who lives far enough away so as to be out of the E K Zone, and therefore he cannot be subjected to the Eebil Stare, etc…

    13. I/we would like to invite you to XYZ event in ABC-Town.

    Thank you. I appreciate the invitation. While I do some of my own booking, most of it is handled by my publicists. You can contact them via email at – S_Mccoy@sbcclobal.net or Wendy@willowtreepress.com. Either one of them can set things up as well as send you a copy of my event contract outlining my requirements for travel, lodging, and compensation. Just a quick note – my schedule can tend to fill up fast so book early. You may also wish to check my schedule on my website first, but please note – just because a date has not yet been scheduled on that page does not mean it is guaranteed to be free.

    14. I am having trouble with this/that/who/what/when and I need you to give me a spell.

    I am sincerely sorry that you are having issues with someone or something. You have my deepest sympathies, as I deal with my own issues in my own life as well. That said, and this is probably going to sound harsh, but there’s no way around that – No, I am not going to “give you a spell.”

    Here’s the deal: I write fiction novels about a Witch. I do NOT write “how-to” books about magic and Witchcraft. However, even if I did write non-fiction that would not mean I had hung out a shingle purporting myself to be the spell merchant of the Internet.

    Yes, I have a rich and diverse background in Earth Based and Magical/Magickal Spirituality, however, just because I write a series of fiction novels featuring such and present a workshop or two on the subject at events, this does not make me your local “Magical Pharmacist” who dispenses spells and charms as if they were generic pain pills and antidepressants.

    If you wish to play around with or  better yet, seriously practice Witchcraft, Hoodoo, or any other magical system out there, I would highly suggest you purchase a non-fiction book on the subject and read it beginning to end. There are a enormous number of absolutely fantastic authors out there who write just such tomes, and I even have several of their works on the shelves here in the office for reference myself.

    15. You blogged (Hypersonic Man Squee!) that you were going to be on a podcast with, and get to speak to, your all time favorite actress, Megan Gallagher. How did that go?

    Ms. Gallagher was absolutely lovely, and I do mean lovely. Down to earth, personable, funny, and an absolute joy to speak with and listen to.

    Me, however… I did just what I feared I would do and had even stated on my Myspace page that I would likely do – I went completely fan boy on the poor woman, and blithered like a total idiot. Fortunately, thanks to some absolutely superb editing by the techie co-host of the Millennium Group Sessions, Troy Foreman, I sounded halfway reasonable on the final version of the show that is actually available for download- but only halfway. A good 20 minutes (best guess) of me gushing, rambling, and making a fool of myself ended up in the trash bin (or, more likely made into a “blooper reel” so that Troy and James can play it back and laugh at me. Trust me, I don’t blame them. I would laugh at me too if I wasn’t completely mortified.)

    And, if I had to guess I’d say Ms. Gallagher probably hung up the phone  at the end of the interview then immediately contacted the authorities to have an ex parte restraining order sworn out against me. I don’t blame her either. While I am perfectly harmless – and, moreover, painfully embarrassed by my descent into unbridled fannishness – she has no way of knowing that.

    If there is a benevolent deity out there somewhere (besides E K, what with her not being all that benevolent, as we well know) it is my sincere hope that I am smiled upon and never have occasion to run into Ms. Gallagher at an S/F Con where I might be appearing, or anywhere else for that matter. If I do, I can guarantee you I won’t have an opportunity to go fan boy again, because I will die right there on the spot, a victim of a massive coronary brought on by my own abject embarrassment over what a complete and utter moron I was during the recording of the interview.

    Sounds like it went pretty well, eh?


    Okay… That’s about all I can take for this episode. Keep the questions coming and I’ll keep making up crap to answer them.

    Seriously. If you have a question email it to me. You just might end up in a blog…

    More to come…

    Murv

  • Dude, She Doesn’t Have Any More…

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    I have a hobby.

    No… Not the one where I dress up in my wife’s lingerie and sing “I’m So Pretty” while playing badminton with the mushroom tripping squirrels in the back yard.

    Errr… Ummm… Forget I ever said that, okay?

    But seriously, I do have a hobby. A couple of them, in fact, and if book sales don’t pick up soon the IRS is going to consider my profession a hobby as well. But, that a different story…

    The particular hobby in question here, however, is Home Brewing. Yeah, the making of drinkable fermented beverages such as Beer, Wine, and Mead. For someone who enjoys cooking as much as I do, well, brewing seemed like a no-brainer in the hobby department. Now, the truth is I don’t get to engage in my hobbies as much as I once did. This whole writing, touring, promotional marketing of oneself thing takes up far more time than I ever imagined it would. But, I still brew up a batch of Beer or Mead when I have some downtime and I’m looking for a fun activity.

    Before we go any further here, I suppose I should define Mead for Brainpan Leakage readers who don’t happen to know what it is… Mead is basically a wine. In its purest form it is nothing more than Honey, Water, and Yeast. Mix Honey and Water, boil, skim off impurities, cool, add Yeast, allow to ferment. From there things can get a bit interesting with variations on the old standby – these being Pyments (fermented with grape juice as an adjunct), Melomels (Meads containing fruit), and Metheglins (Meads containing spices and/or herbs)…

    Miranda Label 001 I have made all varieties of Meads over the years. I have even made Meads fortified with other alcohols, and named after characters in my books. Most notably, Miranda Mead.

    Emblazoned upon the risque label, Miranda Mead carried with it a tagline which read: Guaranteed to hurt you…  Bad… (Yes, I know, It should be badLY. It’s a label, gimme a break…)

    Beneath this was an explanation which went on to outline exactly why those of us involved in the bottling of this particular Mead thought such (which is, of course, why it was named after Miranda in the first place, what with the character being a homicidal dominatrix and all…)

    Miranda Label 002

    Of course, those eagle eyed among you probably noticed the words “Felicity O’Brien Sweet Dessert Mead.” Well, yes, that was the base for the Miranda Mead, what with their intimate connection and all. We won’t go into that here since some of you blog readers may not have read that far in the series just yet. So, the long and short of it is, yes, I created a recipe for a special Sweet Mead which was named after Felicity. Its label even contained the O’Brien Coat of Arms.

    OBRIEN At this point I should add an important disclaimer so that I don’t end up getting a mess of email about this – None of this Mead is for sale or commercially available. It is home brewed for personal use, so please DO NOT even ask. It ain’t gonna happen. Hell, my brother-in-law is an ATF agent, so breaking that particular set of laws would be a doubly stupid move on my part now wouldn’t it?

    So… Now that you are armed with the above information, I have a confession to make… No, not the thing with the lingerie… What I need to admit here is that I really cannot stand Mead. Seriously. It just isn’t my thing. There are a few meads I have had that are drinkable – Miranda Mead being one of them, Moniak another, and a Hot Ginger Mead made by a friend of mine the third. But if given the choice I’d reach for a beer instead. This is not to say that there is anything wrong with mead. It’s just not my thing.

    So, I am sure you are wondering why I would bother to brew something I don’t particularly like. Well, that’s simple. I make it so that I have it on hand for my friends because several of them really do like it.

    A lot.

    In fact, I have one friend in particular who will crawl naked across shards of broken glass, layered on top of hot coals in an unmapped mine field while being chased by starving Basset Hounds just so he can kiss E Kay’s arse to get some… (Some Mead, that is… Not some… Well… You know…)

    Yeah… You heard me. He sucks up to E K who wouldn’t even know where to start in the process of making Mead. Remember the Tuna Helper incident? She may be the Queen Bitch of the Whole F*cking Universe, but she knows better than to mess around in the kitchen. She has a lackey for that sort of thing, namely moi.

    Still, that simple fact doesn’t stop Mike… Just the other day we were having a BBQ and there he sat on our back deck nursing what dregs were left of a bottle of Felicity O’Brien Mead. Just for the record, he has almost single handedly wiped out the entire batch, which means it is time for me to make more. Not that I mind in the least. I’m ecstatic that he likes it so much… But I digress… (So what’s new about that?)

    You see, he had no more finished the last swig from the bottle than he looked up at E K and said, “I really can’t believe that you are XX years old.”

    “What?” E K asked, blue fire kindling in her eyes at the very idea that someone might be implying she is a liar.

    “You don’t look a day over 40,” Mike returned.

    “Dude, you’re in trouble now. She’s only 27,” I told him. Unfortunately, my bid to trip him up fell on deaf ears.

    “42, tops,” he continued, totally unfazed.

    E K, not sure what to make of this, went inside and stood in front of the liquor cabinet angrily tapping her foot until someone had the presence of mind to crawl into the kitchen, mix a drink, and present it to her with much ceremony and the appropriate level of deference to her status as Eebil Queen. Satisfied for the moment, she returned to the deck with her Vodka-Tonic in hand.

    “37,” Mike announced before she’d even stopped moving. “You’re just gorgeous. You don’t look a day over 37.”

    “Dude… A minute ago you said 42,” Johnathan jibed.

    “Yeah, right,” E K replied, then took a sip of her drink.

    You could hear the amusement in her voice, but at the same time you could see in her eyes that she was basking in the glow of his effusive Redhead worship. Still, those of us who know E K well were perfectly aware of the fact that she was trying to figure out what was handy that she could beat him with in case he slipped up and said the wrong thing.

    I wandered down the stairs to the grill and flipped the Bratwursts, then closed the lid and made my way back up to the picnic table. It had been quiet for a few minutes now, but I had no more planted my rear on a seat than Mike looked up at E K and began to gesture.

    “Look at her,” he announced. “I’m telling you this woman is absolutely gorgeous. She doesn’t look a day over 35.”

    “Did anyone else notice that the number keeps going down?” Johnathan asked.

    “Johnathan,” E K replied coolly. “Do you really want me to knock you down and stomp on you?”

    “No ma’am,” he replied.

    “I didn’t think so,” she observed, then turned her attention back to Mike. “You were saying?”

    Mike became even more animated than his normal cartoonish self. “I was saying you’re just gorgeous. You don’t look a day over 32… No… Make that 30. Not a day over 30…”

    Now, remember where we left off folks – 30… This will be important later in the story…

    It was at this particular moment that I spied the empty bottle of Felicity Mead and realized what he was doing. As it happens, his wife, Anastasia, was on the same wavelength with me – what with us both being a little brainpan bent and all – and she spoke up before I had a chance.

    “Mike,” she told him. “You’re sucking up to the wrong person. Kat didn’t make the Mead, Murv did.”

    “I’m not after more Mead,” he objected.

    “Yeah, right,” Anastasia replied. “Sure you aren’t.”

    “Really,” he persisted.

    E K took another sip of her drink and like the ice-cold, redheaded assassin woman she is, went in for the kill. You could see the giddiness in her eyes as she told him, “It’s all gone, Mike.”

    “It’s all gone?” He asked.

    She nodded then grinned her evil grin. “Yes. All gone.”

    mead “Yeah, dude,” I added. “She doesn’t have anymore. You drank it all.”

    He was quiet for a minute then countered with, “Well, that’s okay. I wasn’t trying to get more Mead anyway. I’m serious, just look at her. She really and truly doesn’t look a day over 40…”

    To this day, Mike swears he wasn’t sucking up in order to get more Mead, but I’m a little suspect of that, given how the years seemed to melt away from the Evil One without the help of Botox or even Oil of Olay.

    Not that she needs any years to melt away, trust me. And I’m definitely not just saying that so she won’t stomp on my head. It doesn’t matter, because she’ll find a reason to stomp on me anyway.

    The thing is Mike was so close to the prize it was scary – There was actually another bottle of Mead in the house and if he’d ratcheted her age down to 25 or so she just might have given it to him.

    More to come…

    Murv