BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Yeah… I know. But sometimes that happens…

I have met some wonderful people throughout my touring, etc. I have made some very dear friends. Hell, I’ve even made a few enemies, probably. But, this blog is about one of the friends.

In reality, what this is about is his blog…

While I have some widely varied opinions on controlled substances – for instance, I believe Marijuana should be legalized. It’s not my thing- Scotch, Bourbon, Martini’s and Vodka Tonics are (in moderation) – but I still think it should be legalized. Just my two cents.

However, there are other drugs which are so insidious and addictive that they literally destroy lives. I have seen this happen with former friends who were unable to shake the addiction. Fortunately, in a few instances, they were…and, by their own choice, after succeeding in breaking the cycle have chosen to move away and start new lives, forsaking their pasts – even the good parts. While I miss them, I am supportive of them in doing this…If that is what it takes for them to stay clean, and have a liveable life…

But, the point behind this was my friend’s blog. He has seen far more than I have, and has written something from experience which is more powerful than anything I could ever say on this subject. I would like to suggest that EVERYONE read it. It is important… It brings the reality home… And, it promotes a deep understanding of the real victims of someone’s addiction.

With his gracious permission, I have reposted the blog below…

Thanks…

More to come…

Murv

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A Taste-Johnny Seitz

Sinus pills. Cough syrup. Drain cleaner. Hair spray. Fertilizer. Paint thinner. Freon. Brake fluid. Battery acid. Lye. Epsom salt. An inability to sleep. Loss of tooth enamel. Increased sensitivity to noise and light. Paranoia. Confusion. Razors. Syringes. Baggies. Foilies. Smoke. Snort. Shoot. Amp. Ice. Speed. Glass. Dope. Crank. Meth. An amphetamine derivative in the form of a crystalline hydrochloride. Used as a stimulant to the nervous system. High. Spun. Hopped up. Doped. Tripped out. Tweeked. Zoomed.

It controls you. Changes you. Breaks you down and rebuilds you. Nothing else matters. Not your house. Your bills. Your kids. Your job. The next fix. That’s all there is. That rush. That boost. Feeling alive. Being awake. Clean the house. Make some money.

No.

Generalities. Cold fact. Words…

See all the holes in the wall? Those are where the under cover’s had put the wires to listen in. And those trash bags covered with blankets stapled to the windows, those are to keep people from watching. Why is the carpet gone by the couch? Because that mother fucker hid some dope in here somewhere…I saw him messing around over there and I know he put that shit under the carpet. All these clothes are in a pile because I’m sorting through them. All my jewelry? I have it in a sandwich bag hidden in the fireplace so people don’t try to steal it. I took the TV apart so I can rig up a camera to watch the door so I know if people are sneaking up on the house.

“Did you hear that?”
“No.”
“Shh! The dog’s barking, fucking cops must be outside! Get on the floor!”
“Why get on the floor? The window’s are all covered?”
“FUCKING DO WHAT I SAY!”
“The dog’s probably barking because you haven’t fed her in a week.”

Three a.m. You’re 14. Your bedroom door swings open and screaming and profanities stream in. Before your eyes are even open you hear the sounds of breaking glass. The light comes on and you see your mother, naked and brandishing a hammer, screaming and smashing in the middle of your room. You can’t follow what she’s saying, it’s too sporadic. It’s too loud. You sit, stunned for a moment, taking in what is going on. Trying to make sense of a senseless situation. Then the hammer takes out your TV screen, and your pictures on the wall. You try to stand up but as you move, something flies at your head and shatters next to your ear. It’s a glass bowl. The screaming is getting louder and the hammer is finding more and more targets. The floor to ceiling mirror. The stereo. Knocking holes in the wall. Throwing object after object at you, who is still struggling to free yourself from the sheets. The noise. The chaos. And then the hammer comes at you, grazes your temple, and smashes through your bedroom window. You’re mother is trying to punch you at this point. You don’t know where the hammer is. She’s screaming in your face, you still can’t understand her. You can see the whites of her eyes as you try to squirm away. Her pupils are as big as dinner plates. By the time you’re out of your bed she’s trying to throw you into the wall. You try to restrain her but she’s so slick with sweat and squirming and fighting against you so hard that it’s like trying to hold onto a live fish. Your nose gets bloodied. All you can do at this point is try to get her out of your room, so you push her toward the door. She fights back but you catch her off guard with a hard shove the second time and she falls through the opening. You slam the door and lock it. She kicks and beats and punches the door until you hear the wood splinter on the outside and her let out a wail of pain. Then it stops. You sit back and try to take in everything that went on, but you still can’t comprehend what just happened. So you focus on the destruction. Your things destroyed. Your room, your sanctuary, in shambles. Glass everywhere. Blood on your face. A short while later an armed policewoman kicks in your door. Your mother had called the police and said that you’d attacked her and were out of control. The officer handcuffs you and puts you into the back of the car. And you cry.

Arguing from the next room. I turn up the TV to try to drown it out. It doesn’t work so I decided to go outside. As I stand up I hear a loud noise and feel a burn on my cheek. I hit the floor. Mother and her boyfriend are spun and fighting. And he shot at her. When it came through the wall it was so close to my head that I ended up with a powder burn on my left cheek.

“GET OUT!”
“What are you guys doing in my room?”
“GET THE FUCK OUT! NOW!”
“I need my backpack..”
The door slams and I turn and head up the stairs to catch the school bus without any of my books. As I’m almost up the stairs I’m passed by the people who were in my room.
“FUCKING RUN!”
And I did.
Boom. The lab blew and took many of my things with it. Why was it in my room when there was a whole basement around it?

You can just sit and watch people die when they’re cranking. It really reminds you of watching one of those videos in health class on fast forward. In a months time you can see someone physically change to an extreme. You can watch them loose weight and teeth and hair. If you weren’t there every day, you’d easily not recognize them in a short period of time. Being around this mess makes you numb to everything. There is nothing stable. There is nothing you can count on, it’s just a lot of waiting for the next horrible thing to happen. And it will. The neglect is remarkable. ’I’m not eating or sleeping so why should my kids?’ People in and out at all hours. Your possessions being stolen or traded for drugs. Even your pets. The kids dog, traded for a blast.

One day you’ll get that knock on the door. The police will drag you outside in cuffs and raid your house. Eventually, you’ll convince them that you’re only 15 and they’ll un-cuff you and make you sit in the back of the car. You know what’s coming. You see your mom trying to make a run for it, and being tackled. You see her get sprayed with mace and dragged back inside at gun point. What’s horrible about it is that you don’t feel anything. Nothing. You’re completely numb. Your dad comes to get you and your sister, who’s been inside through all of this. On your way through to get your clothes your mom tries to hug you, crying, and saying how much she loves you and how sorry she was. You don’t hug back. You’re too disgusted. She goes through the system and gets out of trouble, but doesn’t change her act. You see her on and off when she wants something or is trying to steal all your dad’s change off his dresser. Three years later she doesn’t even come to see you, her first born child, when she finds out that you had stomach cancer. And soon enough, she’s in prison.

Meth. It controls you. Changes you. Breaks you down and rebuilds you. Nothing else matters. Not your house. Your bills. Your kids. Your job. The next fix. That’s all there is. That rush. That boost. Feeling alive…

Sounds like fun, eh?

Well, let us see how it works out. Truth is, this blog is really more about me jumping up on the stump and flapping my gums than anything else, but I will admit that I am also just a bit confused…

Oh, and this is probably going to be a bit lengthy too, so be forewarned.

I am going to start by making a public admission. That being, I ain’t right. The fact is, I was raised with a very odd set of values. I blame my family for this – parents, grandparents, etc. And, because of them and their influence over me as a young child, I am now socially defective. You see, it has been ingrained in me that if you don’t have something nice to say about someone, well, you just keep your mouth shut. [1]

Now, obviously we live in a day and age where there are far more public forums than there were when I was younger. Add to that the fact that everyone has an opinion, and is more than happy to express it, myself included. Hell, just look at some of my blogs. Expressing opinions is one of those cherished freedoms we all have. However, because of my twisted social defect, I tend to express opinions about things without bringing names into it. I generalize, using generic pronouns and silly things like that. See [1]. (Uh-huh, you knew I had a reason for the notations, now didn’t you?)… I also try not to contradict myself. I might not always succeed, but I do make it a point to watch out for that, and correct myself or admit it if I am wrong. (Okay, before we go any further with this, let’s remember that the picking back and forth between Dorothy Morrison, Kristin Madden, and me, is all just fun and playing around. None of us are really saying anything bad about the others…)

Now, on the subject of opinions. I certainly don’t expect everyone to agree with mine. If they did, then it wouldn’t be my opinion anymore. It would be a 100% majority consensus. Therefore, life would get boring very fast.

By this same token, I don’t expect everyone to like my books. Would it be really cool if they did? Well sure. But, contrary to what some of my detractors might wish to believe, I didn’t actually fall of the turnip truck yesterday. Hell, the only turnips we grew were in the garden, so we didn’t need a truck for them. Our cash crops were wheat, corn, soy beans, and tobacco. And, no, I didn’t fall off the wheat/corn/soy bean/tobacco truck yesterday either. Therefore, I neither expect nor believe that everyone is going to like my books. Some will, some won’t. All good.

So… There is this unwritten rule in the author game. Don’t read your reviews, and if you do anyway, don’t comment on them. Now, this rule gets broken all the time by authors who are bouncing around on the NYT Bestseller list. Why? Because they only risk losing a few grand in royalties by pissing in a detractor’s cornflakes and raising a stink. A few grand to them is nothing.

To a mid-lister like me, a few grand is more like a huge percentage of the annual paycheck.

So, since the only NYT Bestseller list I’ve seen so far is the one I have read (i.e. not been on) I try to follow these rules very closely. The truth is, I avoid reading my reviews like the plague. Good or bad. Because, for every 10 good reviews, there will always be that one bad review that makes you angry, or depresses you, or even hurts your feelings. (yeah, authors have feelings too. Don’t tell anyone) So, it’s all part of the game. Of course, my skin is much thicker now than it used to be, so on the few occasions when I accidentally run across a bad review and cannot tear my eyes away from it (they have kind of a train wreck magnetism, trust me) I just tend to blow it off.

Some shining examples of the stuff I ignore –

1) When the anti-fans say things about typos, I know they A) Either managed to get their hands on an early copy of Harm None which was mistakenly printed using the wrong digital files, and for which both the Publisher and I have repeatedly apologized profusely, or B) They are so insanely pedantic that one or two typos in an entire book send them into a tizzy. I figure it must be hard being as perfect as they are, so I feel as though I have to cut them some slack.

2) When anti-fans complain about my writing style. Well, there you go. We all have opinions about style, and I can’t make you like mine.Guess what? There are big name authors out there who have styles I cannot stand for the life of me. It’s just one of those things.

3) Here’s a good one – “Oh My God, Sellars Put Sex In His Novels, I’ll Never Read Them Again!!! News At Eleven!!!” All I can say to that is, “Wow“…. These folks must be really frustrated or terribly lonely. Of course, I find it especially amusing when they preface that statement with “I’m not a prude, but…”

Now, I have to admit that there are still those that make me go WTF? They are commentaries or reviews that are so off the wall, or self contradictory, that they immediately spark my inner Andy Rooney…So. instead of laughing at it, I begin to analyze it (which usually just makes me more confused)…And, when that happens, well, we all know I just have to say something…

For instance, there are the anti-fan commentaries like:

1) “Well I wanted a mystery but what I got was a suspense-thriller, therefore this book is terrible”… Okay…. So if you wanted a mystery, why did you buy a book that is plainly touted to be a suspense-thriller? Maybe I’m missing something here, but the way I do things is that I generally buy what I want. I don’t buy something that is obviously NOT what I want, then complain about it. Oh well, I’m sure that is jut me being socially defective again…

Or

2) When anti-fans complain about the magick or psychic abilities being over the top… “Wiccan’s can’t really do that! This is terrible! 1 star for this piece of dreck, and that’s only because Amazon won’t let me give it 0 stars! Blech! Phooey. Don’t read this!” Well, you should have seen what the big New York publisher who was originally set to publish the RGI series wanted me to put in there. If you think the magick is over the top the way I wrote it… Well, let’s just say you would have flipped if I had been willing to cave to their pressures and concept of “real witchcraft” [2] (their words, not mine)…

Now, honestly, the above example still does get under my skin a quite a bit… Why? Because it says right there in the front of the books that they are  fiction. I don’t know how much more plain it can be. But, what really gets me is that the vast majority of the folks who lodge this complaint in an Amazon or other public review forum have also posted glowing, sometimes even blubbering, fannish, 5 star reviews of books like the Harry Potter series, or any number of other Urban Fantasy novels/series that revolve around things far more outlandish than anything I have ever written.

Hello? Is this thing on? You say you like Urban Fantasy… And the reason you publicly trashed my book(s) is because it is/they are Urban Fantasy, and not a primer for Wicca 101 in convenient fictional format.

Sorry, but it just gives me a headache trying to understand that reasoning…

[2] Hmmm…Maybe that’s the problem. I didn’t go far enough over the top for them.

So… my latest Andy Rooney moment came today when I was checking some Amazon stats for S’s & G’s, and I accidentally scrolled down too far. My eye fell upon one of those single stars, and before I knew it I was reading the text beneath. You know, the whole aforementioned train wreck magnetism thing. Trust me, it really sucks…

Anyway… This one star review was apparently posted by someone who has met me at an event, because it started with (and I’m paraphrasing here) “First off I love this author, he’s kind and funny…” or something like that. It then goes on to say “…but I hate his books….” Then there is something alluding to the over the top magick, followed by a statement of not being able to recommend my books to anyone…As I said, I’m paraphrasing a bit because I haven’t gone back to look at it again… Why? Simple. It makes my brain hurt trying to untwist the logic pretzel…What I mean by that is if I am so loved, why did this person see fit to slam my work in a public forum?

You know, I’m all good with the fact that someone might not like my work. And, I am all good with folks having opinions and expressing them.. I think I have made that obvious here and elsewhere. And, I suppose I can see where it’s possible someone might like ME but not my books. I prefer to think that I’m pretty likeable…Again, all good…

But, I’ll be honest, that commentary sure seemed like a bit of a contradiction… I mean, it definitely didn’t make me feel loved.

So, I guess if that’s an example of love, I sure would hate to see what that person might have said if I was hated instead. Damn, I suppose something like that might even make me cry.

More to come…

Murv