BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I’ve noticed lately that bookstores seem to be turning into a room full of ill tempered toddlers with only one toy between them. And, like said cranky diaper fillers, they fight over it until one of them wins, then the losers throw big screaming tantrums.

If I have intrigued you with that comment, please bear with some of the rambling that will ensue and read on.  Especially if you own, run, or manage a bookstore. I promise I’ll try to keep the extraneous verbiage to a minimum for this one.

First off, let me get something important out of the way –  I love bookstores, so I’m not slamming them. Hey, I write books for a living. They are sort of like my office away from home. So, let’s not go spreading vicious rumors about how I hate bookstores, because that would be a lie.

Secondly, but by no means any less important, I know that I’m a lower mid-lister, so don’t accuse me of being a prima dona, especially before you read my explanation of the above commentary. I’m painfully aware of the fact that the PTB’s who create the NYT Bestseller list are oblivious to my existence. If I were to be mentioned to them the likely response would be, “M. R. Who?”… I get that. Also, no one has optioned my books for movies. My wife still has a full time job, because my royalties alone won’t support us – much less buy us a new house, fancy cars, and expensive vacations. Again, I get that. Please make note that I am not complaining about this. I am pointing out that I am well aware that I am not Cornwell-King-Grisham-Patterson-Hamilton-Rowling-ad nauseum. I’m not even Richard Castle, although there is a preponderance of circumstantial evidence pointing to the fact that he could very well be a semi-fictionalized and much more successful version of me. But, that’s another blog.

What we really need to talk about is bookstores.

So, here’s the thing… I made my opening statement because over the past couple of years there have been these bizarre incidents occurring. What I mean by that is this: I will be signing and speaking at a bookstore, whereupon I will discover – sometimes directly, sometimes indirectly – that another bookstore in the same town “wanted me.” The first time or two, this was actually a little heartening. I mean, after all, everyone wants to be wanted, right? Otherwise Cheap Trick would have never topped the charts with that song…

However, this eventually started happening enough that it went beyond flattering and headlong into a chronic case of WTF?itis.

Allow me to illustrate – with words, of course. Drawing really isn’t my strong suit…

I was in another state. I won’t say which because I don’t want to cause trouble for any of the parties involved. The bookstore where I was signing had not only booked me, but had provided airfare, lodging, and meals. Something that is fairly standard in the case of “we must have you on THIS date” sort of bookings that are initiated by a bookstore. It’s different if I am taking myself on tour, my publisher is sending me on tour, or if I just happen to be in the area. So, anyway, all good.

Well, not so much. In the eyes of a different bookstore, anyway. It seems that the management of the big chain bookstore in town, who shall also remain nameless, was angry. So angry, in fact, that they sent employees to the indy bookstore prior to my arrival in order to interrogate the owners about “why I wasn’t coming to their store because THEY wanted me.” Based on what I heard from the store owners AND multiple witnesses, it got a little ugly. Granted, this was all second hand info, and as always must be taken with a grain of salt, but these folks really had no reason to lie.

However, the thing is, the above is merely one incident of many like it over the past couple of years – executed not only by chain bookstores upon indies, but by indies upon other indies as well.

And now we come to the here and now…

Very recently, at the behest of some truly marvelous and hard driving fans, I booked a gig at a store in a town where I am going to be in close proximity during a quick trip for a family reunion. Trust me, it wasn’t easy to work out at my end. Doing this required some extra vacation time logistics on the part of my wife, and she guards those days very closely, so I’m going to owe her one or two – not that this is anything new. At any rate, I have now discovered that the OTHER chain store in town “wants me.” Now, in the interest of full disclosure, there have NOT been any tantrums in this case, as there have been in others. This is a good thing. But I still need to ask a simple question: How was I supposed to know you wanted me at your store? Contrary to popular belief, I am NOT psychic. That’s probably the character in my books you are thinking about there.

Like I said, I know I’m not in demand like a King, Hamilton, Patterson, etc… I get that. But, obviously there must be some demand or this sort of thing wouldn’t be happening. It’s either that, or as I said at the outset, bookstores have turned into a bunch of ill-tempered toddlers looking for something to whine about just for the sake of whining. Honestly, I have a hard time believing the latter. Maybe I’m naive, but hey, I like to think bookstores haven’t gone off the deep end.

So, attention out there bookstores, be you chain or indy. Here’s my deal…

If you are interested in having me sign books and present a reading, seminar, or Q&A at your store, you really need to let me know. If you don’t, then when I happen to be coming to your town on tour or even on a lark, I’m just going to start going down the list of bookstores in the phone book until someone answers and says yes. I’m not expecting you to call me up and beg me to come to your store, so don’t even go there. I’m simply saying, you have to let me know, and if you don’t, then you have absolutely no right to be mad at me or the bookstore where I am appearing. However, I make you this promise: If I know that you’d be interested in hosting a signing I will keep you in my database and when I’m coming to your area you’ll be the first place I call.

All it takes is an email – either to me, or one of my publicists. The info is all right there on my website.

I’m pretty sure this goes for just about any author out there, not just me.  It’s the old lottery tagline: You can’t win if you don’t play.

Of course, if you want me for a specific date, then we have some discussing to do, but that’s a whole different ballgame and we’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it.

And, readers, you also might want to take note – the upcoming gig I mentioned is happening because of some very industrious fans who let me know they wanted me to visit their city, and have been working very hard to ramp up excitement about the event now that it is booked.  So, the same thing goes for y’all too. If you want me to come to your city/town, I want to hear about it. That way, when my publicist says, “Murv, where do you want to go on tour?” I can say, “Glad you asked, as it just so happens…”

More to come…

Murv

I’d start a Twitter account for this sort of thing, but I just don’t have time. Besides which, I’d just get myself accused of trying to capitalize on the “Dad Says” dude, and his success.

So, anyway, there we were, on vacation. I should probably write a vacation blog and tell all sorts of stories about how E K made us march through the woods and over huge boulders, all in the sweltering 95+ heat, with 12,000,000% humidity, but I’ll have to get to that later… Maybe… I guess it’s a we’ll see sort of thing.

Okay, so back to the real story here. There we were, on vacation, last night of the trip, and we were staying at The Davie School Inn. When we asked about “eats” the owner directed us to The Brick House restaurant, a couple of blocks away. A little eclectic fusion sort of bistro with interesting decor and good food. We even sat at the “Twister Table”… Seriously. It was painted like a Twister mat. Kinda weird, but kinda cool at the same time. After ordering up a couple of Mothership Wits for ourselves, and a Root Beer for the O-spring, we set about perusing the menu. When all was said and done, after salivating over the many wonderful sounding selections, believe it or not we all ordered sort of the same thing – E K had steamed mussels and a house specialty salad. I had steamed mussels and a spinach salad. The O-spring had… Yes… Steamed mussels, but instead of a salad she opted for French Fries. Odd combination, yeah, but hey… She’s a 10 year old. Besides, how many 10 year olds do you know who willingly order steamed mussels and then rave about them for two hours? Yeah, that’s our kid. Go figure…

But, that’s not what this is really about. Well… It is sorta, but not exactly. You see, as we sat there enjoying a wonderful dinner, some tunes were wafting in from above. This prompted E K and I to discuss our Vinyl Collection, because it has yet to be all converted to CD. In particular, we were talking about The Police and Sting. Why? Because a song by Sting was playing, silly.

Anywho, fast forward 10 minutes or so. The kid is blowing bubbles in her root beer, shoving French Fries into one side of her mouth, and discovering the creamy goodness of the steamed mussel broth at the bottom of her bowl. Yet another song by Sting begins pouring in from overhead. Being old, and because of that a bit addled, I looked at The Evil Redhead with a puzzled expression.

“That isn’t the same song we just heard a few minutes ago, is it?” I asked.

E K, being in the middle of masticating a mussel, held up a finger to indicate I should wait a second for her answer. However, before she was able to engage peristalsis and swallow the food, the O-spring spoke up.

“No, it isn’t the same song,” she said, then by way of explanation offered her personal analysis of the brass section content. “The other one was a lot more horny.”

E K choked on the half swallowed mussel. I spewed Mothership Wit all over the wall across from me. The server applied the Heimlich Maneuver to the redhead, propelling the glob of  seafood along a bizarre trajectory that landed it in the pale blue beehive of a 97 year old patron across the room who was trying desperately to enjoy a Bruschetta, even though she had forgotten her teeth. Another server who was attempting to avoid the shellfish projectile slipped, sending a tray full of chilled soup cascading across a party of 18 several feet away, prompting the…

Okay… So it wasn’t that dramatic. But, EKay’s eyes got really big, she half choked on the piece of garlic bread in her mouth, and I almost – not quite, but almost – spewed a mouthful of Mothership Wit across the table.

The O-spring looked at us and said, “What?”

E K leaned over and whispered, “You probably should have said brassy, because horny is a slang word that means someone really wants to have sex a lot.”

The O-spring having been through the “talk” at school, besides being brilliant as well, knew what sex happened to be – in theory.  Also, being 10, while she is familiar with the non-specific theory behind it, the subject is still residing in that “EWWW, GROSS!” area of her psyche. Personally, I’d like for it to stay that way until I’m dead, but hey, I’m a dad, and that’s how dads are.

So, since that’s where the concept resides, that’s what the O-spring said. “EWWW, GROSS!”

This was somewhat heartening, to say the least…

There was a moment of quiet, then she looked across the table and said, “You’re going to write a blog about this, aren’t you, Dad?”

Obviously, she hadn’t lost her faith in me…

(Aww, come on, quit groaning… you knew I would have to make at least one Sting song lyric related pun…)

More to come…

Murv