BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

…make me write bad books.

Well, okay, let’s not write bad books. Even though Sean Connery says that women will sleep with you if you write a bad book, I’m not looking for that sort of validation.  I am, however, about to step in the proverbial “pile o’ poo”.

You see, as a general rule, people will say just about anything they damn well please to an author and expect us to take it. If they don’t expect us to take it, then they will expect us to “explain ourselves” as if we owe them. This isn’t everyone, of course, but there is a sizable enough segment out there that it prompted me to pen this particular blog entry. The problem is, unless you sit there with a smile on your face, or wholeheartedly agree with them that you are a big doody-head because you didn’t write something exactly the way they wanted, then you automatically become an asshole. I’ve seen this happen to many an author. For the most part, it’s just a speed bump in the road of life, but there have been a few career busting sinkholes out there too.

Now, as far as reviews go, I don’t even read them. Good or bad, doesn’t matter. I pretty much feel I need to give them equal time, so I don’t bother with any of them. Why? It’s a waste of my time. The good reviews will make me feel good, but the bad reviews will make me feel bad. I’d rather spend the hour it would take to read the reviews fantasizing about The Evil Redhead. That makes me feel good. No bad involved. Well… Okay… But it’s the good kind of bad.

But I’m not actually talking about reviews here. I’m talking about the commentaries that happen at book signings, show up in email, or happen on social networking venues. The stuff like, “You need to have XYZ character do ABC in the next book,” or “Your pagans aren’t real enough because in MY community we all go by our magickal names, not our real names.”

I could go on and on, but I won’t. I’m actually here to run off at the mouth about one particular comment that I have received. While the comment in question hasn’t come from everyone, I’ve heard it enough times that I feel a need to address it here.

Before we go any further I’d like to point out that I’m not angry or upset about it. I’m just really confused. And when I say confused, I mean big ol’ WTF kind of confused. I should also point out that what triggered this blog is that I heard the comment again recently. If the young lady who made the comment happens to read my blog, I certainly do not want her to be upset about this. I am not – I repeat, NOT – being a big asshole here. I’m just nonplussed to the nth degree.

The comment itself takes many forms – everything from flat-out, angry and accusatory rhetoric, to a simple, offhanded remark. But, it always boils down to the same thing.

You see, starting with the sixth book in the RGI series, I introduced an antagonist named Miranda. Now, Miranda is a little different in that she is a female serial killer. But what’s more is that she is a rare sub-type, that being a female sexual predator. In short, she’s a “killer dominatrix” – in more ways than one.

Apparently, a handful of folks out there take exception with this. Not that fact that she’s a serial killer or that she is a rare sub-type of female serial killer. Nope… What bothers them is that she’s a Dominatrix. They are anywhere from angry to upset to just plain not sure what to make of the fact that this  fictional woman engages in a BDSM Lifestyle and ends up taking it a little too far.

Okay. Good on ya’. You like vanilla, I like twisty cones. Not a problem.

But here’s the thing. The comment – whether angry or phlegmatic – always carries with it the following, “I really loved your other books in the series, but putting BDSM in them is offensive.”

Sometimes I get that direct quote; sometimes it’s just inferred. But, it’s always there even if the exact verbiage isn’t used. This is when I have my gi-hugic WTF? moment. Allow me to explain.

I write paranormal suspense thrillers about a witch who helps the police solve serial murders. In the first book, Harm None, there is a killer who skins his victims alive. In the second book, there is a killer who burns his victims alive. In the third book, Perfect Trust, there is a killer who rapes and kills women. In the fourth, The Law Of Three, victim gets eviscerated while still alive. In number five, Crone’s Moon, the killer is all about torturing the victims to death with electricity.

Are you seeing my point? If not, let me try to clarify a bit…

I am utterly perplexed as to how anyone could be offended by some woman dressing up in leather and spanking some guy, or walking on him in high heels, or making him bark like a dog, or whatever, prior to killing him (she is, after all, a serial killer and a sexual predator at that – meaning she’ll want to get off on it, or else why do it?), BUT the same individual(s) have no problem whatsoever with any of the other horrors my other antagonists have perpetrated upon their victims.

I can’t imagine that it’s just the sexual aspect. After all, sex was all over Perfect Trust. It just happened to be a male in control over the female victims, and getting his jollies with his own bizarre paraphilia.

So, if it isn’t the sex, then is it the fact that it’s a strong female archetype who is killing men?

You know… forget I even asked.

Honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever get it. Nobody has been able to offer me a reasonable explanation for their dislike of the Miranda Saga just yet, and I doubt they ever will. There are just too many contradictions.

Fortunately, it’s a small group.

More to come…

Murv

Even without my glasses I could see that one of the bulbs in the fluorescent fixture overhead was burned out. Yes, it was sort of a blur, but I’m not entirely blind. Close, but not entirely.

So, even with the world being fuzzy around the edges, and even fuzzier in the middle, it was obvious that the bulb was not glowing as it should. In fact, it stared back at me, a dull gray-white tube with blackened ends. The companion bulb, clipped tightly into the contacts on the other side of the ballast cover, was flickering in a rapid staccato. An orange intensity was pulsing at one end, and the whole fixture hummed. A sure sign that it would soon go dark as well.

But I really wasn’t worried about that. Daylight was streaming into the high windows, and besides, this wasn’t the only light. There were several more. Not to mention, I had more important worries.

Now, I have to admit. The dead bulb in the ceiling fixture was not something I would have noticed right off. I don’t usually make a habit of staring at high ceilings for no apparent reason, but then at this particular moment I was lying on my back, which made a significant difference in my point of view. The cold, damp concrete was leeching any semblance of warmth from me, but I wasn’t in a big hurry to move. At least, not until I figured out what had just happened. So, until that answer was no longer eluding me,  I decided staring at the ceiling was the appropriate thing to do.

An inventory of my senses was enough to tell me that I wasn’t severely injured. Either that, or I was dealing with a concussion and was misinterpreting the various simple aches and pains.

Just for the hell of it, I groaned.

I heard myself groan. In fact, I even heard it echo off the cinder block walls.

Apparently my ears were still working. That was a good sign.

I continued to stare at the hazy light fixture above me as it winked through its death throes, and wondered if I maybe was doing the same. Life imitating machinery and all that jazz. I decided I probably wasn’t, because I simply didn’t have time for it right now. Besides, my  pajama britches were down around my ankles, and while I don’t have a very big shoe size, what endowment I did have was pretty much on display. I really wasn’t good with dying in such a state.

I muttered, “Fuck me…” in a long, drawn out breath. Then I said it again, just for good measure. Then it dawned on me that I could be inviting disaster if I wasn’t alone in here.

Fortunately, it turned out that I was. Alone, that is.

Closing my eyes I tried to remember just how it was I came to be sprawled out on the wet, concrete floor of a combination bathroom – shower house in rural, coastal Virginia.

The sharp smell of pine cleaner was carving its initials inside my nasal passages, and in a very real sense I was grateful for that. The odor combined with the dampness of the floor told me it had been mopped very recently. Given that this was a bathroom there were much worse things I could be laying in. I also happened to know from experience that the lady who cleaned the shower house was unbelievably thorough. In fact, everyone called her the Bathroom Nazi.

What seemed like a good quarter of an hour had passed by now. In reality it had been more like a quarter of a minute. Seriously. It’s utterly amazing how time slows down when you are in a bizarre situation.

I decided to go ahead and carefully push myself up, then rise to my feet.  My glasses were around here somewhere, and the last thing I needed to do was crush them. The rolling about and finding footing was quite a task with my britches around my ankles, but I managed to do it without hearing the sickly crunch of $600 no-line bi-focals turning into $600 trash. I straightened and then untangled my pajamas and pulled them up. At least now that particular issue was addressed. Or, should I simply say dressed? Either way, Wee Willy Winkie and the twins were back where they belonged.

With a sigh, I turned, then reached out and pulled open the spring loaded door to the toilet stall in front of me. A familiar looking blur on the floor  immediately in front of me caught my eye, so I stooped and picked up my glasses. They didn’t appear to be any worse for wear, so I slid them onto my face. Now the world came into focus.

Before me was a gleaming white porcelain throne. It had been scrubbed within an inch of its life, as had the floor. The ultra-sanitary condition of the stool was a good thing, because floating in it were my shaving kit, and a rolled wad of fabric that constituted my fresh change of clothes. My towel was dangling precipitously from the tank.

I stepped in and rescued the towel, then fished my clothing and shaving kit out. Fortunately, I had more clothing back in my camper, and the shaving kit was safely ensconced in a sealed Ziploc bag – all part of my anal retentive packing routine after having a bottle of shampoo leak all over the inside of my suitcase.

It was as I steadied myself against the tank while retrieving my soaked belongings that all of the pieces fell into place. You see, the moment I put even the slightest amount of weight against the toilet tank, it rocked backwards. Now, when I say it rocked backwards, I mean it rocked several inches backwards. The proverbial light went off over my head – no, not the actual fluorescent one, I’m talking about the figurative one. I finished pulling my things from the bowl, then pressed lightly on the seat. As it had done when I touched the tank, it rocked, but this time it rocked forward. In fact, it rocked forward twice as many inches as it had rocked backward. A second or two later it began to right itself, seeking some sort of center.

I turned in place and looked at the gap beneath the door.

Mathematical calculations rushed through my sluggish brain, trajectories drew themselves against imagined graphs, and I had my elusive answer. Upon entering I had headed for a stall to execute my daily business prior to my shower. It just happened to be stall number 2. I don’t know why… Maybe it was because I had to do number 2. But maybe not. Because I also had to do number 1, so I probably should have gone to stall number 3. But, if I had, I probably wouldn’t have this story to tell.

Anyway, upon entering the stall I had placed my folded towel, then my rolled up clothing, and then my shower kit securely and solidly upon the top of the large tank. I noticed when I did so that the toilet had a bit of a slant toward the back wall, but it wasn’t like I was going to spend much time there, so I thought nothing of it. Besides, with a backward slant, all of my stuff would be sliding AWAY from danger, not toward it, if you know what I mean.

In keeping with standard convention, I dropped my drawers, what with that being the easiest way to go about doing one’s business. I lowered myself onto the stool and felt it pitch rapidly forward like a mechanical bull in a roadhouse. Seriously.

The next thing I knew I saw the bottom of the stall door flash past my eyes as it headed in a northerly direction, or so I thought.  As it turns out, it was me doing the traveling, and I was heading south. After that, the world was pretty much a blur. Well, all except for the burned out light fixture on the ceiling, and as I said, it was pretty fuzzy too.

That wasn’t the last time I appeared as an author/guest speaker at that event. It was, however, the last time I used the second stall in the men’s shower room.

More to come…

Murv