BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

OSMOSIS [oz-moh-sis, os-] – noun – a subtle or gradual absorption or mingling.

We all learned about it in High School biology… Hell, we probably even learned about it in grade school science. I mean, I’m relatively certain I knew the word and its meaning by the 3rd grade myself. But then, that’s me…

The point here is that we’ve all heard about osmosis. We pretty much know what it is – whether it’s an amoeba eating a dead paramecium, or the way your home water filter works to remove chemicals from tap water. It’s a process that occurs in nature, and can be applied to many things. But, I’m sorry to say, learning is not one of them.

Now, while I will not deny that we “pick up” things from being around people, situations, or the like, we do NOT soak up all knowledge and experience on a subject simply because we come into contact with it. Some, yes. All of it, no.

So, what am I on about?

Well, you see, it’s like this… Several years ago I had a gal contact me on Myspace. Why she sent a friend request, I have no idea. But, she did. I accepted and next thing you know she started messaging me. Given that she was a self-described “former adult model turned Barbie soccer mom” or some such, I was wary. Still, we chatted a bit and it seemed to be all cool. No weirdness, no invites to go see nekkid pics, no “help me put a hex on my neighbor” kind of crap. Although, from the tone of her messages I had the impression she might have been a bit of a  “collector,” and by that I mean “celebrity collector.” While I don’t consider myself a celebrity by any stretch of the imagination, sometimes people see that profession of “Author” and assume such. Well, soon she informed me that she was going to rush right out and find one of my books to read.

Okay. Good deal. That’s the idea behind me being on social networking sites to begin with – generate new readers.  Apparently, it was working.

A couple of weeks went by and she contacted me again. She had procured a copy of Harm None and read it. Her message told me that she enjoyed it, BUT that she wanted to let me know that it was completely unrealistic because Rowan would have never been allowed to consult on a murder investigation.  She knew this because her father was a retired cop. And,  because of that little factoid she could detail for me, step by step, police procedure from the ground up. She had learned it all by osmosis. She then proceeded to tell me all manner of things that didn’t gibe in any way shape or form with the things that the actual, badge-wearing, gun-toting, crime-solving/preventing cops who are my friends had told me.

Go figure. During the osmosis I’m guessing that a few things got caught in the semi-permeable membrane through which all the knowledge was passing.

Okay… Let’s forget for just a moment here that the book is FICTION.

Her father was a retired cop. Not her. Her father. Again, not her.

She had never been a cop, completely unlike the cops I know who are actually accredited law enforcement officers and whom I consult about various procedures as previously noted. Nope. She wasn’t, nor had she ever been, one of them.

She was an ex adult model barbie soccer mom  something or another.

However, because her father was a retired cop she automatically knew everything there was to know about being a cop, police procedure, etc. Apparently, while at work, her father had some manner of psychic connection with her that allowed everything he knew about his job to automatically flow into her head. She didn’t actually say that, but it’s about the only thing I can imagine, because all of the cops I know don’t discuss their jobs at home all that much – especially with their kids.

Yet, because her father was a retired cop, she KNEW everything…

I realize I’m dwelling on that a bit, but I’m simply trying to make a point here. It’s pretty much as if she lived in a Holiday Inn Express, if you know what I mean. (Gratuitous stupid TV commercial reference, yes…)

So anyway, I told her, “Thanks. By the way, would you like for me to explain to you how to build an F-15 Fighter Jet?”

“How do you know how to do that?” she asked.

“Easy,” I replied. “MY father wasn’t a cop. He was a schedule planner for McDonnell-Douglas and he worked on the F-15 project. Therefore, I should be able to tell you the ins and outs of how to build one, don’tcha think?”

She didn’t find this particularly amusing. I, however, thought it was hilarious.

And so, the moral of the story is this: This ain’t your father’s diffusion of fluids through membranes or porous partitions, so quit acting like you somehow inherited his brain through your DNA or something.

OR

Stick to what you really know, not what you think you know. You’re less likely to make a fool of yourself that way.

However, if in the future I happen to have an “ex adult model turned soccer mom” as a character in a book, I know exactly who to call…

More to come…

Murv

Nope… This blog is NOT about a dog named Marty, any more than the movie Marley ‘n Me was about a legendary reggae singer. It’s actually about a couple of people – writers, in point of fact – me being one of them. Of course, I guess that last part is kind of obvious, huh?

Marty is Martha’s nickname. Martha Ackmann, actually. I’ve written about her before, and anyone who follows me on Facebook has seen me “share” some of her announcements of book signings and lectures on my wall. Just one of those “help a friend out” sorts of things.

However, if you aren’t a Facebooker and/or happened to miss any of the blogs where Martha picked up a mention, in a nutshell she was my Journalism teacher when I was in high school umpty-koff-koff years ago, and someone I consider a mentor. While I always loved writing, and started scribbling on the page as soon as I could fit a crayon into my fist, Martha was the teacher who most inspired me, and moreover convinced me I could make it in the world of word hurlage if I really wanted it badly enough.

Some time back she tracked me down on Facebook and friended me. She has risen through the ranks of teacherdom and is a prof at Mt. Holyoke these days. A far cry from teaching a bunch of disorganized,  socio-hormonally A.D.D. teenagers I’m sure, but only she could really answer that for you.

Now… What with me waxing nostalgic about Martha, you’ll probably find it surprising to find out that I’m actually here to talk about me. After all, I am my own favorite subject. Just ask me, I’ll tell you.

The “about me” in question involves an incident this past Monday evening. July 12, 2010, in fact. You see, Martha Ackmann, my teacher and mentor came to town on tour for her new book, Curveball: The Remarkable Story of Toni Stone (Pick up a copy… You might also want to check out her previous book, The Mercury 13…)

Moving right along… She was signing and presenting at Left Bank Books on Euclid. Now, Left Bank is a nice store. Plenty of books and the like. Unfortunately, I cannot say it’s one of my favorites. I think maybe that’s because my publicist tried to book me in there for a signing on two different occasions – after all, I am a local author and such so I should probably sign at a local store or two. But, my publicist was told, “We don’t sell that genre of book here.”

All good. I can understand that. No biggie.

However, when they then turned around and held a much publicized signing with Laurell K. Hamilton – who writes pretty much the same genre – I was left with no choice but to conclude that the aforementioned statement was a little less than truthful. I’m still not sure whose cornflakes I peed on or when, but apparently I’m not welcome at Left Bank Books… Unless of course I am there to spend money on books that are not of my own genre… But, I digress…

What I’m actually here to babble about is fear.

Bet you didn’t see that coming, did you?

Here’s the thing… I moved things around on my schedule, made sure dinner was on the table early, and worked it out so that I could make the short jaunt down to Left Bank – even if only for a few minutes – so that I could say hello, in person, to Martha. Other than contact via Facebook, we literally hadn’t seen one another in a little over 30 years. And, while sending her an email awhile back to tell her what a profound influence she had been on my life was personal “bucket list” worthy for me, I couldn’t allow an opportunity to visit with her face to face slip by.

This is where the fear comes in… I arrived at the store with EK, the o-spring, and friend-of-o-spring in tow. I made my way back to the lecture area where Martha was standing, chatting with folks. She saw me and acknowledged my presence immediately, however was tied up with other folks who wanted a word with her, so I stood by quietly as she talked, shook hands, and slowly inched her way in my direction. I know the drill, of course. I’ve been there too many times myself. Very simply, as an author, when you are at a book signing you belong to everyone there. It doesn’t matter if you feel like your left kidney is going to shoot out your right ear and stick to the far wall – you have to smile, be gracious, listen, and interact with everyone who wants to interact with you.  As cliche as it sounds, “the show must go on.” Just ask Freddie Mercury… Wait… He’s corpsified and such… Well, just take my word for it.  Even as an author, when you are booked to do a gig, you do the gig even if you’d rather  be having a root canal. And, along with that goes another old adage, that being:  “everyone wants their 5 minutes”… So, you have to give it to them.

Now, before anyone balks, I am NOT saying Martha felt like her kidney was going to shoot out her ear or that she didn’t want to be there… I am simply illustrating a point about the inner workings of a book event. Nor am I saying that she (or I for that matter) doesn’t enjoy the interaction with folks at signings, because I’m sure she does. And, I for one, know that I do – unless the person is crazy, but that’s a previous blog entry…

Either way, my point here is simply that when doing a signing you are generally in demand, and you can’t just drop everything and rush straight over to one person in the crowd. You have to be accessible to all, like it or not, and I understand that as well as anyone.

So… Why did I run down that particular path? Well, it’s like this… The fact that I had to stand by waiting to get my 5 minutes with Martha allowed time for some old memories to resurface. These were further enhanced by the conversation she was having with another attendee about how a classmate of mine who is now a newspaper editor had set up an interview with Martha, but handed it off to one of his reporters rather than do it himself. Why? Becuase he was afraid to interview “MA” as we used to call her.

And that’s the fear I’m talking about, because he wasn’t alone in experiencing it.

The memories that returned were vivid… You see, Martha was a force with which to be reckoned. Slight in stature though she was, she knew her business, and she enamored all of us with the ideals of Journalism. One of the things I remember was her commenting that she couldn’t bring herself to watch Lou Grant like the rest of us (yes, I’m dating myself yet again), because it made her want to be back in a newsroom. She regaled us with stories. She taught us how it was done, and done correctly.

So, where’s the fear, you might ask… Well, I’ll tell you. Martha also had “teacher face.” I’m sure you know the one I mean. If you did something stupid that disappointed her in some fashion, something which high school students would invariably do over and over again, she gave you the “teacher face.” She didn’t have to yell, or even say a word. Just one look from her and you felt like a complete idiot.

And, by the same token, when you did something that made her proud of you, she had a smile that was as wide as the horizon, and she told the world about it.

She was literally the best teacher I ever had.

And what of the fear? There I was, 30 years later, standing  in a bookstore waiting to visit with Martha. I’ve been in front of crowds, on the radio, on TV, and the whole nine yards… None of that flusters me… But, as I waited and listened to her tell the story about my classmate, I realized that I was in the same boat with him… My hands were shaking, my mouth was dry, and my ears were ringing. I was just plain nervous…

Fortunately, I got the smile and a hug instead of “teacher face.” I guess maybe I turned out okay in her eyes after all…

More to come…

Murv