BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Being the marketing whore I am, I belong to several e-lists, forums, and even social networking sites (other than MySpank here). I would like to point out, however, that I am more along the line of a high-priced call-marketer, rather than the street corner quickie. Why? Because I try to show a little class.

I take great pains to avoid being one of those incredibly ridiculous, in your face authors who twists any and all subjects around to a mention of their latest book. For example, say you have a thread where someone says “I like oranges”…If for some odd reason I was to throw my two cents in there, it would be something along the lines of “Yeah, me too. Especially the navel oranges because I don’t like seeds.” Whereas, some of the cheaper, street corner author-whores might seize upon that opportunity to post something like, “Well, if you like oranges you should read my latest novel because in chapter 15, my protagonist, Buck Naked, eats an orange before going out to track down the bad guy, Chronic Halitosis.”

I know…It sounds utterly ridiculous, doesn’t it? Well, even though I have never seen a post specifically about an orange, I have seen some just as convoluted…Some, even worse. We call this Blatant Shameless Self-Promotion. (BSSP or BSP) While self-promotion is an absolute must for authors, being so completely insane about it is…well…just icky.

What in blue blazes does this have to do with pink toenails? Not a damn thing. I just wanted to make it clear that while I’ll readily admit to being a whore, I’m neither cheap nor easy. And, “I gots class.”

Okay…So now that we have established that, back to the topic at hand. Actually, the above really does have some small amount to do with this– that being the fact that I belong to so many different lists, forums, and social networking interfaces on the web. What it comes down to is that I see a whole mess of discussions on a whole mess of different topics. Some of them so-so, some of them interesting.

And there you have it. One of these topics on a forum recently caught my attention. In fact, it has appeared on several forums, and even as commentary/questions in my personal email. While I didn’t feel a need to toss my two cents in on it at the time (nothing had been mentioned about oranges in any of the threads or emails, so why would I?) events of the last day have led me to blog about this subject…

The topic in question was, “What do authors do in their free time?”

Some of the speculation was interesting. People commented about different authors they had met in person, stating that they seemed like down to earth folks who would fit right in with their personal circle of friends. Some wondered if it was a taboo to offer to buy lunch for an author or would you be seen as a stalker (for the record, we like free lunches…but not stalkers.) Others waxed prophetic about how much fun we must be having in our multi-million dollar homes with the indoor-outdoor pools, and high-caliber celebrities coming over for parties. I am sincerely hoping that those commentaries were tongue in cheek, because I have yet to be issued my mansion and yacht…

So, in addition to the “wonder if authors hang out with their friends who knew them before they were authors” kind of questions (yes, we do, BTW), there were the typical “what’s a day in the life of an author like?”

Well…I could ramble on for hours, boring you with the details of getting up in the morning, getting my wife off to work, my daughter off to school, doing dishes. cleaning up cat barf from a geriatric, diabetic feline, spreading notes out on the table and plotting a chapter. Then, typing for a couple of hours, deciding it isn’t right and cutting and pasting for a while, only to go back and write it all over again. Making a fresh pot of coffee while eating a sandwich over the sink…Answering the phone only to discover that it is a radio interview you forgot you were supposed to do but your mouth is full of braunschwieger and swiss on whole wheat with a bread and butter pickle slice…So you wash it down and get on with the interview only to discover that the interviewer has never read your books, or even a synopsis–just two lines of the press release. Therefore, she has concluded that you must be an FBI agent and you spend 11 minutes of the 15 minute interview fielding questions you can’t possibly answer about the inner workings of Quantico while trying to convince her that you do NOT work for the FBI…Finally, you get that done and say to yourself “now where was I?”. You manage to get back to what you were doing (writing…after all, that’s what we do) and if you are lucky you get your self-imposed quota written for the day just in time to get your happy ass into the kitchen and make dinner before evil wife person and the kid get home…And, you do ALL of this without ever once wearing a tweed jacket with elbow patches. (My preferred mode of dress is much classier. Cargo shorts, a t-shirt, tube socks, and if I have to run out to the post office or something, my tan Crocs…See a previous blog for details on those…)

Not very glamorous, eh? Kind of like going to the office, working on a project only to discover the data you got from Fred is wrong, so you have to redo half of it…however, you get interrupted by the boss because he/she needs you to stop what you are doing and take care of something else, even though it is something you aren’t qualified for and would be better done by Sally in accounting. Only to wind up your day picking up a bucket of chicken on the way home because the spouse has to take the kid to soccer practice. But, when you arrive late you discover the dog couldn’t hold it so he crapped in your living room…

See the parallel’s there?

“But, Murv! What the holy hell does this have to do with pink toenails?” you demand.

That should be obvious from paragraph 10. I have a daughter, and she’s at “that age.” No, not the age where she brings boys home and I sit in the living room cleaning guns. That’s a few years off yet. She’s still a munchkin and she is at that stage where she wants to be a girly girl (which is fine) but she also wants everyone around her to be pretty too.

So…What did this author do with his free time yesterday? After doing the grocery shopping and other exciting crap like that, he let his 7 year old daughter paint his toenails pink (along with a good portion of his toes).

My wife claims there’s no nail polish remover to be had in the house. I’m pretty sure she’s lying. I can tell by the evil grin.

Till the next time…

Murv

“Twas the Night Before Christmas, 21^st Century Edition”

Copyright © 2006, M. R. Sellars

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring, not even my spouse.

Her wet stockings were hung in the bathroom with care,

My razor was dull and full of her leg hair.

My wife was nestled all snug in our bed,

While visions of shoe sales danced in her head.

When out in the living room there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my keyboard to empty my bladder.

And what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But some fat S.O.B. drinking my last beer.

His eyes were unfocused, and his cheeks were a-flush,

I could tell at a glance that Santa was a lush.

His knees how they wobbled as he finished with a slurp,

Then he got up from his chair and let out a burp!

“Hi there, young fella,” he said with a *hic*

“Best get outta my way, I think I’m gonna be sick!”

He rushed to the bathroom and I heard my wife scream,

Seems she was in there and didn’t think this too keen.

What was next to occur was kind of a shock,

I found her pummeling Santa with our new alarm clock!

“Hey honey, chill out!” I said with a start.

“Surely you don’t wanna kill the old fart!”

“Look lady,” Santa cried as he lurched and careened,

“I only got airsick ’cause I forgot my Dramamine!”

“So you’re NOT just some drunk?” I asked as he scratched his crotch.

“Of course not,” he replied, “But I WILL take a Scotch!”

“And to show there’re no hard feelings,” he chortled with glee,

“Tell me what is it you’d like to find under your tree.”

I took a sharp breath, and held it inside,

Santa you fool, you’d better run and hide.

You’ve asked the wrong question, instead of the right,

And now you’re gonna be here the rest of the night.

My wife’s eyes sparkled, teeth showing as she grinned,

And the next thing I knew she had the guy pinned!

Catalogs flew, and flyers they fluttered,

Creating immediately a large pile of clutter.

Santa couldn’t move and his eyes filled with fright,

Seeing her chance my redhead squealed with delight!

“Some diamonds and pearls, from this place and that!

Some pumps and some boots, and maybe a hat!”

She ran down her list in a voice filled with glee,

All I could think was “I’m glad it’s not me!”

Santa wriggled and squirmed as she sat on his chest,

Then he shouted and hollered, “Hey, give it a rest!”

But my wife wasn’t finished, that much I knew,

For she held that elf down and started anew.

“Sapphires and rubies, and rings of white gold,

I don’t even care if they’re new or they’re old!

A black leather jacket and a skirt that goes with it,

Matching gloves and a gift card that spends without limit!

A full length fur coat, synthetic of course,

Hey! Are you taking this down? Don’t make me use force!”

The old guy kept kicking, and somehow broke free,

How he managed to do so was way beyond me.

But my redhead was behind him as he sprang for the door,

While she screamed, “No, don’t leave now, for I want so much more!”

Santa ran through my yard as though he were scared,

And I can’t say I blamed him, for I doubted I’d be spared.

He hollered, as he raced, his words not too thrilling,

In fact I must say they were in all senses chilling.

With what he said, I had no choice but to agree,

For she was all wound up and he was leaving her with me.

Now here’s the last thing I heard, as he fled from this strife,

“I’d stay for that scotch, but I’m afraid of your wife!”