" /> BRAINPAN LEAKAGE » story
  • Why Doan-Choo…

      0 comments

    …also known as, “Why don’t you…”

    It seems that when I get questions from folks, that is usually the qualifying preamble.

    “Why don’t you write Zombie books?”

    “Why don’t you do book signings in Little Chicken Neck, Arkansas?”

    “Why don’t you give Rowan a break?”

    "Why don't you leave your wife and come shack up with me?"
    

    Yeah… Sometimes some fairly weird stuff, and yes, I have actually been asked that “shack up with me” question, among various others I’m too polite to mention here. I’m flattered, but let’s get something straight – not gonna happen.

    However, the “Why Doan-Choo” of late has actually come from colleagues in the field of book authorin’ as well as quite a few aspiring writers, and it has to do with Brainpan Leakage. Not actually grey matter running out your ears or anything, I mean Brainpan Leakage as in this blog. Their question, while taking many forms – simplistic to complex – always boils down to the following:

    “Why don’t you write about writing in your blog?”

    In answer to that I normally point toward the entry “I Can Haz Blog?” However, since that is way back in the archives and such, I figure I’ll post another, far more vitriolic missive about this subject.

    So, here’s the answer – As a rule, writers who blog about writing tend to piss me off. (Just watch, one of the aforementioned offenders will see this and yell at me about ending that sentence with a preposition.)

    Now, let me clarify this a bit. Not ALL writers who blog about writing piss me off, just a good portion of them. There are a few gems out there who actually give some thought to the process and are simply answering questions about how THEY go about writing a story. Those types of blogs are interesting. That type of advice is worthwhile.

    However, the vast majority of “blogs about writing” – that I have read – tend more toward:

    “Hi, I’m [insert name here]. I (pick one) –

    1. Has jest have my first book publishified.
    2. Reeded a book won tyme.
    3. Write ingredient copy for Campbell’s soup labels.
    4. Can burp the alphabet while drunk.
    5. What’z uh buhk?

    – and because this makes me an expert in the field I am going to tell you exactly how it is done. I am correct, you are incorrect, and if you don’t write exactly the way I tell you to in my blog, then you are a big moron who doesn’t deserve to live.”

    Yeah… Okay… So I’ll admit to exaggerating things there, but I think you all realize I did so to make my point. The basic gist of the above is that there are far too many self-important, pseudo-pedantic blogs out there with folks stating opinion as fact, many of whom don’t actually have the necessary qualifications to do so. And this goes for plenty of subjects besides just writing…

    However, as the subject of writing goes many folks make an assumption that having a book published automatically grants them expert credentials. Well I’ve had 9 books published, several of which have won awards and all of which have spent time on various best seller lists.  I also have a few short stories out there and contracts to write a few more books, and guess what? I am NOT qualified to tell you how to write.

    The simple fact is that nobody is, plain and simple…

    Unfortunately – and this goes back to my entry “I Can Haz Blog” as well – there are also too many “how to” sites telling new and aspiring authors that in order to create a web presence and get their names known they need to blog about writing and position themselves as experts.

    As Felicity O’Brien would say, “Cac capaill!” (for the Gaelic challenged – Horseshit!)

    However, since I keep getting the question I am going to cave for a moment and give folks what they want. So here you go. This is my blog about writing,  and my personal, foolproof, guaranteed 10 point process for authoring… And dare I say this is the definitive blog about writing… (at least as far as any you are ever going to get from me.)

    And so, here they are in no particular order:

    1. If you want to write, then write. Don’t talk about it, DO it.
    2. The only thing you can be taught is the mechanics and you should have picked these up sometime around your first English Composition class. In fact, per a dear friend of mine who is an English teacher you should have picked them up by the 4th grade. Ability and talent come from within, not from a book, teacher, or unsolicited advice.
    3. You can ask advice about nuances of writing, but that’s about it. Ability and talent do not come from solicited advice either. Don’t ask someone to teach you to be a writer. That movie with Sean Connery and the kid? Didn’t really happen. Get over it. But always remember, just like the Baz Luhrmann song says: Be careful whose advice you take. And to add my two cents, it’s just advice, not gospel.
    4. You are going to forget shit from English Comp. We all do unless we teach it for a living, and even then I’ve personally caught teachers making mistakes. Your best bet is to keep a couple of grammar reference books handy, but you should use them just like the Pirates use their rules – as a set of guidelines. Don’t be afraid to paint outside the lines, just don’t spill any and make a mess.
    5. Use a proofing sheet. It saves your editor headaches and if you save your editor headaches you save yourself heartaches. You are going to have a love/hate relationship with your editor, so do as much as you can to skew the scales toward the love. It’s better for both of you and you’ll save on antacids.
    6. When and if you have some success at this game, don’t take yourself too seriously, or believe your own press.  If you do, you are in for a big surprise. Your shit stinks just like everyone else’s, and someone is bound to tell you so. The farther you have to fall, the worse your ego is going to get bruised on impact.
    7. Read Strunk and White’s Elements of Style and The Chicago Manual of Style. Then use them to hold up an uneven table leg and never touch them again. Again, they are guidelines, but they are not the definitive word on how to write. Ask any linguist – our language and its usage are evolving on a daily basis.
    8. Ignore anyone who tells you that to be a writer you must follow the rules set forth by Elmore Leonard. If they persist in following you around and spouting this nonsense, hit them over the head with a cast iron skillet and knock some sense into them. Even if it doesn’t knock sense into them they will probably be quiet for a good while afterward.
    9. Observe life around you and soak it up like a sponge. When creating a character look inward and draw from personal experience. That is what will make the character believable and real.
    10. Marry someone with a trust fund or a good job who doesn’t mind supporting your ass. Not all of us get to be a Laurell K. Hamilton, James Patterson,  John Grisham, et. al.

    Here’s the thing – Writing, just like painting, is an art form. It is open to interpretation. That’s just how it is.

    And, lest you think I have now crossed over to the dark side of the pseudo-pedantic, self-important “how to write” bloggers I so disdain, let me say just one more thing…

    The above is my opinion and nothing more than my opinion on the subject of the authoring biz. It is how I write and how I view writing. It may or may not work for you, so feel free to take it or leave it.

    Okay, enough with all this serious crap… I’ll try to make sure my next blog returns to the realm of bizarre humor. That’s way more fun…

    Oh, and by the way. NO. I am NOT going to leave my wife and shack up with you.

    More to come…

    Murv

  • Dude, She Doesn’t Have Any More…

      0 comments

    I have a hobby.

    No… Not the one where I dress up in my wife’s lingerie and sing “I’m So Pretty” while playing badminton with the mushroom tripping squirrels in the back yard.

    Errr… Ummm… Forget I ever said that, okay?

    But seriously, I do have a hobby. A couple of them, in fact, and if book sales don’t pick up soon the IRS is going to consider my profession a hobby as well. But, that a different story…

    The particular hobby in question here, however, is Home Brewing. Yeah, the making of drinkable fermented beverages such as Beer, Wine, and Mead. For someone who enjoys cooking as much as I do, well, brewing seemed like a no-brainer in the hobby department. Now, the truth is I don’t get to engage in my hobbies as much as I once did. This whole writing, touring, promotional marketing of oneself thing takes up far more time than I ever imagined it would. But, I still brew up a batch of Beer or Mead when I have some downtime and I’m looking for a fun activity.

    Before we go any further here, I suppose I should define Mead for Brainpan Leakage readers who don’t happen to know what it is… Mead is basically a wine. In its purest form it is nothing more than Honey, Water, and Yeast. Mix Honey and Water, boil, skim off impurities, cool, add Yeast, allow to ferment. From there things can get a bit interesting with variations on the old standby – these being Pyments (fermented with grape juice as an adjunct), Melomels (Meads containing fruit), and Metheglins (Meads containing spices and/or herbs)…

    Miranda Label 001 I have made all varieties of Meads over the years. I have even made Meads fortified with other alcohols, and named after characters in my books. Most notably, Miranda Mead.

    Emblazoned upon the risque label, Miranda Mead carried with it a tagline which read: Guaranteed to hurt you…  Bad… (Yes, I know, It should be badLY. It’s a label, gimme a break…)

    Beneath this was an explanation which went on to outline exactly why those of us involved in the bottling of this particular Mead thought such (which is, of course, why it was named after Miranda in the first place, what with the character being a homicidal dominatrix and all…)

    Miranda Label 002

    Of course, those eagle eyed among you probably noticed the words “Felicity O’Brien Sweet Dessert Mead.” Well, yes, that was the base for the Miranda Mead, what with their intimate connection and all. We won’t go into that here since some of you blog readers may not have read that far in the series just yet. So, the long and short of it is, yes, I created a recipe for a special Sweet Mead which was named after Felicity. Its label even contained the O’Brien Coat of Arms.

    OBRIEN At this point I should add an important disclaimer so that I don’t end up getting a mess of email about this – None of this Mead is for sale or commercially available. It is home brewed for personal use, so please DO NOT even ask. It ain’t gonna happen. Hell, my brother-in-law is an ATF agent, so breaking that particular set of laws would be a doubly stupid move on my part now wouldn’t it?

    So… Now that you are armed with the above information, I have a confession to make… No, not the thing with the lingerie… What I need to admit here is that I really cannot stand Mead. Seriously. It just isn’t my thing. There are a few meads I have had that are drinkable – Miranda Mead being one of them, Moniak another, and a Hot Ginger Mead made by a friend of mine the third. But if given the choice I’d reach for a beer instead. This is not to say that there is anything wrong with mead. It’s just not my thing.

    So, I am sure you are wondering why I would bother to brew something I don’t particularly like. Well, that’s simple. I make it so that I have it on hand for my friends because several of them really do like it.

    A lot.

    In fact, I have one friend in particular who will crawl naked across shards of broken glass, layered on top of hot coals in an unmapped mine field while being chased by starving Basset Hounds just so he can kiss E Kay’s arse to get some… (Some Mead, that is… Not some… Well… You know…)

    Yeah… You heard me. He sucks up to E K who wouldn’t even know where to start in the process of making Mead. Remember the Tuna Helper incident? She may be the Queen Bitch of the Whole F*cking Universe, but she knows better than to mess around in the kitchen. She has a lackey for that sort of thing, namely moi.

    Still, that simple fact doesn’t stop Mike… Just the other day we were having a BBQ and there he sat on our back deck nursing what dregs were left of a bottle of Felicity O’Brien Mead. Just for the record, he has almost single handedly wiped out the entire batch, which means it is time for me to make more. Not that I mind in the least. I’m ecstatic that he likes it so much… But I digress… (So what’s new about that?)

    You see, he had no more finished the last swig from the bottle than he looked up at E K and said, “I really can’t believe that you are XX years old.”

    “What?” E K asked, blue fire kindling in her eyes at the very idea that someone might be implying she is a liar.

    “You don’t look a day over 40,” Mike returned.

    “Dude, you’re in trouble now. She’s only 27,” I told him. Unfortunately, my bid to trip him up fell on deaf ears.

    “42, tops,” he continued, totally unfazed.

    E K, not sure what to make of this, went inside and stood in front of the liquor cabinet angrily tapping her foot until someone had the presence of mind to crawl into the kitchen, mix a drink, and present it to her with much ceremony and the appropriate level of deference to her status as Eebil Queen. Satisfied for the moment, she returned to the deck with her Vodka-Tonic in hand.

    “37,” Mike announced before she’d even stopped moving. “You’re just gorgeous. You don’t look a day over 37.”

    “Dude… A minute ago you said 42,” Johnathan jibed.

    “Yeah, right,” E K replied, then took a sip of her drink.

    You could hear the amusement in her voice, but at the same time you could see in her eyes that she was basking in the glow of his effusive Redhead worship. Still, those of us who know E K well were perfectly aware of the fact that she was trying to figure out what was handy that she could beat him with in case he slipped up and said the wrong thing.

    I wandered down the stairs to the grill and flipped the Bratwursts, then closed the lid and made my way back up to the picnic table. It had been quiet for a few minutes now, but I had no more planted my rear on a seat than Mike looked up at E K and began to gesture.

    “Look at her,” he announced. “I’m telling you this woman is absolutely gorgeous. She doesn’t look a day over 35.”

    “Did anyone else notice that the number keeps going down?” Johnathan asked.

    “Johnathan,” E K replied coolly. “Do you really want me to knock you down and stomp on you?”

    “No ma’am,” he replied.

    “I didn’t think so,” she observed, then turned her attention back to Mike. “You were saying?”

    Mike became even more animated than his normal cartoonish self. “I was saying you’re just gorgeous. You don’t look a day over 32… No… Make that 30. Not a day over 30…”

    Now, remember where we left off folks – 30… This will be important later in the story…

    It was at this particular moment that I spied the empty bottle of Felicity Mead and realized what he was doing. As it happens, his wife, Anastasia, was on the same wavelength with me – what with us both being a little brainpan bent and all – and she spoke up before I had a chance.

    “Mike,” she told him. “You’re sucking up to the wrong person. Kat didn’t make the Mead, Murv did.”

    “I’m not after more Mead,” he objected.

    “Yeah, right,” Anastasia replied. “Sure you aren’t.”

    “Really,” he persisted.

    E K took another sip of her drink and like the ice-cold, redheaded assassin woman she is, went in for the kill. You could see the giddiness in her eyes as she told him, “It’s all gone, Mike.”

    “It’s all gone?” He asked.

    She nodded then grinned her evil grin. “Yes. All gone.”

    mead “Yeah, dude,” I added. “She doesn’t have anymore. You drank it all.”

    He was quiet for a minute then countered with, “Well, that’s okay. I wasn’t trying to get more Mead anyway. I’m serious, just look at her. She really and truly doesn’t look a day over 40…”

    To this day, Mike swears he wasn’t sucking up in order to get more Mead, but I’m a little suspect of that, given how the years seemed to melt away from the Evil One without the help of Botox or even Oil of Olay.

    Not that she needs any years to melt away, trust me. And I’m definitely not just saying that so she won’t stomp on my head. It doesn’t matter, because she’ll find a reason to stomp on me anyway.

    The thing is Mike was so close to the prize it was scary – There was actually another bottle of Mead in the house and if he’d ratcheted her age down to 25 or so she just might have given it to him.

    More to come…

    Murv