BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Right out of the gates allow me to point out that Kurt Cobain and I share the same birth date. Now, I’ll grant you, there were quite a number of years separating us – he was the youngster and me the oldster – and I’m also still having those birthdays, quite unlike him. However, the point is we share a birth date so I think that allows me to bastardize the names of a couple of songs. So there…

Of course, as usual this blog is not about Kurt Cobain. Nor is it about Nirvana, The Foo Fighters, or any such thing.

It is, however, about Lithium… Or Thorazine… Or Haldol… Or any other antipsychotic you might be able to imagine. Why? Because I know some folks who need some. Scratch that… “Some” isn’t even close. Dump truck loads… Tanker truck loads… Just keep it coming.

But, let’s jump back to the beginning… Sorta.

You see, as an author of Paranormal Thrillers / Dark Urban Fantasy, I get to meet some very interesting folks. Some of them are, as I said, interesting. Others are more along the lines of interesting… Get my meaning?

Allow me to illustrate. I recently launched a book. Some of you may have heard of it – Miranda: A Rowan Gant Investigation. Now, as with previous books and as many authors do, I had a launch party. Nothing big. Not really a soiree or anything. Just a big cookie and a book signing. In the past I’ve done bigger sorts of parties for book launches, but I went for a minimalist approach this time, mainly because the economy sucks. But, I’m getting off track…

This go around I arrived at the store that was hosting the launch and they were also having a psychic fair. All good. More traffic, more folks to chat with. No problem there. Well, a psychic fair means “psychic readers”… Folks tossing out tarot cards, runes, whatever. Again, all good.

Or, so I thought…

I hadn’t been in the store 10 minutes that I was approached by one of said readers. The first thing she said to me was, “You’re the vampire guy, right?”

“Ummm, no,” I replied. “I’m the author guy.”

“But you write about vampires,” she said.

“No,” I replied with a smile. “Actually, I write paranormal suspense thrillers about a witch who helps the Saint Louis police solve serial murders and the like.”

“But there are vampires in them.”

“Well… I wrote one book that had a serial killer who pretended to be a vampire,” I said, picking the particular volume from the table and holding it up. “It was titled Blood Moon.”

“Well, I’m a real vampire slayer,” she replied, not even bothering to look at the novel in my hand.

I blinked. I blinked again. Then with my outside voice I said, “I see.”

My inside voice, however, was saying, “Sugar, I’m pretty sure you aren’t that Buffy chick… She’s quite a bit younger than you…”

“That’s what I do,” she continued. “I travel around the world slaying vampires.”

My outside voice said, “Oh. That’s nice.”

My inside voice spoke up again and said, “Really… And you hide the bodies where?”

“I just cut the twelve cords,” she announced.

My outside voice said, “Oh. That’s nice.”

My inside voice said, “You might have cut the cheese, but that’s about it. I think it’s more like you just escaped from a mental ward somewhere and people in white coats are looking for you.”

“I gathered up the twelve cords of the blah blah-blah de blabbity blah blah blah…” she continued.

My inside voice said, “I wonder how much Haldol it takes to put you down? You aren’t all that big, but with this level of psychosis I’m thinking, oh, I dunno, a quart. Quart and a half?”

My outside voice said nothing.

However, my outside face smiled and my outside head nodded. When you run into interesting people at a book signing, that’s pretty much all you can do unless you want to look like an ass to all of the actual interesting people who are standing around waiting to chat with you.

Eventually “Buffy” started winding down, “Blah blah, de blabbity and so a crack in the earth is a good thing. Oil spilling into the gulf from the earth just goes to show you that I managed to slay blabbity blah blah vampires.”

“Oh. That’s nice,” my outside voice said.

“Yeah, you’re definitely a fucking frootloop,” my inside voice mumbled. “Oil spilling into the gulf is a good thing? Sheesh…”

“So, you don’t read?” she asked.

“Sure I read,” I replied. “I mean, I write books so it kinda comes with the territory.”

She shook her head and gave me an exasperated sigh. “I mean you don’t read for people.”

“Come again?”

“You aren’t a reader. You don’t see things like the person in your book.”

“Oh,” I said with my outside voice.

“Here we go…” I said with my inside voice.

My outside voice continued talking. “No, I don’t talk to dead people or have visions like my character, but I have helped the police in the past by answering questions about paganism and some of the symbology.”

“Then that’s what you should do,” she announced.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You should quit writing about it and just help the police.”

I shook my head. “Why?”

“Because then you’d be helping.”

“I think I’ll stick to writing,” I said with my outside voice. “After ten books it’s kinda become a habit.”

My inside voice said, “Wrong guess on the Haldol. Gonna take three quarts for this one…”

“Well,” she grumbled as she wandered off to do a psychic reading for a client. “I was really hoping for your fans to show up so I could slay them.”

“I wonder if they have sharp, pointy objects in this store?” my inside voice wondered.

“Oh. That’s nice,” my outside voice said.

But, you know what made the day even better? A few hours later one of the other “readers” came up to me and said, “You’re the vampire guy, right?”

I sighed as my outside voice automatically spewed, “No, I’m the author guy.”

“Jeezus H. Chhhhhrrrriiiiissssst! Not another one,” my inside voice groaned.

“Oh,” she said. “Well, I just read Abraham Lincoln:  Vampire Hunter, and it’s a true story taken from his private journals, you know. So, I thought you would find it interesting that one of our presidents was a famous vampire slayer and we’re just now finding out about it.”

“Oh. That’s nice…”

She’s all yours, Seth*. I don’t do vampires. That’s your schtick… I already have a whole box of frootloops who think they can actually ride brooms. I don’t need your mixed nuts too…

More to come…

Murv

* Seth Grahame-Smith – author of Abraham Lincoln:  Vampire Hunter

“Nyah, nyah, I win…” Mike said to Luets.

You remember Mike and Luets, correct? I wrote about them just the other day in the blog about how competitive Luets is, and during that blog I also pointed out just exactly how non-competitive Mike happens to be. However, I also noted that he “lives to get one over on Luets”, so I guess in a weird sort of way, he is competitive. Just with Luets and nobody else.

However, none of that explains why he was giving her the, “Nyah Nyah” treatment. But, trust me, I was just as confused at the time as you probably are now. So, are your seatbelts fastened? Good, because it’s subject whiplash time.

We live in a small house.

It’s not tiny, mind you. It’s definitely larger than the duplex apartment E K and I lived in early on in our relationship. And, it’s also much larger than several other houses I’ve been in over the years. But, by the same token, it’s just a 100+ year old, 1.5 story bungalow in a relatively quiet neighborhood. When we bought it, we were after a fixer-upper, and that’s exactly what we got. And, fix up we have. While it isn’t a showpiece by any stretch of the imagination, it’s not bad for what we started out with – as well as the limited funding available to us in our earlier days. Suffice it to say, the house is small but nice, and more importantly, we own it, not the bank. Yes, the house is paid off. Free and clear. Our little corner of the world. I could secede from the union if I wanted… And, still might. But, that’s a different story.

Still, small as it is, it was always just fine for us – until the o-spring came along, that is. The thing being, children are sort of like that foam insulation you spray into cracks to seal up drafts. Once you let them out of the proverbial can, they just expand exponentially – and I’m not just talking about their physical growth. What I mean is that everything they own takes up every available inch of space in your home. Even though it will all fit into said child’s room, it grows legs and deposits itself everywhere BUT said room.

But, I’m digressing… Although, only a little…

You see, when O-spring came along, E K and I gave up the master bedroom (which happens to be the only one on the main floor) and turned it into a “nursery” which has since become the o-spring’s room. This meant that we moved up into the half story. To accomplish this we turned the old loft-like storage room into a bedroom. Well, actually our contractor buddy Steve (see the hell house blogs) did. And, the room directly across the stair landing remained our office.

So, whenever you see one of my status updates on a social networking site or one of these blogs mentioning me being in my office, that’s where I am. Across the landing from our half story bedroom. Said office – with the exception of a few airplanes, hotel rooms, and a stint in our dining room when the A/C was broken – is exactly where all of the Rowan Gant novels have been written. That also goes for the novelette, and just about every article I’ve ever penned for any magazine, e-zine, website, or whatever. It’s my office. It’s where I work. I really don’t think of it as much of anything other than a room where I go do my job.

Seriously.

It’s nothing fancy by any stretch. A sloped, peaked ceiling, some walls, a counter, some cabinets, and a couple of desks. Sure, I’ve networked the hell out of it, but then I’ve done that to the whole house. That’s just something that came along with being a computer tech for so many years. But still, all in all, it’s just a room. A room where I go to work.

So, imagine my surprise when Mike looked at Luets and said, “Nyah, nyah, I win…”

And then, she proceeded to pout.

Being the curious person I am, it was a moral imperative that I ask what was going on. And, they told me.

You see, Mike and I had just returned from being upstairs in the office where we had gone to grab something we needed. I honestly can’t even remember what it was. It was no big deal to me. We just ran up the stairs, grabbed whatever it was – or checked whatever email it was… Or whatever. My point being, we ran up to the office, then right back down.

But, apparently, there was wayyyyy more to it for Luets and him. It seems they’ve had a long running bet about which one of them would be the first to actually, physically see “Murv’s Office.” Apparently, it is some manner of Holy Shrine or something. Granted, there are a few nail holes in the wall but none of them look like any biblical personages… Nor do they look like any of the characters from my novels. There are the OOAK action figures on my desk of Ben Storm, Felicity O’Brien, Constance Mandalay, and Miranda… (Never have been able to create a decent Rowan, but that’s another story)… But, what I’m trying to say here is this – the nail holes just look like nail holes.

Honestly, this confuses me. While I’ve had a few personal epiphanies during the times I hang out in my office, I don’t think they really translate to shrine material… I mean, it’s just an office. And, it’s not even clean, because I can tend to accumulate a lot of paper and such when I am researching. It’s not filthy, mind you, but it is definitely in a state of disarray. And, like I said… It’s just an office.

However, now that I’ve been made aware of this little tidbit of info, I suppose I should straighten it up a bit then invite Luets upstairs to see it. Maybe I should even get myself some of those stanchions and a velvet rope to cordon off my desk. Of course, I’ll also need a sign that says “Please No Flash Photography”…

Hmmmm… Maybe I could charge admission… And, now that I think about it, what with E K being so much more popular than me, I wonder how much they’d pay to see the secret room in the basement where she tortures people?

Something to think about. Could be a whole new source of revenue. Then maybe we could buy a bigger house.

More to come…

Murv