BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Okay…

Between here, there, and everywhere I get a ton of email. Some of it Spam, some of it Treet. (Both of which I thoroughly enjoy, fried, on whole wheat, with a slice of american cheese.)

Some of it is important, some of it isn’t. Some of it warrants a reply, some of it doesn’t. But, what I am on about here is the stuff that needs a reply, but there is so much of it that I don’t have time to do so. Therefore, rather than cut and paste and all that, I am going to answer some of these Frequently Asked Questions here in my blog. Some of the questions truly are asked frequently. Others, not so much, but I found them worthy of a response for one reason or another. So, without further rambling from me (or, not so informative rambling anyway) here we go:

1) I’m interested in being a writer. Can you give me some tips for writing a good story?

Well, let’s address part one of that– Are you insane? You need to be if you want to actually be a writer for a living. Just thought I’d get that out of the way. As to tips, if you ask several authors the same question you will get several different answers. The points where we would all agree, however, would probably be the following: Write about something you are familiar with. If you aren’t familiar with it, then GET familiar with it (ie research). Be passionate about what you are writing. Passion is what makes a good story, not just words joined together in coherent phrases. Accept constructive criticism, and ignore those who have nothing constructive to say. Learn the difference between the two. Write for yourself and no one else. You can’t please everyone. It took me a few bad reviews and a good friend’s advice in order to learn that lesson. Even though you say you are listening to me now, you really aren’t. You will need to learn this lesson on your own just like we all have. The best I can do is tell you what I just did so that you can be prepared for what you have to face. And finally, this is supposed to be fun. If it ain’t fun, the story is going to suck, so stop and write something that’s fun.

2) Will Eldon Porter’s story ever be revisited?

For those who may not have read the RGI series, or aren’t far enough into it yet, Eldon Porter is an antagonist within the story arc who has made two appearances…well really twp appearances and a couple of mentions…throughout. He’s not a particulary nice guy. And, to answer the question, yes. Eldon will return. When, I am not saying…I don’t want to spoil the surprise.

3) Can I have your checks?

This was in response to an earlier blog, and isn’t actually frequently asked. In fact, this is the only time it has been asked. I just thought it was funny. BTW, the answer is NO.

4) Have you ever considered a Rowan Gant Investigations Movie?

Hey, I’d love to see something like that. In fact, a script was actually written. However, I don’t have much control over that…I mean, YES, I have the rights to my works, therefore if someone wants to make a movie based on the books they have to come through me first. However, I don’t have sixty-million laying around in order to finance a movie….so, unless somebody in Hollerwood decides they want to make an RGI movie, I guess we’ll all just have to be happy with the books.

5) If an RGI movie were made, who would you cast in the various parts?

Well, just like the previous answer, I would have no real say in that. The movie folks don’t give a flying rats a** who I want to play the parts. All I did was write the books and create the characters. I couldn’t possibly know who could properly personify them…That said, IF I had some sort of say in it, I think it would be something like this–

Rowan Gant – John Corbett (yes, he’s a bit tall, but they can do all manner of cool stuff with camera angles…hell, they made Gary Sinise a double amputee in Forrest Gump, I think they can probably make Corbett look a bit shorter than whoever played Ben.)

Felicity O’Brien – Lea Thompson (although, if said movie were to be a few years in the future, Scarlett Pomers would be perfect, and my absolute first choice,  if she could do the on again-off again accent and toss about a bit of Gaelic. Right now, however, she’s only like 19 or something, so she’s a bit too young…Especially if Corbett was playing Rowan.)

Ben Storm – Jimmy Smits (I know, he’s not actually Native American, but I think he could pull it off. However, there may well be a NA actor or two out there I haven’t thought of.)

Constance Mandalay – Jewel Staite (throw some makeup at her that would get rid of the girlishness, put her in a power suit and give her a Sig Sauer, and I’m betting the loveable ships mechanic from Firefly would make a great hard nosed FBI agent. Just my personal view.)

The rest of the characters I haven’t really given that much thought where a movie is concerned. However, on other involvements–

Director – Michael Mann, Joss Whedon, Chris Carter (one of the three)

Music – Mark Snow, Greg Edmonson, Tommy Shaw, and James Young (all of the above)

Of course, like I said, the above is all just daydreaming…

6) This wasn’t so much a question as an estimation by someone pointing out that authors don’t actually make a ton of money. Although, the question, however rude, “how much do you make?” has been asked before. So, here is how getting paid as an author works…

Typical royalties are something like 10-12 percent of wholesale, per copy, minus returns (people also don’t realize that the book industry is just about the only one where the merchandise is returnable by the distributor forever.)

So, let’s say you buy one of my mass market paperbacks. They retail at 8.95… Wholesale price to a distributor, on average (depending on quantity discounts, etc. for given distributors) is going to be something like 3.75. Direct to a bookstore probably something like 5.40… Most sales go to the wholesaler/distributors, but for the sake of argument we will average these two which gives us something like 4.58. Soooo, I get right around 46 cents per copy sold (in reality it is less, because like I said, the bulk of the sales go to distributors at a higher discount)…

Now, let’s say 10,000 copies sell during a year (I wish!!). I make a whopping 4600 bucks. NOT 46 Thousand…Four Thousand Six Hundred. However, let’s consider that of those 10,000 copies, 4000 get returned to the publisher. (this is not unusual, as bookstores rotate stock. In many chains, if it hasn’t sold in thirty days, it gets returned to the distributor. If it happens to get damaged in shipping, oh well, too bad so sad, the distributor returns it to the publisher for a full refund..) So, remember, my check is minus returns…So, it now becomes $4600 minus $1840, which leaves me with $2760. But, MR…you say…you have seven books out there. Yeah…So, 7 times $2760 works out to $19,320.

Now, understand, I’m not complaining here. I’m just answering a question. While the calculations above are simplified for the sake of not having to explain all of the intricacies of a royalty report, the end result is pretty much the same. Not wealthy, just making a living.

What about your advance, you say? Well, advances are nice, but unless you are a really big name, they aren’t usually more than 2-5K…AND, the name ADVANCE is literal…It is an ADVANCE against your royalties, so it isn’t free money. You literally won’t see any royalties on that title until such time as it has sold enough copies to have made back the advance monies.

Okay, so there’s your lesson in collecting an author’s paycheck…

And, that’s all of the questions for now. I’ll collect a few more and answer them in a future blog…

MR

Thirty-odd years ago, I found a cassette tape recorder under the Yule tree with my name on it. Now remember, I said thirty-odd years ago, so we are talking about the bulky recorder which, even though it was state of the art in its day, was about the size of a dinner plate and as thick as a half dozen said plates stacked together. This item was something I had wanted for some time, as it would allow me to record my thoughts fairly rapidly, and I didn’t yet know how to type. Little did I know that this tape recorder, long since relegated to a junk pile somewhere, would be the source of a very special memory, bittersweet in its content.

But, before we get to that memory, allow me to bore you a bit more. This season used to be my absolute favorite time of year. Up until 2003, with the exception of a few years of struggle, I was like a kid whenever the holidays rolled around. The lights, the Yule tree, the eggnog (yes, I’ve blogged about my beloved eggnog before)…all of it. At the risk of being cliche, yes it was magickal for me.

My first stumble with regard to the holidays came in 1987. My wife and I were married on Samhain (Halloween for you non-Pagans) that year, so that Christmas should have been infinitely special…But, shortly after our wedding, the week before Thanksgiving in fact, I received a call from a local police department requesting that I come down and identify my Mother’s body. I won’t go into details about that here. Perhaps another time. Suffice it to say, the holidays meant very little to me that year, and for a few years after that.

I managed to pull out of the slump to an extent, although the season was never as bright nor anywhere near as magickal as it had been for me in the past. I continued at that pace for a number of years, until 2003. Mid October, while I was appearing at a festival, my father crossed over- suddenly, unexpectedly, and very quickly. I didn’t find out until I returned to St. Louis, because my extended family had lost my publicist’s business card, and my wife and daughter were with me at the fest, so there was no way to get in contact.

Again, the holidays lost their magick. In all honesty, were it not for my wife and daughter, I would likely not celebrate them at all. So, by way of explanation for this boring recitation of the past, I can only surmise that I suffer from a mild form of SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder)…A depression more induced from life altering trauma than a lack of light, but very real nonetheless.

But, I have digressed a bit…I started this off with the memory of a tape recorder, and I should get back to that. The tape recorder itself, long gone and clunky in this day even if it still existed, is really more the source of the memory than the memory itself. You see, that particular Christmas, thirty-odd years ago, my maternal Grandfather, Elvis Babb insisted that all of the kids and grandkids come home for the holidays–home being, Fulton, Kentucky. A tiny spot on the road town, overlapping the state line between Kentucky and Tennessee, and bordering the farming community of Water Valley. This was the place of my birth…the home of the Fulton Banana Festival, small town values, and the Hornbeak Funeral Chapel–a place I have spent more hours than I care to remember, both as a child and since as an adult. I suspect I will visit its interior a few more times before my own crossing…

No one was quite sure why my Grandfather was so adamant about everyone returning home for Christmas, but he fought against all objections, and saw to it that everyone gathered there in that little house on Grymes Avenue. So, my family made the short trek from St. Louis on Christmas morning, arriving in Fulton to spend a few days with everyone. As usual there was more food than anyone could possibly eat, a roaring fire in the wood burning stove that occupied one corner of the living room, and a sense of happiness that made everything special–yes, magickal.

Of course, all of the family being from that small town, there were other relatives to visit, and that we did. However, there was a particular day when I was left at the house on Grymes…me, my younger sister, and my Grandfather, sitting next to that roaring fire. My sister, being several years younger and somewhat oblivious due to her age, occupied herself with one or more of the toys she had received only a day or so before. Me, I sat and listened to my Grandfather tell me about a fishing trip we were going to take when summer rolled around once again. Little did I know that we were taking that fishing trip right then and there in his imagination, and lovingly painted in words for me to experience with him. In later years, when that realization hit me, I committed that story to paper…Perhaps someday I will feel self important enough to publish it in an autobiography…but then, maybe not. I guess we’ll see…

But, there I go digressing again…On the heels of the story, my Grandfather asked me to go get my shiny, new tape recorder. When I returned with it, he had in his hand a harmonica. This harmonica had been a source of entertainment for the family in years past as this man could play it like nobody’s business. I started a fresh tape, and there, beside the fire, we created an impromptu recording studio while he made the musical instrument talk, sing, cry, and even morph into a freight train that sounded far too real for words. I should note that at that point in time, Elvis was suffering from Emphysema, having been a heavy smoker since his youth, and was having trouble catching his wind, but for several minutes that afternoon, his lungs worked fine, and he made that harmonica speak.

Fast forward a few months. The frantic call came for all of the family to return to Fulton once again, but this time, not for holiday celebration. Elvis was ill and in the hospital. It was only shortly after everyone arrived that he crossed over. I was too young to be allowed into the hospital for a visit at the time, whether that was their rule or my parents I am still unclear, but I never got to say goodbye. It took me years to realize that the fireside fishing trip was our goodbye, and how he wanted me to remember him. How clear hindsight can be…would that our foresight was as crystal.

In any event, I have that harmonica. I found it back in 2003 while charged with the task of going through my father’s things at his home after his death. Though my parents had divorced around the time I graduated high school, Dad had kept some things stored away for Mom. After her death, I suppose he simply forgot about them as they were cloistered away in boxes, residing in a dark corner of the basement. Even so, I remembered that my mother had been given the harmonica, and upon finding it in the box it was like a Holy Grail of sorts. An artifact that may mean nothing to most anyone else, but meant the world to me. Now, it has been handed down to me, and will one day be passed on to my daughter. For the moment, it sits atop its box, displayed like a jewel in our curio cabinet.

But, this doesn’t really explain why I am suddenly pouring this memory out onto the page does it? Well, there was this tape. The tape I made of my Granfather pushing that harmonica to its limits and beyond. Copies were made of it and sent out to all of the family, but unfortunately, though my parents had retained the original, I was never able to find it after either of their deaths. I simply assumed that it was a piece of my history that would be lost forever. And, without that tape, and considering the fact that my daughter wasn’t even an inkling of a thought when her great-grandfather Babb crossed over, it is doubtful that the harmonica will mean much to her–other than perhaps her knowing how much in meant to me.

Fast forward yet again…

This past summer there was a Babb family reunion. We gathered from all corners of the country. Of course, both my parents are gone, but I can see my mother in my relatives. And, time, as always, has done what it will inevitably do…my aunts and uncles have now become the Grandparents, all of us neices/nephews/cousins have become our parents, and our children have become us. That bejeweled double helix that guarantees our immortality, passed along through the generations.

Elvis Babb can been easily seen in his son, my uncle, Steve Babb. He is a dead ringer for him. And, there is no doubt where a portion of my DNA came from as my uncle and I could pass for brothers…I just happen to have hair.

But again, there I go down another branch of the tree…back to the recording. During that reunion I discovered that my aunt in Nevada still had a copy…and, that my uncle had ported it in to his computer and put it onto CD.

And that my dear and patient readers is the trigger for this memory. Amidst the holiday cards, catalogs, and mail order gifts I collected from the box this morning was a simple package, addressed to me, and hailing from Nevada. Within, the packaged contained a CD, simply labeled “Grandaddy Babb”.

I’ve listened to it several times now, and my eyes still aren’t dry…

MR