BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Yep… You would think that considering the books I pen I would eschew getting myself involved in any more mysteries than are absolutely necessary. After all, making them up, plotting them out, and then attaching them to paper through the use of words should be enough for one guy, correct?

But no… Leave it to me to get myself involved in a murder investigation here at home.

So, let me explain the event leading up to this homicide for you:

I was making one of my daily trips to the library (yes, that would be a euphemism- library, can, throne room, crapper… take your pick.) Anyway, there I am, reading through the latest issue of Missouri Conservationist when over the top edge of the magazine I spy something. At first, I thought nothing of it, but that only lasted a second or two. You know how it is – you see something and it doesn’t quite register at first, but then after a heartbeat or so it smacks your right between the eyes… Well, that’s pretty much what happened. So, lowering the magazine, I took a longer look.

Lo and behold, there on the back corner of the bathtub, not quite covered by the shower curtain, are Barbie and Ken. Now, I’m definitely no prude- if you’ve read the Miranda Trilogy, you know that to be true- however, I have to admit that I blushed. You see, Barbie, in all her curvaceous glory, was grappled with the buff eunuch in a “girl-on-top missionary position”. It was obvious that they had been swimming in the bathtub at some point because Babs’ long, flowing, nylon hair showed signs of having dried without the benefit of combing or detangling. Ken, on the other hand, had little problem in that department, what with the helmet hair and all, but I digress. The point is, putting two and two together told me that after some frolicking in the sudsy surf, the two had apparently become amorous and, well, needed to do some business. Perfectly natural. Basic carnal urges and all that… So, all good…

At any rate, as I said, I blushed, then went back to reading about hummingbird feeders while making it a point to finish the article and all my business associated with the reading of said article a bit more quickly than usual. I mean, I seriously doubted that the two love birds really wanted a spectator, know what I mean? (BTW, due to Ken’s general lack of endowment, I didn’t bother to offer any contraception. I suspected it probably wasn’t needed.)

Okay, so now we fast forward to the next day. Here is where the crime scene comes into play…

As expected, I needed to once again visit the library. Just one of those other natural urges. This time I think I was planning to read the local school district newsletter so I would be up on any bond issues, or things I might need to know which would affect my child’s learning. I pretty much figured Babs and Ken would be done by now, so I was feeling pretty safe in selecting one of the longer articles to read. Of course, as we all know, the best laid plans of mice and Murvs, yadda yadda…

Upon entering the library, naturally my eyes were drawn to the porcelain beachfront where the two fashion dolls had been making out. Not because I am a closet voyeur or anything, I just wanted to be certain they were finished so that I could in fact indulge in reading the lengthy article without feeling rushed. What I saw this time was less a scene from a skin flick and more a horrific tableau from a slasher movie (or, one of my books even…)

Ken’s rigid body was laid out in the very same spot where Babs had been…ummm…uhhh…”mounting” him. However, like I said, it was his body. The poor plastic eunuch’s head was sitting several inches away, quite obviously separated from the rest of his buff plasticness, and it was staring dully at the ceiling.

Well… Being a curious author of suspense thrillers that usually involve some type of gory murder, I felt compelled to investigate further. Using the rolled up newsletter to carefully push back the shower curtain (I didn’t want to disturb evidence like fingerprints you see) I proceeded to check out the surroundings.

Much to my surprise, perched on the ledge of the tile back splash, was Barbie, resplendent in her sparkly blue- and extremely filled out- bathing suit. Her pretty little face, replete with a tasteful touch of eye shadow and pearlescent pink lipstick was tilted in the direction of the carnage. And, moreover, on those pearly pink lips she was wearing that painted on smug grin.

The investigation is proceeding, and so far Babs isn’t saying a word, but I’ve got one of those feelings… You know, the Rowan Gant Twilight Zone knocking on the back of my skull kind.

And, you know what it’s telling me?

Barbie is a Black Widow. Maybe they should have named her, oh, I don’t know… Miranda?

More to come…

Murv

It came screaming into the world with a -30-, Fin, The End, insert your favorite editorial mark here because some of the symbols don’t seem to want to show up in the blog, tagged on its rear, yesterday afternoon, right about 5:00 PM…

Yeah, that’s right. The latest manuscript is finished, submitted, and all that good stuff. Sent off to “college” with only a virtual suitcase and class schedule (read: date with an editor) as I waved goodbye from behind the keyboard.

One of my friends asked me what it is like to finish a manuscript– Elation, Relief, Joy, Sadness, what? So, I thought I would share the answer here, hence the title of the blog…

Uh-huh…Writing a manuscript for a book, especially one that is contracted and has a deadline, is a lot like giving “intellectual birth.” No, not birthing a really smart kid (although, the Evil One and I managed to do that somehow– Our daughter is brilliant and will probably take over the world by the time she’s thirty, but I’ll brag on her later)… What I mean is, by the time you get to the end of a 100K word manuscript, you are spent. Worn out. Ready to just collapse.

For example, I jump out of bed at 5:15-5:30 every morning. You can almost set your watch by me. Today…Not so much. My feet finally hit the floor around 8:00, and it’s not like I stayed up late celebrating or anything. My celebration took the form of the wife and kid taking me around the corner to the new Mexican place for dinner (so I didn’t have to cook)… That was nice. It was excellent. All was good. But, I went to bed at my regular hour. I was just plain exhausted…

Some may wonder how you can possibly be exhausted by sitting on your ass behind a keyboard and typing for hours on end. Well, I don’t just sit. I get up to go to the bathroom and refill my coffee or tea… (Actually, I do make sure to get activity in, but that’s a different story)…

The real deal is the exhaustion you experience is purely mental fatigue.

(Well, there is the stiffness from sitting in one position, hunching over some research looking up something, the itchy eyes from staring at the screen, the cramps in your hands from typing all day… but this blog is about the mental stuff…)

Remember, when you are writing you are pretty much living with this set of characters. I know that may sound insane, but trust me, that is how it works. You are walking around in a daze for the 4 to 6 months it takes you to tap out the story on your keyboard, and you have a whole host of folks bopping about in your head. Whispering in your ear. Telling you how THEY would do something that you are doing. Letting you know THEY would never eat a Braunschweiger sandwich because it’s yucky… Well, you get the picture.

These imaginary characters become a part of your family, and for a period of time, a good portion of your life. You can’t do anything without thinking, “How would XX respond to this?”… “What would YY do if she was in this situation?”…And, more often than not, they tell you in no uncertain terms. Of course, you are the only one who hears them and that makes you look like you are talking to yourself…So, you try to avoid doing so in public lest the men in white coats come to take you away… The point is, they are with you night and day. You cannot get away from them, and if you try, they chase you down and make your life a nightmare. Why? Because you are supposed to be paying attention to them while they tell their story, and if you ignore them they get pissed.

So, what it comes down to is the feeling when that -30- goes at the end of that last page…

Well, it’s all of them. You run through them just like you would the stages of grief….You feel accomplished, you are elated, you are ecstatic. You are ready for these folks to go back in their box and leave you alone for a while. Then you get worried. Things happened to them in this story. Are they handling it okay? Are they going to make it through without counseling? Are YOU going to make it through without counseling?… Then you are sad…. It’s like houseguests who have been staying with you forever who finally leave. You think you are happy they are gone, then you realize you have grown so accustomed to having them around that you miss them terribly and want them to come back…

So, name an emotion, I’ve probably felt it, or will over the next couple of days… That’s why I warned you in the last blog my brain would be like oatmeal for a while…

It’s a rollercoaster…And, I’m on it right now.

But, you know what? That’s okay… Because, last night I got to sit and have a normal conversation with my wife– That means not once did I stare off into space wondering how Rowan, Felicity, or any of the other characters would respond to the innocuous things being said.

Of course, in a couple of months when I start the next manuscript, I am sure they will be happy to fill me in on what they thought…They always do.

More to come…

Murv