BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

A gentle reminder: I don’t just spout silliness here on this blog. I also write novels. Those are what put the bread on the table, but bread is just about it as far as that goes. My wife has to bring home the bacon (and broccoli, and eggs, and milk, and…) That’s not what this is about, however…

If you have read my official bio over on my regular “author type person” website then you have probably run across the part about us having a pair of rescued felines, both of whom I describe as “the competition.”

Why “the competition?” some have asked.

Easy. They’ve got a thing for The Supreme Redhead. Yeah… E K.

Now, I realize that sounds a bit paranoid, but let me tell you a story. A recent story, in fact, and not at all unusual around here with these furry lunatics.

Just the other night, E K was on the sofa, and Competition #1, AKA Asphalt (because we rescued him from the middle of a highway on-ramp) immediately climbed onto her lap. He does this every time she parks for more than two minutes. Yes… I can hear you now, “But, Murv, that’s normal for cats.”

Yeah… sure.

As usual, E K babbled at him a bit, making all those “wooja-wooja ai lub yoo” noises and scritching him behind the ears. Now, remember, Asphalt started life as a kitten the size of a large hamster, but has grown to better than 20 lbs and has a head the size of a small melon. So, with him sprawled across EKay’s lap, she is sort of trapped.

The bag of tuna breath waited until she was finished and had directed her attention elsewhere. Then, he looked around, stared directly at me for a moment, then shifted a little, raised a paw, and copped a feel.

Yes. Pardon the colloquialism, but the old lardass planted his paw on EKay’s right “boob,” and left it there. Then, he looked at me with an expression on the order of, “Neener Neener, What’re you gonna do about it?”

And before you tell me that it was just a cat being a cat, I’d like to remind you that I saw the look on his face, so I know better.

All I can say is that if he starts bringing her dead stuff, he and I are going to go out back and have a talk. I’m pretty sure I can take him…

More to come…

Murv

I’m actually a little late to the party here.

Not just with the late blog, mind you. I mean with the topic. Although I have known about this particular issue for some time, I have been thinking on it. You see, I have a personal rule –

Don’t dis other authors, or their work, in public. It just makes you look like an ass.

I’ve been adhering to that rule, because I already look like a big enough ass. Or is that douchebag? I keep getting them mixed up. Oh well, either way, I’ve kept my mouth shut about this while the rest of the world had gone monkeyshit crazy about it. Well… I’ve finally decided to say something, but I think I’ll try to restrain myself to shithouse rat crazy.

You see, Snoopi… Wait… Snacki? No… That’s an Eric Cartmann thing… Snoozi? No… That was a dwarf, right?… Wait… Oh yeah. Snooki. I think she works in a pool hall or something… Anywho, it seems that Snoowhatever wrote a book. From what I understand, not a very good book. I have no intention of buying it, nor of even checking it out of the library. I did, however, accidentally read an excerpt from it.

I say accidentally because I was reading an article and it contained said excerpt. I read the first line of the selected passage and stopped cold. I had to read it three or four more times to make sure it said what I thought it said. Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s not as if it was trainwreck worthy. If that were the case I wouldn’t say a word, because no matter how bad it is, if it is trainwreck worthy it is something that will hook a reader and keep them going – ergo, it will sell books.

This wasn’t a trainwreck. It was more along the lines of suddenly discovering rat droppings in your Moo Goo Gai Pan after having consumed over half the carton. Yeah, disgusting and horrifying. Not just the content, but the writing as well.

But that’s not my issue. I mean, not everyone can write. Just like not everyone can be a brain surgeon. I do, however, take umbrage with the vast majority of folks out there who seem to think “writing” is easy and something just anyone can do. Case in point, Snoopi, or whatever the hell her name is.

But we still aren’t at my issue.

You see, I used to want to be on the New York Times Bestseller list. I’ve always seen that as some sort of brass ring where my writing career is concerned. You know, New York, New York… If I can make it there, I can make it anywhere… Hitting the NYT Bestseller list would mean I finally made it. My books would be flying off the shelves. My peers would take me seriously. As it stands right now, most of them do. The handful that don’t can kiss my… Well… getting off subject again. You know me…

But like I said, I used to want to be on the NYT Bestseller list. Now, I should point out that I have a few author friends who are, so my blog here today is not meant in any way to diminish their accomplishments. They are excellent writers who have honed their craft and deserve the honor. However, when I look at the list I also see that MOST of the names are people I’ve never even heard of.  Okay… So they made it too. Good for them. I’m a little surprised and not knowing who they are. I mean, I’m fairly well-read, but what the hell, I can’t know everything. Obviously they have a book that is so popular that it is moving off the shelves like hotcakes at the all you can eat free church breakfast.

I mean, after all, it is the New York Times BEST SELLER list, right? That sort of implies that the books in question are the cream of the crop. Those that are selling best, i.e., better than all of the other books.

Then you see something like this:

So… This bizarre little hardcover missive about a girl who launches loud, stinky farts while she “shakes her peaches for show” is a New York Times Bestseller.

Yes, it’s true. It debuted on the list at #24.

At first, that made me wonder about society as a whole. Truth is, I still do, but at least something like this meant that the Toob-Blinded sheeple might actually be READING something for a change. So, as distasteful as the chosen material happens to be, at least they were READING.

Then the Bookscan numbers came out. If you aren’t familiar with those, they track how many copies are actually sold. Well… Given that it was at #24 on the NYT Bestseller list within two weeks of its release, that number should be in the tens of thousands, right? Probably more like over 100,000.

Instead, it was 8998.

Yes. Eight Thousand Nine-Hundred Ninety-Eight. An eight followed by two nines and another eight. Four figures. Poverty level.

Too bad for Snoopi. Guess she’ll drop right off that coveted list with dismal numbers like those.

But no. She merely slipped a bit to #28.

Even though sales are sluggish right now, I’ve had way better numbers than those. Makes me wonder why I haven’t spent some time on the NYT…

But like I said. I “yoosta wanna” make it onto the NYT… After seeing this, not so much anymore…

More to come…

Murv

For the record: Positions on the NYT Bestseller List are NOT calculated based solely on sales of a title. It is a complex algorithm drawn from initial print runs, marketing hype, units shipped to retailers, and strategically scheduled lunch dates. ACTUAL sales to readers are a variable that is thrown in after the fact and carries far less weight than the first four factors at the outset. Its relevance grows as the book  either rockets through its sell-through cycle, or simply founders and ends up with vast numbers being returned and “remaindered.” I know this just like every other author on the block, so please take this piece for what it is – a satirical look at the publishing industry, smoke and mirrors marketing, and the “wag the dog” principle.