BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I’m going to break my own rule again. Yeah, for real…

No, I’m not going to defy The Evil Redhead. That’s not “breaking a rule,” that’s “committing suicide.” Really. Just try it and see what happens.

So… Anyway… Back to breaking that rule. As you all know I despise writing about writing. I’m not even a big fan of writing about being an author. That’s what the book writing thing is all about. This, on the other hand, is my shot at being a humor columnist for a major metropolitan newspaper. Not that any major metropolitan newspapers are taking notice, mind you…

Yeah… That’s the rule I’m going to break. Well… Bend, more or less. I’m going to write about writing. Or more specifically, about what happens when you’ve written something and it gets published.

You see, there’s this thing in the industry called BSSP. That stands for Blatant Shameless Self-Promotion.  Now this differs a bit from SP, which is just Self-Promotion. Why? Because those of us who engage in SP are ashamed. Well, not really. But we DO make it a point to show restraint, courtesy, and manners. Self-promotion is necessary. However, being like a cracked up used car salesman about it is not.

Allow me to give you an example…

Let’s say I’m having a conversation with someone:

Random Person says: “I had a really great corned beef sandwich at Bob’s Deli the other day.”

Murv says: “Never been there. I’ll have to take EK. She really loves corned beef.”

Now, let us imagine this conversation with a new author who has been bitten by the BSSP bug:

Random Person says: “I had a really great corned beef sandwich at Bob’s Deli the other day.”

BSSP Newbie says: “Well, since you like corned beef then you would love my new novel, The Pickling Brine Murders, because my main character Lazarus Q. Ladysmith always has corned beef sandwiches for lunch.”

Believe it or not, while the book and character name have been changed, the above example is NOT an exaggeration. Yes. Not only did it happen, but this sort of thing happens all the time.

Now I’ll be honest. We were all new once. I’m sure I did some self-promoting that toed that line just a bit – although I can guarantee you I was never as bad as the example. Fortunately, I settled down pretty quickly. Like I said before, self-promotion is a necessary evil. But if you pay attention you discover that you can be much more effective by selling yourself – not the book. Once you’ve done that, folks will generally buy your book. If you keep being an idiot, however, they will not only NOT buy your book, they will tell everyone they know to NOT buy it as well.

So… Why is this blog entry called “This Space NOT For Rent”?

Simple. The BSSP is happening all over the social networking sites too. On the FB Wall, on the Myspace Comments. It is running rampant. Just the other day I received a friend request from another author I’d never met and didn’t know from Eve. I approved it, no biggie. Less than 24 hours later a post appeared on my wall. It said, “Congratulations on your success! You deserve it!” I found these opening sentences a bit odd, because since we didn’t know one another she had no clue whether I deserved my successes or not. For all she knew I could be a complete ass.

In fact, I guess I am a complete ass because I removed the post and deleted her as a friend. Why? Because as I said, that was just the opening two sentences. The rest of her post contained several paragraphs about her new book along with links to the places where I could buy it. There was even a picture of the book cover.

Sorry honey. I am not a billboard company. This space not for rent…

More to come…

Murv

Yeah, I know… Not exactly patriotic sounding given that this is July 4th and all. But, don’t read anything into that title. I’m NOT unpatriotic. I just don’t like parades.

I used to. Well… Sorta…

I mean, I watched the parades on Thanksgiving Day when I was a kid. We still turn them on in the morning while I am doing the last minute cooking before heading out to visit family. Or, as will be the case this November, the ton of cooking here at home because it’s the everyone goes elsewhere year. Since I have little family left, E K, the O-spring and I do it up big time here at the house. This allows for E K to have leftover turkey, which is one of her all time favorite things, surpassed only by leftover corned beef and leftover “Aunt Ida’s Stew.”

But, I’m getting off track, aren’t I?

When I was a kid my parents took me to see parades. I guess back then, as a child, they held a different kind of meaning, because I didn’t hate them. I wasn’t particularly fond of them, mind you, but I didn’t abhor them as I do these days.

In one case I actually enjoyed a parade. It was sometime around the late 60’s and it was the Christmas parade in “downtown” Fulton, Kentucky. For those of you who aren’t aware, Fulton, Kentucky is from whence I hail. Well, I was born in Fulton. I lived in the neighboring farm community of Water Valley. Of course, then we moved to Saint Louis and… well, there I go getting off track again.

So, the thing is, it was the late 60’s in Fulton, Kentucky. We were standing there watching the parade go past us and along came a contingent of ROTC types, led by a Majorette of sorts.

Now, obviously the picture to the left isn’t her. I mean, after all, that’s a doll in the pic. Not that the Majorette in question wasn’t a doll, because trust me, she was.

However, in this case, since she was leading a bunch of ROTC types, she was dressed in a skimpily “Majorettified” military uniform, complete with the black, vinyl go-go boots of the era. I suspect you could find something that closely approximates her attire by surfing the adult “costume” (wink wink) websites. But, I figured I shouldn’t grab any pics from there. I already get enough porn seeking traffic through here because I write about EKay’s dominatrixishness.

Anywho, on with the show… The doll in question was pretty, wearing a uniform, and man could she twirl that rubber tipped metal stick. Moreover, the baton twirling beauty smiled at me. Granted, she had a parade smile stapled to her face the entire time, but I’m relatively certain she smiled right at me. That’s the way I intend to remember it, at least.

But, after a moment or two she was gone, and the rest of the parade filed by, brought up in the rear by the jolly elf riding a firetruck. As usual,  Santa Claus  was tossing individually wrapped circus peanuts to the crowd. (They tended to survive the fall better than candy canes).

I didn’t get one though.

As the confections showered the onlookers, pelting us in the heads and bouncing onto the streets, bigger kids than me scrambled to collect them. My mom purposely stepped on one so she could save it for me, almost taking out the fingers of some man who had been reaching for it. But, the minute she moved her foot some twelve-year old vulture swooped in and took it. The little bastard.

But, that’s not why I hate parades.

Nope… I hate them because they are long, generally boring when you get right down to it, and they always involve crowds. I don’t do crowds.

But, it doesn’t really matter. I still have my fond memories of that parade all those years ago. Maybe I didn’t get a smashed circus peanut, but I did get a  sandwich at The Whistlin’ Pig (a Fulton, Kentucky institution). And guess what? My uniform wearing, smiling, baton twirling beauty of a Majorette was sitting at the table right next to ours.

More to come…

Murv