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  • What I Wanna Know Is…

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    Yep, it appears that it is once again time for a FAQ answer session filled with FAQ’s and “not so FAQ’s” that are asked a bit more rarely. A few of these are pretty normal questions – exactly the kind you would expect. However, some of these queries are a bit on the odd side. Still, the one thing they all have in common is that they have actually been asked at least once, and in many cases more than once.

    True story…

    And, you know, I have a strange feeling I’ve answered some of these before… So, since some of them are “Not So F A FAQ’s” with a bit of a weird bent,  I think maybe I’ll answer them with “Not So Answer Answers” and my tongue planted firmly in cheek.


    1. What is your safe word?

    I’m not entirely sure what makes you think I have one. I mean, what good would it do? E K doesn’t respond to such things.

    2. How many more Rowan Gant novels will there be? (This one really is frequently asked, but it bears repeating at this juncture.)

    I’ve always said that when people stop buying them I’ll stop writing them. Well, with that statement in mind I’ll give you the only answer I can – Let’s hope the economy and book sales pick up soon or the end of the RGI series will be wayyyyy sooner than I’d like.

    3. What is E Kay’s shoe size?

    So, what’s your story here? Retifism, Podophilia, or since they go hand in hand a combination thereof? Or should I say foot in foot? Foot in hand? Foot in mouth? Hell, I give up…

    In any case, I’ll let you ask her that yourself, and you’d best be prepared to tell her why you want to know. If it’s an innocuous reason – though I’m not entirely sure what that would be, unless maybe you are wanting to give her free shoes or something – then all good. If not, then I want to be present so I can see her go ballistic on someone besides me for a change, whereupon you  just might get the answer to your question when you are finally able to dislodge her shoe from darker regions of your person. Of course, maybe that’s what you are trying to accomplish and well… good luck with that.

    4. Do you really cut your own grass?

    Nope. Not really. The magical garden gnomes from the land of Zoysia do it with the golden scissors of Fescue…

    Of course I mow my own lawn. (ROFL!) Who else is going to do it?

    However, if that question was some kind of metaphor, then it doesn’t even apply. Not my thing.

    5. I’m an amateur filmmaker. Can I have permission to make the Rowan Gant novels into movies?

    Are you going to sell the movies? Are you going to publicly display the movies? There are tons of questions that go along with such things. Better you ask my publisher. They handle the legal stuff.

    6. How long have you and Dorothy Morrison been married?

    Well, let’s see… As of 10/31/09 E K and I have been officially married 22 years.

    Morrison has been married to her husband, Mark, for something on the order of 10 or 11 years I think, but you’d have to ask her to be sure.

    Oh, you mean you thought we were married to each other? Nope.

    7. Will you tell your publisher to publish my book?

    Are you kidding? They don’t listen to me. Next question.

    8. Are you Wiccan? (Another frequent query)

    No. I studied Wicca for many, many years and at one time self-identified as Pagan, though I no longer do that either. I actually self-identify as a Secular Humanist with Pagan roots who does NOT deny that magic can work. Try fitting that one in the “religion declared” box on a hospital admission form. You have to write really small.

    9. How long did it take you to learn Gaelic so you could write Felicity’s dialogue?

    Forever. Studying day in, day out. Long nights. Weekends. It was grueling…

    Truth is, I don’t know Gaelic. What little I do actually “know” I cannot pronounce to save my life. However,  I do have English to Gaelic dictionaries, phrase books, and more importantly, Anastasia – who does know Gaelic – to help me translate Felicity’s “excited / agitated” dialogue.

    10. I heard M. R. Sellars is actually dead and that his books are being released posthumously by his children, and that you are just a shill for the family. Is that true?

    You caught me. I’m not actually M. R. Sellars. I’m a paid actor and my real name is Buck Nekkid, wanna see my SAG card?

    Sheesh… Are you kidding me?

    It amazes me that this rumor is still circulating. Okay, for the umpteen-hundredth time:

    My father, M. R. Sellars SENIOR – who never, ever wrote a book – passed away in 2003.

    I, M. R. Sellars JUNIOR – the guy who writes the books – am still alive.

    Also, I have a child, not children, and she’s only 10. So, in short, no. It’s not true. It’s false.

    11. Why a female serial killer? That’s not right. Women shouldn’t kill men. It goes against the natural order of things.

    Dude… People shouldn’t kill, period. But, it happens. And,  in my experience, women probably have way more valid reasons to kill men than the other way around. Do yourself a favor though. Don’t ask that question around E K or you might end up being a statistic. Oh, and from the implications behind the question (and the missive surrounding the question, which I am not reprinting here) you appear to have a bit of a misogynistic streak.  You might want to consult a therapist about that…

    12. What ever happened with Fuddrucker’s and that blog you wrote about the bad burger in Detroit?

    They were actually very nice and tried to make good on it. Unfortunately, I thought the gift card they were going to send me was for their restaurant and that I’d be able to use it while traveling. Instead, for some odd reason, they sent me a gift card to Wal-Mart. As many of you well know – or perhaps not and maybe I should blog about it sometime – E K will NOT allow me to shop at Wal-Mart. She is militantly ANTI-Wal-Mart… Bumper sticker and all…

    So, I gave it to a friend who lives far enough away so as to be out of the E K Zone, and therefore he cannot be subjected to the Eebil Stare, etc…

    13. I/we would like to invite you to XYZ event in ABC-Town.

    Thank you. I appreciate the invitation. While I do some of my own booking, most of it is handled by my publicists. You can contact them via email at – S_Mccoy@sbcclobal.net or Wendy@willowtreepress.com. Either one of them can set things up as well as send you a copy of my event contract outlining my requirements for travel, lodging, and compensation. Just a quick note – my schedule can tend to fill up fast so book early. You may also wish to check my schedule on my website first, but please note – just because a date has not yet been scheduled on that page does not mean it is guaranteed to be free.

    14. I am having trouble with this/that/who/what/when and I need you to give me a spell.

    I am sincerely sorry that you are having issues with someone or something. You have my deepest sympathies, as I deal with my own issues in my own life as well. That said, and this is probably going to sound harsh, but there’s no way around that – No, I am not going to “give you a spell.”

    Here’s the deal: I write fiction novels about a Witch. I do NOT write “how-to” books about magic and Witchcraft. However, even if I did write non-fiction that would not mean I had hung out a shingle purporting myself to be the spell merchant of the Internet.

    Yes, I have a rich and diverse background in Earth Based and Magical/Magickal Spirituality, however, just because I write a series of fiction novels featuring such and present a workshop or two on the subject at events, this does not make me your local “Magical Pharmacist” who dispenses spells and charms as if they were generic pain pills and antidepressants.

    If you wish to play around with or  better yet, seriously practice Witchcraft, Hoodoo, or any other magical system out there, I would highly suggest you purchase a non-fiction book on the subject and read it beginning to end. There are a enormous number of absolutely fantastic authors out there who write just such tomes, and I even have several of their works on the shelves here in the office for reference myself.

    15. You blogged (Hypersonic Man Squee!) that you were going to be on a podcast with, and get to speak to, your all time favorite actress, Megan Gallagher. How did that go?

    Ms. Gallagher was absolutely lovely, and I do mean lovely. Down to earth, personable, funny, and an absolute joy to speak with and listen to.

    Me, however… I did just what I feared I would do and had even stated on my Myspace page that I would likely do – I went completely fan boy on the poor woman, and blithered like a total idiot. Fortunately, thanks to some absolutely superb editing by the techie co-host of the Millennium Group Sessions, Troy Foreman, I sounded halfway reasonable on the final version of the show that is actually available for download- but only halfway. A good 20 minutes (best guess) of me gushing, rambling, and making a fool of myself ended up in the trash bin (or, more likely made into a “blooper reel” so that Troy and James can play it back and laugh at me. Trust me, I don’t blame them. I would laugh at me too if I wasn’t completely mortified.)

    And, if I had to guess I’d say Ms. Gallagher probably hung up the phone  at the end of the interview then immediately contacted the authorities to have an ex parte restraining order sworn out against me. I don’t blame her either. While I am perfectly harmless – and, moreover, painfully embarrassed by my descent into unbridled fannishness – she has no way of knowing that.

    If there is a benevolent deity out there somewhere (besides E K, what with her not being all that benevolent, as we well know) it is my sincere hope that I am smiled upon and never have occasion to run into Ms. Gallagher at an S/F Con where I might be appearing, or anywhere else for that matter. If I do, I can guarantee you I won’t have an opportunity to go fan boy again, because I will die right there on the spot, a victim of a massive coronary brought on by my own abject embarrassment over what a complete and utter moron I was during the recording of the interview.

    Sounds like it went pretty well, eh?


    Okay… That’s about all I can take for this episode. Keep the questions coming and I’ll keep making up crap to answer them.

    Seriously. If you have a question email it to me. You just might end up in a blog…

    More to come…

    Murv

  • You Want Blonde Or Brunette On That?

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    Continued from: I Thought 7:11 Was A Convenience Store…

    Part 3 of 4…

    Staring down the barrel of the unexpected flight delay, I began doing arithmetic in my head.

    flight_delay Now please understand, I didn’t embark upon this mental math exercise because I enjoy crunching numbers. Truth is, I’m not really a mathematics sort of
    guy, hence the reason I became a writer. You see, they pretty much promised me they’d keep the math to a minimum if I tossed words for a living. Judging from the size of my royalty checks, they’ve been keeping that promise, but that’s a different story.

    gate Actually, the math I was doing was the kind that involved food. You see, if we didn’t leave until 7:11, that would put us into Columbus at 8:15 or so. Wait for luggage, hoof it to the car, ride an hour to Newark, and by then it would be 9:30 or thereabouts. The 1/2 cup of raisin bran and rubber chicken sandwich I had consumed earlier in the day were already waning, so after adding, subtracting, multiplying, dividing, and generally estimating, my conclusion was none other than 7:11 + travel time + wait time + drive time =Murv’s Stomach Will Be Growling.

    Easy enough to fix. I mean, after all, I now had all the time in the world to hurry up and wait. So, I checked out the area and a little before 6 PM I wandered over to the eating establishment situated immediately adjacent to my gate.

    Now, I have to be a little nostalgic here for a moment. Back when I met E K, and we were both in the computer repair biz, my dear and lovely had been fortunate enough to be sent to IBM Certification Training. This was where they “learned you how to work on a PC.” Well, obviously we already knew how to do this, but getting the training meant you received a “Tech ID Number.” This authorization allowed you to file warranty claims, and also looked good on a resume. So, why am I bringing this up? Believe me, there’s a very good reason. You see, back then The Evil Redhead often waxed poetic and drooling about a restaurant she visited while in Atlanta for the training. The oasis of food was called Fuddruckers, and apparently this place served one of the best hamburgers she’d ever eaten, and that happens to be a pretty mean feat given that she’s not really a hamburger sort of gal. Problem is, there wasn’t a Fuddruckers in Saint Louis, so she could never take me to one in order for me to experience the “carniverous pleasures of the cow flesh” so to speak…

    See where I am heading with this? Yeah, exactly…

    I’m sure you have all surmised that the eatery next to my departure gate was none other than a Fuddruckers. Having a halfway decent memory, I flashed on my semi drooling wife as she lauded praise upon the distant establishment where she had consumed the grandest of ground, seared cow on a bun. Suddenly my world brightened. I may be stuck in Detroit waiting for a long delayed flight, but what the hell, I was going to have the king of all burgers and that would certainly make everything better.

    I stood in the long, snakelike queue, my anticipation building as with each shuffling step I drew nearer to the counter. I perused the board hanging over the register and made my choice, changed my mind, made another choice, changed my mind again, and finally settled upon a burger and fry combo that boasted three kinds of cheese along with the beefy goodness. My order finally placed, I waited again as it was freshly cooked and assembled just for me. Violent twinges of the anticipation danced around in my stomach, ran down my leg, and climbed right up to the top of my head. I had to lean against the wall across from the pickup counter just to keep myself from doing something akin to the “happy happy excited pee-pee dance” dogs do when you arrive home late from work and they are dying to be let out. Finally, and not a moment too soon, my name was called. The Holy Grail of cheeseburgers was waiting for me. I needed only to pick it up and dress it from the “garden fresh” bar off to the side of the counter. Forcing myself not to dance across the room, I retrieved the beefy goodness on a bun and tossed a few maters and onions atop it. After a quick squirt of ketchup for my fries I ran gleefully back to my gate, parked myself in a corner, and prepared to be transported to dead cow nirvana.

    hairy burger
    One bite was all it took for me to decide my wife must have been on drugs during her trip to IBM Certification Training.

    I quickly ran back through the restaurant’s enormously appetizing description of the burger in my head. Even after scrolling through the mental listing several times I was unable to recall having seen any mention of hockey pucks or toupee’s on the ingredient list. Lucky me… Unfortunately, the line leading up to the counter of the restaurant was now longer than it had been when I had first joined it, so I resigned myself to consuming the less than stellar cuisine. It took me around ten minutes to shave it since all I had at hand was a plastic fork. Once satisfied that all of the hair was gone – at least the hair I could see – I sawed it into small enough bites that I could swallow it without choking to death, seeing as how too much chewing was likely to result in a broken tooth.

    One saving grace was that after a few bites it no longer mattered that the burger was devoid of any taste that remotely resembled seared cow, because I scalded my tongue with a molten french fry and my taste buds had retreated to an area deep inside my body somewhere near my pituitary gland. This was for the best given that burnt hockey puck is not on the top of my list where favorite flavors are concerned.

    I now have a new name for Fuddruckers. I call them Hairy FuddPuckers And The Inedible Stone.

    So, with my stomach now attempting to digest a furry brick, I sat back and waited. When our flight finally boarded I was ready for the odyssey to be done. A quick jaunt to Columbus and I would finally be able to relax. I plopped into my seat, buckled my seatbelt, and sat back to await takeoff. It was right about then I noticed that the interior of the airplane was inordinately warm.

    Sixty seconds later the pilot came on the speaker to inform us that the auxiliary power unit was malfunctioning, we had no air conditioning, and that instead of sending someone to Sears for a DieHard battery, he had bribed some guys in yellow vests and earmuffs to give us a jump, just as soon as they could find where they stashed the cables.

    I began to wonder if I was caught in one of those Groundhog Day time loops, but upon inspecting my surroundings it was obvious that I was not on the earlier DC-9, I was on a CRJ-700 regional jet.

    Yes… It was happening again, on a different plane at a different airport.

    This time, however, the guys took the pilot’s money and disappeared, probably to the local bar. Therefore, we spent an additional 35 sweltering and melty minutes sitting at the gate waiting for him to flag down another carload of yellow vests with jumper cables. At one point, trying to be helpful, I called out through the open door of the cockpit that if they wanted to put it in gear and hold in the clutch, I would get out and push.

    Jason, our flight attendant, didn’t find my idea particularly amusing. I guess that explains why once we were airborne I didn’t get my complimentary cookie or peanuts…

    More to come…

    Murv

    Next Installment: Fly The Friendly Skies?