BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Hello, everyone. My name is M. R. Sellars. I’m a writer and it has been 68 days since my last blog post…

Yes, Brainpan Leakage has been woefully lacking in posts as of late. Well, woefully for some, perhaps a relief for others. Who knows? At any rate, I used to make it a point to stick to suggested convention and blog at least twice each week. It was fun while it lasted, but after a few years I discovered that social media – including regular bloggage – had become the time suck I had long feared it would. So, I went sort cold turkey. Actually, it was more Maker’s Mark on the rocks, but you get the idea.

And so, here I am, sorta blogging again. Not planning to fall back into the well with Timmy, though. He’s been down there so long he’s pretty corpsified and gross at this point. Damned Lassie. Never send a collie to do the job of a Basset Hound.

But I digress (Yeah, some things never change…)

What I came here to yammer about today is the fact that we seem to have a pandemic on our hands.

“What kind of pandemic?” you ask.

Well, near as I can tell, it is a pandemic of epic proportions. Not since the Holy Bible has there been such a global plague, and that plague seems to be attacking only the fairer sex. Yes, you ladies are those who are apparently in danger. You see, this is a case of widespread sexual frustration. Of course, not ALL women have succumbed to the virus. It appears that there are some who are immune, however, they are few and far between.

How have I arrived at this? Simple. Soccer moms getting all hot and bothered over Edward the Tinkerbell Vampire. As you can plainly see, it’s not just sexual frustration, in some cases it’s creepy pseudo-pedophile sort of sexual frustration. Can I get a collective “Ewwww!” from the audience? Yep. Thought I could.

Of course, it doesn’t stop there. Since confessionals were becoming overcrowded, and mattresses were catching fire from the hot fantasy prose penned in diaries kept tucked between mattresses, someone even took it upon herself to create some Twilight Fan-Fic BDSM Soccer Mom Porn titled 50 Shades of Grey. It’s on the NYT Bestseller list and is making all sorts of cash. That should tell you something right there.

But (saw that coming, right?)

But, it STILL doesn’t stop there… Over an above a plethora of fan-fic sort of f*ck stories propagating across the intertoobz, as well as the tried and true bodice rippers filling book racks in airports and news stands, there is a groundswell of demands for more. How do I know this? Well, I’ll tell you…

After IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER hit the shelves I started getting emails and comments from fans. Fortunately, they liked it, which made reading said comments and emails much easier. However… the ongoing theme in all of these communications that bore a decidedly female name was this: Will Ben and Constance “get together” in the next book? When will Ben and Constance be “getting together”? I can’t wait for Ben and Constance to “get together”. Let’s hope Ben and Constance “get together”… ad nauseum.

Since Ben and Constance are already dating, it’s not hard to figure out – especially when you add in all the wink wink nudge nudges in the emails – that what “get together” means is, to paraphrase Alex in A Clockwork Orange, “A bit of the old in-out, in-out…”

See what I mean? This epidemic has spread like wildfire. I mean, come on. Neither Ben nor Constance are Vampires, and they sure as hell don’t sparkle…

So, what can we do about this? Sadly, not much. However, don’t be disheartened, ladies; it’s okay. Men have been porn addicted since the dawn of time. We just have shorter attention spans, which is why we gravitate toward pictures instead of prose…

More To Come – (make of that what you will, you dirty minded little baboons…)

Until the next time,

M

…Or am I just happy to see you?

Remember your childhood? No… Not back that far. No need for poopy diapers around here. I fling enough poo for all of us.

I mean like back when you were about 8 to 10… Maybe slightly younger, but not too much. You know, kind of like around the age of kids in those sub sandwich commercials where they have all the adults running around but they have little kid kinda voices…

You haven’t seen those? Well damn… They’re actually kinda funny…

Hmmm… Well just stick with me here and maybe we can work this out.

Back when you were a kid, around 8 to 10, did your parents ever say, “Come on, Rusty (or whatever they called you). We’re going for a ride.” Then, drive for about two hours and eventually boot you out of the car on some lonely country road and then speed off?

Okay, okay so mine didn’t do that to me either.

So, how about this instead: Did they ever hustle you into the car, not telling you where you were going, then listen to you gripe for 20 minutes because you wanted to watch Lassie or The Lone Ranger instead of go somewhere that you didn’t even know where or what it was? And then, after you were really good and bored, and extra grumpy, and were just plain being a kid, they broke the news to you that you were on your way to get a new bike… Or a puppy… Or to see a movie you’d just been dying to see… Or Holiday Hill… Or White Castle… Or swimming… Or any one of a million things that would make a kid go ape-shit excited to the point where they wiggle right out of their Superman Underoos?

Well, unless you had a truly horrible childhood then you probably know what I’m talking about, at least on some level, be it big or small.  If you did have a truly horrible childhood, you have my sympathies…

So anyway, why the hell am I rambling about such inane silliness? Well, you see, sometimes it’s exactly like that for writers. We get started on a manuscript (hustled into the car). We write, and write, and write (gripe and get grouchy because we’d rather be looking at porn… Hey, the other shows have lost their appeal at this point)… and besides, even though the story is good, and the prose we have penned is gripping, the final destination is in the hands of the characters and they haven’t yet given up the secret info…

But then, just like our parents who had tortured us with clandestine car rides only to surprise us with serendipitous banana splits from Velvet Freeze,  our characters choose some arbitrary moment to reveal to us where we are going.

You know, like when we are folding the laundry and ruminating about where to take that next chapter.

And, just like the little kids we were then, we wiggle right out of our  Superman Underoos, giggle, pee ourselves, and get all kinds of cotton candy overload excited.

Yeah… Pretty cool, eh?

So… I guess now that I’ve peed my Superman Underoos I should change. Whaddaya think, Batman or Aquaman?

Of course, there’s always Wonder Woman… But those are really designated for when I’m looking at porn instead of writing…

More to come…

Murv