BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

…I’m an asshole.

Now, to be perfectly honest, I really don’t think that I’m an asshole. I mean, like most folks, I have one, but I don’t think that I am one. Of course, as a general rule the majority of assholes don’t actually think that they are assholes. Given that I have been told in no uncertain terms that I am a waste sphincter of the highest order I may just be deluding myself in the belief that I am not.

To that end, I thought I’d take a minute to explain exactly why it is that I’m an asshole, just in case I actually am.

Not a week goes by that I don’t receive an email from some fresh-faced, idealistic, energetic individual with dreams of becoming an author. Problem is, said fresh-faced, idealistic, energetic individual is contacting me and asking me not only for advice, but for me to read their unplaced manuscript.

Advice I will give. Usually it involves telling the person to run the other direction and become a particle physicist, attorney, or something else that garners a decent paycheck. This whole authoring gig isn’t what it’s cracked up to be in the movies and TV, so unless you simply can’t help yourself but the write, don’t.

That’s not usually what they want to hear, but it goes over okay. Sort of.

Where I suddenly become an asshole is when I tell them I cannot read their unpublished manuscript for them.

9.99 times out of 10, the fresh-faced, idealistic, energetic individual turns into a tantrum throwing three-year-old, letting me know that I am a big doody head, and yes, an asshole for not reading their work. Why? Because I should help them. All they want is my honest – and they do mean honest – critique of their work so that they can become a better writer and reap all of the wonders of success that I have been privileged to enjoy as an author.

Well, the first thing I do is laugh at that last part. Then, I say no again. Here’s why…

No they don’t. The critique that is. They really and truly do NOT want real input from anyone. If they did they would be members of a writing critique group and they would already be getting that input. You see, what they REALLY want is for me to say: Holy Crap! I am a mere poser in relation to you. You put Hemingway to shame. You put all other writers before you to shame. There will never be another writer as great as you!

Now, before you say, “But Murv, aren’t you exaggerating?”… And I can see why you would say that, because I often do (supposedly), let me just say, “No. I am not exaggerating.”

You see, I used to say yes. Any other authors out there reading this are now shaking their heads and saying, “You big dumbass.” Well, I’ll accept that moniker with no objections. Why? Because I WAS a dumbass to be doing such a thing.

Never – and I mean never – did I read something for someone who really and truly wanted an honest critique. In fact, the majority of the time I would receive an email, with a file attached, and a note saying something ridiculous like: “Mister Sellars – (two paragraphs of blowing smoke up my ass)… So, please read this and give me your honest opinion. But, I’m sure you will just want to forward it on to your editor and recommend me for publication because it really is destined to be the next New York Times Bestseller.”

I’m not kidding.

But, I would read anyway, and then send my thoughts. Things like:

“You have a good idea here and I like your imagery, but I’d suggest doing a bit of research on police procedure so that you can tighten things up make the situation more believable.”

Or…

“Nice descriptions, but the prose is a little too expository. Maybe try using dialogue between the characters to get the information across instead of having them stand there staring at each other and thinking everything without ever saying a word.”

Those pieces of advice were categorically, undeniably NOT what they wanted to hear. And, they would tell me as much, often liberally peppered with expletives and all sorts of assessments of my intelligence and writing ability that were diametrically opposed to the smoke blowing they had done in their original note when contacting me.

So here’s what I decided.  Why not stop wasting my time and just spend time with my family, or even read something that I actually WANT to read. I mean, if I am going to be an asshole either way, I should at least get to be an asshole doing what I want to do, right?

And there you have it. That’s why I’m an asshole.

Cue Dennis Leary. I’ll be happy to sing along.

More to come…

Murv

Continued from Lolly, Lolly, Lolly…

See previous notes. If you are joining this party late, go back and read the other three because we aren’t going to explain ourselves… Mostly because we can’t. We just don’t have a satisfactory explanation for all of this, so please bear with us…

Thai Pizza... NOM!

So… The pizza people finally got around to feeding me. All good. We had a laugh, I cowered on my side of the table hiding from “Bouncy Brandi” as her husband tried to run interference for me  and everyone was happy. (Gotta love Mike – I have no idea how he does it on a daily basis… That much perky all in one place would kill me within a week.)

(BTW – I was mugging it for the camera – on request – for the pizza picture. I really do have better table manners than that…)

Sunday… Last day of OstaraFest. Fans from all over had ponied up cash for raffle tickets. But not just ANY RAFFLE tickets. These were for a special event, jokingly named “FEED MURV.” Four lucky (or unlucky as the case may be) winners received a catered lunch with yours truly. Honestly, I think they were buying the tickets in hopes of winning the food, and I was just sort of a nuisance they would have to deal with in order to get the chow. Fortunately, those who won had the constitution to put up with having said lunch with me at the table too.

At any rate, this was a very cool thing because not only did we get a nice lunch and 90 minutes to sit and visit, the proceeds (minus costs) from the sale of the raffle tickets went to a local no-kill animal shelter – and I’m all about that sort of thing.

But moving right along – I arrived at the VFW hall, entering in serpentine fashion as I attempted to dodge “Bouncy Brandi,” who today was all decked out in a skirt and her hooker shoes. Seems that $750 was getting spent whether I wanted it to or not. But we’ll talk about that in a minute…

As soon as I arrived, the emcee was announcing that the “FEED MURV” luncheon was being delayed by 15 minutes. Why? Because Olive Garden – the restaurant providing the meals – had neglected to prepare MY lunch.

Yes.

Srsly.

Feed Murv Luncheon - Carolynn, one of the winners, is responsible for the pic so she's behind the camera...

Me. Murv. The guy who Texas refuses to feed was once again sans food. And, once again, Joyce proceeded to launch an offensive upon the establishment. In the end, they took a chunk of change off the bill, AND provided all of us luncheon folk with free Tiramisu. (That was some damn good Tiramisu, I’m here to tell you.) And one of the really cool things about the discount on the food was that it meant EVEN MORE proceeds to the animal shelter – WOOHOO!!!

So, see what I mean? Texas has got it in for me. Left up to the lone star state, I would go hungry until my spare tire disappeared… Hmmm… You know, maybe I should go spend some more time there…

Now, before you get all antsy I didn’t forget that I promised you a conclusion to the whole $750.00 thing. For that, we pretty much leap right back to that first day, during the Saint Patrick’s Day dinner at Butch and Joyce’s place.

You see, that phone call Joyce received was from Cammie. She was closing the store and had done the batch run on the credit card machine. Problem is, it was off against the drawer. Not just a little off either. It was off by $675.00.

What does that have to do with $750.00? Well, you see, the store is the sponsor and organizer of OstaraFest, therefore payments for things like vendor tables, tickets, etc can go through there. A one day vendor table space was $75.00. Make note – Seventy-five dollars. Not Seven-hundred fifty dollars. And guess who was responsible for ringing up a $75.00 vendor ticket with a couple of extra zeros? Yep… “Bouncy Brandi.”

In the end, although the batch job had already been run, which made things slightly more complicated, the issue was fixed. However, this didn’t mean we weren’t going to razz Brandi about it – or that we aren’t going to razz her about it until the end of time. Why? Because we’re like that. It’s a moral imperative.

Yeah. I know. Not really as exciting as you were expecting, right? See why I started out with a whole lap dance sort of scenario? We call that “literary license” in my business…

“Yes, Murv,” you say. “But what’s all this stuff about hooker shoes? Is that just another bit of fiction from your warped brain too?”

Evil Women vs. The Author

Well… Yes and no. The hooker shoes were high heels, but they were more like “not really hooker shoes” and they did exist. And Brandi did bring them on Sunday. And Brandi did wear them. And what’s more, Michele brought her high-heeled, “not really hooker shoes” and wore them too.

Why?

Because they are fans of the RGI series, and moreover, fans of the Miranda Saga. Actually, I think they are just fans of Miranda, but who am I to say? At any rate, like many ladies in the past who have been impressed, tantalized, excited, wowed, and otherwise inspired by “Miranda,” the dominatrix serial-killer from the series, they were all up for a photo op. (Other Miranda Fans) Of course, them being all UP for a photo op meant Murv got to be all DOWN for a photo op – as in on the floor. But, ya’know, I don’t mind at all. They had fun, the crowd enjoyed it, and yeah… I had fun too. (Largely because I got to lay down and rest for a few minutes…) Besides, Evil Kat stomps on me way harder, and way longer than they did, and with spikier heels…

And so, there you have it – Brandi and Michele got a $750 dollar picture.

Rumor has it I just might be invited back to OstaraFest next year. Something tells me I’ll have to deal with The Girl, The Shoes, And The $750 all over again… Ya’know, they have flu shots to keep you from getting ill. I wonder if there’s such a thing as a Perky Shot? (Just kidding, Brandi… Besides, it’d probably cost $750…)

More to come…

Murv