BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I went to college.

More than one of them, actually. I have all sorts of college credits racked up in different areas of study. Odds are many of them have expired, much like a gallon of milk from 1991, but I’m sure there are a few that still haven’t reached their “use or freeze by” date. However, one of the things I don’t have to show for all of that studying is a piece of paper. Well… I have all manner of pieces of paper, to be honest. What I’m talking about is the proverbial “sheepskin.” That piece of faux parchment, vellum, what-have-you, that officially attaches a pair (or more) of letters from the alphabet as a suffix to my name.

So, nope. I don’t have an AA. Never even been to a meeting. I have, however, ridden on their airplanes more times than I care to count.

And, I also don’t have a BA, Baracus or otherwise. I do, however, “piddy da foo” who thinks s/he is better than me just because they have a couple of letters that allow them to wear gaudy jewelry.

Nor do I have a BS, even though I’m pretty damn good at spouting it when I need to do so. All you have to do is check my blog for evidence of that fact. Truth is, I should have a PhD in BS. An official Piled high and Deep in BullSh*t. Yep. That sounds like the perfect degree for me, but alas, I have neither.

I also don’t have a MA. I had one, but she passed away back in 1987. That’s a whole different story. And nope, no MS either… Well, actually that’s not quite true. E K doesn’t do the Mrs. thing, so I guess I sort of have a Ms. Although, one doesn’t really have The E K. She has you. It’s sort of a control thing with her.

So… Why didn’t I ever bother to get myself a set of letters to append to my name? Or, if the college recruiter who was courting me so hard back in nineteen-cough-cough had been given her way, a D and an R to put in front of my name – in the form of an MD sort of Dr.

Well, in her case it’s because I don’t particularly care for sick people, but that’s another story entirely.

In the case of any of the other paired up, tripled up, or screwed up selections from the alphabet, it’s simple. I became fed up with academia. Why? Because I figured it out too soon. What did I figure out? That’s simple too. I figured out that sticking a mess of letters behind my name wouldn’t make me happy. They wouldn’t accomplish much of anything, really, other than wave a flag to the world that was meant to say, “I know a whole bunch of sh*t because all of these other people say I do.” Besides, all I’ve ever really wanted to do is write books, and that’s what I do. If I was writing a textbook about Quantum Physics I could maybe understand the need for a PhD (although, as I said, all it does is denote that someone else thinks I know what I’m talking about – right up until they disagree with me.) Truth is, I really don’t see where a degree would convince people to buy fiction—

“Hey, Joe. Have you read those fictional suspense-thrillers by M. R. Sellars? He has a PhD in Basket Weaving.”

“Well damn, Fred… A PhD? I’m going to rush out and buy the whole series!”

Yeah… I just don’t see it.

Now, I’m certainly not diminishing the accomplishment of those who seek those letters. I’m just saying I wasn’t cut out for committing a mess of silliness to memory so that a bunch of folks who really don’t give a rat’s ass about anything other than the size of their office, or where the next grant is coming from can certify that I know it. Truth is some of my best friends are packing around AAs, BAs, BSs, and MAs. My niece is sporting a PhD. Am I proud of their accomplishments? Hell yes. Do I feel like I need to spend 250K (minimum) to get myself some Alphabet Bling for my name?  Not so much.

There’s also the issue of what to do with all that memorization once I, well, you know, memorize it. Teach? Why? So that I can tell a bunch of other folks that they know what I know? Doesn’t really seem like true critical thinking to me. (Don’t take that the wrong way. I also have many friends and relatives who are teachers and I think they are great. If that is what they love doing, I support them and I also think they are NOT paid enough. So, I have nothing against teachers. I just think that I am better suited to entertain.)

So… Why am I writing about college? Well, that’s simple too. My daughter is friggin’ brilliant. Ever since Kindergarten she’s been in the gifted and talented program at her school, and she has also qualified for, and been attending, College for Kids classes during the Summer and Winter sessions. Learning stuff. Quenching her thirst for knowledge, and racking up points toward admission into college when she reaches that age. At this very moment I am sitting in a study area of the science building of one of the local Community Colleges while she is attending her full day of classes. Yep, I’m writing this blog from Kahllidge. (Obviously just a bit in advance of its early morning deployment. Gotta love scheduling on WordPress.)

However, I don’t guess that fully explains why I’m writing about it, now does it?

Well, I can sum it up this way. Earlier I ran into a gaggle of the students – this batch was actually younger than my daughter. There they were, wandering the halls of academia on their way to their next class, complete with Garanimals, Spiderman backpacks, and serious expressions plastered onto their little faces. The kind of serious expressions that made them look painfully constipated.

All in all, they sorta reminded me of me way back when I was in college…

More to come…

Murv

Something people like to ask me is whether or not I have ever killed someone off  in a story. Well, since I write suspense thrillers about serial killers one would think that I could just look at them and say, “Duh.”

Well, sometimes I do, actually.

Then they go on to explain that what they really mean is, “Have you ever put a real person into a story and killed them off in the story because you were mad at them or something?”

Then I look at them and say, “What? Are you some kind of sicko or something?”

After I spend a few minutes watching them get all flustered I let them off the hook and give them a real answer.

That being, “Yes. Of course.”

I have made real live annoyances in my life into characters, then had them meet an ugly demise. This is something that every fiction author on the planet who writes a murder mystery, suspense thriller, or the like has done at one time or another. If such an author tells you otherwise, s/he is lying. Guaranteed. They can tell you I am full of it if they want, but they are still lying. I take a dump every morning.

Hell, just look at the facts – they even have coffee cups and t-shirts that say, “Be careful or I’ll kill you in my next book.”

Those didn’t happen by themselves, let me tell you.

So, yes, over the years I – like most all of my word slinging colleagues (some of them write non-fic) – have named fictional victims in my novels after old girlfriends… I have named them after the idiot behind the counter at the local shop ‘n stop… I have named them after someone who did me wrong… And then I have offed them in some horribly gruesome and terribly painful fashion – all on the pages of a novel.

It’s one of those cathartic writing exercises. It makes you feel good and just a little evil at the same time.

However, one particular “story killin'” stands out in my mind above all others. It actually didn’t happen in a novel. It was in a short vignette I wrote while in High School. You see, I was in a film study class – mostly because it was an English Credit, and I had already taken all of the truly academic English/Lit courses. This is not to say it wasn’t a good class, because it was. I actually learned quite a bit and enjoyed it immensely. But I digress…

During that semester there was this girl seated in the desk next to mine. We’ll call her Janice, mostly because that was her name. Now, Janice wasn’t a horrible person by any stretch. At least, not that I am (or was) aware. She was, however, insanely annoying. You see, she had no desire whatsoever to think for herself, so even in a class so subjective as Film Study, she wanted everyone else to provide her with the answers. Since I was sitting a mere three feet to her left, and was “gettin’ good grades” as Timbuk 3 would say, she figured I was a good candidate for providing them.

In keeping with the song reference theme, she had another issue – Just like Joe Walsh has crooned, “she just would not shut up…”

Yeah, Janice was a talker, and that just made her even more annoying.

So moving right along… One day Janice happened to notice that I didn’t just write for the school newspaper. This happened because I dropped some papers and she got to them before me. My guess is she was probably looking to see if there were answers she could steal. What the papers were, however, were some of my short stories.  For whatever reason, this intrigued her, and she embarked upon a mission to talk me into writing a story that featured, who else, her.

She kept on me, and on me, and on me for more than a week. Every time I saw her in a class. Now, it bears mentioning here that Janice and I weren’t exactly friends, nor were we dating or anything like that. She was just one of those bizarre folk who would glom onto someone and drive them crazy just because… well… she could.

Anyway, after finally becoming fed up with the harassment, I gave in. That evening, I went home and rolled a sheet of paper into my trusty Smith-Corona manual typewriter (yes, I’m old) and proceeded to tap out a 2 or 3 page vignette featuring none other than Janice herself. It was a sci-fi sort of setting, with her being a high level operative of some government organization who had been captured by very bad people – but in a stroke of blonde genius (yes, Janice was blonde and a poster child for the negative stereotype) she had managed to subdue her immediate captors and was making her escape from the maximum security facility where she was being held for interrogation. (wow… that was a long sentence)…

Anyhow, as I am sure you have guessed, she didn’t make it. It was a sad and horrible death. Not overly gruesome. Just the right amount of gore, mixed with pain, and a healthy dose of “holy shit, I should have turned left instead of right.”

The next day, in Film Study class, as we were taking our seats and she was bugging me, I handed over the pages. Ten minutes later, as we were all sitting quietly, working on our assignments, she blurted out while waving the papers wildly, “WHAT? YOU KILLED ME?!”

Now, there is something else I should mention here – Our teacher, whose desk was nearby, had been hearing Janice annoy me about this story for the entire week prior. In fact, the teacher had even told her to lay off on several occasions, not that it really did any good, obviously.

So, as Janice belted out her umbrage over my having dared to do her in on the page, drawing quiet attention from every corner of the room, the teacher looked up from her desk and without missing a beat said, “Can you blame him? You’ve been annoying the poor guy all semester.”

Hmm… I think maybe I should name a victim Janice in a future novel. After all, that’s one of the great things about being a fiction author – you can always dig  up your enemies and kill ’em again…

More to come…

Murv