Graham Parke's Blog, page 4

The Dorkiness Equation

I’ve finally figured out why we laugh at someone when they do something dorky. When they almost trip, when they stub their toe, when they stack a number of paper cups, only to find that the bottom cup wasn’t quite empty.

For years I assumed it was some kind of mean streak we have tucked away deep inside our subconscious. We might think we’re nice people, ready to lend a helping hand, ready with words of kindness and encouragement, but, as soon as our neighbor puts that hammer down on his thumb, we can’t help but snigger. Obviously there’s a real bastard inside us. What’s the harm, he thinks. There’s no way to help in time, so I might as well enjoy the pain of others.

But that would be the easy answer. And it’s one that simply doesn’t feel right. We snigger, yes, but do we actually feel happy? Do we actually think; thank goodness John finally stubbed his toe, that friendly, helpful bastard had it coming! Serves him right for all those times he helped me paint my garage! I don’t think so. Barring a few errant cases where we actually do hate someone, I’d say this isn’t what’s happening.

So I’ve wondered about this for years (I have done other things in between, I assure you, but the thought kept coming back to me.)

One of my later theories was that it’s a snigger of relief rather than joy. The idea being that a certain amount of dorkiness is inevitably going to be displayed on any given day. The best you can hope for is that your involvement will be minimal. Years of walking the tightrope of possible ridicule at high school has taught us how damaging the smallest slip-up can be to our social status. So, whenever we see someone do something dorky, we immediately let out a chuckle of relief; thank goodness that wasn’t me! We might think something along the lines of: I’m not happy about what just happened to you, but, on the upside, consider this; at least I wasn’t involved!

But that’s not it either. The real reason we can’t help but snigger when someone does something stupid or painful, is that we actually want to make them feel better. We want to ease their pain, and we do this by paying them a compliment. That may sound strange, but it’s true. By sniggering we’re sending a very clear signal:

“I can’t believe you just did something THAT stupid!”


And, when you think about it, that’s the kindest thing to do. Much kinder than the alternative signal. The signal we’d send if we did absolutely nothing. If we made no sound at all and pretended we didn’t even see the dorkiness going down. Because the alternative signal is:

“I fully expected you to do something THAT dorky, and I’m so embarrassed for you that I’m going to pretend I was looking the other way.”

When your friend slams the car door on his thumb and your initial reaction is one of pity, then you think he is a dork. When your initial reaction is to laugh at him, then you think he’s basically a cool guy who just did something dorky.

See the difference?

Which signal would you rather get?

Don’t get me wrong, it’s fine to be concerned and helpful a mere microsecond later, but in that initial, no-thought-only-action moment, you’d better laugh your ass off. You’d better snigger away or your relationship will be damaged forever!

To be continued....

How to make less money fast!

More and more readers are threatening to buy my weird little novel ‘No Hope for Gomez!’ and in the process make me disgustingly rich and popular. As I always hated the popular kids in school, and I have a profound distrust of the rich, I’ve obviously been working hard at staying piss-poor and disgruntled. So far, so good. I’m very disgruntled and, better yet, I’ve found another way of making even less money on writing than I ever did before!

I’ve found a service that gives away high (and low) quality eBooks for free. You can read them on your PC in a variety of formats and most eReaders are supported also. So what better home to choose for my new eNovella? Not only can readers download it for free, there is no pesky DRM so they can share it with each other over email, usb sticks, morse code (like twitter or smoke signals, but many times more modern) and more.

Click the image above or one of the links below to get your free book.

eNovella in PDF
eNovella in kindle/mobi
eNovella in epub

Click here to leave comments on the eNovella.

How They Stole My Brain

At night, just before I fall asleep, when I feel myself slipping away into a dream, I can swear that someone is using my brain to have a conversation.

I can hear them argue, two of them, going back and forth, back and forth. Sometimes it becomes so annoying that I focus on it and I wake up. Then the voices retreat, back into silent shadows somewhere. They wait for me to dose off so they can return and use my pathways and brain structures to send each other secret messages.

I have no idea who these people are. And if it’s the same ones each time. If a third one maybe joins in from time to time, giving the others additional information, or asking them to keep the noise down. I have no idea if they use my brain every single night or only sporadically, and if they continue to use it after I fall asleep, siphoning off valuable brain power from parts of my mind not used for dreaming and resting. I have no idea if they alternate between using my brain and using someone else’s. If there’s maybe a whole bunch of us, a whole pack of victims, distributing the load of their secret messaging needs. And I don’t know if these are real, flesh and blood people. People like myself, alive and well, living down the street somewhere. I don’t even know why they would need the use of my brain, in addition to their own.

So I turn over in the dark, enjoying the feel of the soft, clean sheets, and I try not to think. I try to keep my mind blank and just slip away. And as my thoughts become untangled, concrete ideas and worries melting away into pliable sur-reality, as unformed dream-images start to flit across my mind’s eye like harmless, virtual lightening, the voices return. Hushed, urgent, self-important.

I really don’t know the first thing about them. Whether they are perhaps the voices of another kind of beings. Things from another galaxy, another reality, a different set of energetic frequencies from what we happen to perceive as solid matter. Or if these are perhaps the voices of ghosts. The voices of the dead; hardly aware of what they are doing or whose brain they are using.


I realize I don’t even know if my brain is being used on purpose. Maybe it’s just cross talk that I’m picking up. Unintentional induction of thought, received during a freak state of hyper sensitivity. Perhaps my brain picks up messages continuously, and I only notice it when my mind goes quiet, when it’s shutting down.

I have no idea. I have no idea because there are no clues as to the mechanisms involved. I don’t even know whether what the voices are actually saying is really that important. Whether it couldn’t wait till morning.

I’m not sure if they are plotting against me, if they want to take me over completely at some point, if they are talking about someone else and simply see me as a dumb mechanism, an instrument. I’m not sure if they are doing me harm or are somehow fixing me, making me better, or even if the voices are, perhaps, merely a hallucination.
Although, to be honest, that last idea sounds rather unlikely.

Trying to make it make sense

The days were starting to meld together again, forming one long, amorphous non-event. But it couldn’t last. It never did. And that very evening something terrible happened.

Continued here...

Black Nailed Interview

BN: How did you choose being an author for your career?

Graham: I don’t think many people sit down to make a career choice and come up with ‘author’. Much like the number of enthusiasts for a vacancy as torture victim are, I suspect, quite low.

Continued here...

Read the interview HERE.

No Hope for Gomez! a '2010 Best Books' finalist

So this is more of a traditional blog entry; one in which I actually share some information with you on an event that has occurred in our shared reality. Not my usual stuff, to say the least, and writing this feels weird, but here goes:

No Hope for Gomez! was just chosen as one of 2010's Best Books in the humor category. Which is something I should both be proud of and surprised at, as I'd always assumed No Hope for Gomez!was a drama, or at a pinch, a failed pamphlet on the dangers of running down the stairs two steps at a time. Shows you how little I know about literature and writing-type-stuff...

Anyway, if you were thinking about buying the book, here's your last chance to get a copy without an annoying awards logo on the cover (see blatant self-promotional image ). Don't pretend you weren't warned...

Why the first cut is the deepest…

I was attacked by my hairdresser. I was butchered and left for dead. It taught me a very valuable lesson: don’t insult your hairdresser. Ever. No matter how rude and obnoxious she is. Unless you are fully prepared to throw off the gown and walk out the door, you'll have to grin and bear it. I pissed my hairdresser off and paid a terrible price.

Here's what happened. I was a bit annoyed because my hairdresser spent an unholy amount of time discussing her nails with her previous customer, even though it was well into my time slot. And then she spent some more time discussing purses and where to buy them. And then she went back to discussing her nails, this time focusing more on the age-old mystery of whether it was better to visit a nail salon or to have someone come over to her house. When her nails had finally been discussed to death, she said farewell to her previous customer, and disappeared to the back of the salon.

I let go of my anger. I decided that this girl was not actually supposed to be cutting my hair. I wasn’t sure which of the girls had been allocated to my head, so I’d mistakenly assumed it was her. Silly me. My hairdresser was one of the other girls. A nice, friendly girl who had obviously been detained through no fault of her own.

It felt good to relax and not have to feel taken advantage of.

However, moments later the nail-girl returned from the back and leisurely pushed her trolly towards me. As she passed, she said 'Hi!'. But she said it in a manner that seemed to suggest she’d only just noticed me, and was surprised to find me waiting. Even though I should have been done by then.

So I gave her a cold shrug. A kind of 'Hi yourself, I'm sure you're not my hairdresser because no sane person would have kept me waiting this long while she discussed her nails with a previous customer who had already paid up and was standing in the doorway to leave anyway' - shrug. This was not actually a very complicated shrug. As it turns out, it takes surprisingly little effort to convey all that in a single shrug.

Anyway, long story short, I was a little cold to my hairdresser. Way to stand up for myself, I know. I didn't put her in her place. I didn’t call the manager. I didn’t even pee on her shoes. Not a drop! I was merely a little cold. But, it was enough. Oh yes. She attacked my hair like a madwoman, left me with very little to play with. I look like the victim of some new and frightful disease.

I would have stopped her, but there really was no point. After that first cut, which was of course the deepest, she had to keep going. You can’t put anything back, so I had no option but to let her at least even it all out. I closed my eyes and prayed there would be something left when I opened them. There was, but it looked terrible.

I should show you. I really should. Then we could be outraged together. Sadly, my camera is broken.

Honestly.

It doesn't take pictures anymore. And probably won't for the next 3 to 4 weeks …




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The TRUTH behind the Bestseller Lists.

We all know there’s more to creating a best seller than mere fine writing. There’s marketing, timing, luck, and more. I decided to find out exactly what it takes to create a best seller. What I discovered will shock you! In this post I will transcribe a revealing conversation I had with a prominent industry figure. I’ll be giving you this verbatim, because if I summarized, you wouldn’t believe me. So relax, grab yourself a glass of cucumber juice, and prepare to be stunned!


Tuesday, Feb 15th, 2010; inner office.

John: “So, if I understand you correctly, Mr. Parke, you’re here to apply for a position of best selling author?”

Graham: “Internationally best selling author, yes. I’d like very much to be considered. I’ve brought writing samples.”

John: “Writing samples, yes, so you’ve said. Mr. Parke, I have to ask, do you know what we do here?”

Graham: “Yes, of course I do.”

John: “You’ve seen the signs throughout the building?”

Graham: “Yes. They state that you sell meat packing equipment.”

John: “Precisely. Meat packing equipment. So, to be brutally honest, I’m not entirely sure what it is you think we can do for you.”

Graham: “Come on… you know…”

John: “No, I really don’t. Now, if you’d be interested in a warehouse position, or something in accounting, I could hook you up today. Barring that…”

Graham: “Come on, don’t play dumb with me. Look, I’ve brought writing samples. Won't you at least take a look?”

John: “That’s entirely beside the point. Even if we weren’t in the business of selling meat packing equipment, I’m quite sure that you don’t actually apply for a position as a best selling author. It’s all down to sales numbers. They’re tallied per region. It all happens automatically I believe.”

Graham: “Come on. Everyone knows best sellers are chosen by a secret committee.”

John: “I don’t know much about publishing, Mr. Parke, but even to me that sounds like a load of fanciful nonsense.”

Graham: “Please, just look at the samples... Here, this one is really funny.”

John: “Are you sure you don’t want to take a job at our warehouse while you’re waiting for this writing gig to pan out? I can’t tell you how difficult it is to find good warehouse jockeys. You’d be doing us, as well as yourself, a favor.”

Graham: “I’m sorry John may-I-call-you-John it is sort of common knowledge that you, in fact, are the very people who decide the bestsellers.”

John: “I see. And who told you this strange tale?”

Graham: “It was Google, actually…”

John: “Ah. Yes. Well, the thing is, Mr. Parke, this blasted Information Age makes our task very difficult. The ranks have to be kept small, you have to understand. We have to keep more people out then we let in. So I’m afraid we cannot simply make anyone who comes through these doors a best selling author.”

Graham: “I don’t expect you to.”

John: “Good.”

Graham: “Just make me one. That’s all I’m asking.”

John (sighing) “So, what kind of best selling author did you want to become?”

Graham: “A mystery-slash-comedy author. I’ve brought writing samples.”

John: “That’s amazing!”

Graham: “It is?”

John: “Yes. That you actually believe your writing abilities would have anything to do with this, it's wonderfully naïve.”

Graham: “Eh…”

John: “Have you ever taken a look at a bestseller list? I mean, a good look? What on earth makes you think that narrative voice or level of originality have anything to do with matters?”

Graham: “Well, I’d just assumed that if my writing was good enough…”

John: “How morbidly stupid of you… No, Mr. Parke, when I asked you what kind of best selling author you were hoping to become, I was of course referring to the number of first year sales, growth rate, staying power, that kind of thing. We need to keep the categories from over running.”

Graham: “Oh, I see.”

John: “Here, why don’t you fill out this form. It will tell us everything we need to know about you. I’m not making any promises here, but if you want to be considered, this is the only way in.”

Graham: “Thank you so much. You won't regret this. Let’s see, this doesn’t look too complicated, name, address, social security number. But, why does it say ‘Warehouse Job Application’ at the top of the form?”

John: “Don’t worry about that. It’s just a cover, like the signs plastered all over the building. We have to at least appear to try and keep this operation hush-hush. I’m sure you understand.”

Graham: “Of course. My lips are sealed. So, what happens next? You’ll be in touch?”

John: “Just show up at the warehouse at 9:00 a.m. Monday morning. They’ll tell you what to do. They might have you perform some little rituals for a while. Just go with it. All will become clear pretty soon.”


And so, dear reader, this is how I got my writing career on track. Of course, I cannot tell you the name of the company, I promised them I wouldn’t. But if you Google around a bit, you’ll figure it out soon enough.

For the those of you brave enough to make it this far into my nonsense, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank all of you for leaving comments and pressing that little 'like' link at the bottom of the blog. It's really cool to see people are actually reading and enjoying this blog (even if it's only a little :)




Note: Coinciding with my birthday, but probably completely unrelated, No Hope for Gomez! is available from B&N at a reduced price for a limited time. Excellent opportunity to buy a crappy gift for someone you severely dislike.

When Meeting a Girl in a Hallway?

"Ran into Gretchen in the hallway. My head was buzzing with thoughts, but when I looked into those hazel eyes, everything went quiet. It was like a power outage in my brain. All synaptic activity slowed and my inner voice went dead. In fact, I wasn’t even entirely sure I was still there.

I could remember talking to people. Knowing the kinds of things one said in polite conversation. I could remember making people think and laugh. But, at that very moment, I couldn't put my finger on any of the words one might use when running into a fellow human being in a hallway.

Gretchen smiled and said, “Hi!”

Which was one of the words one might use.

“How are you doing today?”

Which, I now recalled, was a bunch of others."


Read the contest associated with this excerpt of my novelette.

But, whatever you do, don't click here!

Evil Link Blaring Subconscious...

Yes, it’s true. It’s finally over. Most of you will be relieved, after all, only one of you was unlucky enough to win a copy of No Hope for Gomez!, the novel responsible for much confusion, anguish, and mental disalignment.

But, it’s not all good news. Not by a long shot. I write this blog today as a warning. Danger is ever present. A select few of you might think themselves bold rebel dare devils, and go out and buy my novel. I implore you not to. Please. You’ll only be encouraging me to write more, and who wants that on their conscience, really? Just be happy you dodged the bullet this time.

In fact, you should probably stop reading this blog right now. I don’t enjoy telling people what to do, but, really, it would be best. Down below, I’ve put some links. (Yes, my subconscious is an evil moron – it still believes the novel will make you happy!) Only two or three careless clicks will put you in accidental possession of the novel! It’s unlikely. It’s never happened to you before, I’m sure. But why take that chance? Why are you still reading this??

Okay. Fine. You are a rebel. And you are bold. And yes, I see a bit of dare devil in you, too.

Well, let me do this one little thing for you, then. Let me limit the risk. Here now, for 1 day only, is another chance to win a free copy. I’m not selling crack here, I just know that yet again most of you will be saved. I’m sacrificing one of you rebel bold dare devils to save the rest. It’s the least I can do. And I’m all about doing the absolute least I can do.

Don’t click here to read bits of the novel!

Don’t click here to read a far too detailed description of the novel!

And whatever you do, don't click here!!!

Addendum: All give-aways are now closed. The world is just a little bit safer for everyone, except Bunkie68 and Zoila...