AN EXCEPTION

TRIVIA

Marcus Strikes Again

This is a continuation of the “What’s in a Name” trivia found in the local Car dealership. I said at the time, and I felt pretty strongly about it, that no one named their kid Marcus these days. As life often does, I was proven wrong not a few feet removed from the very place I made the claim (by which I mean I made my website on company time, and then this Marcus got a desk right next to me). And what a beautiful Marcus he was, capable of dead-lifting 400 pounds even after dropping the weight on himself.

So I thought to myself, “If I now know a Marcus, why not just write a book where all the characters are people I know?” And so James the Architect and Pete the Heretic were born, whose cubicles were not much further removed than Marcus’. And no one was really flattered by the idea because why would they be.

But why not go one step further? Why not have them sign their respective characters’ names, and incorporate that into the book somehow? That’s what the Exception Forms came to be (and you can only see these signatures if you waste 25 dollars on a physical copy. The Kindle version is just a rather confusing blank because I spend far too little time concerned about anyone’s confusion).

But of course, and I have years of my own textual examples to prove it, Marcus is always a bitch. He never signed his name for me, soon quit the job, and ignored all my subsequent social advances that I made to salvage the plan. So instead I used a computer font that was designed to look like an inept four-year old’s writing, which if you think about it is about as creepy as things get.
Please Alphabetize It

It was only recently, definitely after the Car and mostly after Maligned and Karma Mars, that I got a job that paid more than minimum wage. I’ve been blessed to be able to ask the question, “What can I do with this 20 dollar bill?” Which never happened to me in college or high school or ever. In fact, one of my college physics teachers gave me a 10 dollar bill in front of a class of 400 for answering a question right, and I thought to myself, “I’m going to keep this thing forever, for memories and all that.” I felt compelled to spend it on ramen noodles not two weeks later. I hope our Maruchan overlords enjoy the memories as much as I would have.

So when I finished this book, An Exception, I thought, “Hey, maybe I can do what actual writers do, and pay someone to edit this. Maybe I can do what actual writers do, and engage the corporate machine, like Amazon or Goodreads or Facebook, to sell this thing for me to unwitting people.” But apparently only Facebook is willing to indiscriminately take a person’s money; through a series of calamitous events my editor disabled herself, Goodreads and Amazon declined the wording of my adds, and I really don’t have as many Facebook friends as a healthy person should.

I get the feeling that I couldn’t even get a sewer drain to take my money if I tried. Which makes me wonder: “Why did I ever stop working for minimum wage?”

In the meantime, I’ve been doing the only thing I know how. I hide my books in inconspicuous nooks and crannies and hope a literate entity finds it. To quote Mitch Hedberg: “The only way I could get my old CD into a store is if I were to take one in and leave it. Then the guy says, “Sir, you forgot this!” “No, I did not. That is for sale. Please alphabetize it.”