The Pesky Little ‘I’

I love writing. To me it is an extension of storytelling and I always loved story telling; especially telling the kind of completely nonsensical stories which would keep kids on the edge of their seats, clutching their sides and laughing hysterically. But there are some serious differences between spontaneously telling a story and writing a Novel.

In my case, these differences are slightly less. For example, most authors, I believe plan their plot in advance and have their characters fleshed out and gnashing their teeth, raring to go even before the first word is written. In my case, Oops the gurgle had to take his bamboozler out of his pocket and aim it at his opponent, before I decided whether Oops wanted to erase his memory, freeze him into an icicle or just give him a gentle tickle. In the dark planet, when all lights suddenly go out, I rack my gray cells to figure out if a slimy slithery 20 foot slug should devour the protagonists or whether invisible creatures should laugh ghoulishly at them. Basically what I am trying to drive at is that I write novels, much like I tell stories; on the spur of the moment. I find this keeps me mentally alert and gives me batting practice to face all the googlies life throws at me J

But this was where the crux of the problem lay. It was when I tried to make the novel conversational and free flowing that a completely unwanted character reared its puny little head. It was ‘I’. ‘I’ slipped into the story completely without warning at several places. Normally, I wouldn’t have minded ‘I’ jumping in to hog the credit for a particularly juicy anecdote or to relate a really funny incident. But when I sent the manuscript to my editor, the primary platypus, Sayoni completely booted ‘I’ out.

“The omniscient first person is completely unacceptable. Please see to it that he stays out,” she told me sternly.

I bridled. I pretended as if I really cared for ‘I’ and just couldn’t chuck him out. “After all,” I told the platypus “this is my writing style. ‘I’ has to make an appearance every once in a while to build rapport with the reader.”

The platypus was at heart quite soft and supportive of poor struggling authors. I could hear heavy silence from the other end of the phone. The platypus was presumably swishing her tail in consternation.

Finally, after I went to the extent of telling her “without ‘I’ piping in from time to time, I feel like I am reading someone else’s work,” she agreed to keep the guy in.

If  you are now thinking, “Yay, RamG, way to go. This is how the oppressed classes (authors) should assert themselves with the oppressors (editors/publishers),” you are jumping to conclusions. Sayoni the platypus, who has seen many an author and who is well versed with various tactics of bringing a rebellious author under control was far subtler than I thought. She sent my manuscript to a critic. After a week, I got a forwarded mail from Sayoni.  Mind you, a simple forwarding of the critic’s mail to her with no comments whatsoever of her own.

It said – “the book had me in complete splits. But I don’t know how to say this, every time I got really immersed in the plot and was chewing my nails off, a wise guy would suddenly spring up and start making funny comments. A bit like God. Are authors supposed to do that? Can we keep him out, please?”

I read and re-read the forwarded mail. I knew when I was defeated. I decided to boot ‘I’ out.

Easier said than done. I had to break the news to ‘I’.  ‘I’ was completely pissed when I broke the news.

“Dude, first of all, you promised an autobiography in which ‘I’ would appear at least once per sentence. I was so thrilled. Then you completely welshed and went and wrote some idiotic book on beings with brains in their bottoms and other such crazy stuff, thereby banishing ‘I’ completely. You can’t blame me for trying to sneak in a few times! Have a heart.”

I felt sorry for the poor guy. I could see his point. I was the one who had given him hopes of a book full of him by promising an autobiography. At the same time, I knew that it would be idiotic not to take the advice of the wise platypus. Finally after racking my brain for several seconds, I came up with an unbelievably amazing solution.  All I had to do was to add an asterisk (the star thingy, not Obelix’s friend) wherever ‘I’ used to be. Then ‘I’ could come in with his wisecracks as footnotes. ‘I’ was thrilled with the suggestion. So was the platypus. Peace reigned throughout.

But I know this is temporary. If I don’t come up with an autobiography and give ‘I’ squatting rights in every sentence, ‘I’ would be really unhappy. What is more, I knew ‘I’ would also rope in ‘me’, ‘mine’, ‘us’ and ‘our’ into the conflict. If I were ‘I’, I know that ‘I’ would do exactly that.

The Snaring of the Platypus

I admit I have let you all down with a resounding thud. After promising a post every week to my millions of admirers, I blatantly went back on my word and stopped posting for well over six months.

In my defense, I must humbly point out that in my last post, I had promised to share how I managed to snare this extremely rare breed called a publisher. But having proclaimed this intention well before actually bagging the creature, I had to lie low and pretend to blend into the background till the trap was finally sprung.

Today, I am the  proud possessor of a publisher- squirming and thrashing, no doubt, but firmly in my grip and unlikely to escape. Now I believe I am ready to share the gripping saga of my publisher hunt.

It was in October of 2011 that I typed ‘the end’ and officially declared my first novel complete. Even as I wiped the sweat off my brow, I had already embarked on the next step – that of finding a publisher or literary agent. Since I was absolutely convinced that my book was superior to anything ever written or anything that could possibly be written in the future, I would settle only for the best publisher. Ok, Ok, I am sure you must be muttering arrogant so-and-so on reading the last line, but I would place the blame squarely at the doorsteps of my informal editors, friend Anjali Nair, and my sister-in-law Shubha  (even though she lost steam half way through)who both kept raving about my book. Being an eternal optimist, I decided to ignore the lukewarm response of my cousin Nandu and the extremely positive but not ecstatic response of my young friend Vidyuth.

And thus started the quest. Having written a young adult book of international appeal, I decided to first search for a publisher in UK or USA. There was a small glitch, of course – a vast majority of these dinosaurs accepted only hard copies of the manuscript. Having learned from J K Rowling that to become a great author, one had to at least get 13 rejections, and considering the money and effort that takes to courier 14 separate envelopes to the US and UK, I decided to focus only on those few who accepted email submissions. Fortunately, my prime target, Christopher Little (he was JKR’s agent) was among them. I sent off my manuscript to all of two publishers and Christopher Little and waited.

In the meanwhile I also deigned to look at Indian publishers. I did extensive web research and figured out the whole process of snaring a publisher. It goes roughly as follows…

- Go to the web and research out the names of the publishers of all the famous books you know…

- Ask your friends and their friends if they have any contacts with these publishing houses…

- Cry when you realize that friends do not have connections to really big time publishers…

- Settle for whatever and get introduced through aforementioned friends or friends’ friends…

- Send your synopsis to all the aforementioned publishers…

- Send synopsis also to all other publishers and agents in the country not in the contact list…

- Curse your cousin BalC who worked in the company called Synopsys when you realize that you have miss-spelt the word synopsis in all your mails…

- Wait week after week for rejections to pour in, pretending you are aiming for 13 rejections…

- Write stupid blogs about how one is about to get published…

- Get polite rejection from Christopher Little and mutter ‘No wonder JKR sacked him’…

- Get impatient and start the process of self publishing through Createspace, coughing up an enormous sum of $3000, muttering ‘forgive them for they know not what they miss’ about the publisher community …

- Chance upon an old friend called P Venky who introduces you to his friend called Chanty who introduces you to Westland, one of the leading publishers…

- Keep sending reminders to Paul of Westland, thanking god all the while that he has not responded, being pretty sure that any reply would be a polite rejection…

- Get a mail from a totally strange being called Sayoni Basu (who later on turns out to be Paul's wife), who calls herself a Primary Platypus of Duckbill Publishers, saying they are an associate of Westaland, focused on children’s and young adults’ literature and that she loves the manuscript…

- Thank god profusely for creating some sensible people like Sayoni Basu who moreover has the sense of humour to call herself primary platypus instead of a boring Director etc. ...

- Fall on your face and accept whatever terms in the contract with utmost gratitude...

- Fervently thank god for the strange creature called platypus and the stranger being called primary platypus :-) (Ouch! Sayoni Sorry!)

And after intense research, my friends, I have come to the conclusion that this is the best process towards getting published. Follow it to a Tee and let me assure you, you can also get your novel published. Of course, the prerequisite is that you should have written the damn thing to begin with. 

My Novel Experience with Authoring

You must have all read the story of how, at the tender age of five, having been egged on by a particularly vicious dog, I was forced to take up the pen, the mightiest weapon known to man, in an endeavor to quell the uprising of hoards of marauding canines. (Take that, and that, and that, and... ) I believe I was reasonably successful in thwarting their dark and evil design, since all heads of states of all countries still remain essentially human.

Having thus achieved my end, I laid the pen to rest for a fairly longish period, except for occasional tests and exams, when one had to revert to using it to scrawl out trigonometry, Archimedes principle, structure of atom and other such completely useless bits of knowledge in a really abysmal handwriting. But deep inside me, an author lay trapped within layers of competitive exams, corporate bullshit and such other forms of rat-race.

It was not until very recently that I decided to take up writing again. This time aided by QWERTY boards, mightier than the pen. So in between mails on explaining cash flows, setting targets, poking a friend on face book, churning out idiotic presentations, playing scrabble and making elaborate XL sheets, I started finding time to blog.

At first, the occasional slips into this aberration were minimal and controllable– approximately 2.3 times each year, much like how Dr.Jekyll could control the use of the stuff that could turn him into Mr. Hyde. But this happy state of affairs was not to last. I left active corporate life because of an autoimmune disorder.  And like a vicious beast, long shackled within the confines of a polished exterior, the aspiring author in me was unleashed. My declaration, stating my intent of spewing the stuff out once a week was received by all my hapless classmates and FB friends with quaking hearts. The fact that every time I pinged someone or chatted with someone, I would end the conversation asking them whether they have read my blog was more than some of them could handle (I believe some of them opted out of FB) . Even my unknown scrabble opponents would be surprised witless in the middle of their bingos by me pasting  my latest post on the chat box, making them completely miss their seven letter words with the letters Q,U,A,K, I,N and G.  When I started ending every phone call with the question “have you read my blog?” my wife finally kicked my posterior viciously and told me enough was enough.

But unknown to them, I was brewing up a far more sinister and darker plan, that of writing a whole blooming book.

This happened when Jayu and I went for 3 months to Chicago. The main purpose was for me to undergo a stem cell transplant. (The secondary purpose was for me to see the Playboy building and the tertiary purpose was to eat the original deep pan pizza.) So what does one do in between blood tests, being poked by electrodes and bone marrow biopsies?  Writing, of course. So I started off on my first novel.  I was quite focused on this task and managed to churn out 2-3 pages a day. I was duly encouraged by dear friends Sridhar, Vasudha, Manish and Radhika, poor unsuspecting souls who had no idea just how close they were to becoming branded Frankenstein.  I completed fifty pages, but was personally, not happy with the way the plot was developing. It was altogether too serious. There was no pep in it.

And then I went in for the actual treatment (17 days). My body revolted at the chemo and refused any input outside of dry toast. But my brain, pickled in the purest Old Monk rum and Bullet beer from the age of 16, must have found some kinship with the aforementioned chemo. It must have been also quite impressed with the mix of rabbit juices and rat juices the hospital was kind enough to provide intravenously. The fact that the hospital was miles above any I have ever seen and the Doctor was incredibly good added to the feeling of well being. And of course, it helped that the nurses, handpicked to be the best of the best, also looked like angels. Buoyed by the abovementioned happy circumstances, my brain finally came up with the sweet-spot. It was ‘out with the serious’ and in with the ‘mad and whacky’. The idea for ‘Oops!’ was born.

Over the next 3 months, aided by the excellent dragon software, I completed my first novel. Then started the difficult part of the whole journey. That of getting an unsuspecting soul to read it. Three months down the line, it remained a fruitless endeavor. Even my kids, even on the pain of cancellation of all pizza rights, dug in their heels and resisted. Till finally I found 3 persons (one cousin, one friend and one friend’s son) to actually read the whole stuff.

But getting a publisher gullible enough to bite on the hook was a whole different story and shall be recounted in a different blog. (How else can I stick to my promise of once a week excitement?)

But in case you are sighing with relief, let me warn you. I am no quitter. You, my poor fish, are going to be hit with the final product come May. With your best interests at heart, let me give you some friendly advice. Buy the damn thing and read it. Otherwise, the vicious Mr. Hyde in me will find expression and I shall track you down to the ends of the earth and make sure I pain you with a deluge of blogs.  

Indian Parliament Passes the Corruption Bill – an Extract from Loony Times

 Feb 23rd, New Delhi : In a move that can change the future course of the nation, the Indian Parliament has passed the corruption bill. There was jubilation all over New Delhi as the political class took to the streets to celebrate this first of its kind legislation.

“This is the first time in the history of democracy that a bill of this magnitude is getting passed,” said Ms.Dancegod, a spokesperson for the ruling Servile Party. “With this legislation in place, politicians and bureaucrats alike can focus on nation building instead of wasting time and energy on negotiating with businessmen.”

Breaking her media silence, Ms.Sofar, the chairperson of URA (United Regressive Alliance) called for a press conference late last evening. “We are proud of this monumental achievement,” she told the media. Going on to highlight the specific advantages of the bill, she elaborated, “Now the facilitation fee a politician or a bureaucrat is entitled to is very clearly outlined in the bill. The facilitation matrix for various roles and for various types and sizes of approvals are clearly laid out. Whether the person is a Minister, a MP, a MLA, an undersecretary, or a clerk, the quantum is very clearly defined. Now there will be no ambiguity and no wasting of time and effort on investigating bribery charges.”

The home minister Mr.Conscioussky made a separate announcement that with the corruption bill in place, CBI can now be disbanded. “This is possible, since the law is retrospective and covers all facilitation fees received in the past 7 years. A skeleton CBI would continue to probe facilitation fees received prior to 2005. The disbanding of CBI would save substantial cost to the exchequer and the savings can be ploughed back into subsidies, ten percent of which has to go back to the political class as facilitation fees according to the new law. As you can see, there is so much trickle effect that this law would generate, which would further drive up the economy, making even more facilitation fee possible. It is an ever increasing virtuous cycle,” he said.

The law was passed with landslide majority in both houses of parliament. This followed a late night consensus brought about after hectic consultation between URA representatives and some of the other party leaders, namely Ms.Magicwoman of BSP (Bhrashtachar Samaj Party) and Mr. Mercytreasure of DMK (Dravida Money Kazhagam). As the readers may recall, both BSP and DMK had opposed the draft, claiming the slabs specified in the bill would considerably bring down the earnings of their leaders. The finance minister had to broker a deal finally and a compromise was reached late in the night that the states were free to impose a surcharge on the facilitation fee over and above what the bill specified. In return, the Servile Party secured their support for provisions for an additional surcharge for leaders of foreign origin. 

Unconfirmed rumors stated that the Prime Minister, Mr.Munmun Sen was opposed to the bill, but was finally prevailed upon by Ms.Sofar. He mumbled uncontrollably when contacted by the media.

The leaders of the opposition, Mr.Roon and Ms.Selfrule trashed the bill as unnecessary. “By fixing slabs for facilitation fees, the government is trying to infringe on the individuals' right to negotiate and fix their own rates. This is a dark day for the ruling class”. The other two prominent leaders of the opposition, Mr.Ladwani and Mr.Noddy were both of the opinion that the ‘violence against minorities’ act and the 'destruction of places of worship' act should have been given higher importance than the corruption bill. However, the members of the ‘Karnataka wing’ of the opposition party were partying late into the night.

The lone dissention from the ruling party was by Sallubhai, who continued to insist that there should be a provision for a separate quota for minorities.

It is rumored that Pakistani Prime Minister Mr.Gilani was in touch with sources in the URA to understand the exact provisions of the bill.

Consequent to the bill being passed, there were rumors that at Raj Ghat, upheavals were felt. Presumably from Mahatma Gandhi’s ashes turning in their urn. 

The Fundamental Rights of a Malayali

I have just about surfaced from the feeling of abject misery that one wallows in after returning from an amazing holiday. This feeling of abject misery permeates ones entire soul at the start of one’s return flight and continues to grow in intensity in inverse proportion to the distance from one’s hometown. It hits a peak when one is standing in the long queue in front of the immigration counter, staring with blank eyes at the surly looking Govt. official who makes it a point to sneer at you after he looks insultingly in turn at your well rounded figure and the passport photo taken when you were ten years younger and about a dozen kilos lighter. The misery is compounded by the family of 8 who has callously wriggled into the queue ahead of you after planting an advance guard of one aggressive young woman who was doubtlessly an Asian Games sprinter and who has established territorial rights over the entire 1^st to 8^th position in the queue for her family by being the first one to reach, much as Chris Columbus did. The misery somewhat abates after the immigration ordeal, but again peaks when one has to wait endlessly for one’s baggage with a heart full of dark thoughts about the airport, the airlines, the ministry of civil aviation, Manmohan Singh, Mahender Singh Dhoni (because the schmuck lost yet another test that very morning), the man standing in-front of you scratching his butt and humanity as a whole. This overall pall of misery abates only slowly over the next entire day, assisted somewhat by being able to curl up in your own bed, watch your favorite programs on TV and eat Rasam and rice.

Now this time, the misery was dark as dark could be, because the holiday was great as great could be. It was in Bali, it was with amazing friends and we were staying in an awesome resort. Bali is so similar in natural beauty to my home, Kerala, that I couldn’t but wonder why Kerala does not exhilarate me as much as Bali did. Don’t mistake me, Kerala is a great place for a holiday, really ‘gods own country’. But I have had the ‘experience’ of a lifetime spending couple of years of my adult life in Kerala. In terms of excitement, that experience falls somewhere between being bludgeoned continuously every 30 seconds with a blunt object and having 220 volts of electricity being applied intermittently to your backside every five minutes. Massive ups and downs if you get my drift. I often ask myself why this is so. The answer always comes back to ‘The Fundamental Rights of a Malayali’.

To understand the ‘Fundamental Rights of a Malayali’, one has to first understand the psyche of a Malayali. The Mallu is one incredibly sensitive being. I have long pondered on why the good lord made Mallus so fair minded, yet so darned bristly at the same time. Finally, in a moment of inspired insight, the answer came to me. Unlike the rest of humanity, who evolved from mere monkeys, the Mallu has evolved from porcupines. This simple fact, so well hidden from Darwin (possibly because his limited experience never encompassed extreme cases such as meeting a Mallu), explained the bristling behavior of the Mallu. Having laid the foundation, I have taken great pains to put down a comprehensive list of the ‘Fundamental Rights of a Malayali’, a compendium of guiding principles which govern a Mallu’s life, his interaction with other Mallus and with other lower level mortals and why his ‘each particular hair stands on end like the quills upon the fretful porpentine’ (as you can see, Bill Shakespeare on the other hand, has certainly experienced a Mallu to have written these lines so appropriately) when he is affronted (as is his usual wont).

  

 The ‘FRoaM’ reads as follows…

Right to equality – Every Mallu is born a communist unless otherwise specified by his/her parents. They shall continuously strive to create a society of equals by uplifting themselves as much as humanly possible and after that by subtly taking potshots at others who are more equal.  

Right to Samaram(strike) – Every Mallu at birth is inculcated with vast knowledge of Satyagraha, which he/she hones by continuous practice of striking at least once every month from grade 1 to the age of 77. During months in which holidays are limited, he/she strikes several times extra to get his/her rightful number of off days.

Right to Flag Hoisting – Every Mallu male is entitled to hoisting his Mundu or his Lungi several inches above his knees and to showing off his hairy legs while pretending  to be Silk Smitha.

Right to Freedom of Spirit – Every Mallu must at all points in time be pickled liberally and should strive for this exalted spiritual state by imbibing from early morning. Even if he has to queue up in front of the Kallu Shaap before it opens at the ridiculously late hour of 8AM.

                A corollary to this is Right to Brandy – A true blue Mallu shall only drink Brandy, since he is able to assuage his guilt by pretending that the good spirit is exactly what the doctor ordered.

Right to Red rice & Fish curry – A  Mallu may consume fish curry and red rice any time of the day starting 6AM.

                A corollary to this is right to Beef fry and Porotta, right to Appam and Muttakkari and right to Tapioca and Fish curry. (except that Appam and Muttakkri may start at 5 AM.)

Right to Consider Sreesanth as the God of Cricket – The Mallu does not believe in RamG’s epic story on the 10^th Avatar of Vishnu being Sachin Tendulkar as given in Oh God!!. In his mind, Sreesanth is the only god of cricket and has been unfairly treated by Krishnamachari Srikanth, a mere jealous Paandi.

Right to Murder English Pronunciation- This is a very Fundamental and inalienable right of a Mallu. Specifically, he may murder all words having an ‘O’ in them or may 'simbly' substitute a ‘B’ for a ‘P’ every time it dares to make an appearance after an ‘M’. The same may be said of a ‘K’ or a hard ‘C’ if they so much as try to jump in ahead of an ‘L’ as any of my ‘Ungles’ may agree.

Right to Amazing Names – A  Mallu may be named by clubbing together any set of right sounding syllables as in the case of Jiju, Joji, Shiny, Shiji, Shiju… etc. Siblings may adopt rhyming agglomeration of syllables as in the case of Jincy and Lincy or even Tiju, Liju and Biju.

 Right to scoff at Tamilians – A Mallu may at all times treat the Tamilian as an inferior being (Having actually drawn a substantial part of their cultural heritage from Tamil Nadu) and may call them Paandis.  

                A corollary is that the Mallu has the right to be offended if the Tamilian retailiates by calling him a ‘Malayali Gentleman’ in a sneering fashion. For more on this, you may read up my treatise on the subject as given in 'The Amazing Adventures of a Tamil Brahmin' aka 'How to tame a tame father in law’

Finally, and most importantly, the Mallu has a Right to Bristle at all insults, real, imagined or not yet imagined.  He has to uphold the traditions of his ancestor, the fretful porpentine. A very very important corollary to this is that all male Mallus must sport some of the quills inherited from their ancestors on their face- namely on their upper lip. This helps them bristle.

That, my friend, completes my well researched document on the Fundamental Rights of a Malayali. Now let me warn you, we Mallus are actually amazing. We have religious harmony, communal harmony, sex ratio, development index, literacy rate, female infant mortality, all to prove that we are a great breed. And we even have the ability to laugh at ourselves. But if you, who is evolved from a mere ape and not an exalted porcupine even so much as dare chuckle at this article, we shall all bristle in indignation, and poke your sorry backside with so many quills that you will never be able to sit again to have your Masal Dosas and your Tandoori Chickens.            

Sucker !!

“He is such a hunk!! I wish I were a vampire. They’re so cool” said my daughter dreamily looking at the picture of Edward Cullen, a teenage vampire in a popular young adult fiction. I stared at the nincompoop, dumbfounded. This statement unwittingly had touched a raw nerve.

Vampires bring back the most unpleasant memories to my mind and have been doing so for years and years, ever since I was 10 years old. It was then that I discovered a passion of reading. I used to read just about anything I could get hold of – comics, short stories, novels, palms, magazines etc. It was while riffling thru one of those magazines that I first encountered Dracula. Dracula who stayed in his ancient castle in the Carpathian mountain, Dracula, who was always immaculately dressed after sunset, Dracula who slept in a coffin during daytime, Dracula at the thought of whom my blood ran cold and my heart started racing, Dracula who moreover spoke Malayalam like a native Mallu!! Eh? How is that again?? Yes, this Dracula spoke Malayalam because the story was in a Malayalam magazine and slightly modified from the original to suit the Mallu reader. No, Dracula did not eat Appam and fish curry, Jonathan Harker never wore a ‘mundu’ and Van Helsing did not start his morning with a stiffish Brandy. But apart from demonstrating these great Mallu traits, there was a lot of Kerala and Malayalam in these stories. Anyway, not to deviate from the plot, I discovered after I read the story that I was having serious difficulty sleeping at night. Even the slightest of sounds would have me sitting up in bed peering into the darkness, heart racing, half expecting the cold, clammy touch of Dracula on my shoulders as he sank his fangs into my neck. First thing in the morning, I would check in the mirror if my canine teeth have become a tad longer or if I have fang marks at the nape of my neck, both sure signs of imminent vampirification.

I was a very imaginative child. At times, I would imagine that my brother, who used to sleep next to me in those days, was actually Dracula in disguise. Cold sweat breaking out from my brows, quaking with fear, I would bury my head under the blanket. Then there were those nights when I imagined that Namu, my little kitten was a vampire. I seriously contemplated sleeping with a cross under my pillow and garlic surrounding my bed. Unfortunately, we never used to cook garlic at home in those days and a cross was not readily available. I had to manage with merely praying to about couple of dozen assorted set of gods. 

Time passed and I grew up. I almost forgot vampires completely. Except on occasions, when I would have a bad dream and sit up bolt upright in my bed, peering at my wife’s serene sleeping face to see if her canine teeth were bared. But I survived all these decades without a fang so much as scratching my neck. Until, Edward Cullen reared his ugly head. Suddenly I was inundated with vampires. Vampire books started making a steady flow into the house. My daughter, who used to talk of intellectual stuff like world GDP, Trojan war, Shahrukh Khan, penguins, Romeo and Juliet etc suddenly started blathering non-stop about vampires and werewolves. Worse, I think she went thru this phase were she was pretty much convinced that when she grew up she wanted to be Mrs.Vampire.

Looking at me earnestly, she said – “You know dude, vampires are like ice cold you know. And their skin is like as hard as diamond. The only way you can kill them is by tearing them to pieces and burning the pieces. How cool is that.”

I took strong objection to this. First – the puritan in me quailed at this misinformation being spread. I knew from years of intense research on the subject that the only way to kill one of these bloodsuckers is by driving a stake thru the heart and cutting off the neck simultaneously. Second – I couldn’t imagine her finding a poker faced, constipated moron like Edward Watsishname attractive. If she must crush on a vampire why couldn’t she pick a real vampire like the Voivode Dracula? I was appalled!!

But I really can’t blame the poor misguided mutt. She is after all a product of the society. A society which is increasingly bent upon becoming an army of vampires and werewolves. Every young lady I find reading a book nowadays is reading up on the latest adventures in the Vampire Academy or muttering about Zoey Redbird or at best watching Damon and Stefan eternally fighting over Elena while carrying their quota of blood-bags around (My dear Dracula, please don’t turn in your daylight coffin!!)

Now I wonder, who are the real suckers?? The vampires who suck blood from blood-bags or this generation of misguided youth who have been gloriously suckered by the authors of this onslaught of Vampire bullshit.  As for me, I am taking no chances. I sleep at night with a pod of garlic firmly tucked under the pillow and a stake within easy reaching distance. I am no sucker!!!