Tag Archives: amreading

May 19 2015
9 Comments
Ask the Alien

Get Abducted! Help Alien Jones!

Alien Jones.

"Pardon me, Earth loser. Do you have any honey mustard sauce for my space nuggets?"

“Pardon me, Earth loser. Do you have any honey mustard sauce for my space nuggets?”

He’s on a two-fold mission:

1)  Help get Bookshelf Q. Battler’s blog off the ground, thus introducing a writer who will stem the tide of reality programming.  AJ’s boss, the Mighty Potentate, hates reality programming.

2) Answer questions posed to him in his “Ask the Alien” column, which he writes in an effort to raise Earth’s collective level of intelligence and help it overcome its label of “Dumbest Planet in the Universe.”  (Theoretically, this could help with the anti-reality TV mission.)

Do you have a question for the Esteemed Brainy one?  Submit it in the comments, tweet it to @bookshelfbattle or leave it on the Bookshelf Battle Google Plus page.

Together, we can stop the onslaught of reality programming, thus ensuring the Mighty Potentate’s eye holes won’t be offended by the likes of:

Reality TV Shows the Mighty Potentate Hates

1)  Goat Martial Artists

2)  Nazi Housewives of Kalamazoo

3)  Flatulence Intervention

4)  Who Wants to Marry a Clown?  (As in an actual circus clown)

5)  The spin off – America’s Next Top Clown  (Clowns compete in a clown judged competition to be the nation’s favorite clown)

6)  Dancing with the Hobos

7)  Day in the Life of Insert Formerly Fabulous Now Elderly and Incompetent Movie Star, Singer, Other Entertainer

8)  Satan’s Breakfast Nook (It’s like Hell’s Kitchen, but an angry chef yells at you that you’re scrambling the eggs all wrong)

9)  Schmuck Island

10)  Antique Ninjas (Not old ninjas but ninjas who go antiquing)

Alien Jones hates stupidity and intergalactic fast food workers who forget to put his honey mustard sauce in the bag.

He’ll have to get his own honey mustard, but let’s him help him answer some questions.  Ask away.

As always, he’ll plug your book or blog in his answer.

Alien abduction image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license

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May 19 2015
2 Comments
BQB and the Meaning of Life

BQB and the Meaning of Life – Part 5 – The Return Kiss

PREVIOUSLY ON BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER AND THE MEANING OF LIFE…

PART ONE – Dead by an electrified toaster pastry!

PART TWO – Awake in a 1930’s speakeasy surrounded by dead celebrities!

PART THREE – A beloved deceased female celebrity from my generation who died too soon is bringing me free drinks!

PART FOUR – And William Shakespeare has been appointed as my spiritual guide!

AND NOW BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER AND THE MEANING OF LIFE CONTINUES…

“You always wanted to be a writer, didn’t you?” Bill asked.

“How did you know?”

“I read your treatment for Attack of the Killer Mutant Fish,” Bill said. “A solid effort for a ten year old with a notebook and a pencil. Tell me. Why didn’t you achieve your dream?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Same reason why so many wannabe writers never make it. Not enough publishing houses to accommodate everyone. Readers only have so much time and so much money to spend that even if you do get published, your work might get blown away in the breeze, lost in a vast sea of writers trying to make it big.”

“Sounds like a bunch of excuses,”  Bill said.

A thespian reenacts the expression Bookshelf Q. Battler had on his face the entire time he was in God's Waiting Room. It isn't that far off from the expression he makes even on his best days either.

A thespian reenacts the expression Bookshelf Q. Battler had on his face the entire time he was in God’s Waiting Room. It isn’t that far off from the expression BQB makes most of the time, even on his best days.

“Few of us will be lucky enough to remain at the top of the tenth grade summer reading list four hundred years after we kick the bucket,”  I said.

“Touche,”  Bill replied.  “But despite being aware of all the obstacles, you did, as a young lad, try to become a writer anyway.  Why did you stop?”

“Fledgling writers don’t make much money,”  I said.  “I wanted a big house, a fancy car, an awesome wife, the whole nine yards…”

“And did selling out your dream provide you with all of those things?”  Bill asked.

“I spend my free time writing a book review blog in which I never write a book review,”  I said.  “What do you think?”

“Could be worse,”  Bill said.  “Last week I had to advise some poor schlub who hanged himself after he couldn’t take one more lonely night of writing Firefly fan fiction.”

“So what are you saying?”  I asked.  “If I become a famous writer, then I’ll find the meaning of life, and then I will be allowed into Heaven?”

Bill slapped his knee and erupted into a hearty, robust laughter.  The inhabitants of the bar – Lincoln, Albert, Eddie, Cleopatra…everyone, they all laughed too.

“I’m afraid it is not that easy, my new friend!”  Bill said.

The waitress returned with another martini for bill and a scotch on the rocks for me.

“This is what I recommend for people when they’re told that finding the meaning of life isn’t that easy,” the waitress said.  She then sauntered away and greeted John Wayne as he entered the room.

“Well, Howdy Pilgrims!”  John yelled.

“Howdy, John!”  the deceased historical barflies retorted.

“Few people ever come close to touching the dreams that dwell within their hearts,”  Shakespeare said.  “Do you think a deity would ever be so cruel as to make the meaning of life and the attainment of a dream one and the same?”

“Ummm.” I thought about it for a moment. “Is this a riddle?”

“No,” Shakespeare said. “The meaning of life is not discovered through dream fulfillment. Alternatively, following one’s dreams does not lead one down the path toward the meaning of life.”

“You’re getting awfully meta, dude,”  I said.  “Are you going to ask me what a tree sounds like if it falls down in the middle of a forest with no one around to hear it?”

“CRACK! BOOM!” the waitress yelled over from the bar, where she was busily setting drink cups on her tray.

“The meaning of life does allow a person to be content,” Bill said. “Find the meaning of life, and you will know a brief feeling of contentment.”

“Contentment?” I asked.

“Satisfaction,” Bill said.

“Happiness?” I asked.

“Eh,” Bill replied. “I wouldn’t go that far. No one is ever truly happy.”

“Seriously?” I asked.

“Seriously,” Shakespeare said. “It is human nature to always want more, no matter how much you may already have. Thus, even people who look happy and act happy, even those who think they are happy, are not truly happy.”

“So a brief moment of contentment is all we can achieve?” I asked.

“Yes,” Shakespeare said. “And God, he’s giving you a second chance. Find the meaning of life and you will find your brief moment of contentment.”

“Why am I so special that God would give me a second chance?” I asked.

“I was actually wondering the same thing,” Bill said. “No offense, but you look pretty mediocre. Is your cousin a congressman or something?”

“No.”

“Huh,” Bill said. “Well, the Lord does work in mysterious ways.”

Bill looked at an old clock hanging on the wall.

“It is time to return you to your world now, Mr. Bookshelf,” Bill said. “But you can’t be sent back without someone on the other side to welcome you. Tell me, if you were to return to your life, would there be one person happy to see you?”

I thought about it. And thought. And thought. Five minutes passed. I had nothing.

Bill looked at his pocket watch. The waitress sauntered over and handed me a bottle of Goldschlager.

“If it’s taking you this long to think of someone who misses you on the other side, you’ll need this,” the waitress said.

“Booze with flecks of gold in it?” I asked.

“Makes your pee shiny,” the waitress said. “It’ll be a nice distraction from your shell of a life.”

“I’m sorry,” Bill said. “But if you cannot think of anyone from the physical realm who is lamenting your loss, then I must inform you that you will remain trapped in this room forever.”

I snapped my fingers.

“Wait!” I said. “I thought of someone!”

Bill smiled.

“Then you may return to your life,” Bill said. “But know this, good sir, if you do not seek out the meaning of life, you will not get a second chance at Heaven.”

“Wait,” I said. “Odds are few people have ever found the meaning of life, yet most people are decent human beings. You’re telling me all those people end up in Hell?”

“Not Hell,” Shakespeare said. “Just Second Class Heaven. You see there’s a First Class Heaven, akin to being served at a Rodeo Drive boutique, and then there’s Second Class Heaven, which is like being served at Wal-Mart.”

“Takes you forever to get your halo there,” the waitress said. “And when you do, its usually scuffed and second hand.”

“I understand your confusion,”  Shakespeare said.  “You see, to us First Class Heaven folk, Second Class Heaven is so blasé that we rarely even refer to it as Heaven at all.  It’s just a place where God sticks all the people who never earned eternal reward or punishment.”

“The catch-all kitchen drawer of the cosmos”  the waitress said.  “You know, that drawer where you put your batteries, your rubber bands, loose screws, spare appliance parts, crap you don’t know what else to do with but feel bad throwing away…”

“I get it,”  I said.  “Well, it looks like it’s second class for me.  I have no idea where to begin searching for the meaning of life.”

“Don’t worry,” Bill said. “You’ll find a clue in a most annoying manner.”

“Thanks Mr. Cryptic,” I said. “So how do I get back?”

The waitress sat on my lap. It seemed a tad forward, but who was I to argue with a beloved female celebrity from my generation who passed away too soon?

“Close your eyes, honey,”  she said.

“Alright.”

I closed them.  I was back in the darkness, where I saw absolutely nothing, and felt only a pair of juicy lips pressing themselves up against mine.

Will Bookshelf Q. Battler make it back to the physical world?  Find out next time on Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life!

Copyright (C) Bookshelf Q. Battler.  All Rights Reserved.

Drunk guy photo courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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May 18 2015
38 Comments
Self Publishing

Why “Self or Traditionally Publish?” is a Dumb Question

Bookshelf Q. Battler here.

BQB sounds off.

BQB sounds off.

Self vs. Traditional Publishing – Which route should I take?

For awhile now, I’ve read posts that begin with this very question from a number of bloggers.

Apparently, there’s a lot of folks who feel this is an either/or proposition.

Allow me to provide my take on the issue by posing these questions:

  • Should I continue working a day job or should I put all my time and money into buying and scratching lotto tickets?
  • If a nice woman comes up to me tomorrow and expresses an interest in going out on a date with me, should I take her up on the offer or should I tell her to hit the bricks because Scarlett Johannson might (I repeat “might”) knock on my door and demand my sweet, sweet lovin?
  • If I enjoy telling jokes to people, should I continue telling them or should I wait until I’m cast on Saturday Night Live?
  • If I get a part in a local community theater production, should I take it or should I wait to see if George Clooney calls me to ask me if I’ll take a part in his next film?

What?  You get the point now?  No.  No I don’t think you do.  I think we need some reinforcement here:

  • If I like the way the sun feels on my skin on a nice summer day, should I take a nice stroll on the beach or should I wait to see if the sun will come into my house?
  • If I’m hungry, should I make a sandwich or should I wait and see if Emeril will show up at my door and cook me a three course meal?
  • If, by some God inspired miracle, Scarlett does knock on my door, should I go on a date with her or should I wait and see if Charlize Theron and Katee Sackhoff show up and propose some type of triple arrangement?
  • If the Constitution is somehow altered to make me Supreme Ruler of the United States, should I take the position or wait to see if I’m crowned Emperor of the World?

All right, you get the point.

Yes.  If you’re a new writer and a traditional publisher offers you a legit deal, you should go for it.  But here’s the problem:

  • I’d like to be an astronaut.
  • I’d like to be the leading man in a Hollywood blockbuster movie.
  • I’d like to look like Channing Tatum while having George Clooney’s sophisticated style.
  • I’d like to have a bajillion dollars.
  • I’d like to be King of a Small Island (because to go any bigger is too much of a headache)
  • I’d like to be a pro-athlete.  Football, basketball, hockey, doesn’t matter.
  • I’d like to be date a famous actress.
  • I’d like my face on currency.
  • I’d like to rename the Moon “Bookshelf Q. Battle Orb.”

I’d like to do and/or be all of those things.

The odds of accomplishing them?

About the same as getting your book selected for a big time publishing deal.

OK.  You got me.  There might be some slight exaggeration here.

The Moon will be renamed Bookshelf Q. Battle Orb before I get a publishing deal.

The tech isn’t here that will turn me into an astronaut, football player or a Hollywood leading man.

The tech is here to help me put my writing out into the world.

Here’s my question:  Why does self or traditional publishing have to be an either/or proposition?

Honestly.  It’s like Traditional is my Mom and Self is my Dad and they’re a divorced couple competing for my affection:

ME:  Mom, can I have a book deal?

TRADITIONAL/MOM: Do you think you’re ready, dear?  I don’t really think you’re ready.  By the way, your father is spoiling you and you should hate him as much as I do!

ME:  Dad, can I have a book deal?

SELF/DAD:  Sure!  It’s our special weekend, buddy!  Publish all you want!  Eat cookies for breakfast too!  I don’t care!  It’s up to you! Control your own destiny!  Oh and don’t forget, your mother is a contemptible shrew whose sole purpose in life is to crush your hopes and dreams so stick with me kid!

ME:  ARGH!  Can’t you guys just get along?  Don’t make me choose!  I love you both!

Does self publishing guarantee success?

Well, first off let’s define success.

What’s your goal?

  • Make nothing but be happy just knowing your writing was put out into the universe? (Even if only 3.5 people read it?)
  • Make a little beer money?
  • Make a nice second income?
  • Make enough to support yourself?
  • Make enough to support yourself comfortably?
  • MAKE ENOUGH TO BE ON THE COVER OF FORBES AND HAVE YOUR BOOK TURNED INTO A BLOCKBUSTER AND YOU LAUGH AT ALL THE PEOPLE WHO MADE FUN OF YOU IN HIGH SCHOOL AS YOU WALK THE RED CARPET!  BAH HA HA!  YOU STINK, LOSERS!!!

With little to no effort, you can accomplish the first and second with self publishing.

The rest require work.

Should you get your hopes up?  Should you assume that self publishing will make all your wildest dreams come true?  That it will fill your pockets and turn you into a Hollywood insider?

Of course not.

However, I’m happy that blogging has provided me with 3.5 readers.  If I ever make a few bucks that’d make me happier.  If I earn a second income, that’d be great too.

I’d dance the Texas two-step if, God-willing, this leads me to become a millionaire, but I don’t expect that and you shouldn’t either.

So I guess I don’t understand the argument of “Well, there’s only been a few major self publishing success stories so don’t bother.”

Amanda Hocking and Hugh Howey have some fabulous stories, but people who make a few extra bucks and get to enjoy doing what they love?  That’s certainly a form of success too.  It might be a low level success, but if it makes you happy, then it makes you happy.

I don’t understand this all or nothing “if you don’t get a guarantee that your book will become a blockbuster then why bother” attitude.

Self-publishing isn’t a free ride, but it offers you something that the traditional world doesn’t:

A shot.

You’ll still need to work hard.  You’ll need to build your platform, reach out and obtain an audience, build a mailing list, and, above all else, write and publish a quality product.

And even then, you might and/or most likely won’t become a household name but a) hopefully you’re happy with the above discussed lesser forms of success and if you aren’t then b) at least you gave it a shot.

The traditional publishing world, more likely than not, will be closed to you.  The self-publishing door is open.  The readers inside that world may or may not be interested, but why not give it a go?

Meanwhile, if you get a traditional contract that’s great.  You should always explore your options.  Polish your work. Query agents.  Seek that traditional deal.

I’m not here to knock traditional publishing.  “Famous writer” is a highly sought after job.  Many people want it.  Traditional publishers and agents are bombarded with author queries all day long.  They only have so much time to take on so many projects.  They can’t please everyone.

Agents and publishers have to go with the projects they think will work best for them.  They’re in a business. That’s all there is to it.  Don’t take it personally.  Don’t hate on others who’ve “won the publishing lottery.”  Other people doing well does not make you do poorly.

Wait a minute, BQB.  What if I start self-publishing my work and then traditional publishing knocks on my door with a better deal?  What then?  Bet you didn’t think of that smart guy.

I did.  Let me ask you:

  • If I make that baloney sandwich and then Emeril DOES knock on my door with a fresh snappy lobster to cook for me, should I slam the door in his face or just put the sandwich in a ziplock bag and save it for later?
  • If that nice woman from before turns out to be a weirdo who wants to bedazzle all my shirts with cat designs and lock me in her crawlspace, should I keep seeing her if Scarlett DOES ask me out?
  • If I do scratch that winning lottery ticket, am I required to keep working a day job and therefore must never spend my newfound millions on world travel and chalices to eat my cereal out of?

In short, if that traditional publishing miracle deal does happen, you can always shift gears to embrace it.

But BQB, if the traditional publishing world isn’t interested in my work, what do I do?”

Well, let me answer that question with these questions:

  • If that non-famous woman who was interested in me (see above) dumps me after a few dates, should I lock myself in my bedroom and listen to James Blunt’s You’re Beautiful on a continuous loop or should I get back on the proverbial horse and ask another woman out?
  • If I can’t find the ingredients to make a sandwich in my kitchen, should I just go hungry or should I go buy some bread and baloney?
  • If I scratch two cherries on my lotto ticket and a lousy lemon on my third square scratch, should I go to work tomorrow?
  • If my car breaks down, should I buy another one I can afford or should I just walk everywhere in the hopes that one day I’ll win one on a game show?

I think you get the point.

Let’s come together and be friends, traditional and self publishing worlds.

At the end of the day, we all want the same thing.

To rename the Moon the “Bookshelf Q. Battle Orb.”

Oh and success.  Lots of success.

Don’t make me choose.  There’s plenty of Bookshelf Q. Battler to go around.

Nerd with a bullhorn image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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May 17 2015
4 Comments
BQB and the Meaning of Life

BQB and the Meaning of Life – Part 3 – A Place Between Heaven and Hell

PREVIOUSLY ON BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER AND THE MEANING OF LIFE…

PART ONE – “Oh no!  I ate a pop tart full of concentrated lightning then died whilst on the commode!”

PART TWO – “What?  Why am I in a 1930’s speakeasy?”

“Say!  Who’s this gal who keeps plying me with booze?”

“And who the heck is this bald bearded guy in the cod piece that won’t shut up?”

AND NOW BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER AND THE MEANING OF LIFE CONTINUES…

Shakespeare digs Skyfall.

Shakespeare digs Skyfall.

“William Shakespeare, at your service,” the man said as he outstretched his hand toward me. I just stared at it.

“Mr. Bookshelf, ’tis an old custom for two parties who have just met to grasp one another’s hands and shake them up and down in a vigorous manner for the purpose of demonstrating that neither party is holding a weapon that could be used to disfigure or maim the other party, thus establishing a sense of trust.”

“Oh right!” I said as I shook his hand. “It’s honor to meet you, Mr. Shakespeare!”

“Please. Just call me Bill.”

“OK Bill,” I said. “Wait. How do you know my name?”

“I read your tenth grade term paper about me for Mrs. Houlihan’s English 101 Class.”

“Seriously?” I asked.

“Don’t be flattered,” Bill said. “One of the many magical powers you receive in the afterlife is the ability to instantly know what anyone anywhere in the world is saying about you at any time. For the average person, it is manageable. Maybe your Cousin Irene or Uncle Bob occasionally say something nice about you…or something bad about you as the case may be.”

I sucked on my beer helmet straw, riveted to every word my new acquaintance was saying.

“For a deceased celebrity, the skill is extremely irritating,” Bill said. “And for yours truly, the most celebrated author of the English language, it is downright insufferable. Every time a pimply faced teenager writes down, ‘Umm…I mean, like, Shakespeare was OK I guess…’ the sentiment is instantly zapped into my brain.”

Bill grabbed the sides of his head and massaged his temples.

“Blast! There’s another one!”

“Sorry,” I said. “Geez, I always thought it would be cool to be a celebrity. That’s why I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I never knew you were all so tortured.”

“You don’t know the half of it, honey,” the waitress said as she handed another martini to Bill. “F. Scott Fitzgerald and Truman Capote are always in here debating about which of one of them had it worse.  Writers are lousy with ennui.”

“Tell me about it,” I replied.

The waitress checked the levels on my beer helmet, poured some more into each container, then walked away.

As soon as I was sure the waitress was out of earshot, I turned to Bill.

“Is that…”

“Who, her?” Bill asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Who is she? I’ve seen her all over TV but I can’t think of her name.”

“She’s an amalgamation,” Bill responded.

“A what?”

The Waitress - aka

The Waitress – aka “The Most Beloved Female Celebrity of Your Generation Who Died Too Soon.”  Who does she look like to you?

“A hallucination. A magical, metaphysical trick,” Bill explained. “To every individual in this establishment, our waitress looks like the most beloved deceased female celebrity of the aforementioned individual’s generation. There have been so many female entertainers loved by many who departed the physical realm much too soon.”

“Wow,” I said.

“To Mr. Einstein, she looks like the late actress Marilyn Monroe,” Bill said. “To me, she appears in the grim visage of Sir Lionel Scarsbrook of Glastonbury-upon-Stratshire.”

“Sir Lionel who?” I asked.

“Women were not allowed upon the stage in my day, Mr. Bookshelf,” Bill said. “Acting – very physically demanding work, you know. All the running around, shouting, crying, laughing, sword play and so on. Women were not believed to have the constitutions necessary for the theater so men donned dresses, wigs, and make-up in order to play the female parts.”

“That’s stupid,” I said.

“Call it stupid if you like, good sir, but even in full beard Sir Lionel could act circles around Katherine Heigl.”

“Agreed,” I said. “But whoever she is, why is she here?”

“People tend to be very uncomfortable when they first arrive in this place,” Bill said. “Seeing a beloved female celebrity from their generation who died too soon tends to have a calming effect on newcomers. People are so happy to see her up and walking around again they don’t worry about anything else.”

“I do miss her,” I said.

“Everyone from your generation does,” Bill replied.

We sat on the couch in silence for awhile, sipping our respective drinks.

Finally, I had to ask.

“Bill, what is this place?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Bill said.

Out of nowhere, the waitress who bore a striking resemblance to a beloved female celebrity from my generation who passed away too soon, popped up behind me with a pair of vodka bottles, one in each hand.

There was no doubt that I was in some kind of supernatural place, since I was consuming enough booze to drop a thoroughbred race horse and yet I was still moving and grooving.

The waitress removed the beer containers from my helmet, replaced them with the vodka bottles, and inserted the straws.

“I heard you ask him what this place is, honey,” the waitress said. “You’ll need these.”

Like a flash, she was gone again.

“I don’t know your religion so I don’t wish to offend you, Mr. Bookshelf,” Bill said. “And we haven’t much time. To educate you as to the nature of this place requires me to discuss with you a spiritual question that has vexed the people of Earth since time immemorial.”

“Why don’t they just abolish the designated hitter rule?” I asked.

“What is the meaning of life?” Bill said, ignoring my snark. “Whether you refer to him as God, Allah, Buddha, or Lord Gleepglorp from Planet Fuzzlewak or whatever the damned Scientologists call him, there is indeed a being who runs the show. The totality of existence rests within the palm of his hand.”

I slurped away on the vodka.

“Life is a test,” Bill said. “A trial designed to test the mettle of souls.”

Bill looked at me. He must have noticed the dumbfounded expression on my face. It was dumber than usual.

“I am a legendary wordsmith and yet I struggle to find the right words to explain this to you,” Bill said.

I looked at Bill and the words rolled right off my tongue.

“All the world’s a stage and the people merely players?”

I raised my right eyebrow in a comically quizzical manner, totally proud of myself for thinking of that.

“Precisely,” Bill said. “Call this deity by any name you wish, but all he has ever asked is that people live life on Earth to the best of their abilities. Get up everyday, try your best, avoid committing evil acts upon your fellow man and in the end, he finds a place for you in Heaven.”

“Where everything is free?” I asked.

“Where everything is free,” Bill replied.

“And I get to chat with my favorite writer of all time while the most beloved female celebrity of my generation who died too soon fetches me drinks?” I asked.

“Snacks too,” the waitress said as she plopped a family-sized bag of chili cheese nacho chips on my lap.

“Do you want a tip or something?” I asked the waitress. “I’m told money has no meaning here but is there something I can do to thank you? Your service has been excellent and I feel bad for not pointing it out.”

The waitress’ eyes teared up. She leaned in and pecked a tiny kiss on my cheek.

“Oh my,” she said. “All this time I’ve spent here and no one has ever inquired about thanking me before.”

“Seriously?” I asked.

“Seriously,” she replied.

“So is there anything I can do?” I asked.

“No thank you,” the waitress said. “Your general display of exuberance over my prompt serving abilities is all the thanks I need.”

As she walked away, Bill shot me a “told you so” expression.

“No one’s ever offered to tip her before?” I asked. “The bar to get into Heaven is set pretty low, huh?”

“And thus, good sir,” Bill said. “It is my sad and unfortunate duty to inform you that you are not in Heaven.”

I was shocked. My mind raced. Where was I? Was I in Hell?

“I knew it,” I said. “I’m in Hell. For Christ Sake’s, I forget to hit the ‘like’ button on Cousin Phil’s vacation photos and they send me to the nether regions of human existence for all eternity!”

“Relax,” Bill said. “It’s not as bad as all that either.”

Whew. What a relief. I cracked open the bag of nachos and munched away. I offered some to Bill.

“No thank you,” Bill said. “They give me gas most foul.”

Where is Bookshelf Q. Battler?  Find out in the next installment of Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life!

Copyright (C) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

Waitress photo courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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May 17 2015
6 Comments
Ask the Alien

Ask the Alien Special Edition – What is the Meaning of Life?

Greetings Earth Losers!

Don't forget AJ's dipping sauce.

Don’t forget AJ’s dipping sauce.

Alien Jones here, coming to you from somewhere deep in the cosmos where I am solving a most delicate situation of grave intergalactic importance:

Why did those imbeciles at Star Burger forget my honey mustard dipping sauce?

I hate that!  Don’t you?  Why, I have no bits and pieces so I can only assume, but I would imagine that dreaming of succulent trobonka bird tenders all day long only to get twenty light years from the restaurant and discover that you’re going to have to eat your dinner dry is more or less equivalent to being an Earth man, having Charlize Theron knock on your front door, demand to have her way with you but alas, you’ve been outfitted for a pair of iron under pants and the key has been tossed straight into the briney deep of the Pacific Ocean.

Apologies for the rant, Earth Losers.  Sometimes as an All-Knowing Being, it’s not easy for me to suffer fools lightly.

Or at all, really.  Next time I’m in that quadrant that Star Burger is totally getting vaporized.

For those just joining us, I am the intergalactic correspondent for this pitiful excuse for a blog.  My supreme overlord, the Mighty Potentate, has deemed that only Bookshelf Q. Battler’s writing abilities can save the universe from the spread of the blight on all mortal beings’ existence known as “reality television.”

Further, he has demanded that I assist BQB in his quest to attract an audience to his blog.  (Why he didn’t just ask me to bring a dinosaur back to life and dance the cha cha with it I don’t know but who am I to question the Mightiest of Potentates?)

In fact, the MP and I discussed this very subject this morning:

MP:  It won’t stop, Alien Jones!  “Trucker Rodeo!”  “Tuna Farm Warriors!”  “Rodeo Drive Debutants!”  “Biker Gang Crochet Party!”

AJ:  I’m sorry, Mighty Potentate.

MP:  You must get BQB’s writing career off the ground!  People won’t seek their entertainment from “Barbershop Quartet Rumble” when BQB’s stories hit the big time!

AJ:  Are you sure, Your Potentosity?  No offense, but this guy is kind of a nerd…

MP:  DO YOU DARE QUESTION THE MIGHTY POTENTATE?

AJ:  No!  No!  Of course not, Mighty Potentate!

MP:  Report on the status of “Operation Find BQB an Audience!”

AJ:  He’s started blogging a story in an ongoing serial format.

MP:  WHAT?  I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO MAKE HIM POST PHOTOS OF KIM KARDASHIAN AND MILEY CYRUS WRESTLING IN A VAT OF JELLO!

AJ:  I tried, sir.  He wouldn’t hear of it.  He said that cheap form of entertainment would go against your war on reality television.

MP:  Blast!  He’s right.  I have been out-potentated.

Anyway, telling you this was my way of reminding you that I’m available to answer your questions, thus fulfilling the Mighty Potentate’s other goal, to help lift your planet from its lowly state of stupidity.

One question you might have as you read BQB’s serial is, “What is the meaning of life?”

I’m not sure to answer that question without giving any SPOILERS relative to BQB’s story.  And I already ruined the surprise of that every star exploding thing so I don’t want to screw up your day twice.

I could answer this question with all kinds of flow charts and data but instead, let me just state simply:

What isn’t the meaning of life?

Food for thought, Earth losers.  And speaking of food, mine is still dry because some minimum space wage clown was TOO STUPID TO TOSS A HONEY MUSTARD CUP INTO A BAG!!!

Alien Jones is the Intergalactic Correspondent for the Bookshelf Battle Blog, on a mission to raise Earth’s collective intelligence levels one question at a time. Do you have a question for the Esteemed Brainy One? Tweet it to @bookshelfbattle on Twitter, leave it in the comments on bookshelfbattle.com, or stop by Bookshelf Battle on Google Plus. If he likes your question, he might even promote your book, blog, other project in his answer.

Alien image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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May 16 2015
7 Comments
BQB and the Meaning of Life

BQB and The Meaning of Life – Part 2 – Twenty-Three Skadoo

PREVIOUSLY ON BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER AND THE MEANING OF LIFE…

PART 1 – “Oh no! I ate a toaster pastry full of concentrated lightning and died on the toilet! Ouch!”

“Say, what’s that light over there?”

AND NOW BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER AND THE MEANING OF LIFE CONTINUES…

The light at the end of the tunnel grew brighter with every step I took towards it. Suddenly, the light took over, and all the darkness surrounding me faded away. I found myself in a sterile white hallway, staring at a door. I tried the knob. It wouldn’t budge.

I knocked on the door. A slit in the middle opened and a pair of angry eyes stared out at me.

“What’s the password, see?” the man behind the door asked.

“Umm…password?” I answered.

“Bah!” the man said. “I suppose they’ll just let just any old mook in here, see?”

I was transported to a 1930's speakeasy. The joint was lousy with flappers, see?

I was transported to a 1930’s speakeasy. The joint was lousy with flappers, see?

The bolt snapped and the door opened. The man who had let me in was nowhere to be found. I stepped through the threshold and was instantly transported to an old-timey 1930’s speakeasy.

I was no longer in my pajamas. I was wearing a black zoot suit with wide white pinstripes, a spiffy fedora, and a pair of shoes so shiny I could see my reflection in them.

I took a look around. On stage, there was a big band playing The Charleston. On a couch to my right, a group of flappers (you know, those women in the fringe skirts and head bands with the one feather in front) were lounging about, calling each other “Dah-ling” and smoking through foot long cigarette filters.

It was odd. The whole scene felt like it was straight out of a 1930’s gangster flick. Yet, the inhabitants of the joint were all famous historical figures from every century imaginable.

At the bar, Albert Einstein, Cleopatra, Abraham Lincoln, and Jim Morrison were pounding shots like nobody’s business. They were in some kind of rousing competition to see who could drink the most without getting sick.

Einstein was drinking them all under the table.

“E=MC YOU ARE ALL SQUARES!” Einstein yelled just before tipping another brew down his throat.

“Four score and seven years ago, this forefather was ready to puke,” was Honest Abe’s reply. He pulled off his infamous stove pipe hat and used it as a barf receptacle. Jim and Cleopatra passed out. Albert just kept on drinking.  That scientist sure could hold his liquor.

Utterly confused, I took a seat on a couch in the back corner of the room and sat down in the hopes that eventually it would all make sense.

Twenty minutes later, it still did not.

“Need a drink, doll face?”

I looked up. The waitress was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. I couldn’t remember her name, but I was certain I’d seen her somewhere before.

“No thank you,” I replied.

“Let me rephrase,” the waitress said. “You NEED a drink, sweetie. Newbies always freak out if they’re not sloshed.”

She took a shot glass of whiskey off her tray and set it on the table before me.

“Anything else just ask.”

And then she was gone.

Ed Sullivan took to the main stage and introduced Liberace, who was clad in his finest white fur coat.  He waved to the crowd then proceeded to tickle the ivories of a majestic white piano.

Three songs in, a balding British gentleman with a Van Dyke beard and a cod piece walked up to the couch and parked himself in a seat right next to mine.

Assuming I was trapped forever in the 1930’s, I did my best to blend in.

“Say, whaddya think yer tryin’ to pull, see?” I asked. “This spot is reserved for my keister, see? Twenty-three skadoo somewhere else because I’m the cat’s pajamas in these here parts, see?”

What can I say? I felt threatened and said the first words that entered my mind.

The gentleman downed the last sip left in his martini glass.

“Forsooth! Gather and be merry, kind sir!” the man said. “To offer a proclivity of disrespect? ’Twas not my intention. Fi! For a jest in the name of foolery is a source of amusement but a jest at the expense of the dignity of my fellow man is an utterance that deigns to make fools of us all!”

My jaw dropped.

“Yeah,” I said. “Just mind your P’s and Q’s buster or I’ll have to jitterbug the foxtrot all over your face, see?”

The man set his glass on the table.

“Good and noble sir,” the man said. “Doubtless am I that spirits of the alcoholic variety doth embolden thine own spirit to an uproarious crescendo but I pray thee- do not turn a potential friend to a foe. For the world is filled with little more than men in search of friends who do nothing to find them but everything within their power to find enemies in every corner.”

“Why the expletive deleted are you talking like that?” I asked.

“Me?” the British man said. “Good sir, you are the one saying ‘twenty-three skadoo’ and ‘see!’”

“I thought that’s what I’m supposed to do!” I said. “It looks like Al Capone’s gin joint in here!”

The waitress returned. Under normal conditions, her bright eyes, long hair, and perfect smile would have been welcome. However, my heart was already racing from the strange circumstances I found myself in, and her gorgeous appearance only exacerbated my malady.

“Another martini Bill?” the waitress asked.

“Bill,” I thought. “Who do I know who is British, speaks fancy, wears a codpiece, and is named ‘Bill?’ Hmmmm.”

“Please,” Bill replied. “Shaken…not stirred.”

“That joke never gets old, Bill,” the waitress said as she rolled her eyes.

“Skyfall!” Bill said. “Have you seen it yet, dear?”

“Not yet,” the waitress said. “Been too busy keeping the newbies soused to the gills.”

“Oh you must!” Bill said. “It is a delightful romp!”

The waitress smiled at Bill and placed another shot in front of me.

I wasn’t fighting it anymore. The waitress was right. Booze was the only thing keeping me from going completely bonkers from the stress of not knowing what was going on.

I drank the shot immediately. Bourbon this time. She was changing it up.

“Good sir,” Bill said to me. “Hast thou gazed thine eyes upon Skyfall?”

“Yeah, like three years ago,” I said.

“Ah yes, well we do get new releases a bit late here,” Bill said. “I have nary an idea how they do it but the fellows in charge of Hollywood manage to bleed every last six-pence from these moving pictures before they are finally released here for us to watch for free.”

“You get free movies here?” I asked.

“Free everything here,” Bill answered. “The waitress hasn’t charged you for a drink yet, has she?”

“She has not,” I said. “Should I tip her?”

“Why bother?” Bill said. “Everything here is free so a tip would be meaningless. Besides, there is no currency here so what would you tip her with?”

“Applause?” I asked.

“I suppose,” Bill said. “Or a general display of exuberance over her prompt serving abilities would do just the same.”

Bill's drink of choice.

Bill’s drink of choice.

The waitress returned and handed Bill a fresh martini. She took the empty shot glass from me, removed the fedora from my head, and replaced it with a yellow construction worker hard hat. Attached to either side of the hat were two forty ounce plastic containers, each filled to the top with beer. Each had a straw that dangled down until they merged into one straw. She placed that into my mouth.

“Listen sweetheart,” the waitress said. “I’m not trying to turn you into an alcoholic here. I’m just saying I see about a hundred of you guys a week..and..well..just trust me.”

“I trust you,” I said as I sipped from the straw.

Across the room, a fight broke out. The three of us watched as a team of bouncers moved in to control the situation.

“Lucille Ball just punched out Teddy Roosevelt over a fixed card game and I still feel like I’m the most ridiculous thing in this room,” I said.

“Indeed, good sir,” Bill replied. “But fear not, for we have all walked in your shoes before.”

“I notice you keep switching back and forth between fancy old English talk and a plain modern style,” I said.

“Which do you prefer?” the man asked.

“The plain style is easier to understand,” I said.

“Then I will do my best to speak plainly,” Bill said. “Although know that what you call plain I call lazy.”

“I did like the old English style though,” I said. “It almost made you sound like…”

My jaw dropped. Again.

“Like who?” the man asked.

“Like the greatest writer of the English language,” I said.

I sipped from my beer hat vigorously.

“Oh my God!” I said. “Are you…”

Who the heck is this guy? Find out next time on Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life!

Copyright (C) Bookshelf Q. Battler.  All Rights Reserved

Flapper and martini photos via a shutterstock.com license 

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May 15 2015
8 Comments
BQB and the Meaning of Life

Bookshelf Q. Battler and The Meaning of Life – Part 1 – A Toaster Pastry Too Far

My name is Bookshelf Q. Battler.

Bookshelf Q. Battler - World Renowned Poindexter, Reviewer of Books, Movies and Culture Happenings, Champion Yeti Fighter, Blogger-in-Chief of the Bookshelf Battle Blog

Bookshelf Q. Battler – World Renowned Poindexter, Reviewer of Books, Movies and Culture Happenings, Champion Yeti Fighter, Blogger-in-Chief of the Bookshelf Battle Blog

That’s not the name I was given. It is the name I have chosen, for it describes who I am and what I do.

I am the world’s foremost authority on bookshelf combat. I’ll give you a minute to let it sink in that such an activity even exists.

For as long as I am able to remember, going back all the way to the days when I was just a little Bookshelf Q. Battler in a pair of super hero jammies, I have been the owner of a mystical, magical bookshelf. It is a shelf that contains awesome power – power I have yet to fully comprehend.

Whenever I put a book on my bookshelf, the characters in the book gain the ability to step off of the pages of their tale and onto the surface of my shelf. These beings appear as miniature forms of themselves.  After all, a bookshelf can’t support the weight of a fully grown person. That’s just science.

You can’t argue with science.

One might get the impression that such a shelf is a wonderful gift, providing me with endless hours of entertainment and the chance to get to know beloved characters from classic and modern works of literature.

One would be wrong.

The space on my bookshelf is limited and these tiny characters know it. For years, they have been locked in a bitter, never-ending struggle against one another to claim and hold territory on my shelf.

Needless to say, the battles on my bookshelf have not been pretty. I hate to admit it, but the characters who call my bookshelf home do not exactly follow the rules of the Geneva Convention.

My home is constantly filled with the sounds of beloved book protagonists turned warlords, terrorists, and dictators. Tiny bazookas, mini-cannons, diminutive machine guns – if it fires little projectiles, these minuscule beings will use it against the books of their rivals. They know I only have so much space, and they’ll stop at nothing to keep the book they call home from being culled off the shelf and tossed into my trash can.

I try to tell them that will never happen.  I’m an easy going critic and rarely give books a bad grade.  I understand that most authors bleed their soul out onto the pages of their works and for that reason I hate to be judgmental.

These tiny characters refuse to listen.  They will never adopt the age old adage of “sharing is caring.”

I suppose I should be flattered that all of these characters are seeking my approval. However, my position as caretaker of the bookshelf can, at times, be a tiresome burden.

You see, when it comes to my bookshelf, I am the UN. The book characters fight and fight, but when they cross the line, I have to get involved and reign their shenanigans in.

I command a contingent of green Army men who hail from my books about World War II. In exchange for listening to them tell me how they’re all going to “marry Peggy Sue” as soon as they get state side, they take up residence in the middle of the shelf, acting in their role as peacekeepers in a demilitarized zone.

The green army men on a peacekeeping mission.

The green Army men on a peacekeeping mission.

When this happens, the characters relent, retreat, the Army men are dispersed, and then the characters start fighting again. It is a vicious cycle, to say the least.

Sometimes I send in humanitarian aid – little care packages to help the book characters who have been cut off from food supplies. Unfortunately, a tiny Machiavelli just steps out of my copy of The Prince, steals all the packages, then turns around and sells them to the other characters at extortionist, highway robbery prices.

God I hate Machiavelli.  He’s so himself-ian.

I love all of the characters on my bookshelf equally. I wish they could love each other as much as I love them. I yearn for the day when they might learn to live side by side in perfect harmony. Until then, all I can do is keep them from murdering each other.

Tessa Fireswarm, heroine of the YA hit book series

Tessa Fireswarm, heroine of the YA hit book series “Arrowblast.” Catch her this summer in Arrowblast 5 – Cashgrabber Supreme.

One morning, I woke up to the sound of high impact explosions.  I knew it had to be the handiwork of Tessa Fireswarm, or at least the tiny version of the young adult fiction heroine who calls my shelf home.

If you haven’t read Tessa’s series, Arrowblast, you totally should.  It’s a harrowing tale of a corrupt dystopian future, in which a vicious totalitarian government led by the cruel Overlord Kwazlo is somehow easily overthrown by a band of plucky teenagers with literally no prior military training or battlefield experience.

I jumped out of bed and ran into my office, where I found a tiny Tessa launching explosive arrows at my collection of Tales of the Lost French Children.

You’ve never heard of Tales of the Lost French Children?  Oh those books are classics.  They’ve entertained countless generations of youngsters for many a moon.

Surely you remember being a young lad or lass reading a copy of

Surely you remember being a young lad or lass reading a copy of “Tales of the Lost French Children” in your local lending library.

I don’t want to spoil the plot, but essentially what happens is the Croissantiers, a group of wayward French youngsters, discover a hatch hidden underneath the laundry hamper kept in the bathroom of their modest Parisian home.  They crawl through it to find a magical land of mystical make believe in which a saintly aardvark and a butt ugly crone fight for control.

Oddly, the kids decide to stay but before you judge them, remember they were from 1940’s France so their choices were live under the control of a crone or under Hitler’s Nazi rule. Arguably, the crone was a step up.

Wow, that was a longwinded explanation.

Anyway, Tessa’s act of aggression was in direct violation of the Fireswarm/Croissantier Accord of 2014, a treaty I skillfully brokered between the hero of Arrowblast and the children who are always getting into hot water in their magic land.

Up until Tessa whipped out her bow and arrow, the agreement had held strong for a year.

“The Aardvark, the Crone and the Hamper Hatch is the only book in that series worth reading!” Tiny Tessa yelled up at me. “Clear the rest of those trash books off the shelf or I’ll do it for you, Bookshelf Q. Battler!”

“It’s a box set,” I replied. “You’d miss Arrowblast 2: Big Box Office Returns if I threw it away, just like the Croissantier kids would miss Journey of the Tedious Plotline.”

I knew that Tedious Plotline stunk worse than a pile of moldy rotten cheddar, but all of these book characters had become like my children. As their adopted father, I was constantly lecturing them on the need to love one another, faults and all.

“Easy for you to say when you’re not living on a cramped bookshelf,” Tessa replied as she fired off another exploding arrow at my copy of Tedious Plotline.

“You are in direct violation of the treaty, Tessa!” I said.

“They started it!” Tessa whined.

She pointed to my copy of Return of the Crone, over which had been placed a sheet of typing paper, likely swiped off my desk by the mischievous Crossantier children in the middle of the night. On it were the words, “TESSA STINKS!  OVERLORD KWAZLO 4-EVA!”

I crumpled up the note and threw it away.

“I’ll talk to them later,” I said. “But for now, it’s bed time. Back in your book, Tessa!”

“Awww!” Tessa stomped her foot. “You always side with the Crossantiers!”

“Right now, young lady!”

“Fine. Hmmmph!”

And with that, Tessa opened up my copy of Arrowblast 6: The Final Blastening, walked into one of the pages, and disappeared.

Kids. These characters had traveled to breathtaking lands that exist only in our imaginations, fought vicious creatures, and saved the day more times than I could ever count. But once they were on my bookshelf, they resorted to acting like a bunch of cranky toddlers.

I couldn’t sleep. And I knew that Tessa’ explosions must have jostled Ralph Waldo Emerson, who was sleeping somewhere in my copy of his book of essays about the need for man to get back to nature.  I knew if I didn’t leave soon, Ralph would wake up and give me a long lecture about the need to move outdoors.  I was too tired to argue about how I’ll never live anywhere I can’t plug in my numerous electronic devices.

I was hungry. I walked downstairs and headed for the kitchen. I popped a frosted cherry toaster pastry into the toaster. Don’t judge me. Those things are delicious and with all of their preservatives, they will be here until the next ice age. When the apocalypse comes, I’ll be the one laughing, and you will all be my slaves, doing my bidding for the low wage of one toaster pastry per week.

No. I haven’t thought about this to great extent at all.

I plugged in the toaster. With the help of an enormous wall outlet adapter, I also plugged in the following devices:

  • Tablet charger (to allow me to stream TV shows while eating my toaster pastry)
  • Cell phone charger (in case I needed to call someone to tell them about my toaster pastry)
  • Nose hair trimmer (I like to look good at all times because you never know when you might bump into an elegant lady)
  • My belt sander (my belt had been looking a little rough around the edges)
  • My electronic toothbrush (cherry toaster pastry residue is not a substance you want to leave on your teeth for too long. Just ask my cousin, Gummy McGee)
  • My automatic bass finder (because it’s all about the bass, bout the bass, no sturgeon)
  • My e-reader (I like to read indie authors’ books while I eat pop tarts)
  • My super e-reader (I like to watch tv and read books on the same device)
  • My television (on which I only display a video of a pile of wood on fire. I find it relaxing.)
  • And at least 10 other appliances I’m too lazy too mention.

“When in doubt, add another plug.”
– Bookshelf Q. Battler

In addition to being an expert on bookshelf military maneuvers, I am also a distinguished scientist. I hold a Prestigious Degree in Science from the Advanced Science Institute of Science University. It was presented to me by my mentor, Dr. Hugo Von Science.

Dr. Hugo Von Science A

Dr. Hugo Von Science
Advanced Science Institute of Science University Faculty Photo

I am very proud of my Prestigious Degree in Science.  (If you wanted to get fancy, you could refer to me as BQB, P.D.S.)

Sometimes I wear my degree on a chain around my neck when I go out clubbing. Women come up to me and are all like, “Wow! Is that a Prestigious Degree in Science??!!” And I’m all like, “What? This old thing?”

Anyway. Since I am a scientist, I am fully qualified to explain to you what happened next. In hindsight, I should have seen it coming and saved myself. Alas, hindsight is 20/20 and I was too focused on the warm cherry goodness percolating inside my toaster to pay attention to the storm that was brewing outside.

High in the skies above the Bookshelf Battle Compound, the sprawling fortress I call home, the clouds belched out buckets of rain. Claps of thunder shook the surface of the earth and lightning streaks brightened up the normally pitch black sky.

I ignored it all. I wanted that toaster pastry. And at the exact moment when said tasty treat popped out of the toaster, a bolt of lightning, attracted by all of the energy surging through my overburdened adapter, launched itself into the wall of my headquarters, through my adapter, and into my toaster. With nowhere left to turn, the lightning jumped out of the toaster and into my late night snack.

Before my very eyes, my toaster pastry grew to a tremendous size – six feet tall and three feet wide.

Most men would tremble in terror at the sight of a colossal toaster treat. Me?  I laugh in the face of supernatural baked goods.

I ate the whole thing…and it was delicious.

An hour later, I was binge watching one of my favorite shows.  I felt intense pain in my bowels, a pain no human being had ever felt before.

And then it dawned on me:

I had eaten concentrated lightning.

The bolt in my belly scrambled to and fro in my gut, tearing my insides apart as it desperately searched for an escape route.

And we all know the path of said escape route.

I ran to the bathroom, dropped my trousers, sat on the throne and….

KABOOM!

Darkness. I was surrounded by nothing but darkness. I walked around for what seemed like forever until I finally discovered a light.

It was the light at the end of the tunnel that we’ve all heard so much about. It was finally my turn to see it.

I did what anyone would do. I walked toward it.

What happens when Bookshelf Q. Battler reaches the light at the end of the tunnel? Find out in the next episode of “Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life!”

Copyright (C) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

Bow and arrow woman, French kid, adapter and mad scientist images courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

Bookshelf Q. Battler’s Attorney, a lovely woman you’ll meet in June, advises “Any resemblance to other literary works/characters is purely coincidental and/or for parody purposes only.”

Hooray for lawyers!

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May 14 2015
6 Comments
BQB and the Meaning of Life

Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life – An Introduction

FROM THE DESK OF BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER

World Renowned Poindexter, Reviewer of Books, Movies and Cultural Happenings, Champion Yeti Fighter, Blogger-In-Chief of the Bookshelf Battle Blog

It’s finally here!

BQB and the Meaning of Life starts tomorrow!

BQB and the Meaning of Life starts tomorrow!

Tomorrow, my serial story, Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life begins.  I hope you’ll join me every day for a new bite sized hunk of prose designed to fit easily into your busy schedules.

(People who aren’t busy?  Feel free to read it twice!)

What is the meaning of life?

Read the story and find out.  In this post, I’d rather answer:

Why did I write this story?

From an early age, I wanted to be a writer.  Perhaps you’ve read my first novel, “Attack of the Killer Mutant Fish,” a valiant attempt for a ten year old.

Then I grew up, entered into the real world and decided a career as a writer was an unlikely outcome.  I wouldn’t consider “lottery winner” as a viable career option so why would I put untold amounts of time, money and effort into preparing a manuscript just so it could be filed in the traditional publishing world’s proverbial slush pile?

Let me put it this way.  If you want the “break into traditional publishing” experience, just pay a transient hobo fifty bucks to give you a kick in the nether regions.  You’ll spend less time, effort and money for a similar result.

DISCLAIMER:  The Bookshelf Battle Blog does not recommend you pay a transient hobo to kick you in the nether regions.

I settled into a humdrum lifestyle and though I’m blessed in many ways, I often wonder “what if?”

What if I had kept up with my dream of becoming a writer?  Would I have made it?  Would I have become a household name with my books on everyone’s shelves?

Flashforward to last year.  In March of 2014 I, Bookshelf Q. Battler was drowning my sorrows at Taco Bell (Mmmm…burritos) when it dawned on me:

Stop wishing you’d been a writer. You aren’t old. You aren’t dead. The technology exists. If you want to be a writer, then be a writer.

And with that, I became a writer again.

Now I just need some readers.

Perhaps you’ve heard I have 3.5 of them.  That’s a good start, but I’d like to make it 3.5 million.

Either way Aunt Gertie will be one of them.

I’ve always looked at platform building as a slow war of attrition, a numbers game that crawls at a turtle’s pace.

A couple of blog followers today.  A handful of twitter followers tomorrow.  A few drops in the bucket everyday will eventually lead to a nice full pail.

This summer, I’m going to attempt to fill a lake.

For the past few months, I’ve been working on two projects:

1)  Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life – it will begin tomorrow.

2)  Project X – Still not ready to give you the title, but rest assured of its awesomeness.

These serials will alternate.  It will be BQB for awhile, then Project X, then they will continue on a rotation all summer.

My goal is to leave you wanting more.

For a nerd with a busy lifestyle, it is hard to find time to cram this work in.  Much of it is done late at night, often leaving me exhausted and wondering if it’s worth it.

It’s my dream.  Of course it’s worth it.

Welcome to the Summer of Bookshelf, where I’ll hone my craft, entertain and inspire you, and ask that you give me your honest feedback about how I can improve.

Goals for the future?  This summer will lead to an expanded audience, I finish up a Fall/Winter’s worth of posts thus completing the “One Post a Day for a Year Challenge” and a fire in my belly gets stoked to the point where I’ll make an honest effort to enter the ebook market in 2016.

I’ve always been a results oriented kind of guy.  The more I see coming in, the more effort I’ll put out.

But why a story about a nerd with a magic bookshelf?

Because I am a nerd with a magic bookshelf.

Last year, it was hard coming up with a theme for a book blog.  There are so many of them.  I wanted to be unique.

It came to mind that maybe I’d be the nerd who’d pose his books next to his toy collection:

Master Chief - standing guard over Redshirts

Master Chief – standing guard over Redshirts

And from the outset, the theme was that “the books themselves” were fighting one another for limited shelf space:

Ye, addeth to the Great Scrolls of the Bookshelf Battle, that on March 12, 2014, the Bookshelf Battle did begin.

Since the invention of the printing press, books have been battling for spots on shelves all over the globe. With limited shelf space, available competition can be fierce. Recently, I remodeled my office and added a brand new bookcase. Now I must fill it with brand new books. Join me as I review the latest bestsellers of the day, with the occasional classic thrown in.

Which books will be deemed worthy of being on my shelf? Tune in every week to find out.

– First post on the Bookshelf Battle Blog in 2014

But as the one post a day challenge took over this year, the idea of anthropomorphic books fighting in a reckless manor seemed silly, whereas the concept that small characters could exit the books and go to war against each other over limited shelf space seemed much more reasonable.

Hey, it seems more reasonable to me, anyway.

Meanwhile, I went from being a random blogger to becoming Bookshelf Q. Battler, Owner of the Magic Bookshelf, Caretaker of a Bunch of Tiny and Unruly Book Characters, Proprietor of a Blog with 3.5 Readers, Lord of Bookshelf Battle Headquarters, Master of Bookshelf Q. Battle Dog, Sworn Enemy of The Yeti, and Colleague of Alien Jones.

In other words, the excitement in my life has grown exponentially over the past year, all thanks to this blog.

So to finally answer the question of “Why did I write this story?”

Over the past year, we’ve seen this blog morph from one geek’s hobby to a character based online world.

Did you ever watch Pee-Wee’s Playhouse as a kid?  You know, before Paul Reubens’ total disgrace?

(I mean, holy crap, I know that computers weren’t all that big back then but didn’t the guy own a VCR?)

Do you remember how Pee-Wee would waltz into his playhouse and talk to his viewers with the help of various characters?

That’s kind of how I see the Bookshelf Battle Blog – one nerdy character (i.e. Bookshelf Q. Battler) surrounded by other nerdy characters (Alien Jones and The Yeti), with the following exceptions:

1) This blog’s geared toward adult nerds who love books, TV, movies and popular culture.

2)  Oddly enough, it also has a second audience in the tweed wearing literary chin stroker community as I do often discuss the classics.

3)  It’s a bit more high-brow than Pee Wee, though I guess that’s not saying much.

4)  There’s none of…well, you know what Pee Wee did.  (Hey, why’s everyone leaving?  Weirdos).

This story will pull the blog together, entertain the 3.5 readers who’ve been following along so far, and eventually serve as an explanation to those who will wonder what this blog is all about tomorrow.

Tomorrow – that legendary day when I will have a whopping 11.7 readers.

As always, thanks for stopping by.

Good times are ahead.  Comment on the stories.  Tell me what you liked.  Tell me what you didn’t.  Ask questions.  Provide criticism.  I have a thick skin.  I live with a Yeti that hates me.

Come back tomorrow and join in the fun!

Sincerely,

Bookshelf Q. Battler

Copyright (c) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

Nerd on top of the world image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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May 14 2015
3 Comments
Project X

Betsy

NAME:  Betsy

Betsy

Betsy

PURPOSE:  Hatcher’s WWII Service Revolver

MAKE/MODEL:  Schotzenhauer P58

NAZIS TERMINATED: 1,000 + (Hatcher stopped counting after 1,000)

MOBSTERS DISPATCHED: 751 (Hatcher took it easy after returning stateside)

SHOTS MISSED: 0

Betsy – she has few lines in the upcoming unnamed blog serial, but when she talks, it counts.

Coming soon to a blog with 3.5 readers near you.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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May 13 2015
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Ask the Alien

Bookshelf Q. Battlestats

MEMO

Statistician Jones

Statistician Jones

TO:  Oh Great One, the Awe Inspiring Mighty Potentate, Who Causes All Beings to Quake in Their Boots

FROM:  Your Humble Servant, Alien Jones

RE: Bookshelf Q. Battlestats

All Hail the Mighty Potentate!  May your ganderflazer’s secretions be copious and frothy until time folds over on itself and the totality of universal existence starts all over again!

As requested, an update on your plan to assist Bookshelf Q. Battler become a successful writer, thus stemming the flow of reality programming that threatens your beloved scripted television.

This Friday, May 15, the Summer of Bookshelf begins.  Through a carefully plan series of hypnotic mind control experiments, I have convinced our noble blog host to provide a summer’s worth of serialized stories, in the hopes that he can find more than 3.5 readers.

“The State of the Bookshelf” as of May 13, 2014:

WORDPRESS FOLLOWERS: 969 (Ha! 69!  I’m sorry, Mighty Potentate.  I must be spending too much time amongst the humans).

TWITTER FOLLOWERS: 4,326

GOOGLE + FOLLOWERS: 377

It is my hope that this summer will help propel Bookshelf Q. Battler’s stats exponentially. Thus, I have asked the humans to do what they can to help as once BQB manages to figure out how to make folding paper money off his drivel, I shall be able to abandon this bogus assignment.

Err…I mean this wonderful opportunity.  Yes, all ideas that originate in the mind of the Mighty Potentate are joyous and splendid.

Fear not, Mighty Potentate, for I shall report post-summer stats in the Fall.

Your Humble Servant,

Alien Jones

Alien image courtesy a shutterstock.com license.

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