I”m not gifted. I’m not talented. Not today. Probably not tomorrow.

Then again, I could be wrong.

The family’s been around due to the MLK holiday. The normal peace and quiet didn’t enter into my day until late.

I feel a little less in control on those days.

But as I bantered back in forth between the running book of blues dialogues in my head while my sister and I watched Book of Eli, I started to wonder if I was simply overwhelmed by all the projects I’ve bombarded my plate with.

And I realized that I stopped feeling lethargic when I got in the car and got on the highway.

So I came to this conclusion:  I’m one of those people that doesn’t get moving til I feel the day moving forward.

And once I get perspective on my day, I get a proper view of my projects and what I’m able to do on them that day.

And the day gets a little better.

Now if I can only get them going sooner…

Anybody else have little tricks that help them start their day?

(photo credit:  Jammy via Flickr)

I woke up today still jazzed that oldold man Finn and I actually decided to roadtrip from the Gulf of Mexico to the Atlantic Ocean and back. How many times does that get to happen?

I woke up today ready to write about the mushroom clouds of smoke and the apocalyptic haze we drove through as the sugar cane fields burned around us.

But as I woke up today I found oldold man Finn passed out on his La-Z-Boy. He had an upset stomach and said he went to bed with a bit of a chill. He talked with a bit of a drawl…

“You’re speech has me concerned.”

“You’re speech has always had me concerned.”

And after a couple yawns his cadence retruned.

After another nap he had more of a pep in his step. He thinks he’s going to go biking since it’s finally nice weather (~ 72 degrees) and that we’re still going to dinner and the Florida Gulf Coast University game tonight.

“Where are our seats tonight?”

“In the gym.”

But I couldn’t help but be concerned.

When do you tell the oldold man to ease up? Or do you?

Is it better to wear yourself out doing something you love or better to hold back and live to fight another day?

This is actually the initial question I explore on my Book of Blues Prequel. The repercussions of the situation are reverberated throughout the Prequel, Book of Blues and, eventually, the Sequel.

It was life imitating art imitating life.

I felt like I was living two nightmares and I didn’t know if I was creating the chaos. But that’s probably me giving myself too much credit. Either way, I need to realize I couldn’t think objectively at that point.

I still don’t know the answer. And that concerns me.

And in the end, I don’t know whether or not it was a good thing. Maybe it’s good to push a little if it brings the memories along with it. Maybe I’m selfish, concerned about tomorrow and making sure he’s a part of it.

Maybe life isn’t about longevity so much as it is about the footprint you leave behind.

Even if you wake up in the morning feeling a little closer to death.

Either way, I’m the one that’ll have to deal with the tomorrows.

What Do You Guys Think?

Muddy Waters vs. Howlin' Wolf - Good for Blues, Good for Business

I know when a day is going to be a good one if before I open my eyes my thoughts are about the 2 main characters in Book of Blues. Book of Blues is buoyed by character relationships. In one case, the relationship is so clear that the nicknames are Ying and Yang.

There’s only one public example which displays the complexities of the relationship and it makes me happy to consider this forthcoming example because the characters were made years before the blues and subsequent research trickled their way into the story. Even this example doesn’t tell the whole tale but it does share a great story. 

Allow me to introduce to you the ballad of McKinley Morganfield and Chester Arthur Burnett. To those outside The Blues this duo is more commonly known as Muddy Waters and Howlin’ Wolf.

Muddy Waters and Howlin’ Wolf are considered second generation Bluesmen, inspired by legends including Son House, Blind Willie Johnson and the like. Both born in the Mississippi Delta around the same time, Muddy n’ Wolf clawed their way on to the Chess Record label.

Muddy Waters – From Sharecropper to Superstar

Like the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, the personas  of Muddy and the Wolf matched the others background moreso than their own. In Muddy’s case, he had and unimaginable road to hoe as a beat-down Mississippi sharecropper until he was finally able to scrape up enough cash to scramble up to the south side of Chicago and get a mill job while he worked on his career. And when his success finally came, his persona was bigger than life. Flamboyant and gregarious, Muddy Waters appeared to have rolled up Highway 61 with his entourage in tact.

Howlin’ Wolf – Effort Worth His Stature

Of the two, the 6’6″, 30o lbs. Howlin’ Wolf actually had the easier road. Though born in Mississippi, he eventually ended up living in Chicago with his dad during his teen years and enlisted in the military in the 1930s – becoming a DJ. After being discharged, Wolf got his band going. And when his band became successful, Wolf stayed relatively grounded. He took up guitar lessons and got insurance plans for his bandmates.

When they both hit their stride in blues, they both hit it at around the same time. In that “this town’s not big enough for the both of us,” sort of way, a ‘rivalry’ broke out between the two. Fueled by stories of the duos $100-burning pissing matches and bidding wars for the services of musicians – Hubert Sumlin of note – the rivalry between Muddy and the Wolf became legendary. And like any good legend, there’s opportunity.

And these boys made the most of it.

Book of Blues learned this lesson the hard way.

muddy waters, howlin’ wolf, blues

Prophet’s rebuilding a 3-wheeler, Marie is shaving down the carpet around the compartment doors on her brother’s bass boat, and since my handy man skill set consist of “being smart at lifting heavy things,” I’m on the sidelines out in the backyard at Prophet’s house chronicling the final steps of the great fishing boat restoration of 2009.

And I’ll take this job with glee. The soft Lake Michigan breeze is living up to the dreams n longings we had for it during last winter’s deep freeze. And I’ve got a great vantage point of the intersection where classic muscle cars keep driving through on their way to the first great Duneland cruise of 2009.

I’m hoping 2009 is the first great summer I’ve had in awhile. Last year I watched the outdoor season – sunup to sundown – from an office window. The summer before that was devoted to finishing up Book of Blues. This summer, I think I’ll get to see some time outdoors, much to the cheers of my co-workers who want me to remember that life exists outside my 3 work computer screens. And because Book of Blues editing seems to becoming a 2-pronged approach, I think I’ll be able to enjoy some time out in Duneland.

Time to go move scaffolding for the neighbor down the back alley who’s grilling our dinner.

Hopin' to take our Books of Blues from the street to the store shelves. Someday.

Welcome to Nat Finn and DB Fraizer’s How to Publish a Book of Blues. Hopefully, where we combine Plan A and Plan B together in hopes that someday our lifelong dreams of publishing blues books become a reality.

Plan A:  To write about our adventures in getting our drafts edited and published. This includes trials, tribulations, influences, and the essentials that go into such a project.

Plan B: To use our careers in SEO/SMO, Social Media, and Copywriting to not only get the word out about our endeavors but to share, learn and grow as we go.

Sometimes we’ll use a word that will require finndexing. In order to understand “finndexing” and other custom terms, please visit our Glossary page.

Some people want to know why we never mention the working title of our works. Our Code Words page explains the reasonings.

Please also visit Nat Finn’s Professional Writing Samples page, especially if you’re a prospective agency, company, or publisher.

Want to guest write on our site about your writing, publishing, SEO/SMO, or Social Media adventures? Please leave us a comment and we’ll be sure to get back to you.

Thank you. – Fraiz & Finn

Please enjoy the read…

how to publish a book, publish a book, book publishing, blues book, book of blues

My rush of daily posts while in Ft. Myers, Margaritaville has sadly turned to trickle of thoughts spilt bi-weekly during stolen moments.  It’s 11pm on a Friday night and I”m about to write web copy for a high-priority project that got dumped into my lap. Client web copy usually isn’t in my job description at the office, but I’m happy to help out. It’s careerbuilding and it’s friend-helping. The start of the year is the busy season. Have to lend a hand when possible.

Half of Book of Blues was written in my head when a song popped on the radio while I was valet parking. The song would nurture a thought that would trickle into a story line or fit into a storyline I was thinking about.

Now that I’m escaping into Book of Blues Prequel, I find myself dial surfing on my radio while I go to work. I don’t get quite the time to dial surf because the drive to work is only 8-12 minutes, pending on the lights I hit. It used to be 28-35 minutes (yeah, i number crunch my drive to work so i can maximize my free time ). I’m not complaining ’bout the commute. Most people dream of being only 8 minutes from the office while still working a career job – especially during sh*tt y economic times that are the offshoot of the embellished, arrogant greed of Wall St.

– Guilt-inspired rant aside. In addition to the commute to the boat I’d spend hours inside of customer cars at the boat, getting inspired by the spectrum of music. From 3am NPR blues and jazz sets to the techno-dance audio retail, I heard quite a bit. I had the drive time. We dealt in volume at the boat. We had a quarter-mile drive one-way as well. And when we’d be in the closing phase of the night and giving the customers their cars back, I had a 250-yard jog / walk (pending the rush) to think about the story line and the song within.

I don’t get to do it as much now. Our office’s network is patchworked because we’re moving to a fine, fine facility in about 10 months. I can’t use streaming audio and I can’t get radio reception. I could use the pandora radio app on my iphone 3g, but eventually they’d notice. Though, the 3G has finally made it’s way to Valparaiso. H’mm…And, if you’re wondering, using songs on an MP3 player doesn’t work for me because I put the songs there, I’ve heard them before. I know there’s a finite selection. But when I’m listening to the radio, someone else decides. I don’t know what song is next (because i don’t listen to top 40 :-p).

In the cars, at the trailer, even the satellite radio stream in the boat’s PA, music was everywhere. I make up for that now by having headphones on all day, even when I get up and go talk to someone or go to another department. I got used to having music on at work.

Anyway, one of the more enjoyable things I got to do while hearing the sounds at the boat do was to play around with that mass media and fine arts class knowledge i accumulated and twist the morals to songs.

Take this song below:  “Oh How Happy,” as performed by Shades of Blue (a band name I take as a sign that I’m on the right path). Written by Edwin Star (“War, Huhh, Good God, y’all…” ), a Motown Legend… A sweet song that got motown-gospelized by this British Band.

Oh, the ways you can twist this song. And, no, changing the lyrics doesn’t count. That’s cheating. I have an idea for it on the Book of Blues Prequel. For now, back to SEO Chicago Copywriter duties.

WOW – speaking of freaky…I have a scene in Book of Blues Sequel with the song below and I was just now thinkin’ about swapping it  with the Edwin Starr song above. Come to find out that the song below was also performed first by Edwin Starr. Figure that one out…hopefully, that’s a sign – if I believed in them.  This rare live version of the Edwin Star song. Most of use know this as a song by Blood, Sweat, & Tearsg:

Fuggit. Here’s another rare japanese cut of Blood, Sweat, & Tears. Man, if these dipsh*ts wouldn’t have broken up, they’d a been gods. Blood, Sweat, and Tears could have saved us from Disco.  They should have displaced the Eagles and Aerosmith.  But, now, we got stuck with Chicago as our jam band with horns. Thanks, jerks.

I wish I had this singer’s voice. F*ckin’ killer. They go to town live.

“Welcome back, Finn. We moved up some deadlines while you were on vacation. You can check your email later.”

And like that, it was time to go headlong back into the grind.

I tried not to let go of the feeling of still being in Ft. Myers, Margritavile. The task was made more arduous by the fact it has snowed every day since I’ve been back.

I got used to seeing oldold man Finn everyday. It was like he was back home.

I got used to outdoor dining. Palm trees became an everyday part of my personal landscape. My body is starting to go through withdrawl from not feeling the cooling gulf breeze. I haven’t seen the sun lately let alone a sundown.

Not like the sundowns over the Gulf of Mexico.

I did see sunup, again, last night from my office windows. It’s Saturday afternoon. Didn’t sleep much this AM. Time to go back in and get the big projects done. There’s no such thing as “ok” on projects. It’s success or failure.

Needless to say that I don’t get to work on Book of Blues Prequel this weekend. So goes the duties of being an SEO Copywriter in Chicago. Its a privledge. Wow, did get a refresher in basic copywriting 101. It’s taken three drafts to write content for this huge project. The first draft was SEO copy. The second draft was flowery. The third draft, I finally reremembered how to write broad. Simple, declarative sentences. It’s been awhile since I had to write without creative nuances thrown in. It took restraint. Good practice, though afterwards I was ready to run back to some Book of Blues.

Back to the grind.

I went into the national celebration called Black Wednesday not realizing how much I needed a release. The release came in moments wrapped up in ironies. Real ironies, not the poetic moments people mistake for ironies. Then again, I hold off on that because I might get to the end of this thought and mistake my own poetic moments for irony.

I get claustrophobic which works out well because Black Wednesday (the night before Thanksgiving) is the busiest night of the year and most of the night is spent shoulder to shoulder with people at them there bars.

The more and more I wanted to look at the college girls walking through the door the more I felt like their older brother. It’s the stars in their eyes and their desire for the next five minutes that had me aging. We all go through those stages along our ways. Note to self: GET TO THE GYM MORE!

I listened to a band that spends much of their time sounding like chicks in their effort to play for chicks. This works out well because I’ve been listening to DB go on and on about how the mythical lore which made Rock n Roll “Rock n Roll” has all but completely sold out the Man that it rebelled so hard against. He supposed Marx could have been right: you put down a rebellion by paying off the leaders. Forgive him. He’s been listening and preparing his thoughts for Corporate Whoredom regarding Guns n Roses “Chinese Democracy.” DB’s concerned that perhaps the album was the last remaining hope for real music fans to hear quality music on radio stations again and that the only way Chinese Democracy would have given the music faithful hope would have been to remain but a hope and stay unpublished.

Anyway, while listening to The Unit play for chicks and enjoying them enough to where it feel ironic to the point of traitorous…

The Thriller Dance Contest

I realized that powerful music once named “Rock n Roll” then “Rock” might be circling back around. The reason “rock and roll” was “rock n roll” was for a simple reason. With that realization, my traitorous sensation started to subside. As a line from my favorite TV show, Sports Night, promptly put it:

“And in that moment, Dan was reminded once again of why he wanted to write in the first place. It’s for the same reason anybody does anything…to impress women.”
–Sports Night, “Dear, Louise” written by Aaron Sorkin

And while I listened from afar to the comical antics of The Unit, I felt better about the state of things. “Rock” might now have a fighting chance because there’s no more saviors to wait upon. DB disagrees. So it goes. I can’t wait to read his thoughts.

I continued to listen from farther and farther away because me, DB, Gag and Max commandeered the dart board in the back of the room, bought all the quarters the Franklin House cash register had, and hung out by ourselves in the back all night. I love filling up all the spaces on the dartboard with quarters: “NO ONE ELSE CAN PLAY.”

We threw and threw and threw and threw until the end of the evening came and DB, Max and I started to talk about upcoming posts for both the Whoredom and our own sites. Yes, I threw like crap or I would have mentioned how well I did. I don’t have the constitution of the others so I had to cut myself off and sober up so I could give the others a fair game by the end of the evening. I did spend time thinking about that as well.

It wasn’t until the next day – by the way, “Happy Thanksgiving” – that I realized I didn’t spend time about Book of Blues tthe night before. I didn’t think about how to publish a Book of Blues. I didn’t think about how my cousin’s going slower at reading it that I anticipated. I didn’t think about sequels. I didn’t think about the others that want to read it. I didn’t think about the others willing to give Book of Blues additional fresh eyes to look for edits – it’s print. It’ll take many eyes. I didn’t even think about being how far I’ve come to carve out a foothold as a copywriter from Chicago. I wasn’t looking at the blurry-eyed starlight of the future. I wasn’t measuring the shadows from the past. I was enjoying the moment for a change.

Well, sh#t. Maybe I’m a poet, too.

“No. You’re a writer,” she supported.

It only took those 4 simple words said in a back alley Broad Ripple bar around 2:15 AM by a supportive lady with designer blue eyes to Brian Wilson me into an emotional cocoon for the following ten days. Barenaked Ladies summed up the agonizing experience in the song, “Brian Wilson,” from around 1992. Take a listen / view:

I’m strong and secure with myself until I remember that Book of Blues is still not published. I mean, how does she know I’m a writer? She hasn’t read a word I’ve thrown down. She’s just had a couple conversations with me. She knows I won’t drink too much. That in itself should give her an indication that I might not be any good.

The cocoon became accelerated even faster when I talked to my cousin a couple days later and, though he likes the book, he’s only on to chapter 2. Not his fault. He knows I’m getting impatient, but I didn’t get the instant gratification I needed.

The cocoon starts off simple, small – almost unnoticed: waking up in time to do the necessary things – work or school, writing / blogging, the other whatnots – and starting the day still feeling stuck in the tail end of REM sleep. Then finish the day’s activities before someone notices you exist, skip social activities or the auxiliary events such as going to the gym or watching prime time TV – because all the worthwhile shows can be seen online. Go to bed early, again, get the extra sleep to shake the sleepiness, and the circle continues.

It took me a year and a half after my time at Denominational University to diagnose this first sympton. This time, it took 4 days. I’m getting better. Once the symptom is diagnosed, the hard stuff begins.

For some, it’s fighting the drinking and smoking and carnal vices and the other La-la-LA-LA, Hey Judes, but for me, it’s comfort food and video games. Actually, it’s not even video games any more. Just overeating. Without thinking, I’m grabbing the extra donut at work and downing it before I’ve realized there was a donut. I’ll get more than enough food because I’m afraid of going through the day with less then a full stomach or with something in the bladder, afraid of the Sci-Fi channel B-movie worst case scenario happening to me in my high-risk environment of a table seat in a corporate office and not being fully prepared to handle it. Overeating forces hibernation, and the circle reforms.

Little stresses become big stresses, big meals look like little meals, hours turn into minutes and the world flies by at a bully pace. And I run and hide till I’m ready to draw a line in the sand, relearn my relationship to the world around me and live again. The days become struggles, but eventually the routine is back. It’s the haunting, mutated variation of being conscious of your own breathing and trying to breathe without thinking about it.

The good news was, while in a cocoon, ideas swirled around for the Book of Blues sequel. The title is solidified (a first), rhythms and story lines are forming. I don’t have a middle yet, but I didn’t last time either.

I’ve got a month before I go into exhile at Ft. Myers for the duration of the holidays. I dunno if the book of blues sequel will be diagramed by then – wouldn’t put it past me if it was- but I have a feeling quite a good chunk of the sequel will be written. In the mean time, I have to grind out days as a SEO Specialist / Copywriter in Chicago. I grind them with joy because living plan B (career) while I’m working on plan A (published) is still a great place. I just have to relearn it once in awhile.

It was last Thursday night at a local townie bar, Franklin House. The area’s oldest bar has been around since the 1860′s. Creaks and warps in the establishment’s flooring gives testament to the joint’s age, but the square footage, high ceilings and circa 1900 ceiling tiles add to the spacious feel – which is a commodity for bars in the Region area. Flat panel TVs adorning the steep walls prove that well-placed technology makes anything look nostalgic. In translation: it’s a favorite. Here’s some of the occasional silliness that can be found at Franklin House:

While listening to friends, neighbors and college students try to bellow their horrific karaoke crucifixions of Mellencamp, disco classics and pop audio retail over the thundering rush of several freight trains, our table starts to notice an unnatural buildup of suits and ties congregating in the center hall between the dueling main rooms. We start to think they’re going to have a private party in the cigar room in the back, but as we watch them get sloppy drunk and partake in some electric slide-like dance with coeds, we (“we” as in “I”) start to just pass them off as white collars and start to get a little annoyed because they’re making it increasingly difficult to do drink runs because they’re making better walls than windows.

A little more watching and we (“we” as in “I”) start to feel glad they we don’t have to wear those getups everyday. I work at a place where potential hirees get a little confused in interviews because their interviewers are often in open-toed sandals. I let the annoying feeling go and start continue to come up with new and inventive paths through the white collars to the bar, and back.

It’s on a trip to the powder room when I started to feel like an ass. As I’m standing in front of one of the urinals, I asked a couple of the white collars the reason they were all dressed up.

“Y’all just get out of a meeting?”

“Naw, man,” the one standing next to me said, “We’re hear for a buddy.”

“A wedding?” I ask.

“Nah, man,” said the white collar on the end as he’s zipping up, “The other way.”

“Oh, a divorce,” I surmise.

“Worse,” said the zipped-up white collar,”We lost a buddy.”

“Aw, man,” I empathized as I slinked through the doorway and back to my seat.

I told my tablemates the reason for the buildup of white collars. My table took a quick moment to reflect, then went back about their day. I, on the other hand, proceeded to watch the white collars a little further. As the buzz of the evening wore off, the white collars’ cheers started to turn to sobs and lots of consoling. I don’t have the funds at present to pay for the tabs of parties, but if I did I would have paid for that whole group. Part guilt, part penance. I raised my glass to them and toasted them instead.

Whatever metaphysics applies to the situation made sure my penance was thorough.

I dropped my supervisor back at the hotel after our evening at Franklin House. He was hungry and had me stop at White Castle on the way. I had but a couple and he had but many. Long to short, he saw me at work the next morning and said if I needed to go home because of food poisoning, he’d understand without question. I almost did, but he was in significantly more pain but couldn’t leave because of the responsibilities of the day so I felt that, not matter how bad I hurt, I was finishing my day. I went to bed at 8pm Friday night and slept hard for 14 hours.

It was this kind of perception I wrote about in Book of Blues: stereotyping without knowing all the facts. It was the same sh*t I fought against while at Denominational University. I was definately damned to reremember the lesson. I thank you, White Castle. Don’t be suprised if I don’t look to visit again any time soon.