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…

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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.

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“No. Pride won’t be my fall. I’m a Cubs’ fan. My heart was coming apart before I was born.”
– Nat Finn.

I dunno. I suppose everyone who claims to be a writer has either distractions posed as vices or vices posed as distractions. Many drink. Some just roll up in a bed and hide under the covers from the anxiety. RJ Reynolds accommodates many of the distractions/vices. Some have the more illicit substances, and then there are those with the more carnal approach to avoiding their literary goals / tasks. Lest we forget: there’s comfort food. I was at the Printers Row Book Fair in Chicago and during a session at Grace Place, I heard author Marianne Wiggins tell us that she gained 20 lbs. writing her last book. I wish I only gained 20 lbs. working on Book of Blues.

But, unfortunately, moreso than comfort food and sleeping, my biggest distraction / vice are those damned Chicago Cubs. My ability to focus on a task at hand is proportional to the performance of the northsiders. Needless to say, at the time of this post, the Cubs performance against the Dodgers in the first two games of the NLDS was enough to make me ADHD for life. Their second inning alone in the second game was a collaboration of past failures rolled into one. There was a Leon Durham, a Steve Bartman and an Alex Gonzales in one shot. At least every member of the infield (aside from Soto) shared and each took an error.

I try to channel the spirit of the ‘04 Red Sox went they down 3-0 in the ALCS to the Yankees after giving up 19 runs in game 3. Talk of the Curse of the Bambino was rampant. Instead of listening to the media, believing in the talk and letting the legend of the curse consume them, the Red Sox went out loose, played smart baseball, worked the counts, and won 4 straight before going on and sweeping the Cardinals in the World Series, giving the Sox their first title in many, many years. No Bill Buckners in that series.

I tried to remind myself and hoped others in Cubs Nation would remember that the White Sox just won in ‘05. How hard could it really be?

But, as I finish this post the following day, after watching the Cubs actually show signs of life in game 3, 2 games too late, I’m stuck back in the Nietzschean loop, waiting for next year like I have many offseasons before and will continue to do many offseasons later. It’s like giving up on your Children: against the nature of good people.

I watched an ESPN.com special where they interviewed Cubs fans from most every living generation on how and why they’re Cubs fans. The one that intrigued me was that of Billy Corgan. I’m not a Smashing Pumpkins fan. I don’t hate Smashing Pumpkins so much as I like a little soul n blues in my tunes. But as I watched (from the tv) the crowd reactions at Wrigley during game 1 and 2, seeing them boo at a moment’s notice and grumble the moment the Dodgers took a lead, I thought about Corgan’s interview. Billy Corgan talked about how since the ‘03 NLCS – Bartman, Gonzales’ little league error when trying to turn an inning-ending double play and the Marlin’s 8-runs in the 8th inning in game 6 that turned the Cubs’ fortunes of being 5 outs from the World Series into a nightmare – he has had to be a fan from a distance because it was too painful anymore. Now, you can dub part of the problem the “Stub-Hub” effect where the super-rich wanting to be a part of desired social event outbid the everyday die-hards on Stub-Hub for the tickets and the reason the crowd at Wrigley was so harsh was because the super-rich were looking down their nose at something less than aesthetically pleasing moreso than rooting, but no matter how you slice it, the negative atmosphere in Wrigley was from the same essential issue. “The water swirled around the same drain.” The drain was this: Cubs Nation is too afraid to commit to the Cubs. Whether it was the super-rich who didn’t really care or the diehards who’ve seen and heard stories of the agony which date back before World War I, the moment the Cubs looked lesss than perfect, Cubs Nation anticipated the worse. Now granted, only those in the 3rd base dugout in Wrigley can play and make decisions, but the all of Cubs Nation affect each other. They created their own destiny. We create our own destiny. We saw a semblance of failure, expected failure and got failure.

I had a buddy text me just now and ask, “When did Loney become Albert Pujols?” I wrote back, “Cubsdom made him Pujols.”

I’m going to root for the Cubs in ‘09. When things are good, I’m going to be happy. When things go bad, I’m going to have faith that they’re going to figure it out like I did during the ‘08 regular season. And when the ‘09 postseason comes around and things look a little down, I’m going to try something different: I’m going to commit to the Cubs and believe they’ll figure it out. I suggest others in Cubs Nation do the same or we’ll never get that World Series trophy. – Is it a trophy? I’m a Cubs fan, I haven’t seen it.

– DB

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Back in the 1990’s, I got my cousin to listen to a abstract, coffee house hip-hip band from New York named Soul Coughing. Back in the early 2000’s, my cousin came to visit me when I lived in a place my world dubbed The Corn Crib. As we were playing Cornhole in The Corn Crib, he asked me a question:

“Hey, do you remember Mike Doughty?”

“Should I?” I asked, unalerted.

“Yeah. He used to be the leader of Soul Coughing.”

Used to be?” I asked, alerted, as I missed the box with my next bag. Mike Doughty is easily my favorite lyricist from the 1990’s. Ahead of Vedder, TuPac…

“What happened to Soul Coughing?” I asked, concerned.

“They broke up,” my cousin said, nonchalantly, “Mike Doughty has since gone solo.”

“No shit?” I bemused.

“Yeah, can I go play a concert he just did in Minneapolis?” my cousin asked just to be polite as he commandeered my stereo.

My cousin and I are fiercely competitive with each other, yet we are always on the lookout for each other. He’s carved a nice niche for himself in Minneapolis. His heart used to be in theater. He’s been apart of some world-renowned productions including the Tony Award-winning Utah Shakespearean Festival. He worked the festival on more than on occasion. He met his wife at the festival. His wife is a sweatheart. Only person I know with a Master’s Degree in Puppetry.

He now dives heartily into the world of games, anywhere from poker and chess to games found at Gen Con.

I have a feeling his theatrical fire mixed with his competitive spirit and he exploded upon Book of Blues when he read it. The paper will be saturated with my cousin’s red ink. He’ll be harsh, he’ll be critical. He’ll hate it and then he’ll give suggestions, direction and then he’ll tell me how to publish a book of blues. I will listen. It will be a battle, but after we exhaust each other, if Book of Blues is still standing, it we’ll be galvanized and ready for anyone.

I hope for nothing less.

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