Scrambled Egg Shells Chapter Nine

In Chapter Nine. John, Tailor the Mender and Facts the Figure return to the recording studio. John's is drawn away from the circle by a smartphone call. Tailor and Facts know he isn't speaking to anyone. Yet his reactions to the conversation are extremely real. Rather than interrupt John. Tailor the Mender and Facts the Figure text message each other.

Scrambled Egg Shells Chapter Eight

In Chapter Eight John, Tailor the Mender and Facts the Figure are inside a recording studio agreeing their past is no longer worth the weight of being judged. Without witness they become one.

Scrambled Egg Shells Part Seven

In this chapter John and Ocean Child playfully walk the streets of of New York City. They greet everyone with warmth and smiles. One passerby takes note of John. He's shy and decides to stay away. Until the moment John calls for him to cross the street. John learns of the young mans father crossing paths with him in chapters already written.

Scrambled Egg Shells Part Six

Listen to the author share portions of his new book on I Heart Radio John and Tailor are in New York City. Sitting on a street side city bench. Sharing conversation about silence. John tries to blame his reasons for not communicating on everything but the true answer.

Scrambled Egg Shells Part Five

Listen to the author read from the pages on I Heart Radio In Chapter Five John sits in Facts the Figure's New York recording studio staring at the numerous awards his friend has picked up over the years. Although he has troubles grasping onto the reasons of there being a celebration. John envisions the opportunity to sing. Not to piece back together a past that had been shattered. But to invite a woman found in the reflection of the highly polished award to dance.

Scambled Egg Shells Part Four

Listen to the author read from chapter four on I Heart Radio I believe modern readers are setting books down too quickly. Our imaginations fight to find what the writer heard while preparing words for display. Rather than chase assumption. I've chosen to share the stage. In this scene. Chapter four. John shares a dance with his truest love. Knowing without exposing. Something was changing and he had no way of realizing if there would be another song to sing.

Scrambled Egg Shells Part Three

Listen to the story on I Heart Radio As if we were in a bookstore along side a crowded holiday shopper's endless demands. Up front a man reads from the pages that grew out of him. In this chapter John and Tailor the Mender are walking through New York and the scent of a fresh bagel consumes their imagination causing John to giveaway his key that granted him permission to change people's lives.

Scrambled Egg Shells; Part Two

Listen to the story on I Heart Radio In Chapter Two John takes a stroll through the busy streets of New York City. There was once a time when dodging the constantly busy minded inspired a reason to dance. The footsteps required to avoid. The swerving of his hips to get into then around. But this day. He bumps into a New Yorker on the phone.

Scrambled Egg Shells: Part One

Peter Max once told me, "You have to release your art! It doesn't belong to you!" Julia Cameron elegantly preaches in The Artist Way the very lyrics of having no reason to be creatively selfish. With each passing day. I inch closer to the first year writing celebration of Scrambled Eggs. While attending the premiere of About Time last evening. The writer within kept smiling. The making of a book is a brilliant feeling. From single sentences to huge paragraphs. The art of studying the watchful eye of a modern reader to blending reasons of wanting to reinvent the wheel. But one thing is missing. You have no clue as to what I'm hearing in my head. Therefore. Like the writer I am. I shall take the essence of expression and stand in front of you. Just like I have a billion times inside book stores. And read. Part one is taken from Chapter One. Listen to it on I Heart Radio

Pictures Of A New Book: Page Forty Seven

Julia Cameron calls it: Painting a room. Take your writing instrument and bring to life every corner. Give off the scent of so much description that no matter where you're reader's are living... they can see, feel, hear and smell the essence of expression. It's that technique that kept my eyes dipped in buckets of paint while walking through New York City. I refused to jump into impatient yellow cabs. I couldn't be hustled through the transit system. For me to grasp the invisible. I had to become part of it.

My latest book Scrambled Eggs sits on the benches of cluttered streets overrun by business minds and wandering dreams. 832 Broadway shook the nib almost off the instrument. Seconds before arriving. Nearly 11pm. I could've been watching the Presidential debate but found myself inside a comic book store instead. Had I known at the time that the universe was handing me a book to write.

I might have paid closer attention to the busy needs of Super Heroes and cartoon characters. Once within the thin pages of strips and cabinets of plastic figures. I realized the importance of mirrors. Finding my way to a corner. To watch late night New Yorker's. The essence of a dance fed the eyes of the storyteller's lyrics.

Picture Of A New Book Page Forty Six: Shattering Glass

Today. I broke a rule. I promised myself to stay focused. To not stray away from. To become weak. To sell out to being what I've always been. A perfectionist. The writing of my new book. People think words fall from the sky. If that's the case. May I buy a case of buckets? Stay focused. My battle cry. Keep from having to revert back to new beginnings. It will be there when you are finished. But did I listen? I chose instead. To recognize. The guy I am. The writer inside. Wasn't within the same rhythm and tone. Shared those days. When words were spirits having flown. Gone! Gone! Gone! First the simple words. Gone! A sentence. I reconstructed a paragraph and got high. High off the challenge of getting to redesign. It took me thirty five years to publish the book that kept me in school. I kept changing ideas. Layouts were boring. I stumbled and fumbled. I no longer could see eye to page. So I elected to change. And change. And change. It's not good that I went back and reshaped the landscape of the first in chapters. Melodic might be my rhyme. But the timing is way off. I have until February 2014 to break this book free. Editing isn't free. The expense is common sense. I love what I rewrote! But how will I feel in sixty to one hundred days. I broke a rule. I didn't stay focused. I chose instead to bring a knife to the computer screen. Cutting loose what could've been a readers most favorite part. What do I know? Except the moment. It fell from the sky.

Writer's Reinvent Language

I would love to see what the book authors, poets and music makers in Syria are setting free. Writer's fear nothing. Be it a jotting down. A mental expression or conversation. Storyteller's express because they weren't born to keep it in. How many writer's in Syria have been ordered into silence? Trying times multiply the minds ambition to put print to work in the world's eye. Writer's get creative. Making paths visible by developing the guts to cut through everyday language to make up another. Like Irish Limericks. Where are the writing instruments and pads of paper in Syria? You can't text there! It's being read by rule makers turning book authors, poets and music makers into rule breakers. Do the windows of the soul equal the stories being told? Who then is documenting the paragraphs so that other generations can learn from it without passing the fear for living forward? Writer's cannot go without speaking. Hidden. The path. So it be challenged. But human skin cannot hold in. Experience and survival. It has to be flowing freely somewhere. Is it being written then quickly ripped into shreds of nothingness? Put in the frames of homes then covered by photographs of a past that will never return again. Is it wrong to think? A writer's greatest gift is to guarantee a link. Between he. They and all who'll one day gather. To hear of the tale. The struggles versus victory. Starvation dulled by an inner core of motivation that moves the innocent toward beams of security. Writer's don't release to feel championed. Books may sell but it's a story we do tell. A masterpiece like that of a painting hung above a fireplace mantle. A passing thought from yesterday. Led into an area of nonexistent. Without book authors, poets and music makers. The sights we see would only be dreams.

Don't Text While Writing

Remember when putting puzzles together were the hot American trend? Classic family time was spent searching for rounded chunks of blips and blobs that would mysteriously make their way into becoming a brilliant portrait. My family being of Montana mud and existence always chose forested scenes or bridges across roaring rivers. If Gene Simmons of KISS had been around ten years earlier there might have been some edgier pieces parts made available for growing teen boys. The lack of Rock in puzzles had to be the reason why I took up writing! What is a single word but a puzzle piece. When you put enough of them together the background lights up the imagination, "I'm almost there!" I still have 100,000 more pieces but wow this is so much better than yesterday!" Writer's tend to be perfectionists. That being said. A puzzle can instantly go silent if what's being painted onto the surface of a table doesn't make sense. As far back as the second grade Mrs. Keefe constantly reminded me, "Beginning, middle and end." Hard to digest is how the writing world has changed in the center of series of adventures. Tweets are abbreviated words. Face Book might connect to readers but what drives them to want to follow you to the next page? Radio and TV commercials are every reason to tune out. Books are digital and never in my life did I think there would come a time when having every page at my fingertips was the perfect way to digest what the author was attempting to sell. It's not just 100,000 puzzle pieces of one writer. Digital books make any number of authors available at any given moment. Just like Radio and TV...readers are tuning out. And there aren't any commercials!!!!Just a bunch of sentence that connect readers to everything. Oh we eventually get to it. After answering emails, thumbing through Amazon and blanking out trash advertisers attempting to make perfect your unwritten life. I spend a lot of time on college and broadcast campuses educating tomorrows communicators. Where are the published authors doing the same for writers? The world will always be ready for a new book. Getting it into the hands of an interested reader is the difficult challenge. The playing field for creative minds changes by the hour. How we maintain the level of upkeep required drains from the imagination everything once thought to be the protective shield from perfectionism. The reason why writer's don't offer their services to other thinker's...is because everybody is their own writer and nobody whats to be compared. Mark Twain couldn't survive in 2013. I believe Harry Potter would have a tough time as well. The 1990's were a different time. Shades of Gray has become popular because women finally believe that porno doesn't have to be pictures but rather images set free in the imagination. The writer's edge inside a world fed by a wealth of knowledge dulls the tip of the most brilliant sentence. And yet...we continue to write. Believer's in the passion to put pen to paper or fingertips to keyboard find themselves shying away from chasing a dream and relying more on answer the calling.

Writer's Fighting In Bathroom Mirrors

Nobody is harder on the opposite side of a creative mind than the self paying the daily rent. Which is why I take the time to answer "The Doubter." Every question! Why if the industry has failed its performers do I spend so much time chasing radio dreams? Friends or my worst critics. Hate your new book Scrambled Eggs because of the style of writing chosen. Why can't I start over and become liked? How can you be so busy and have nothing to show for it? 1. Radio performers haven't failed the industry. Non-radio people banking on advertising dollars have tipped the stage upside down. True Broadcasters are turtles. We lay on our backs pretending to feel the self proclaimed Master's in control tickling our tummies. As long as they're footing the bill. I accept all change. Digital wouldn't be without there being a connection between deep pockets and a need to make money. It's the greatest time to be in Radio. Show me a decision maker that can do a show, produce commercials, sell advertising and attend community events while keeping a thumb print on the pulse of where music and performance is versus isn't. Radio works if you let it. 2. I went into writing Scrambled Eggs to answer a mission. The sentences and paragraphs are completely all my own. Delivered my own way. It's how I think. I study word formation. I listen to how normal people speak. I watch great engaging conversation completed inside thoughts shared. Why aren't newspapers and magazines writing this way? Why are books thick? And in return I'll get a billion answers. But none will satisfy the hunger to write...my way. I truly don't care if not one book is sold. I don't care. Nothing comes close to the incredible pleasure I'm getting in bringing these characters air. 3. Life isn't supposed to be a business. Life is about living. Learning to live is a subject that two people will never agree on. I'm extremely busy living life. I've been invited to the most fascinating places noted as common and find its spirit to be a truer blue than the sky. When your choice in life is to live. The journey begins. Accept the good with the great while dipping your toes in the bad and very ugly. Peace in my soul is rubbing noses with my sixteen year old Maltese named MJ. A rescue that was horribly treated for five years in a situation that should've claimed his life. To stare in his eyes is my Jazz. To take a writing instrument and write about it...is no different than Paul McCartney penning out Hey Jude. He got the world to listen. All I want to do is thank God for giving me the chance to live another day.

Writing In Different Font

Daily writing isn't meant to be the constant act of word dumping. During a process of locating self trust. The inner core of a soul spits out art in any shape made available. Three years into the realms of expression. I began to pay attention. Not to the un-perfected circles and uncut squares. But to the air. By no means do I believe such puddles of creative saliva are brilliant displays. The beauty of art is the story. I locate it inside the development of lines finding air on a single sheet of paper.

Pictures Of A New Book: Page Forty Five: The Cover

You can't judge a book by its cover. Nor can you predict a story through its suggested style. Part of the adventure is being part of the cover design. I'll never forget working on the first book One Mans 1021 Thoughts. The artist was two thousand miles away yet each time I tapped in, "No." on the email...I could hear him scream my name in the worst of ways. While on the Barnes and Noble writing tour during the late 90's. One of my challenges to writers I didn't know was to race through the lanes searching for a cover that influenced them to want to read. The majority of them would return with crazy Murder Mysteries or a Sci Fi. I'd ask, "Is that what you've penned out?" "No! I just liked the cover." Scrambled Eggs has endured two cover design changes. I wanted the first to embrace the story of music. The deeper I got into sharing the lyrics of the book. The more I realized. This book isn't about musicians. Its about a woman that loves her man so much. She's vowed to wear paint on her face to make memories last longer than yesterday. My first wife Sande would spend hours laying out the covers she'd use for her books. The moment she'd agree to disagree. Her imagination would bump into other ideas. Deciding on a book cover is tragically difficult in the way that it means more to the author than the reader. Marketing means well but don't lie to your reader with a cover that speaks a completely different language. Put thought into it. But don't be a perfectionist. Live the journey. Let the colors flow while keeping the story inside the most important part of the sharing. Never settle on the first cover. Challenge the artist to bring out the book not hide it between the pages. The artist has no clue what you poured out of your fingerprints. Make sure you protect the value of creative flow. The most important part of the writing puzzle is staying true to the reader.

Pictures Of A New Book: Page Forty Four

Getting to know a character in your story can sometime feel like a chapter away. Then, from out of nowhere. The next sentence pulls from the universe the perfect opportunity for them to have a rightful place inside your rhyming reason. I didn't go into my current write Scrambled Eggs with the vision to hoist more than five different faces to the surface. Painting the scene. Decorating the air with atmosphere. Giving life to wilting flowers. And in walks someone that some other day could've been just a passerby! I instantly sit back. Study the paragraphs before his or her appearance. "Crap!" I scream. "Who invited this one to the page?" Instantly the blame is put on your ten fingers. They look up at me with total attitude, "Hey! We do more than type words onto a computer screen. Remember who keeps the line hitting the pot when peeing." Adding characters is difficult when addicted to a first draft based on beginning middle and end. How do you explain it to the rest of the invisible actors? The moment a new face races onto the front side of a nameless page. I begin to ask questions. Not a word lands near or above them. I hit the daily writing journal and accept all sides to sit with me and wonder why. If enough cologne or perfume is left for the writer to paint words with. There's a big chance their image isn't going to be highlighted then deleted. Words lead me to characters. I'm typing away minding my own business when all of a sudden: A misspelled word sends out an all call alert. This reminds me of. Wow I remember when. Hey...there's no better way to thicken up some drama then to develop a character you can easily kill off. While in New York. I bumped into a comic book store manager with bright orange hair. Absolutely she had to be in my book! She wasn't supposed to appear though until three quarters of the journey. But what did the writer do? A NY scene at the park. My main characters take note of how funny life is when people act like themselves and my orange hair girl walks across the writing sharing a simple smile then leaving. I love adding new characters. Get to know yours. Don't instantly shove them into delete mode. Their appearance could lead to some very interesting eye candy.

Addiction Is Art.

A wandering "Thought Maker" bumped into my habits of writing and wondered, "Where's the man that once spent every second of each seven days to replenish the waves of modern radio? He seems to have sold out...to a writer." Art is a medium of choice. Bright red paint with touches of blue inviting a light purplish approach can be a paragraph describing the hills south of Billings, Montana covered in blossoming Alfalfa . Bragging about how many songs you can stuff into a Radio hour is no different than digitally snapping every bird perched on the edge of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. Boeing building planes in Charleston is Art in motion. The classics. The Art of Charleston. That's been tested time and time. Nestles next to Meeting Street with streaks of big city fashion on Kings. Camping next to a rock in Mississippi. The single limb of wind torn tree hanging around like a bored teen searching for more summer to waste. A used car sales person magically dialing into a customer's needs is a medium that still falls under the category of Art. Two old men parked on a bench laughing at pigeons chasing seedless grapes. The taxi driver that can't keep his wax textured index finger from poking his ear. Bojangles southern sweet ice tea. "Where's the man that once spent every second of each seven days to replenish the waves of modern radio? He seems to have sold out...to a writer." Within the very steps that pointed his nose toward Radio. Some billion plus ten chapters ago. With so many shapes and sizes of communication devices. Why can't Broadcasting be? Everything Art! I'm fascinated with uptown, downtown, center city night club DJ's. Every song does sound the same. Until the DJ spins it his or her way. Lady Gaga versus Madonna while taking on Cher and Patsy Cline. What is the Comedy Zone in Charlotte but a house of Art... Picking up a writing instrument. Tapping computer keys onto a flat screen. Art? Or map making? I create so much that everything I do comes with a name. My writing instruments. Cars, RV, itty bitty hills in my backyard, every cow alongside the road. As for the people that walk into my studio. I have to make up a name! It's the first step of a brand new beginning. Eventually I collect so many different project faces. The names feel like they have to become part of my every moment. Writing blends Art into a canvas. Every name. Each personality. You don't have to be my friend to be written about. It's just gonna happen. That's what I do. I broadcast! Art! Texting. Face Booking. Tweets. You're in the right frame of mind. So how are we gonna get your words to reach beyond the super spies in the U.S. Government? A sentence. A funny moment. Misunderstood circumstances jotted down. Put it in a box. A book. On a sheet of paper. When you write. Your mind body and soul. Listen... Awareness changes everything.

The Praying Mantis Helps You Seek Stillness

Carolina summers wouldn't be complete. Without spotting. A bold, ego driven, I see everything around me Praying Mantis. Long green. Sometimes brown. Sticks with oblong heads. Cartoon like. Mechanical. Un-abrasive. I vote friendly. Anyone else might scream. Then run away quickly. Year after year the Praying Mantis tends to follow me. The Poet of a forest. Multiple trees. Wild weeds. My favorite Queens Lace. Naturally tapping the baseline shoulder of a finely tuned lapping pond. Saturday. I laughed out loud at the Praying Mantis' latest attempt at communicating. Near or next to invisible and brilliantly tiny. I had never come face to face with a newborn, hatched or however else these creative protectors emerge upon our places of thinking. Itty bitty. Like a one year old human boy child dressed in a suit and tie. Although everything around him was giant sized. This little guy. Felt no fear. He sat watching me and I him. I'd move. He moved. I tried to place him on a tree leaf. He made his way back to me. That's when you know a Spirit Guide or Keeper is reaching toward your present place of unborn history. A Praying Mantis has learned the art of blending its desires and passions with the environment it's chosen to grow with. It teaches how to still the outer mind and go within. How to transcend linear time and move according to the rhythm of nature and inner instinct. The praying mantis can remain motionless and blend with the environment becoming invisible to enemies. They hold the secrets of materialization and dematerialization and teach perception through stillness. In dream symbols, a praying mantis is a telepathic symbol of Angels warning of hypnotic aggression from the "dark side". A praying mantis appearing may be a sign of Angelic protection. Becoming involved in situations where someone may lose their head, in one way or another. The praying mantis has historically been a popular subject of mythology and folklore. In France people believed a praying mantis would point a lost child home. Muslims believe that a praying mantis will point the way to Mecca. In Africa, the mantis was thought to bring good luck to whomever it landed on and even restore life to the dead. In China the praying mantis, is the symbol of the martial arts. European people believed they were worshipful of God since they always seemed to be praying. One legend tells that Saint Francis Xavier called upon it to sing the praises of God and the mantis began to sing canticles. Of course, no discussion of the praying mantis would be complete without mentioning its most infamous "behavior". When relations between the male and female have reached their climax the female will often bite off the head of the male. Some males even require this decapitation in order to copulate. Saturday. Near or next to invisible and brilliantly tiny. This Praying Mantis meant business. If it had been words on a Kindle. I might have excused his presence as footnotes. To which I never read. Or the horridly fast voice on car commercials rapidly explaining that none of this commercial is true unless you are an angel from Heaven and have never lied to a doctor about why you might be ill. Let's break it down. The Praying Mantis didn't come to me in a dream. He or she was physical. It teaches how to "still" the outer mind and go "within." I'm always amazed at how many people don't want you to travel within. As a modern society its looked upon as being conceited to want to meditate and or grow in privacy. And yet...on the opposite side of the journey there tends to be a benefit for all involved making it less selfish. How to transcend linear time and move according to the rhythm of nature and inner instinct. I've never been a fan of the current face of a ticking clock. It's moving too quickly. My heart says I just graduated from high school but reality whispers, "Um 33 years ago." The praying mantis can remain motionless and blend with the environment becoming invisible to enemies. Constantly the new America reminds all worker bees of this no longer being a place of personal growth but rather survival of the fittest. Anytime you show emotion. You've offered a fingerprint to society. Living in the present doesn't mean fighting it. Being aware of how you enter each day helps you blend into a picture willing to change but holds off when fighting against the waves and or doubt floods the foundation...its allowed to take shape in the frame you were hired to keep. How can I not be a maker of noise? I make car commercials. I'm from Montana where the sky alone takes over the essence of believing you can be just as bright and endless. The Praying Mantis holds the secrets of materialization and dematerialization and teaches perception through stillness. When was the last time you did a halfway pushup and didn't move? Arms bent. Chest nowhere near the floor. Listen. Your mind body and soul are talking. What have you elected to ignore?

Breaking Bad Corner

Uninvited. Unannounced. From out of left field scenes. Not a movie. Television show or weekend family outing. Scenes! Designed by words. Dumped into. Onto. Through and around a tube connected to the tips of a writer's fingerprints. To poets, book authors and bloggers. This is a corner starter. Total punishment. To a child. It's Time Out! Fits tossed. Doubt. Heavier than chocolate. Fear of failure. The need to be accepted must be respected. A cornered writer is a Pit Bull in a Rooster fight taking on Super Chicken. Hmmm that's funny. That chicken looks like Hulk Hogan. Now who wins? If you think blogging and book nudging is a challenge. Wait until you're forced to sit in itty bitty rooms with sales reps demanding drop of the hat success. Kind of like walking up to a comedian and saying, "Be funny. Now!" Except the funny people. They've got a way. To swiftly make light of Pit Bulls in a Rooster Fight. Not all Writer's have the ability to instantly print. In fact most writer's won't Polaroid camera a project. You want something? Quality is spelled: W.A.I.T! Getting around the uninvited. Unannounced. From out of left field scenes. Requires hard focus. Practice! Writing doesn't just happen. Writing is your personality on display. We all have neighbors that say nothing. Until the weekend. After they've been liquored up. I'll never suggest you swig down fire water then write. I end up killing off characters in my stories. If you're so good writer boy...get out of this one. Practice. A tree snaps off and all you have left is a stump. In my heart. There's not a word to be written. If given belief. That single strand of bark could easily become three to ten pages. Stop forcing the comedian to be funny. Let the writer in you. Breathe. I see a tree. I instantly want to know the first human that stood next to it. What do you mean it was forty years ago? How is it possible that I still feel their presence? Make up their life. Relive their challenged times. What if the tree had been part of a page? Handed to a poet. The writing left while sitting in a corner. Inspired a writer in Russia to pick up a writing instrument. Daily journaling is more fun when you can take a dogs fart and turn it into a piece of music. I couldn't give a rats butt about who'll one day trip across my thought scratches. I hope they think I'm weird. I dream of them gasping. I can't wait to watch them accuse the hand that brought me here of developing pictures not a person nearest the sun can relate with. Exactly! But damn it was fun inspiring that loner in France to stop chasing depression and pick up a writing instrument. Scribble here. Square box there. I don't care what your lettering looks like. Uninvited. Unannounced. From out of left field scenes. Pretty much means...wow I have something new to share! I accept the dare!

Human Ego. Human Defeat. Listen To What Animals Speak

Not just this morning. But including the twenty four hour circle earlier. A visitor. Nature. Stepping twice in front of me. Before entering my place of work. Being raised in the state named Montana. A vivid array of wild creatures cuddle the corners of a path's past. As if to be looking for potential strangers. To share. To open. To build upon and or make free. Not just this morning. But including the twenty four hour circle earlier. The visitor was a Carolina native chipmunk. I had not seen one before. Not this close to the city. I greeted him with a swift smile. Gone so quickly they can be. A child may chase. The adult tends to ponder. Spiritually speaking. I began to listen. Chipmunk's Wisdom Includes: • Gathering • Ability to regulate usage • Saving for future use • Ability to carry ones nourishment (both spiritual and physical) with them • Ability to see both light and shadow • Mobility The human was the first to walk from the circle of communication. Through unconditional love animals speak. The choice becomes yours. Continue to search. Stop then listen. When the chipmunk visits this may indicate it is time to tighten spending habits. Allotting more funds into savings accounts. If a chipmunk has crossed your path you are likely to be blessed with abundance. A chipmunk sighting can also signify a need for planning for the future. Words right? Fantasy almost like Harry Potter, Twilight and The Hunger Games. Ego keeps the human away. A feeling of being bigger and better than. Wisdom isn't the size of the brain. One look at today's Big Business society and animals running free in forests of trees see...the human has allowed itself to be caged. Unlocking the message. I openly admit. I've spent two years to date planning a future I can't reach. Spending habits being the weakest of decisions made. All too human-like we assume abundance carries the scent of money. What if abundance was acceptance? What if it were fresh ideas waiting to be brought to the surface of reality? What if abundance undressed? Standing before you. Answers to lifelong questions.

Pictures Of A New Book: Page Forty Three

A seventeen year old writer/musician sent an email, "Bro. About to graduate. Grades are through the roof. I spent my childhood determined to become a doctor. Now that it's time to shed this part of my life. I've changed my mind. I can't find anyone that understands how badly I want to write and perform music." It took a little bit of time to reply. I've never been the type to shame an Artist. Only to receive, "What I do scare you away?" Without thought I fired back, "Have you looked at the numbers? The creative industry is oversaturated. Do you practice every day? Are you performing on any stage? Dreams are a great high! But it's desert for those controlling song lyrics. Then again...I could be wrong. Maybe your lifelong wish is to be in a bar band. My gut says stick to what you've studied thus far and remain true to becoming a doctor." I knew the teen would revolt, "You've written your entire life! You make it look like nothing gets in the way. I want the same! To write music until I hear silence." My turn to be the kid wearing big boy pants, "How could there ever be silence when God creates every day?" The moment those words fell from the tips of my fingerprints onto the face of the flat screen...I was reminded of my current writing project Scrambled Eggs. I was visited. An extremely rainy cold Carolina night. The visitor was easily recognized. He sat on the corner of my bed. We cried. The moment I woke. I knew my life would change forever. But I didn't know how or when. I documented the visit inside my daily journal. As if to be counting down the days of the creative arrival. Between February 2011 and November 2012. I had written a lot of songs. Been to the studio to record countless times. Argued with producers. Shattered friendships. Injured my dreams of chasing. Even in radio. I said, "It's over." "How could there ever be silence when God creates every day?" Because I document growth. As stupid as it may or might seem. It allows me to revisit without taking up too much room with assumption. Nearly every sheet of music. Every lyric scratched onto the backside of radio copy. How somehow, someway ended up being some of the most expressive moments inside this book I currently write Scrambled Eggs. The visitor. His face I did know. Shallow as it seems. He found a way to breathe. Through my writing. Just this morning. I tapped away at the computer screen, "Be the writer. Live out the pressures of challenge meeting discovery. Make light for corners darkened by madness. Send into the future your art. For anybody can be a doctor. But nobody but you can be you when holding that writing instrument."

Great Writing Doesn't Guarantee Great Voice Acting

I live, breathe and eat “Voice Acting.” Radio, television, industrial and digital presentations. All of which require several different approaches of “Believability.” The knowledge to take words off a sheet of paper and give them a life of their own in the real world. People think it’s a natural gift. The moment those words slip out of their mouth and onto my path….the only choice I have is to stop and take them on. Instantly I begin searching for the door to door salesperson that just dumped a vacuum cleaner on your tight budget. Voice Acting is a trained art. A skill. Nobody wakes up Monday dreaming of being a black belt in martial arts then gets one wrapped around their waist by Friday. Doctors, Lawyers and Wal-Mart Greeters go through special training. I meet a lot of people taking a whack at voice acting. Hey! I’m one of them! The only difference is I don’t walk around thinking, “I was born with the voice.” That’s the voice you don’t want. Human’s trying to yuck it up like Radio talent is like listening to a merry go round go backwards. But you can be trained. John Causby at the Ground Crew in Charlotte hosts several events each year based on tuning up your believability. Every walk of life needs communicators. Even if you don’t want to do commercials…imagine how powerful you could be as a team leader with their inflection and volume under control? More importantly…the real factor becomes present. Who wants a boss that thinks they’re a leader? People are led by believability. The attempt to become a Voice Actor gets easier through practice, study, coaching and loyalty not to yourself but to the client searching for the perfect pitch, volume and tone. Wait! The believability! Everybody tries to do it. Few endure the day to day layout of expectations to become great at it. When the jobs aren’t bursting off the horizon…the desire to become a Voice Actor pretty much becomes that thing you once tried. We’ve all met that person. I once did radio. Oh really? Where? My cousin had a station in Butte, Montana and he gave me a twenty minute break every Sunday night at midnight. I wasn’t making any real money so I had to bolt. Modifying your method of thinking turns your voice into a tool. But don’t stop there! Be a better writer too! Take on the challenge of production. Look beyond the script and see how many lives it takes to create a budget worthy enough to advertise in market number twenty four Charlotte, North Carolina. The very moment you walk into a studio and bang something out. Someone at the seed is going to be fired. Nobody stopped in to buy. They couldn’t afford to keep them on. The very second your gift of performance is too bored to layout a conversational approach. Think about the manager that took a chance on radio or television when everybody else advised them not to waste their time and energy. Drop your tracks and call it a great day! When was the last time you thought about the afterlife of your delivery? Who’s affected? How will they be affected? Where will they be after your delivery fails to connect with a Twitter and Face Book addicted smart phone talking mother of six in the backseat nervously trying to figure out what’s for dinner while fearing that her husband is cheating? Where does your voice fit in? Do you have the patience to become a Voice Actor or is this something you sort of picked up cuz someone at McDonald’s said, “You should be on the radio!” Teaching people to play radio is a business. It’s ultimately up to you to further the journey. To walk beyond that itty bitty teenie weenie little door just opened. Nobody was born with the voice of God. Because…if you truly think about it. Look how many people don’t recognize it while enduring life’s every change. Thunder doesn’t move people forward. I find it amazing how people run from it. Hmmmm Believability…

Pictures Of A New Book: Page Forty Two

Harnessing control of your writing. It's like looking at huge cloud in the eastern sky that's taken on the shape of a duck and telling it to make no changes until you get back with a camera. That isn't thunder in the background. That's God laughing. The adventure of physically penning out my latest book Scrambled Eggs cannot be compared to the second draft being pumped into the flat screen surface of a computer. It's not a battle of the personalities. The textured agreement writer's grow into is the courage to hold true to being the Artist. Constantly I'm locked in conversation. Writers, Poets and friends billowing with laughter when having to explain that writing maps will never make it to a GPS system. A beginning, middle and end has every right to be written differently. In 2002...I killed off a main character in my book Halloween 78 The Blizzard White Canvas. I remember sitting at that computer completely frozen. How dare I take a chance on breaking away from where the original path suggested I play! Was it the wine talking? Or could it have been my confidence level shouting, "You think you're good. Now become great!" Scrambled Eggs is no different than Conversation With The Devil and the five rewrites of Another 1,021 Thoughts. Each time I went in. I came out with a different but better picture. And you wonder where "Perfectionism" comes from? You can't! Don't even think about it! You'll never grow forward! Writing will always take on a different shade of gray. How I feel at the moment cannot be compared to ten minutes from now. My first wife struggled deeply with perfectionism. She was the keeper of a brilliant story called Black Hand Angel. I loved hearing the story come to life. Then come to life. Then come to life. But it never lived. The fact that my imagination still wants to dance with Scrambled Eggs inspires me to believe the best part of the story still hasn't been shared. I do keep true to the skeleton. I know where I am while taking huge chances on character development. I love painting the walls of a coffee shop to the point of craving the black tar and a fresh slice of banana bread to go with it. Interviewing Yoko Ono was like changing the oil in the engine. What she shared and how it was delivered through her amazingly authentic storytelling methodisms laid out a better coat of many colors. Making it part of my book has to happen! Or it will sit in the corner of my thinking process festering like an open wound til it pops. Writing is supposed to be fun. Allow yourself to suck in some air and set free the music your heart has waited a lifetime to paint.

Pictures Of A New Book:: Page Forty One

When does writing daily become outside communication? The same time that writing daily finds a way to speak you through bad adventures. Journaling is a man's way of saying, "I keep a diary." Sometimes I document. To make marks. This is where I stood. Not too tall. But I showed up. All too often I brag. I search for tomorrow. Barely realizing I didn't locate yesterday. As of late. These words that leap from my right hand. Have been placed onto. Into. Within... the living breathing threads that connect a sheet of paper's soul to my imagination. Two scenes my character's didn't live. I did! But without doubt. It seemed to fit better inside. On top of. Along with their every step. Who then? Am I? They or them? Might I have been? Even if for a moment. In the presence. Sitting not with. But in them. Mind blowing isn't this current book I write titled Scrambled Eggs. I write radio commercials for a living. I study the art of persuasion. Mind blowing are the faces I become. Or should I have written? Who I am. When being I is truly spelled e.y.e.

Pictures Of A New Book: Page Forty

Peter Max stood next to me completely bathed in excitement when discussing the completion of art. Ignited. His soul. The Rolling Stones blasting in the background of the overcrowded gallery show. We shared the commonality of journey. The experience. Pasting rainbows to a blizzard white canvas. Barely one hundred feet. Sixteen years in depth later. From distant dust particles still connected like family. Near but not next to. Where my conversation with Peter made impact. The subject of my newest book Scrambled Eggs unwrapped a brilliantly free set of wings. This is completely sick to jot out in a Blog. Some Writer's hear voices. Other's serve as a tag-a-long. Mystic. Unexplained. Books by the millions try to paint. The deepest of visions. The value of learning to listen. Even if it's just the wind whispering. The core of my writing self. Sifts through no boxes or dark corners. Rarely if ever. Do I return to what is left my by writing hand daily. On that day. Sixteen years in depth earlier. Peter shouted at the top of his lungs. Inside an overcrowded gallery show, "Let it go. Give it back to the universe to share." A piece of poetry fell from me. The 9th day of November 2012. I couldn't explain it. I tried! I ended up lying to myself and others. I fought to set it aside. To forget it! Once it's out! It's not mine! Leave me alone! Don't call me back to the writing place! Poetry. Hand written it was not. Came to me while listening to an instrumental song. By Saturday. I heard different music. A name. "Tell his story," The voice said to me. "But do so in the most unique way. Make it sound like it's happening today. This moment. Right now. And carry with you tissues of many. Because to get it out of you. The way it's meant to be shared. The writer in you will live out each page. As if someone is living through you." I heard a voice. I've pushed it away. Too many times to count. This writer doesn't write autobiographies and or the history of music! I'm just a Poet. Short sentences. To the point. Make it colorful and filled with expression. Make it peak like Peter Max paints. Then something happened. One of my characters. Reached through the universe. It wasn't supposed to be real! It's not supposed to be happening! A book that lacks reality. Base it on possibility. But do so in the most unique way. Last Friday. One of my characters. One of the people. Real. Very authentic. Not necessarily on my pages. This book I write called Scrambled Eggs. I've written it to sound like it's happening today. This moment. Right now. And with me I've carried tissues of many. Because to get it out of me. The way it's meant to be shared. The writer in me has lived out each page. As if someone is living through me. An idiot it must look like I am. Steps on a staircase by way of round about communication. Their voice. My ears. Their history. Iconic. They've no idea that my fingers have penned a story. They. A main character. A pillar in the narrative foundation. To meet we will. And I'll be stuck. Standing alone. Knowing I did what Peter Max shouted sixteen chapters ago. I've let it go. Given it back to the universe to share. And the universe has returned with its own reasons, "Connect the pages. I'll be back when this part of the journey is complete. With more to do of course!"

Pictures Of A New Book Page Thirty Nine

Putting personalized handwritten words on display in the public is a troubling venue to visit. Not Face Book and Twitter! Both serve as brilliant stages to canvas a willingness to express. But nobody can see the wandering eyes of the mystic. Those words. The very blocks of lettering that seemed so right when slipping from a set of one of kind prints connected to your fidgety fingers. What is written usually next to never falls properly into the ears of a passerby What is the envisioned? When readers hit refresh. The picture changes. Unless they're holding a book. As a writer. I challenge my worst side to go public. The shy, hidden away personality that turns jotting words down like a shot of sugar shoved into the veins of everyday. Big business calls it stepping out of the box. I call it comedy. I laugh before I go on stage. I laugh after reading several pages from the books chapters. I treat what I do like a joke. You can't take the people in the audience serious! Especially since 98% of them are still trying to digest the opening sentences. I spend a lot of time on college campuses teaching Radio Broadcasters, "You have seven seconds to land the attention of your listener. After that... its 100% natural ability." The featured photograph is that writer that lives in me. Fourteen chapters deep into his book Scrambled Eggs and he felt the rest of me should join him outside. The box. In public. On display. Not one person responded when he left the stage. Not a moment was spent explaining the layout. Nor a passing breeze felt by the cold air delivered by the listening audience. The writer doesn't care. I set it free into the universe that supports my art. Now it's up to the universe to find the required soil to let there be life after the Poet.

Pictures Of A New Book: Part Thirty Eight

Have we gotten lazy with our writing or has Twitter and Face Book given nonchalant writer's permission to raise their voice? First and foremost... I love how this nation has turned into a Social Media driven communication machine. Even if you text: Burp. It's still writing. One burp and instantly I'm reminded of all the other burps I've heard. My brother's and I would lace our guts with hot Pepsi then recite the lyrics of Walk This Way from Aerosmith. It took ten years for my wife to set free a burp publically. Good girls from Chicago don't do that! Who was she trying to fool? I knew she was setting free a blast of stomach gas because she tried to let it slip through her nose! See what texting: Burp does! What's it going to take to convince you to complete a sentence. Crap! Why did I have to take it there? No day passes in radio that I'm not bombarded with 15,000 run on sentences that switch nouns so fast that its completely impossible to grab air before touching the final word. Listen to the Jocks spinning your favorite tunes! Check out the newscaster's attempting to spill their guts on the latest big wow action. Preachers! Bankers! Police officers vowing to clock you in at 53 in a 35. All speak too many words! The DVR hooked up to that flat screen is the most beautiful piece of art on earth. I don't have to watch the commercials. I would! If there was "less" to digest! This Blog is already too long. I should have said, "Thanks for texting. Writing is righting." But hell no! I had to get hooked up on a burp. It's when you burp and fart at the same time that freaks your friends out. They don't know if they should run or cheer on the music maker. Clearly I can see them counting to ten in their head. Any scent sent after eleven automatically gets blamed on the dog. My good friend writes the other day. Her reaction to reading the second draft of my new book Scrambled Eggs. "Where does this stuff come from? I can't adlib. I can't fill out an employment application without embarking on a journey of 1,000 mistakes." Here's my secret. Burp. Everybody does it. Some try to hide it. Other's play with it like melted chocolate ice sitting in bowl. The moment you take that last bite... you're gonna have to wait until tomorrow to get more. Sure you can stand up. Rush to the kitchen and spoon in another twisted mix of sugar. But you won't appreciate it. The burp is no different. Let one hang and within seconds your memory stick is flooded with mental downloads of comparisons. If guys could fart the alphabet it would be the hottest joke in comedy clubs. Write! Paint a room. Tell your readers exactly what it looks like when a burp feels like its vibrating your throat and it ends up shooting out your nose. And it's wet. Ohhhhhhhhhhh! What? I'm a writer! What did you expect? A radio commercial with 39 seconds of copy stuffed into a 15?

Pictures Of A New Book: Part Thirty Six

A friend. Multiple years. The type you meet in your twenties. Face and experience martital divorce with during the rugged 30's. Helps you mentally and physically after taking a middle aged man near fatal hit. That type of friend. Sends me an email, "Please stop putting your writing on Linkedin. It's designed for business only." Pausing for a moment. Maybe two. But more like ten. I begin to think, "Writing is my business. I write books. I Blog for radio station websites. I write radio and television commercials. Wedding vows! Four hour Broadcasting lectures and fourth thousand business emails every day. I write!" The sign above the door should read: Don't let friends email you. Julia Cameron spent a lot of money printing out her reasons why Artists tend to go silent. Teachers with giant red pens. When it comes to marking up your words. They have a Backstage Pass. You have to believe what they say! They're the teacher! Friends with emails, Face Book, Twitter and texting are just as dangerous. My new book Scrambled Eggs is fourteen chapters deep into its second draft. Fricken having the time of my life spitting words out of my fingertips. I'm riding the greatest high since my last book Conversation With The Devil pulled from my port during the summer of 2009. I broke the biggest Julia Cameron rule: Don't let friends read your writing. A different friend. The friend that edited my book The Blizzard White Canvas: Halloween 78. She totally gets me! Grasping my oddness. Professional editors and writers have this invisible relationship. A bond. Not a protection device but a clear path as to where the mind body and soul drift off to when a writing instrument falls into my hand. Her exact comment was, "Are you having fun writing this one? If so... that's all that counts." This is what my heart heard, "What a piece of ****. Seven published books into your life and this is the best you can come up with? I thought you said this was the set of pages that would take your writing up to the top of the mountain. Dude. I had to buy a shovel and bury it." It took me nearly a week to get over her initial true comment. I shut the world out! I wanted nothing to do with anybody. I mean how could a book idea that's taken over my life far greater than any other be labeled the perfect liner for a trash can? I didn't write at my normal time this morning. Scrambled Eggs went untouched. My brown eyes rolling slowly across the room from left to right. Then up and down. The typical child that knows a little too much. Most of it being the reason why nothing was tapped onto the computer screen. I gave Chapter Fourteen to the editor friend to read. She said, "I just can't get into this one. I'm sure it's a great story. The most important thing is...you're having fun right?" This is what my heart heard, "Why are you wasting my time? Don't you get it? Blogging every day on radio station websites has destroyed your ability to share a story. You idiot! Readers want more than quick sentences and sharp to the point picture painting. You don't have what it takes to keep modern books alive. Just stop! Please before you hurt yourself!" I thought being a Jock on the Radio was a tough performance. Come to think of it. If Jocks could see their listeners; 98% of those making noise on car speakers couldn't handle it when someone in the backseat screams, "Change the station!" The waitress delivering hot food to a restaurant table? What makes them so tough in the art of downplaying customer rejection? A politician that finds out their best friend of multiple years didn't put in a vote for them this past November. The doctor that can't fix their child's broken smile. I write. I'm not sure why. I won't say it's because writing makes me breathe better. Especially when I enjoy writing scenes that steal my breath. I don't write to brag. Then I would just stop. But I can't. It's creative diarrhea. You've gotta get the stuff out or the damn headaches set in. It's not my goal to become famous through writing. It's just my need to one day meet the writer that was silent before deciding, "I can do this. He makes it seem like so much fun." Now my job is done.

Pictures Of A New Book: Part Thirty Five

I love this quote from author Jodi Picoult, "I've always called writing successful schizophrenia. I get paid to hear those voices." So is the business of Radio! For thirty four years my on the air performance has been the physical act of turning invisible voices into objects that move wandering people. Through lecturing I'm given the incredible opportunity to meet the next level of Radio players vowing to reinvent the two speaker stage. In every gathering there's always a cast of vocal grinders that have been told, "You should do radio!" Really? Does the world think the voice in a Radio person's head is cut from a sack of gravel that sounds like its sucked down three gallons of whiskey ten minutes ago followed by three packs of cigarettes? Walking up to a Radio person using a fake Radio voice is like a New Yorker trying to pull off a Southern accent. I'm currently in the center of a two month tour featuring sixteen Radio Broadcasting lectures. The goal is to pop open the imagination of the future talker. To rid their mind and body of what they've been trained to believe. It's a trick I used while traveling the Barnes and Noble writing circuit for nearly three years. Tell me what you think it's supposed to be like. Dipping your dreams in a touch of unflavored chocolate. The real process of growth takes place when what you are livin is what you envision. Getting to know the first voice is a discovery! Radio or writing... without that voice you're just another Howard Stern copy. As an elementary/middle school writer. I needed a stage. I found it in radio. At the ripe old age of fourteen. The problem with Radio. The voice changes all the time but the on-air performance sounds just like it did ten years ago. The writing voice is given permission to sprout new leaves. What I hear today could be the layout of a new character. I hear the voice but never see the face. It's my job as the writer to give him, her or it a life to live. Jodi Picoult says, "Characters seem to pick their own paths. They have an agenda that I as the writer never know. Until the conversation or plot begins inching its way across the typed page." I'm not like most writers that demand a private layout for word dumping. My favorite place to write books is inside a Radio station studio. There's an energy present. Vibrantly available for anyone to tap into. Use it wrong. The next step is a collection of mood swings incapable of keeping your mouth shut. Writing voices want to be heard. They'll piss you off to point of knocking your head up against the wall. They'll embrace you to tears. Pick you up. Tip you over. Then spend the rest of the night laughing about it. Jodi Picoult claims to know the characters of her books better than anyone else. She's emotionally invested in them. My first wife was the same way. She'd be introduced to a new character in her writing and for weeks that person would be invited to dinner, take a Sunday bath and have popcorn and ice cream on Wednesdays. Everything we lived was based on how that character came to her in the book and each scene was in fact something we had lived. I'm just glad she didn't write murder mysteries. How do you know if you have a writing voice? Two questions: Were you born on the planet earth? Do you wonder, wish, fear, feel, fool around with or fuss at yourself when nobody is watching. You have a voice. Only you can give it a stage. What's stopping you? Oh that's right... Other people's opinions. The best way around that is an itty bitty Arroe-ism I developed a couple of decades back. In a very casual situation. In front of family or friends. In the core of a great conversation. I softly say, "If you do anything that might bring injury to my creative self. The next time this event takes place I'm gonna make so much noise that they'll be forced to invite me to go home first. That's ok because you'll be stuck having to explain."

Pictures Of A New Book: Part Thirty Four

Brave but stupid.  Fun but still too much toward the invisible.  No matter what I write.  How it's presented.  The end result of nearly everything punched into the well worn nubs of a computer keyboard is another person's opinion.   

I'm a sucker for it.  Art gallery shows in cities where I couldn't defend or better sell.  Radio shows controlled by nationally known consultants and brilliant programmers spouting, "Do it this way.  Now try this.  I know what I said but let's twist it again then again." 

Often described as constructive criticism; calling a spade a spade...the expression is still an opinion.

I've decided to change the name of my Blog from Blah Blah Radio to Scrambled Eggs.  Yeah... kind of sort of after my new book of the same title.  The more pages that seep from these fingertips the less radio plays in the multitudes of performances I'm required to put on.  Radio is 1/1000th of who I am.  It doesn't deserve to infect the flow of oil scooting through my engine.  It's just an envelope connected to a hundred thousand more.

Which is why as a writer I've pushed myself toward separating the Blogs.  Instead of crunching spiritual speak next to Rock Jock talk.  Why not give the interviewer his own envelope?  The writer acts like a teenager so it's time to give him his own room.

It's a test.  A view of where readers are and how they move.  I'm searching for something that may not exist but when I find it.  I'll do everything within my writing power to share it.

I host five Blogs. 

1. Unplugged And Totally Uncut

2. Connecting Road:  The Preacher And The Poet

3.  Rock Jock Talk

4.  Scrambled Eggs

And one that's totally anonymous.  The authors identity isn't important. 

It's not ego!  I'm a Broadcaster.  Rarely if ever do you find Hip Hop on a Country station. 

I hosted a five hour lecture this past Monday.  A huge room blessed with performers claiming to have been personally called by the Radio Gods, "Love ya mean it but your energy and wild imagination is needed on the radio." 

I love hearing their stories!  No two Broadcasters come from the same mold.  Each journey has been shaped by a passion.   It could be a brilliant play on a football field to a guitar riff that refuses to cut free of your desire to be.  Real people conditioned to believe they're the answer for Talk Radio.  Shy peeps with no switch to crank up their vocal strength whisper, "I don't know what I want to be." 

After each story.  I stood there carefully trying to come up with a leverage. 

Motivate.  Connect.  Leverage.  I live it.  I breathe it.  To help.  To fine tune.  To blend, mix and shake up. 

Instead of saying, "You are brilliant!  You're going to be stars!  I will hire you tomorrow!" 

Nope....  I chose to put the writer ahead of all things, "Are any of you Blogging yet?  The new age of Broadcasting is connecting.  Radio and TV motivate.  As a Broadcaster in a community that's chosen to support you...you've got to have leverage.  You have to write every day.  Find your listener.  Know who is watching.  Live through their experiences.  Get the attention off you and figure out what the hourly change in language is."

Not even a golf clap.  No dull roar.  Mumble.  Snicker or someone wanting to take a break. 

"Millions of people have been convinced that radio and television are where they need to be.  Yet top dog researchers and satellite addicted music nuts have labeled the industry dead.  Those bastards can still be reached.  Through your writing.  It's still Broadcasting!"

I challenged them to begin a Blog.  Share your story!  Talk to the 999,999 other people trying to do what you've set out to become.      

Not even a golf clap.  No dull roar.  Mumble.  Snicker or someone wanting to take a break. 

No matter what I write.  How it's presented.  The end result of nearly everything punched into the well worn nubs of a computer keyboard is another person's opinion.   I'm a sucker for it. 

The photo presented is a snap shot of my writing from the 2nd grade and beyond.  It was once neatly placed in boxes in Montana.  Until the day I had ten minutes to race to the attic of my parents house and stuff as much as I could get into a suitcase til overflowing.

I'm convinced that this is what it looks like inside a computer's memory system a wishful terabyte wide.    

Pictures Of A New Book: Part Thirty Three

Writing daily was once my secret thing. To be free to release was like breathing underwater. Once free from writing I’d quickly run to hide what had spilled from my fingertips. Only to realize. Nobody knew what I was speaking of. I’ve often been labeled quirky. They think I’m weird so I set out to prove it. Writing is music so I made it. Writing is my daily blank canvas so I painted then quickly sold the works to raise money for nonprofit organizations. Writing helps radio and television commercials move people you’ll never meet. Writing generates huge pictures in my mind that I can never find enough words to explain. Writing connects me to the four hundred thousand voices that keep me awake at two in the morning. How could I keep this from anyone? So I stopped hiding it. Only to learn people still think I’m a freak. More so now that I’m open. My new book Scrambled Eggs. The vow is to write it in my language. To give away the accent that lives in the core of a soul that enjoys staring at me in the bathroom mirror. Chuckle, cry, hold onto, massage and have compassion for and against…I’ve never felt so much emotion while writing this. Tiny bits of paragraphs have been given to friends. Silently they sit far from a chapter of let’s pretend. Holy Mother of God they have no problem expressing, “You’re a freak! You write in ways that make me think and I don’t have time for that.” Only one has heard me share the sentences in length. One has taken the time to listen to how I separate thought from destination. One bravely sits in a room to hear the artist open his writing point of view. I shut them off this week. It’s not fair to the other readers forced to think without hearing my voice speak. I know the punctuation. I know where to breathe. I know the value of what I don’t pretend to release. Readers are stuck trying to figure out the accent of my language. To which I vowed, “I must remain for the first time true to who I am while writing.” The anger and pain grew instantly from the one that chose to listen. How dare I keep from them the story! So hurt I was that they were hurt. Then another friend said to me, “Have them read it to you. So you can hear your readers think. So the voices that come to them when your words appear have a place to escape. Listen to their take. Study how they handle your word shapes. You could very well scream, “I am such a freak!” But it doesn’t matter. This book. This is the one I vowed to keep in the accent in the way my fingertips speak.

Pictures Of A New Book: Part Thirty Two

I recently spent some time interviewing nationally recognized comedian Jim Norton. First question out of the box, "How much longer before real writers of comedy grab hold of nightly sitcoms?" Final question, "What goes through a group of comedians minds backstage before being called out?" Face Book and Twitter have turned the art of individualized writing and expression into avenues of bitching. It's totally human to be attracted! Without having to fork out four bucks for a People Magazine...you've got something to compare your life and style too. The problem with turning your writing habits into a "product" is a serious lack of willingness to invite others to the party. Collaborating has always been the key to success. I love Michael Jordon but even he knows it took the "entire" team to make him the greatest player on earth. Bon Jovi is the collaboration of Jon and Richie Sambora. The group Boston wasn't really a group. It was the dou of Tom Sholtz and Brad Delp. Author Mary Karr wouldn't have made it to HBO without agreeing to a screenplay collaboration. Her recent teaming up with Country Music great Rodney Crowell opened her poetic soul to a newer wave of impression. My first six books were written by me. Edited by employees. My current adventure "Scrambled Eggs" is being written differently. A less ego, more available to speak about, share with, listen to your views approach. While still having the writer's courage of saying, "Hmmmm let me digest the constructive criticism and get back to you." Mary Karr's wisdom to writers is simple: Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail better. As much as you want to believe it's an old fashioned date with setting yourself up for failure. I find myself agreeing with her honest, ego-less, available approach. In the world of advertising. The most difficult part of getting the message to move people isn't the use of vocal inflection but rather the construction of better sentences. The advertising world is currently controlled by clients that have no clue how to reach an invisible audience. I would never walk into a restaurant and expect to cook my own meal. Advertisers are allowed to control what is and isn't commercial copy. Commercial copy without leadership is a serious waste of money. Mary goes on to explain, "Most bad writers are very confident." That's an eye opener. Or is it? How long does it take you to drop a Radio station from its dial position? How many books have you read lately whose chapters are shorter? Come with titles that act as stopping points? Feature less depth and more Face Book comparison? This time around. Being a Daily Blogger plays a major role in how my new book Scrambled Eggs will be delivered to readers. It's a collaboration of everybody I am. The poet, producer, musician, copywriter, blogger, interviewer, on-air radio talent and guy who thinks too much in heavy amounts of horrible rush hour traffic. And believe it or not... we are all getting along. I have the courage to convey to a business owner, "Hey... how long does it take you to tune out of a Radio commercial?" Their reply changes the surface of their game plan toward advertising success. Radio sales reps don't like me because of my passion to put the writer ahead of all things created. Now back to the original paragraph of this entry: Nationally recognized comedian Jim Norton was asked, "How much longer before real writers of comedy grab hold of nightly sitcoms?" His reply, "I can't write drama." To which I responded, "I've seen you on stage. You have an incredible way of pulling people too you. That's a full understanding of how drama works." Final question, "What goes through a group of comedians minds backstage before being called out?" They pee... The photo featured is my writing hand. This collaboration with a writing instrument has put words in the eyes of readers in Russia, Korea, France, Butte, Montana and on the flatness of my Radio station computer screen. As for writing better Radio commercials? Accept the idea that 98.3% of what is being offered to clients will be a revision. What you know as a communicator is a gamble to those purchasing time. For there to be better Radio commercials the writer needs to begin the journey of building a relationship of trust with the owners of business willing to sacrifice money for sound.