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?