I’m often asked, “Did you get stage fright before a concert or performing on live TV?”
“Nope,” would be my answer.
Sure, I got butterflies and cited my “just-don’t-screw-up” mantra, but all-in-all, I thrived in such settings. Honest.
Now ask me the same question in regards to being in my own videos! I’m proud of how they turned out, and I’m eternally grateful to Matt Giesler who donated his talent, but now I’Mthe focal point (gulp!)
I can’t hide behind my bass and sunglasses!
So here they are. I wanted them to be short, entertaining and informative.
How would you like the chance to win a free, autographed copy of Martyr’s Moon?
Simply click I WANNA WIN! to go to the Goodreads sign up page. Sorry, this is for US/Canadian residents only. You also may have to join Goodreads, but that too is free!
Still not willing? Here’s what one reviewer had to say about the book. “I found myself engrossed in the journey and dreaming about my own adventure.” complete review.
Still not convinced? How about a free e-book of Book I, Tears of Min Brock to the lucky winners? After all, Martyr’s Moon is Book II of the War of Whispers series, and it’s only fair you have the book that started the journey.
WARNING! I’m going to vent. In fact, you can file this under Marketing Sucks or Twitter Twitter Little Star! or I Like You, Will You Like Me?
I hate selling stuff. I just do. Oh, I’m passionate about my books and I know I’m the best person to sell them, but I’m an artist through and through and prefer being creative over sharing my elevator speech to another soccer mom.
I know I’m not alone in this quandary. Check out SC Harrison’s Blog for her tongue-in-cheek insights.
Before you post witty, pithy comments to try and encourage me to sell or to remind me that it’s a necessary part of the job, let me say that I learned as much when I was a musician here in Nashville. More on that later.
So what has me shaking my fist at the Marketing Monster this morning?
I befriended a new Twitter author and checked out their book. 4 stars. Impressive. I scrolled through the gushing reviews to learn that many had given the book only 1 star. Curious, I read their comments.
Harsh! One even quipped that they purchased the book based upon the 4 stars but found the book to be poorly written with a weak storyline. They pressed through anyway in hope that it would get better.
I know not everyone will like our books, but these reviews were polar opposite in comparison to the other comments. My gut tells me this author hired reviewers to get their 4 STARS so they could shoot to the top of Amazon.
As a retired music pro, I know what it’s like to swim with sharks, do business with squirrels and perform with snakes. Back in the day, I competed against musicians who were great at selling themselves and rocketed past me to better gigs. But as time unfolded, and they had to deliver the goods, they showed their true talent.
As quickly as they were the top dog, they were dropped, forgotten and faded into oblivion. I continued to improve/persevere and found myself with better jobs and notoriety.
What’s my point?
Well, let’s get back to this author I have tied to the whipping post. It doesn’t matter how many blasted stars they have or how many Tweets they send or how AWESOME reviewers say their book about “Amish vampire finds true love with a gypsy-alien” really is (not the real title!) In fact, go ahead and label your crap as crème brûlée! Eventually readers will notice that foul taste is in their mouth and run for the toilet to heave.
But what has me really irked is that readers are the ones being bamboozled by the this shell game of “let’s hide the crap.” That is SO wrong!
As for me, I know I have a LONG way to go as a writer. I’ll continue to hone my craft and let my work (hopefully!) cut through the sword rattling that’s being done in cyber space.
Yes, I’ll continue to pound the pavement and keep my head above water in the social media frenzy, but I won’t succumb to paying for reviews.
As a house painter, I spend a lot of time in other people’s homes. Although I’m not a sociologist, my years of painting have shown me that the timeless adage is true: the kitchen is the heart of the family. And in my humble opinion, the epicenter is the refrigerator. With just a glance, I can learn a lot about a family. Pictures tell me who they love, what they value, and where they vacation. Magnets indicate which sports team they cheer, what mechanic they deem trustworthy, or who is their orthodontist. Report cards, funny drawings, quirky cartoons…all but a facet of a family’s DNA.
Today’s blog is about a typical day on the job that quickly became extraordinary. I’ve changed the names of the family for anonymity purposes, and the quotes are from memory, but the heart of the story (as well as the organization and band) is spot on. I hope you’ll be as touched as I was…
I stare at the photo. I’ve been in their home now for two days and have seen the picture regularly. You can’t miss it: positioned prominently on the refrigerator and printed on a sheet of computer paper. But despite the colors being a bit grainy, the celebrity in the photo is very recognizable.
“Is that Dave Matthews?” I ask Susan, the homemaker.
“Yes.” She beams with motherly pride.
My eyes sweep across the picture. To the left of Dave is the guitarist and off to the right their drummer. And although Dave is the focal point of the photograph, my eyes zero in on the drummer and more specifically, his beaming smile. It’s then that I notice his arm draped over a teenage boy’s shoulder. He too is smiling, but it appears masked. Eyes are shadowed and his countenance is gray, perhaps even pale. Maybe it’s a result of the computer’s printer. But something deep inside tells me otherwise.
“The Make-A-Wish Foundation contacted us,” Susan offers as if reading my mind, “and asked Shaun what he wished for. He told them that he wanted to go to a Dave Matthews concert. So they flew him to Madison Square Gardens to see the show.”
Silence. Reverence. Questions loom, but all are none of my business.
“What an awesome experience!” I reply, and although I’m sincere, my words are shallow in comparison to the moment. In an effort to offer her a worthier reply, I add: “Meeting the band after the NY show must have been a dream come true.”
“Actually, he didn’t,” Susan corrects, relishing the opportunity to share the story about her son. “That photo was taken upstairs.”
My eyes jump back to the images. Sure enough, I recognize the bonus room pictures in the background. Aghast, and obviously not making the connection, I flash her a bamboozled expression.
“After the NY show, Dave learned we were there and informed Make-A-Wish that had he known, he would have met with us. So when the band was scheduled to perform nearby, Make-A-Wish asked us if Shaun would like to come to the show and meet the band.” She savors the memory, letting its sweetness join her smile before fanning across her face. “Naturally, we said, ‘Yes!’”
She pauses and her expression shifts delicately, like daylight fading at dusk. “But when it came time for the concert, he was too sick to go.”
I find myself studying Shaun. Now I understand his muted smile, noting how the chemo robbed him of his color, and that his fight with cancer landed the dark circles around his eyes.
My heart aches.
Susan continues. “And then his manager called asking if it would be okay if they came by after the show.” Her smile is back, the memory delightful once more. “Sure enough, around midnight, two tour buses pulled up to our front door. They stayed for about an hour.”
“You’re kidding?” I reply, amazed that a rock star would not only make a house call, but would take time to “hang.”
Susan nods, the memory anchoring her to her son. “In fact, Make-A-Wish said in all their years of doing this, they’ve never known a celebrity to actually go to someone’s home.”
No doubt, I muse.
Her expression shifts; shadowy fingers trace dark lines across her face. “Several days later, Dave called personally to see how Shaun was doing.” Her eyes mist. “I told him Shaun had died that morning.”
I feel myself sinking, lost in emotions too deep to traverse. There is nothing left to say. We take in the picture in silence, and then Susan turns to go about her day. But I cannot let go of the photograph. I marvel how it captures Shaun’s dream of just hanging out with his favorite band, being what he is suppose to be…a kid full of hope.
Shaun’s eyes tug at me. Blasting through the darkness of his disease, fighting to be free forever, are prisms of light. And shining within, I see what his family must see, and why the photo is displayed so prominently on their refrigerator.