We have so much time and so little to do. Strike that. Reverse it. —Roald Dahl
So often on this blog, and really all of my social media, I forget to do one very important thing. Well, okay, maybe a couple of very important things, like update this blog more regularly. Bad A.J.. Bad. That’s not it, though. The one thing I forget to do on a regular basis is promote my own work (I’ll prove it in a minute).
Go ahead and nod in agreement.
I can blame it on not having enough time if I want to, but that would be a lie, or at least a partial one.
I have never been all that savvy at marketing. I don’t enjoy doing it. I tend to want to write and write and write. But there is so much more to this business than writing. That is something else I tend to forget: publishing is a business. If you have ever had your own business or worked at any job then you have been somewhere that has needed to market themselves in order to get more clients. Without marketing, there are no clients, and without clients, there is no business.
For writers, we want readers. You, Faithful Reader, the person with your eyes on these words as you, well, read them, you are our client. Without you, then every time we put out a book, it will languish in obscurity. Now for the proof:
INTERACTIVE QUESTION #1: How many of you have heard of Ball Four? This is a small collection of dark baseball stories. (Please, if you don’t mind, leave a comment below. I would love to know if you have heard of the collection.)
I don’t think many folks have heard of Ball Four. It has sold one book since its release on August 20th of 2016. One sale in almost four and a half months. Why is this? Simple: I haven’t marketed it. Sure, I’ve posted a few things on Facebook about it, but beyond that, nothing. So, why (or how) would you have heard about Ball Four? You wouldn’t have unless you have gone to my Amazon author page on a regular basis. The proof is in the pudding.
To go with having a more interactive blog, one of my goals this year is to promote my work more. As I stated earlier, I haven’t been all that great about it.
So, would you like to hear more about Ball Four? Sure you would:
There’s nothing like the sound of a little league ball park. From the dugout chants to the ping of the bat on ball or the heavy smack of a glove making a catch, nothing quite compares to kids playing America’s pastime. It’s the true innocence of the game on display, it’s the real effort to win as a team. Its kids being kids.
Though America’s game is at its best in the Little Leagues, it is also at its most tragic. There’s nothing like losing when your heart is all in. There’s nothing like failure when the game is on the line. But what if winning and losing didn’t matter?
What if it’s a bully getting what he deserves? What if it’s an old ballpark where dreams were once lived out, but now no one plays on? What if it’s a bad pitch or a base not stolen? Or what if it’s just a run short of glory? What if it’s the memory of a game many years in the past?
What if it’s lost innocence?
I truly believe baseball, at its core, is the most innocent of games for little kids. It was the one I fell in love with first as a child. It’s also the one that seems the most tragic to me. The stories (and poems—yes, I said poems) in Ball Four look at, not just the innocence of the game, but also the tragedy.
For the one book that was purchased there was a review left behind:
If you love baseball, little league or softball. The clink of a bat or the sound of cleats in the brick dirt then this is the book for you. Imagine if you will sitting in the bleachers, hearing the cheer of the crowd and the smell of popcorn in the air. The sound of the crack of a bat as a batter hits a home run. The excitement in the stands. If all of that makes your heart beat faster then you must read this book. The stories are amazing and so well told. This author knows what he is doing and does it well. I have loved baseball since I was little and when I got this book I read Dreams of a Poor Child first. It touched me so that I read it to my father who sat in my living room and bawled. We were both crying by the time I finished the story. Not because it was sad but because it brought back childhood memories for both of us. AJ Brown is a fantastic story teller. I can’t stress enough that you want to read this book and that you will absolutely love it and the rest of the books that Mr. Brown has written. Simply put….AWESOME!
Do I have your attention? I hope so. If you would like to purchase the digital version of Ball Four, head on over to Amazon and grab you a copy. If you would like the print version, you can contact me and I’ll get a copy to you. And please, leave a review—they do help.
But wait, I’m not going to leave you here with just the blurb and a review, but also a glimpse at one of the stories. I called this one The Boys of Yesteryear and this is the very beginning of it:
Gravel cracked and crumbled beneath the tires of the old beat up Chevy. The head lamps cut two beams through the darkness, shining bright on the red clay field in front of it. The car came to a shuddering stop, the engine skipping as it idled hard. Harvey shut the car off and opened the door. A cane touched ground, followed by a brown slippered foot. Harvey pushed himself out of the car, holding onto the door for leverage. He closed it. The sound of metal on metal was loud in the quiet night. He hobbled to the front of the vehicle
Even though he wore a belt, his jeans hung loose on his thin hips; his shoulders were like a hanger his shirt was draped over. Harvey slid a white cap out of his back pocket and placed it on his head, the “B” logo faded but still stitched in place. He took a deep breath—something that was hard for him to do these days—and let the crisp fall air fill his lungs.
The field still had the wood fence around it, though many of the slats had fallen away or rotted out through the years. Weeds grew in the grass of the outfield, some of it encroaching on the infield that still looked like a rough diamond. The two dugouts were mostly gone—a wooden wall still stood along one of them but not the other.
Harvey made his way to the trunk and opened it. Inside sat a bat, ball and glove, all aged and well used. He picked the baseball up and stared at it for a long while, taking in each name scrawled in black pen along its surface, some overlapping, some faded to near illegible. He set it in the glove and then lifted both out, followed by the bat, a wooden model, not one of those aluminum atrocities the kids used these days. Harvey placed the items in a bag and put it over one shoulder, just as he had done so many times as a kid. No, it wasn’t a baseball gear bag like they have today, but a bag his dad had made out of an old rifle sheathing. The brown leather was worn and cracked in some places and the stitching that held it together was frayed throughout. The zipper was broke, leaving the bag permanently open. The strap dad had attached to it had been fixed twice. Harvey thought he should have probably had it restitched before…
Leaving the trunk open, he walked back to the front of the car and reached into the passenger’s side window.
“Come on,” he said as he lifted the old glass milk jug from the car, the cork still in place. He held it close to him as he shuffled toward the field, his cane going out in front of him with each pained step. Prickles of fire ran up his left leg from ankle to hip. He winced, gritted his teeth and continued toward the dugout he had shared with eight others all those years ago …
Enticed yet? I hope so.
One more thing: my good friend, Justin Dunne, asked me one time what music should he listen to while reading a story of mine. I had to think about it for a moment or eight—I had never been asked that question before. Since then I have taken to hearing the music the stories should be read to. With that in mind I’m going to go with a couple of songs: Centerfield by John Fogerty and There Used To Be A Ballpark, by Frank Sinatra. Enjoy the stories. Enjoy the songs.
I leave you for now, Faithful Reader, and I hope you have a wonderful day. Please like, share and comment if you have a moment or two. Thank you, as always for reading.
Until we meet again my friends, be kind to one another.
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