Ball Four and Marketing

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:

ball-four-front-image-onlyThere’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.

A.J.

You can find me at these awesome places:

A.J. Brown Facebook Fan Club

A.J. Brown Facebook Author Page

A.J. Brown Amazon Author Page

A.J. Brown Storyteller Website

@ajbrown36 on Twitter

Wattpad

Email: ajbrown36@bellsouth.net

 

 

Goodbye, Mr. Wonka

Willy Wonka died on Monday, August 29th. Yes, I know his name was Gene Wilder, but stick with me here. For most of us in our mid-forties at this time, Wilder’s portrayal of Roald Dahl’s Willy Wonka, from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, is a significant piece of our childhood. For this reason, though Wilder did several other great films, many of us still view him as Willy Wonka.

The movie, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, had a bit of everything in it. Well, not romance, and I’m okay with that. It had action, mystery, a cool storyline, memorable characters, hope, and yes, a resolution at the end. It also had quirky humor, which as a kid, I couldn’t fully appreciate. As an adult, however, I find it refreshing, even now.

Take for instance, this exchange between Wonka and Mr. Salt (whose daughter was Veruca, a bratty child if there ever were one. I guess she would have been considered entitled in today’s society.):

Mr. Salt: What is this, Wonka? Some kind of fun house?

Wonka: Why? Are you having fun?

Or we can look at this statement, after Wonka is asked about the legitimacy of a contract (yes, there was a contract in the movie):

I’m sorry, but all questions must be submitted in writing.

One thing that was evident to me when I was a kid was that all of the children who won golden tickets (with the exception of Charlie) and their parents were all brats. Yes, the parents were brats, maybe even more so than the children. It was always the behavior of the children (and their parents) that led to something drastic happening, thus leading to many people’s favorite scenes involving the Oompa Loompas.

(I want an Oompa Loompa right now!)

If you are not aware, the Oompa Loompas trotted out after one of the kids did something they shouldn’t have and they sang a little ditty. There were always three verses to the songs, and the Oompa Loompas always appeared as if they were begging you to heed their warnings.

Oompa Loompa doompadee doo

I’ve got another puzzle for you

Oompa Loompa doompadee dee

If you are wise you will listen to me

Then came the puzzle, which was never really a puzzle at all, but more of a declaration on manners, something that 45 years ago, when the movie came out, was more of a topic than it is now. Yeah, hard to believe, isn’t it? My favorite declaration…err…puzzle is as follows:

Who do you blame when your kid is a brat

Pampered and spoiled like a Siamese cat?

Blaming the kids is a lion of shame

You know exactly who’s to blame:

The mother and the father!

Like I said, that’s not a puzzle, but a declaration.

They always closed with a message about doing things the right way.

Oompa Loompa doompadee dah

If you’re not spoiled then you will go far

You will live in happiness too

Like the Oompa Loompa doompadee do

In a way, each verse to the Oompa Loompa’s songs was like a story, with a beginning, a middle and an ending. Only these stories were more like parables, meant as a lesson to anyone who would listen. And that is one of the beauties of the book, and by extension, the movie, which expanded on Dahl’s thoughts.

There was more to Willy Wonka then just lessons that, as children, most of us missed. There was wisdom.

A little nonsense now and then, is relished by the wisest men.

This was Wonka’s response to Mr. Salt (yet again) when he said ‘that’s a lot of nonsense,’ to the fact that the geese that laid golden eggs didn’t know Easter was over. I always wondered what he meant to this. Was it Wonka’s way of saying all work and no play makes Mr. Salt a dull boy? I don’t know, but there is a ring of truth to it: too much seriousness can make you totally unhappy. And sometimes being naive to something is not necessarily a bad thing.

One of my favorite nuggets in the movie is how Wonka replies to Veruca (go figure) when she says, “Snozzberries? Who’s ever heard of a snozzberry?” His response was to grab her cheeks with one hand and turn her face to his and state:

We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams.

It’s not an original saying. In fact, that is the opening portion to a poem simply titled, ‘Ode,’ by Arthur O’Shaughnessy. But when you think about it, both O’Shaughnessy and Wonka were right. We really are the music makers. We really are the dreamers of dreams. All of us, whether we realize it or not, are dreamers and our souls and hearts are the music makers. The dreamers of the world are the ones who make changes. They are the ones who don’t tend to conform to societal standards. They are the ones who not only think outside the box, but they break the box down and throw it into the incinerator. And then they build their own boxes that someone else can think out of and destroy at a later date.

Dare to dream. Dare to make music that is different than the norm. Dare to write what you want to write and not conform to the rigidity of the rules of writing. Dare to tell a story that moves people. Just dare.

The rest of that poem is as follows, just in case you were wondering:

We are the music-makers,

And we are the dreamers of dreams,

Wandering by lone sea-breakers

And sitting by desolate streams;

World losers and world forsakers,

On whom the pale moon gleams:

Yet we are the movers and shakers

Of the world for ever, it seems.

 

With wonderful deathless ditties

We build up the world’s great cities.

And out of a fabulous story

We fashion an empire’s glory:

One man with a dream, at pleasure,

Shall go forth and conquer a crown;

And three with a new song’s measure

Can trample an empire down.

 

We, in the ages lying

In the buried past of the earth,

Built Nineveh with our sighing,

And Babel itself with our mirth;

And o’erthrew them with prophesying

To the old of the new world’s worth;

For each age is a dream that is dying,

Or one that is coming to birth. 

Lessons, lessons, lessons all about life are present throughout the movie and brought to life by Gene Wilder’s work as the quirky, and somewhat Eeyore-ish, Willy Wonka. Again, to quote the movie:

So much time, so little to do. Wait a minute. Strike that. Reverse it.

So much to do, so little time is what he meant, but if you weren’t paying attention you missed it when watching the movie. There is so much truth to that. We all want to do so much, but do we use our time wise enough so that we can get those things done and enjoy life as well?

Though there is so much more I can go into with the brilliance of this movie, there is only really one more thing to touch on. At one point, shortly after everyone is allowed into  Wonka’s candy land (literally), Gene Wilder sings a song. The song is titled Pure Imagination and it was written by Leslie Bricusse and Anthony Newley specifically for Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. I have always thought the song went so well with the movie and especially the poem, ‘Ode.’

How, you ask?

We are the dreamers of dreams and these lyrics:

If you want to view paradise

Simply look around and view it

Anything you want to, do it

Want to change the world?

There’s nothing to it

If you want to make changes in the world, you have to dream those dreams and then get after it. Willy Wonka wanted to create candy children would love. He wanted to give a home to the Oompa Loompas. He wanted to create the everlasting gobstopper. He dreamed the dreams and then made the music…err…candy so many people in the movie loved.

Willy Wonka was different. So was Gene Wilder, who really epitomized the concept of being your own person. They both taught us to dream and to chase those dreams and to not be like everyone else.

(Anything you want to, do it.)

Today I say goodbye to Willy Wonka and Gene Wilder. Thank you for your whimsical view on life and the way you gave a generation of children hope.

(What to change the world? There’s nothing to it.)

Until we meet again my friends, be kind to one another.