Beem Weeks's Blog - Posts Tagged "jazz-baby"

A big THANK YOU to all those who have taken an interest in my novel Jazz Baby. Your interest helped put it at number one on this week's Indie Tribe Top Ten. I am stunned and amazed by this news. Thank you all so much.

An extra huge CONGRATULATIONS to Sienna Rose. Her fantastic novel Bridge Ices Before Road is at number five on this week's Indie Tribe Top Ten. Good job, Sienna.

You can see this week's list at http://www.theindietribe.wordpress.com

Emily Ann "Baby" Teegarten is a young girl with big dreams. She has the sort of voice that convicts sinners simply through song. But Baby has bigger aspirations than singing spirituals to that Mississippi congregation on Sunday mornings during the summer of 1925. The girl yearns to sing jazz in the clubs way up in New York City. Her father is her biggest supporter, standing behind the girl every step of the way--until he passes away suddenly. Her mother, accused in the father's demise, follows him to the grave shortly thereafter.

So what's a poor white-trash orphan girl supposed to do to answer the call of her dreams? Her strict, Bible-believing Aunt Francine has ideas of her own for this tiny girl with the big voice. She brokers a marriage between Emily and Jobie Pritchett, the preacher's son.

Emily Ann is a composite of several girls I've known over the years. There is a psychological element to this character that comes from reality, as harsh and dark as that might seem to some readers. She demanded to be written into existence. I could hear her voice, with that Mississippi lilt, calling out to me from the ether, arguing that it's her time, so pick up that pen, author man, and get to writing.

What Jazz Baby is meant to be is a trip into the year 1925; a shared summer with one young girl trying to find her way in life, in the world of her day. I spent untold hours in researching the era and that region of the country, and human behavior in general. The thing about human behavior is, it doesn't change, no matter the era in which we live. Stories from that era, told to me by my own grandfather, seem to suggest that the young people from the 1920s sought out the same things young people from the 2010s search after.

These weren't asexual, sober, boring people back then. Not at all. The stories I heard, either directly or through eavesdropping, told tales of young and vibrant lives, of men and women on the prowl for good times, cheap booze, and dirty sex. Not at all different from today. (Google "vintage porn" and see how many nudie pics from the 1920s pop up.) The thing is, today we see our grandparents (mine are long dead) as old people who spend a lot of time in church, doing good and Godly things. But they were young once. Young, and quite different from who they are today. Humans grow older, we mature, we change. It's part of the life experience.

I found it interesting that opium was a popular recreational drug in use during that era. Marijuana grew wild in parts of the country, going unmolested by the local authorities, many of whom would consider it silly to dedicate time, money, and effort in trying to eradicate a weed. The young people of the 1920s, the partiers, were the very ones partaking of these forbidden fruits.

One reviewer referred to the characters in Jazz Baby as "Blue Velvet-type characters." I like that comparison, though that movie never once crossed my mind as I wrote the book. These are indeed a collection of strange and bizarre types. I've always loved stories that break from the normal novel template. Good, quirky characters are a blast to create. The idea for the character called "Pig" came from a documentary film on 1920s movie star Fatty Arbuckle. He'd watched his career ruined through a sexual scandal that had no basis in truth. But in Jazz Baby, this character truly is scandalous. He really has those "unnatural" appetites.

Even Emily Ann has a bit of the quirky in her. She's fearless, reckless, and foolish, the way she traipses around the streets of New Orleans, running through the red-light district once known as Storyville, where she considers an invitation to allow her virginity to be auctioned to the highest bidder in a Storyville whorehouse. She's a fan of bootleg whiskey, opium, and cigarettes, and she hasn't a care in the world. Sexuality awakens in the girl, has her pondering the things that can take place between a boy and a girl--or between two girls. Is she bi-sexual? Labels mean nothing to Emily. And neither does race, as she spends much of her time in the company of "colored" jazz musicians, sharing intimacy with a certain piano player.

But the streets are quite dangerous for a young girl of Emily's size and age. Not everyone she meets has her best interests at heart. This is where that reckless side could cost her more than she's able afford. Dark characters have their own ideas for this girl, how best to profit from her talents--even her father's best friend proffers his own schemes.

It took me upwards near ten years to complete this novel, with all the rewrites, the research, and a two-year abandonment. It is available at Amazon http://www.tinyurl.com/bbj4my7 as a paperback or an ebook for Kindle, and at Barnes & Noble http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/jazz-... for Nook.

You can even have a free read of chapter one at http://freshinkgroup.com/books/jazzbaby

So give it a read and let me know what you think. For those who'd like to review it, drop me a message and I'll gladly email a free PDF.

When writing a story, be it short or long, do you outline your project first? I do—to an extent. When I sat down to write my novel Jazz Baby, I wrote an extensive outline, diagrammed every twist and turn my story would take from the beginning to the end—and all points in between. Then I wrote the story and so very little of that original outline actually made it onto the pages of the finished product.

Let’s face it: Real life cannot be diagrammed. Life is spontaneous. Things happen that we could never foresee. Death is seldom predictable, yet it visits each and every single person born on this planet.

Spontaneity brings realism to fiction.

That doesn’t mean an author should write by the seat of his/her pants. I’ll outline the bare bones of a story; work up a feel for where it will start and where it will end. But all of that in-between stuff, that’s where spontaneity comes into play. This is usually the fun part of writing. Even I, as author, won’t know the full extent of what a character may say or do until the moment arrives.

But allowing spontaneity to take root is not as simple as just writing whatever comes into your head. If the hero does something that’s out of character, you risk losing readers. In other words, if your hero is an honest guy, you can’t have him stop a robbery in one scene, then watch as he steals money from a Girl Scout in the next scene—unless you’ve already established this guy has those sorts of flaws. This is where a good outline comes in handy. If you’ve taken time to flesh-out your characters, discovering likes and dislikes, quirks, behavior patterns, and such, you’ll be able to insert these characters into scenes that are believable.

However, doing things out of character doesn’t necessarily make for bad storytelling. If there’s a reason, a situation, or even the unexplainable—and it’s done right—a character may behave in a manner that is unrecognizable by even those closest to that person. The American TV series Breaking Bad pulled this off in brilliant fashion over the course of five seasons.

Short stories are a different animal compared to novels—at least for me. I don’t usually outline my short stories (at least not extensively). They begin life as a few words jotted on Post-It notes. These words usually consist of an idea that comes to me while I’m busy doing other things. Last night, I had an idea for a short story. The words on the Post-It read simply: Girl, closet, candle, heroin; trouble with parents. Moody. Eventually, after much consideration, I’ll begin building the story inside my head. When I feel it begins to make sense, can hear the characters voices, and know where I want to go with it, I’ll then start writing the story.

Outlines are important—to an extent. They help keep a story on track, giving the author an understanding of where to start and where to finish. Just don’t get so caught up in the outline that you’ve squeezed all of the spontaneity from your story. Life isn’t diagrammed; it’s filled with shock and surprise and joy and horror. Your writing should be that way, too.

In the quest to reach a wider audience, which in turn will hopefully mean selling more books, I have teamed up with my publisher, Fresh Ink Group LLC, in lowering the price on the Jazz Baby ebook. It will now be just .99 cents U.S. and .77 U.K.

I’m on the fence when it comes to giveaways. I certainly see the potential there. I’ve even downloaded some terrific books by means of the freebie. But still, I just find myself struggling with the idea of giving away my blood, sweat, and tears.

We haven’t put a time frame on the length of this price drop. We’ll play it by ear and see where it leads.

I would also like to point out that Papala Skies by Stephen Geez has been lowered to .99 cents U.S. and .77 U.K. for the ebook version. If this lower price meets with success, other titles in the Fresh Ink Group catalogue will most likely follow this price drop.

Greetings, all. I would like to share the brand new Jazz Baby book trailer.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rgyru...

This incredible trailer is produced by 4 Wills Publishing. If you are interested in scoring a quality trailer for your book, visit: https://4willspublishing.wordpress.co...

Okay, so Jazz Baby has a brand new cover. Why the change? Well, to be honest, I hated the original cover—hated it with a passion. Everything I had hoped it would be fell well short of the original vision I saw for my first novel. I had intended for the image to convey a feel for the era in which the story unfolds. It failed miserably.

There are elements of the original cover that were in line with what I envisioned. Unfortunately, the main image came off as cartoonish and amateurish. This detracted from the story itself. I recall a few readers mentioning that cover as a hurdle they had to overcome when deciding to purchase the book. How many others chose to pass on it?

So here it is, with its brand new cover, spine, and back cover. We also cleaned up the few typos that slipped past the editorial process. It’s a fresh new day for Jazz Baby.

A very special thank you to Fresh Ink Group for creating this amazing new cover.

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Jazz-Baby-Beem-...

Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/jazz-...

Introducing the brand new video book trailer for Jazz Baby. This video is produced by Fresh Ink Group. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k9HyH...

In the years since Jazz Baby first saw publication, some readers have been curious as to what happened to Emily Ann “Baby” Teegarten. Did she ever make it to New York? Were her dreams of singing jazz professionally ever realized? Did she find success? Well, presented here, is an interview with Baby Teegarten, which takes place ten years after the novel ends. This is meant to be a glimpse into the life our protagonist may have created for herself.

THE INTERVIEW

Monday, April 15, 1935

She chose the meeting place. I could lie and tell you readers that I arrived thirty minutes early just to get a feel for the room. But the truth of the matter is, I get a little nervous with this one. Most of you have been reading my column for the better part of 15 years. You know the names that have graced my page: Babe Ruth, Harry Houdini, Clara Bow, Harold Lloyd—even Charlie Chaplin agreed to a sit-down chat back in 1924.

Still, this one is different.

The she I’m referring to is popular jazz vocalist Baby Teegarten. They don’t come any bigger than Baby these days. Three consecutive years as the country’s highest-paid entertainer proves this fact.

I lock down a table at the rear of McSorley’s Tavern on East 7th Street—which also happens to hold a strict policy for not allowing women inside.

But Baby Teegarten, well, she’s not just any woman.

“This is her neighborhood,” the fellow tending bar tells me. “She has a swanky place overlooking Central Park. Bought it from Babe Ruth himself.”

It’s the Babe who introduced Baby to McSorley’s.

“Nobody bothers her in here,” the barkeep explains. “Besides, if she’s pals with the Babe, she’s all right by us.”

I knock back a Scotch and soda. It’s what steadies my nerves. Only Mae West ever had me taking a nip before an interview.

I’ve seen Baby perform a dozen times easily—this going back to those first shows she did at Swelby’s Joint. Two thousand patrons lined up every night just to witness the Baby. She’d been just shy of her fourteenth birthday back in those early shows. But any fool with eyes and ears could tell she was special.

Oh, sure, we all recall the backlash at allowing a mere child up on those club stages. But nobody could—or would—stand in that girl’s way. No, sir. She’d have busted any full-grown man in the chops, should one be so bold as to try.

Prompt, this one. She arrives at 3 o’clock sharp, with her entourage in tow. By entourage I mean her manager, Abe Horowitz, and Job Pritchett, husband of Baby.

Mr. Pritchett, he’s a large fellow, to be sure. Tall and wide; real sturdy; the sort of man who likely spent his youth throwing bales of hay around the farm, maybe even punching cows—literally. Hollywood handsome: blond hair worn messy, pale blue eyes, an easy laugh. He’s more threatening than threatened. Famous in his own right, he’s known the world over for his paintings and sculptures.

Baby is a true vision, greeting patrons by name up by the front door. She’s resplendent in a violet-colored summer dress that falls just below her knees. Diamonds sparkle on her fingers and wrists, her ears, at her delicate throat. There’s even a gold bracelet on her right ankle.

Eyes as green as emeralds track me down in my corner.

There’s a subtle sweetness in her scent.

Lilacs.

“Hey, there,” she says. “I’m supposed to talk with you today?”

I’m lost for words in this moment, so I just nod like a mute fool.

“You don’t mind it here, do you?” Her accent is rich, wrapping her every word in a southern twang thicker than molasses—and just as sweet.

My voice carries a slight tremble, but I manage a quick, “No, ma’am.”

Baby Teegarten settles on a bar stool next to mine. “This is Mister Pritchett, my husband,” she says.

Job Pritchett’s massive hand takes mine with a gentle squeeze. “Good to meet you,” he tells me in a boyish tone. A lucky fellow, this one.

Abe Horowitz needs no introduction: Club owner, manager of a handful of singers and musicians. Connected. He mined gold when he discovered Baby Teegarten.

Job’s lips brush Baby’s lips. His voice comes soft, almost a soothing thing. “Me and Abe will be up at the bar—if you need us.”

It passes there in the space between them: his subtle caress of her cheek, her gentle squeeze of his hand. These two are infatuated with one another.

“Lord a-mercy, I love that boy,” she says, once we’re alone. “We got our tenth anniversary coming this summer.” She waves her right hand in my face. “He just got me this one right here.”

She means the full carat diamond set in white gold on her ring finger.

“What does it feel like to make more money than the president of the United States?” I ask, leading us into the interview.

Her petite shoulders give up a shrug. “Just means I can buy whatever I want—’Cept Jobie’s the one buys my jewelry. That boy makes nearly as much as me.”

She’s a tiny thing, maybe five foot two. I’m guessing it might take an extra big lunch to push her past a hundred pounds. And though she doesn’t mention it, this day is her twenty-third birthday.

I ask, “When did you first start singing?”

“Since I can recollect. Pastor Pritchett first had me up in front of the congregation when I was just five. That’s when I took to singing for other folks who ain’t just my kin.”

“Mississippi, right?”

Her head tips a short nod. “Down Rayford—up a piece from Biloxi.”

“A Delta girl, huh? You pick cotton down there?”

A silver cigarette case finds her hand. “Picked a bunch. Mister Kuiper used to pay me a dime for each sack I managed. I made a dollar a day most days.”

“Doesn’t sound like much.”

“It does to a little girl ain’t got much of nothin’.”

A Lucky Strike settles between her lips. Smoke rolls from her dainty nose.

Questions my editor suggested filter through the small talk. “You’re working a lot with George Gershwin. How’d that come about?”

“Georgie’s sweet,” she says, sending smoke rings chasing after her words. “His family knows Mister Horowitz’s family. He liked my voice and wrote some songs for me—’Cept I’m the one writes the words, since I’m the one has to sing ’em.”

Sales figures wedge their way into the conversation—nobody sells more phonograph records than Baby Teegarten.

“A million,” she offers. Says it as if she doesn’t really believe it herself. “I mean, a person can reach into his pocket, grab a hundred of something, and toss it on the floor and say, ‘Yep. That’s a hundred.’ But nobody can throw a million anything on the floor and count that.”

She’s had three of them reach that plateau in recent years.

“Where’s your favorite place to play?” I ask, scratching off another one from my editor.

“Paris is nice.” Her hand gives up an abbreviated wave, catching the barkeep’s attention. “What’s so amazing there is, those folks don’t speak no English, but they sure know all the words to my songs.”

A bottle arrives at our table. Not exactly what I expected.

“Co-cola,” she says, drawing a long pull. “Mister Horowitz don’t like for me to drink liquor while I’m gabbing with newspaper fellas. He says I just might talk too much.”

I feign shock. “Secrets?”

There’s an endearing sweetness in her giggle. “Oh, I got plenty of secrets.”

“Horowitz really looks after you, huh?”

“He’s the best. Like a second daddy. Doesn’t let anybody get close enough to take advantage.”

She spends a lot of time on the road, traveling by train, singing in places like Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland, St. Louis, and Kansas City. Big theaters, is where she sings these days. Gone are the smoke-filled clubs with dance floors and drunken revelers.

“I like the theaters,” she says. “And I really like seeing different places. But I do miss the New York clubs. I could do two shows a night and be at home with Mister Pritchett by one in the morning. Now, I do one show for five thousand people—nobody drinking or dancing—a night at a hotel, then up before the devil and off to the train station and the next city.”

There’s a weary tone creeping into her answers. Well, maybe weary isn’t the right word. Cautious, perhaps.

“Do you ever take time off? Maybe stay home for a while?”

She does—but only because the men in her life force her to do so.

“Once Mister Pritchett and Mister Horowitz get together, they’re worse than two fathers.”

Baby Teegarten will soon add actress to her resume. She just this week signed to play a role in a new James Cagney movie.

“It’s only a small part,” she explains. “I play a singer in a jazz club. I’ll sing two new songs they wrote just for the film.”

“Any lines?”

Just one. But that’s fine by her. “I ain’t no movie star.”

No, she’s not. But that doesn’t stop the real movie stars from turning out wherever Baby Teegarten treads a stage. It’s fashionable to be seen at her shows.

“Jean Harlow got my autograph last summer in Chicago.” She says it like it’s a normal thing that happens to most people.

“How’d you come to be friendly with Babe Ruth?”

That shrug raises her shoulders again. “He came to my shows most nights he was in town—back when I still played the clubs. Once he decided to buy a house in the country, I bought his apartment.”

“I guess that makes you a Yankees fan, huh?”

It’s a playful thing, that sideways glance she throws at me. “Ain’t no self-respecting Mississippi girl gonna ever cheer on no Yankees.”

Abe Horowitz’s approach signals a wrap to our discussion. I’d been promised twenty minutes, Baby gave me thirty.

“Gotta get ready for the trip to Hollywood,” she says, gaining her feet.

She offers a handshake, which abruptly becomes a friendly hug.

Job Pritchett, arm around Baby’s waist, sweeps the girl away, following Abe Horowitz out the front door, into the crowd moving along 7th Street.

It takes a few moments for my head to clear itself of her scent, her voice, her very presence. It’s not a difficult thing to see why so many have fallen for this lovely young woman.

“She just has a way about her,” the barkeep says as I make my getaway.

She certainly does, I tell myself. She certainly does.