Jim Cherry's Blog - Posts Tagged "cherry"
Writing for Examiner.com
Hello Everybody!
I've recently started writing articles on the band The Doors for the Examiner, a on-line newspaper type of thing. I'll be exploring events new, upcoming and of course some insights into the band. I hope you can join me at
www.examiner.com/x-21763-the-doors-ex...
I've recently started writing articles on the band The Doors for the Examiner, a on-line newspaper type of thing. I'll be exploring events new, upcoming and of course some insights into the band. I hope you can join me at
www.examiner.com/x-21763-the-doors-ex...
The Last Stage Review from Reviewermagazine.com
By Kathryn Reade
Michael Gray, a 30 year old liberal arts student, losing support from his parents and unable to further his degree; at a crossroads with his girlfriend and life. He comes up with an idea while perched on a bar stool at his local hang out.
Through kismet he meets a group of young musicians that have aspirations of their own. Michael Gray plots to turn his idea into the dream of a lifetime. They form a tribute cover band of the legendary Doors, called Ghost Dance. A month of rehearsing, fine tuning stage presence and getting their first gig. The members of the band live the dream and tour in a second hand van from their newly acquired manager.
The tour leads the band to various venues around the States, including the New Orleans Jazz Fest. Ghost Dance band members deal with Michael Grays inflated ego until They arrive at the famed Whiskey a Go-Go in L.A. where the Doors first played and had their start. Unfortunately for Michael Gray and his Jim Morrison personae it is the end, but he has his kicks before the whole shit house goes up in flames, to paraphrase Jim Morrison. The rest of the band mates fulfill their dream of doing their own music and making it to the big time.
I recommend The Last Stage by Jim Cherry for anyone who has a dream of being a rock star or if you’re a Doors fan. Cherry has researched his subject matter and placed it in a well written 240 page book. You can get a copy of The Last Stage in paperback at www.Xlibris.com or at the author’s website.
www.jymsbooks.com
THE LAST STAGE on Amazon
at Barnes & Noble
http://reviewermag.com/press/?p=687
Michael Gray, a 30 year old liberal arts student, losing support from his parents and unable to further his degree; at a crossroads with his girlfriend and life. He comes up with an idea while perched on a bar stool at his local hang out.
Through kismet he meets a group of young musicians that have aspirations of their own. Michael Gray plots to turn his idea into the dream of a lifetime. They form a tribute cover band of the legendary Doors, called Ghost Dance. A month of rehearsing, fine tuning stage presence and getting their first gig. The members of the band live the dream and tour in a second hand van from their newly acquired manager.
The tour leads the band to various venues around the States, including the New Orleans Jazz Fest. Ghost Dance band members deal with Michael Grays inflated ego until They arrive at the famed Whiskey a Go-Go in L.A. where the Doors first played and had their start. Unfortunately for Michael Gray and his Jim Morrison personae it is the end, but he has his kicks before the whole shit house goes up in flames, to paraphrase Jim Morrison. The rest of the band mates fulfill their dream of doing their own music and making it to the big time.
I recommend The Last Stage by Jim Cherry for anyone who has a dream of being a rock star or if you’re a Doors fan. Cherry has researched his subject matter and placed it in a well written 240 page book. You can get a copy of The Last Stage in paperback at www.Xlibris.com or at the author’s website.
www.jymsbooks.com
THE LAST STAGE on Amazon
at Barnes & Noble
http://reviewermag.com/press/?p=687
Fiction; A Short Story
FICTION
One of Jim’s students raised their hand.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Cherry, why aren’t you a writer?” The student was talking about the stories he read in class, stories of his youth, stories he’d written when he did have literary ambitions, and he’d had adventures to make into stories. Once he had opened the sluice gates of his imagination where he wrote so hotly that he had to carry notebooks around with him so the words wouldn’t get away from him. Stories all his friends told him were great and that he should write a book. He did write a book, a novel, and now it sat in his “files” an affectation he picked up from his literary heros. But he didn’t work on it any more. He hadn’t read it in a long time, he didn’t even think about it much any more.
“I did write a little,” he said, answering the girl’s question. “But I discovered as a writer I was a much better teacher, and that it was more rewarding teaching you guys about Hemingway and Fitzgerald.” He wondered if the answer satisfied them. He wondered if the answer satisfied him.
He closed the door of his apartment behind him and he turned on the TV. Some people with broken dreams sat in bars drinking trying to forget the promises of their youth, promises to themselves. Some drowned that misery in a sea of possessions, a big house, all the best cars, stereos, Blu-Ray players, iPods that money can buy. But television was his drug of choice, it numbed him. Numbed him against the flood of images from his subconscious, quieted the riot of voices that sought release through him.
The television flickered vacant images against the wall of the next room, Jim fell across his bed like a sailor washed ashore on a desolate beach. He stared up into the milky blankness of the ceiling. He closed his eyes and hoped for sleep. He could see the far off life he dreamt of for himself. His new book being released by a major publisher to critical and popular acclaim, being interviewed by the major newspapers and magazines, the interviewer hanging off his every word. Book signings with a line of people trailing through the store, all waiting for him. The movie deals for his books sitting on his desk waiting for him to sign. The lunches with agents and attorneys and when his cell phone rang excusing himself and taking the call. When the writer had a few minutes to himself to think, he thought of himself as a teacher, and how he should have taken the simpler path in life.
Jim woke up, the morning light prying it’s way through the windows. He sighed and realized he was still here, he had to get ready for work again, to teach. It had all seemed so close, so real, like he could almost touch that other life, that he could insert himself into that life, but it was dream, it melted like sugar in the realization it was a little wish fulfillment displayed like a movie flickering against the walls of his movie mind. Or was it? Maybe this life was the dream? A waking dream of the writer of what his life could have been like? He heaved another sigh. He didn’t know. Metaphysics bows before reality or at least before the work a day world. He had to push such dreams to the side to get dressed, go to work, teach kids, all day wondering which was the dream? And which was the fiction?
One of Jim’s students raised their hand.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Cherry, why aren’t you a writer?” The student was talking about the stories he read in class, stories of his youth, stories he’d written when he did have literary ambitions, and he’d had adventures to make into stories. Once he had opened the sluice gates of his imagination where he wrote so hotly that he had to carry notebooks around with him so the words wouldn’t get away from him. Stories all his friends told him were great and that he should write a book. He did write a book, a novel, and now it sat in his “files” an affectation he picked up from his literary heros. But he didn’t work on it any more. He hadn’t read it in a long time, he didn’t even think about it much any more.
“I did write a little,” he said, answering the girl’s question. “But I discovered as a writer I was a much better teacher, and that it was more rewarding teaching you guys about Hemingway and Fitzgerald.” He wondered if the answer satisfied them. He wondered if the answer satisfied him.
He closed the door of his apartment behind him and he turned on the TV. Some people with broken dreams sat in bars drinking trying to forget the promises of their youth, promises to themselves. Some drowned that misery in a sea of possessions, a big house, all the best cars, stereos, Blu-Ray players, iPods that money can buy. But television was his drug of choice, it numbed him. Numbed him against the flood of images from his subconscious, quieted the riot of voices that sought release through him.
The television flickered vacant images against the wall of the next room, Jim fell across his bed like a sailor washed ashore on a desolate beach. He stared up into the milky blankness of the ceiling. He closed his eyes and hoped for sleep. He could see the far off life he dreamt of for himself. His new book being released by a major publisher to critical and popular acclaim, being interviewed by the major newspapers and magazines, the interviewer hanging off his every word. Book signings with a line of people trailing through the store, all waiting for him. The movie deals for his books sitting on his desk waiting for him to sign. The lunches with agents and attorneys and when his cell phone rang excusing himself and taking the call. When the writer had a few minutes to himself to think, he thought of himself as a teacher, and how he should have taken the simpler path in life.
Jim woke up, the morning light prying it’s way through the windows. He sighed and realized he was still here, he had to get ready for work again, to teach. It had all seemed so close, so real, like he could almost touch that other life, that he could insert himself into that life, but it was dream, it melted like sugar in the realization it was a little wish fulfillment displayed like a movie flickering against the walls of his movie mind. Or was it? Maybe this life was the dream? A waking dream of the writer of what his life could have been like? He heaved another sigh. He didn’t know. Metaphysics bows before reality or at least before the work a day world. He had to push such dreams to the side to get dressed, go to work, teach kids, all day wondering which was the dream? And which was the fiction?
