Eight Habits of a Slightly Unsuccessful Writer (Or, How to Write When You Don’t Take it Too Seriously)
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Eight Habits of a Slightly Unsuccessful Writer
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But first, NOLA NOTE: I recently returned from my annual trip to the Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference where I was told by several professionals I am, in fact, doing the Write Thing (aw, see what I did there?). Most importantly, the Godfather (who shall otherwise remain nameless, to protect the innocent) gave me some words of wisdom on how to proceed. In particular, he opened the conversation with, “Why didn’t you come to me for publishing advice?” To which I gulpedshiveredreplied, “I didn’t know I could.” Yeah. So, now I have a mentor for future writings, and, you know, a little eleventh-hour input into NOLA. I’d love to have y’all join my private Facebook group for more information, memes, and all-around fun. (Don’t worry, the Godfather won’t be there.) You can join on Facebook by clicking here: NOLA Swarm. [Side Note: Pray for the return of Bee the Zebra and Whisper, as they did not make their way home in the luggage, and are somewhere, I hope, still on the Ridgecrest Campus, waiting for my rescue.]
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Have you seen Whisper and Bee the Zebra?
And now, the post you’ve all been waiting for:
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Eight Habits of a Slightly Unsuccessful Author:
Isolate yourself. Writers are lonely, crazy beings with no people skills whatsoever. We have no understanding of human nature, and say things we can’t edit. You most certainly will not learn anything by holding unnecessary conversations, especially with other writers. If you must socialize, do so in small groups, and in small doses.
Drink copious amounts of coffee. From noon to 3pm, drink gallons of decaf. At 6pm, drink another cup of espresso for good measure. Sleep two hours. Wake up and start all over. Your brain will thank you for it, even if your body doesn’t. If you must drink other than coffee, add something to it. Like fermented grapes.
Write, don’t read. You don’t have time to pay attention to someone else’s works. It’s imperative you put your own words on paper, in whatever fashion you can. There’s nothing to learn by reading classics or books within your genre. Who cares about the writing style of someone else, or supporting your friends already in print? If you must read, read outside your genre, and read things that will allow your mind to wander as your eyes skim the pages.
Don’t diversify your creativity. It’s best to focus on your writing and master it completely. Train your discipline. Give up photography, scrapbooking, creative journaling and the like. Other people have multiple interests, but that’s not you. So write. And, only write. If you must express creativity in other ways, don’t let others know about it. Don’t invest in it. And never share it on Instagram.
Write only what you know. Stay away from fantastical ideas, and topics you’re unfamiliar with. Research? Who has time for research? World-building? That’s too complicated. If you must write new material, use nonsensical words and settings and make it too complicated for others to understand.
Write when the muse hits you. Don’t worry about setting a time to write every day. Writer’s block? That’s for other writers, the ones who aren’t as focused. Because whenever you sit down, the words always flow without stopping. If you must write on a schedule, make sure to have multiple journals and lists available so you can jot a thousand grocery items and ten ways to fix the house as these thoughts will invariably demand your attention.
Don’t feed your muse. Stay away from inspirational movies and music. Don’t play with your food, enjoy nature walks, or travel. These will only inspire you in other ways and thus confuse your writing. If you must feed the muse, don’t enjoy the arts or have new experiences. This will only deter you from your true calling of being a writer.
Never, ever continue writing unless what you’ve already written is perfect. Brain-dumping and first drafts are myths and will not help you clear your head. Definitely do not use place-filler text [“Write Something Here About Rain’s past relationship with Cheryl and have him hint at why he no longer trusts Penny Jo”]. If you must write imperfectly and continuously, do not revisit those pages. They will only depress you and keep you from getting to the true heart of your story.
LEAVE A COMMENT: What tips and habits do you cultivate for your craft?
With a blank page and a full glass, Happy Writing. ~Molly Jo
Frankly, My Dear . . . Savor the Journey!
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Bohemian Hurricane
Molly Jo is better known as the Bohemian Hurricane. She is the author/curator of The Unemployment Cookbook and several eBooks available on Amazon. Her work-in-progress, NOLA, is a romantic mystery novel set in New Orleans, and the first in her City Series.
Note: This post is about four times longer than my usual. I hope you’ll read through it. I almost quit writing this week. Almost. Here’s how I didn’t.
First: Why did I almost quit writing? Simple answer: Life. Complicated answer: Life is complicated. I’m in my element at Blue Ridge. Extroverting on coffee on steroids. Learning. Sharing. Laughing. Writing. But this year there were many outside factors drawing my attentions and I had a hard time focusing on being in the moment. I am thrilledecstaticexhaling and ready to get back to it. Thanks to my peeps who take me as I am and didn’t push, but always pulled, me back into being me. All one hundred billion mosaic pieces of me.
Writing conferences are ahh-mazing experiences. #truestory. From the moment I back out of the driveway to the moment my head hits my own pillow a week later, every nanosecond in between is filled with . . . with . . . [*lifting eyes in thought*] . . . Well, it’s kinda hard to explain. But I’ll try:
When I first realized I was a mystery writer, it was like being diagnosed after a mystery illness. I could tell people what I did, but even I didn’t fully understand it. It was a glimmer of something I didn’t quite grasp. All I knew was there was something in me that no one could explain. A way of seeing things others didn’t. My brain would twist and turn when everyone else took the straight paths. And then I met Victoria Zackheim and Ann Perry at my writers’ club. After listening to them talk about their books, I realized that’s me, too. I’m a mystery writer. I’m not sure they ever knew how influential that day was.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Writing Isn’t a Disease. It’s a Diagnosis
Once I knew who I was, the light bulbs went on. The a-ha moment hit. I could breathe instead of holding my breath. And the best part is, there’s so many others who are just.like.ME.
Understanding the genre I write has been vital to not just my story, but to me as a writer, and as a person.
Flash-forward about four years, and I’m still doing the writing thing. Still working on NOLA. Still thrilled with mystery, suspense, and well, thrilled with thrillers. [Of late, I’m enamored with the Patrick Bowers series by Steven James, and the Dave Robicheaux series by James Lee Burke.] Still going to Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : That One Time I Recovered From my Writers Conference (With Scooby Snacks and a Wheelchair)
Four and a half days of heavenly extreme-extroverting. Froggie photos. Turning acquaintances into friends (thanks, Bob!) and turning friends into family (Edie, DiAnn, JB, exactly-like-her-Heather, and so many more.) Going to classes that focus on whatever I want to focus on: media, marketing, proposal writing, no-rules writing, diving deeper into character. It’s all there.
This year was admittedly harder for me, literally and figuratively. It’s all public knowledge now, but with my history of car accidents (#nevermyfault) and a kitchen-mop-turned-wrong-type-of-dance-move incident a few months ago, my knee now has this thing the doc likes to call “chronic injury”.
Imagine the beautiful, sloping hills of the Ridgecrest campus in North Carolina. All 1,300 acres of it. Yeah. I knew a while ago there was no way This Girl could navigate without help. Quick call to the airlines. “Sure, you can bring crutches on the plane. And would you like mobility assistance as well?” Happy Injured Girl say whaaat?! Turns out, if you have, like me, been assaulted and tormented by moving metal and your knee (or any other supportive part of your body) decides it doesn’t want to cooperate on a regular basis, and walking from Terminal A to Terminal D is more than you can handle (thank you, American Airlines!), you can get a wheelchair and attendant from entrance to exit! So that’s what we did.
Park the car. Take the shuttle. Sit in the chair. Transfer to plane. Boom. #thatwaseasy. Well, for me anyway. The peeps I was with all week had their share of “Will you carry this for me?” and “Please get the Fresca from the fridge in my room.” and “I will beat you with this crutch if you say one more thing about my immobility.” Oops. Scratch that last one. Never happened, okay? Not admitting to anything.
Thing is, a few times [read: at least once a day] my knee would give out. My arms were tired from the crutches. My wrist was sore from the crutches.
I was freaking tired of the crutches.
But I needed them. Until I needed more. And Kirk did his little minion dance and said, “Molly Jo, it would make me very happy if I could push you around in the wheelchair.” Well, who am I to deny Kirk some happiness? I mean, isn’t that what we’re here on earth for– to make others happy? So of course I get in the chair. Go here. Go there. Park in the corner. Ugh! Extreme-Extrovert going through interaction withdrawals!
And I see in the distance, Mary Denman (y’all remember Mary, she did some photography posts last year) raise her camera and snap a shot.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Book Signings and Froggie Photos
Not sure if y’all can tell by the look on my face, but I wasn’t really having a good time. I was stuck, lower than eye-level, immobile and unable to take part in some of the fun. But then Mary saw me. And she took this photo and put it online and it did something to me. It made me realize even when my body is imperfect, I’m still me. I couldn’t walk very well (sometimes not at all) [and even as I type this, I’m waiting another doctor’s appointment next week], but I could recognize my friends. I could connect with the authors, agents, publishers, editors, and faculty in the room. They were the ones sitting at their tables. And you know what? I was eye-level with every single one of them. From the Ganskys to Bob Hostetler to Steven James (see, Bob, I put you first!) (sorry Steven, he paid me) to Vicki Crumpton to Alycia Morales to ohsomany. And I’m feeling sorry for myself, and in pain, and then I get it.
These are my people. This is my crowd.
And not one of them cared that I was on crutches or in a wheelchair. Schweet.
“But what about the Scooby snacks?” You say. Oh, if only you could see the smile on my face right now.
I never told you about this? Well, sit back, sister. There’s a whole ‘nother story to write. So, last year this whole food fight thing broke out. Wait. Back up. Let me tell you about Lobby Time. That’s when the day’s schedule is over and we have free time. The conference center is set up like a small college with dorms/hotels, and in a few of these buildings like Mountain Laurel (where the cool kids faculty stay), the faculty hangs out in the lobby. It’s our chance, as mere underlings, to meet and greet and accost converse with them about all things writing. So last year, agent Steve Laube [who is never tired of us teasing him about his name sounding like “lobby”. Hulloh, Steve. My last name is Realy. How much sympathy do you think I have for you?!] was regaling many of us with his stories of encounters with, shall we say, interesting people. Paige, Caleb, Pam and I bring our load of junk food down and we’re sitting on the floor like teenagers watching a late night TV movie.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : BRMCWC Lobby Time with Steve Laube
And Steve keeps telling his tales. But I notice he’s looking in our direction. [I begin to wonder if I have powdered donuts on my nose or something.] Then he says something about my eating habits. Whatever, dude. It’s like, college for writers and I’m hungry, okay? So I chuck a packet of Scooby snacks at him. Now, I already told y’all I’m still hungry, right? I figure he’d do the polite thing and give them back.
Nope. Not Steve. He opened the pack and started to eat them. My Scooby snacks. He ate one. And another. All while still telling his stories, and we’re all laughing hysterically, and apparently I offend him [I know! Like I could offend anyone, right?!] because he takes little red Daphne and throws her at me!
So I say, “What did Daphne ever do to you?!” and throw her back. But I miss. So I pick her up and drop her on his head. He retaliates with some potato chips. And then, minutes later, there’s Scooby snacks, and smashed potato chips, and I can’t even remember what else. But it. was. FUN. About five of us got in on it. When I handed him my business card later, he was so tired he misread it. Instead of “Writer. Chef.” he said it was “Writter Chief.” Well, what the heck is a writter chief? “I don’t know! That’s why it puzzled me!”
Being the respectful person that I am, this year when I first saw him I politely acknowledged his old mind busy year and said, “You may not remember me, but I’m pretty sure you’ll remember this.” And I gave him his own box of Scooby snacks. Made even more perfect because I did this in front of others who witnessed last year’s attack. What? Planned? I’m shocked you would recognize suggest such a thing.
That was Monday.
Take a guess how many packs of snacks went flying throughout the week every time we passed each other on campus.
And let’s not forget to mention he stalked me at the airport- THE AIRPORT, PEOPLE! – and even accosted me there. Look, he started it, okay?! All I did was buy some snack food. [wink, wink.]
So, fast forward again to today. I quit writing four days ago. I gave up. Crawled in a hole and died. Resurrected myself just long enough to cry over my loss, then rolled over and died again. Locked up the pens. Turned the journals face down.
I’m not making this up.
Because no matter how much they try to tell you, a writer really is never prepared for the desert valley they return to after the mountain high of a conference.
It. Freaking. HURTS.
Big time. The absence of like-minded people. Walking through the day without crazy peeps at your side understanding when your mentor says things like this:
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Aaron Gansky the Bigfoot Killer.
And what? We’re supposed to go back to, you know, what the rest of you call “regular” life? nothankyouverymuch. Oh the sadness of it all. And, yes. Yes, I admit. Edie had to talk me off the ledge of comparison. She always tell us our writing journeys are our own. Don’t compare ours with anyone else’s. And I get that. I do. But dannnng . . . You know.
So. Life. Complicated. Writing. Compared. Blue Ridge. On the other side of the world.
So yeah. I quit writing.
Until today. Until now. Until a good-night call to Mom turned into a 45-minute “Oh, I forgot to tell you . . .” verbal essay. And since it’s getting time for MailChimp to send this out, I guess I can stop typing now.
The moral of this story is surround yourself with the Good Ones. The peeps who see past what you say. Who remind you what you’re meant to be. The Aarons, Alycias, Paiges, SuperGirls. The leadership teams. The ones who want to know you as a person, not a product. And the ones who understand the importance of a good hug, or a smile, or a Scooby snack.
The ones who not only stand by you no matter what, but who help you to stand when you can’t do it alone.
Bonus: You get to bring them along when you board first.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : That One Time I Recovered From my Writers Conference (With Scooby Snacks and a Wheelchair)
With a huge gulp of sweet tea and a hug for almost everyone,
Happy living.
~Molly Jo
And Frankly, My Dear . . . : That’s all she wrote!
So, the funny thing is, I teach people to find what their brand is and stick with it.
What do people appreciate the most about you?
What are your strengths?
What are you most comfortable doing/teaching/sharing?
What makes you happy?
And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like … Oh, wait. Sorry. Sinatra in my head. [Note to self: Take the fedora off the shelf.] Ahem. What I was saying was, I sort of took my own advice … and tossed it aside. But like a well-tossed neon pink frisbee, it came right back at me. {Don’t, okay? I know you know I meant boomerang. But frisbee just sounded better. So just … keep reading. Thanks.}
Was it really just last summer I did a renovative rebrand? Why, yes. Yes, I think it was. Who can forget my Wizard of Oz poppies populating the background for my new parent website?
Frankly, My Dear . . . : MJR Website
And how easily the storefront came together, and then, voila! The blog redesign. I can’t really tell ya which is my favorite. I heart them all. Like, a lot.
Not-so-secret sidenote: This Girl, who was never terribly feminine, is enjoying the sights and smells of flowers, perfume, and all things girly. What the heck?! I mean, true story: Even my journals and Happy Planners are, well, pretty.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Happy Planners 2018
But somewhere in the midst of being real, selling books, and claiming my Southern Belle-ness, I realized there was something more. Something deep inside that tied everything together even though it seemed like a chaotic mess.
You all know what it is. At least, you know part of it. Hurricane. My word for the year. Hey, it adopted me, okay?
Frankly, My Dear . . . : That One Time I Rebranded Myself With Pizza Sauce
But that’s why it’s taken me two weeks to follow up with another post. Because I couldn’t put my finger on the first part. I mean, yah. Happy chaos seems to really be my thing. But what does that even mean?
So there I am at lunch with my local bestie, Beckie Lindsey, celebrating the contract for her first book, scarfing pizza, and talking media and marketing and branding and we throw some ideas around and BAM. She’s branded. Like, in a good way. Beckie Lindsey: God in real life … Also, coffee. Yup. That’s her!
Meanwhile, my other media sounding board, Aaron ~ you may know him from his Firsts in Fiction podcast, wink wink. You know. The one This Girl produces every other week ~ he left the lunch. So I text him and say, “Hey, Faux Bro. What’s my branding and recognition?” You know what they both say? Him and Becks? Branding and Recognition. Ooh, big help, guys. Big. Help. not.
And then it hit me like, well, like a hurricane. [Oh, c’mon. You knew I was gonna do that!] I’m reaching for that last mushroom on the plate and trying not to get my sleeves or bangles into the pizza sauce. It was almost an epic fail until my fancy flail saved the day (and the sleeve!). And without realizing that style is a part of my brand, I became the Bohemian Hurricane.
And all her people gasped in acknowledgment.
Yah, that’s right. Go ahead and chuckle. Nod. Do your “Mm-hmm, that’s her!” thing just like they did. ‘Cause This Girl is embracing her wilderness, her free spirit, her loud voice.
Whether you do it yourself, for yourself, for others, or have others do it for you, social media is a great tool to connect you with the world.
But we all know it can take up a bit of time. [I guess that’s why they call it “management”.]
Now, I’m not exactly an expert, but I’m also not-not one either. In my ventures with social media, there are a few things I’ve learned that make it easier.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Presents for Your Social Media Manager
Scheduling is prob’ly the first thing you need to manage. I recommend a scheduling app like Hootsuite. Hootsuite gives you a variety of options, from posting to all your sites at the same time, to scheduling them separately, to working with a team of contributors. With a range of prices from free to professional (read: not free), and somewhere in between, there are a lot of great reasons to give a year’s subscription to your favorite media ninja.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Hootsuite for Social Media Management
Another calendaring “app” I recommend is the old fashioned paper and pen system. You know my love for Happy Planners, yes? I have one exclusively for the use of tracking which posts are on which sites, who’s contributing to Frankly, My Dear . . . , and what’s coming up that I need to pay attention to (contests, celebration day, speaking engagements).
Frankly, My Dear . . . : My Blogging Planner
A camera comes in handy, not just for the writer, but for the social media manager as well. Let’s say y’all happen to be at a Christmas party together and one of you hates social media and so has hired the other to do it. Party A wants to take a picture of Party B in their Coolest Ugly Christmas Sweater at the Party C. Y’all best make sure your smart phone has the new awesome camera, or you have a digital at your side. You can also use an instant film camera, and take a smart phone photo of your print photo for a double shot of photographic greatness. If you do this, I recommend a middle-grade camera. Something you can have fun with and trust to give you decent pics. [Dear Santa, the Fujifilm Instax in Pomegranate Red is looking rather delicious. Just sayin’.]
Now, we all know media managers don’t live on internet alone. There’s this life-sustaining thing called coffee that makes the world a better place for everyone. An individual Keurig machine, a gift card to Starbucks, or a can of their favorite brand of beans goes a long way in keeping your manager functioning properly.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Merry Christmas with Cafe du Monde
And while you’re at it, throw in a gift card to their favorite eatery or two and you’ll sustain them for at least another round of “Why did you put that online?” – “Because you pay me to” dialogue.
Let’s see, what else. Ah. A plethora of research and photo sites. There’s plenty of free stuff available, but if your topic requires a bit more, subscriptions to photo sharing sites or in-depth informational platforms (think online news articles) are a boost.
But wait. There’s more. Plates. Because no matter how much you give your social media ninja to do, if they’re really good at it, they can heap it high and keep it spinning.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : What’s on Your Plate?
Books, magazines, or gift cards for such, anything that helps with research.
If you really want to spoil your social media person, think break time. A day-vay (one-day vacation), tickets to a movie, an evening out with friends. Let your ninja know they’re more than just your internet poster. Let them know you see them as a person, too.
But you know what you can give your social media manager that would mean the most? Your time. Sit with them, hash out your game plan, and work together. Knowing what you want from them, and that you trust them enough to accomplish your mutual goals, is the whipped cream on the pie. [Ooh. Foodie reference. And I didn’t even try!]
As I write this late Sunday night, social media is abuzz with the deaths of iconic people who, for good or bad, were a part of the fringes of media that continues to weave its way through my life.
The first is Mel Tillis. Oh, how I remember “Coca-Cola Cowboy” and “Neon Rose.” Country music was a staple in the family car when we drove up to Grandma’s, on the portable radio when we worked in the garden, on the Hi-Fi for Saturday morning housecleaning. In the late 80s the genre seemed to shift to a more rock feel, so I turned back to the local Top 40 Radio or listened to old tapes. Fast-forward a few years and it’s regained its roots. I now enjoy the croonings of the like of Brad Paisley and Chris Stapleton (especially his remake of Tennessee Whiskey.)
The second is Charles Manson. Living in Southern California, it’s hard to not know someone who knows someone who knows someone who has some connection to someone else who was affected by the 1969 Tate-LaBianca Murders. I can’t say I like any part of this, but his legend is as big as O.J. Simpson or The Billionaire Boys Club. There are just some things that captivate society, and the Manson “family” did just that.
And since these things come in three’s (or so they say), I’m holding my breath and praying it’s not David Cassidy.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : My First Partridge Family Album
Raised on The Partridge Family, I have loved David/Keith even when it went momentarily out of vogue. What can I say? I had the playhouse fantasy of us being the same age and him finding me more irresistible than any other 12-year-old in the world. I watched The Partridge Family every summer afternoon. It was a consistent anchor in a tumultuous world of moving cross-country and teen hormones and debilitating shyness. As long as David/Keith was in my life, I knew everything was okay.
I watched the biographies [even the really bad ones], the tell-all tele-dramas. If he was in a show, I watched it. That man could sell me snake oil in a bottle as long as he sang about its virtues.
As I write this, news reports are telling me of his downfall. His failing body. And a rumor of death that has yet to be confirmed.
This ranks up there with Davey Jones of The Monkees. My first teen idols. Even David’s brother, Shaun, ranked up there. All cute smiles and dimples. And when I saw David in Vegas so many years ago and he looked at me and sang, “I think I love you,” I think I melted!
What’s that? You don’t know the story? Well, let me recap for you:
About fifteen or so years ago, a former boyfriend came to town. We hadn’t seen each other since he moved away over a year earlier, and since it was close to my birthday, he took me to lunch. We drove to the outskirts of the neighboring town, to a quaint little restaurant off the freeway that garnered much attention for it’s 50’s-era style. The food was great, and the coffee was decent. We started talking about really good coffee and he suggested we make the 30-minute drive to the nearest Starbucks [Yeah, this was before my part of the world had a Starbucks on every corner]. I’m game! So off we went on an impromptu coffee run.
Now, when I say I live in the Southern California desert, I mean it. Most yards are dirt, unless you can afford rock-scaping. It’s 90 degrees in the shade, but for Thanksgiving we expect a cool-down trend so it’ll only be 80. Brr. Break out those holiday sweaters, y’all. Anyway, the nearest Starbucks at the time was in Barstow. And how it is that Barstow got a Starbucks long before we did is still a bone of contention around here. Must have something to do with the international outlet stores they have up there.
Sweet. We’re taking a drive, seeing the sights, headed to Barstow. Could life get any more thrilling?
So. You get my excitement at driving just for good coffee. I was thinking this would be a really great birthday!
We were so busy chatting and getting caught up that we missed the first turn off. Hmm. No worries. There’s another one in a mile.
Missed it. Again.
So we kept driving. It’s not easy to get lost on the 15-North. It’s not like there are any side streets to get in the way or mislead us. So we just kept talking, driving, figuring we could turn back once we reach Calico Ghost Town. A darn good birthday drive.
Missed it, yes, again. We were just about to turn around when I saw it. The first billboard indicating Sin City lay ahead: Las Vegas! And what, you ask, did the billboard advertise for that fine town? David Cassidy in Concert. Ohhh, babyyy….! I remember this larger-than-larger-than-life David in a silky red button down suit smiling down at me with The Rio Hotel & Casino in the background. I loved that billboard. I’m pretty sure I drooled. Or squealed. Or both.
I pointed and said, “Ooh, let’s go there!” I was just joking. He wasn’t. He said, “Wanna go?” Just like that. Uhmmm… WHAT?!?! Five dollars in my back pocket. Never been to Vegas. Hair and makeup not quite done properly. We were only supposed to be getting coffee. So I made a quick phone call to my family and said, “Hey, I’m gonna be home seriously late… like, tomorrow morning!” and it was settled.
Two great things happened that night. The first is that David Cassidy stood ten feet in front of me with his microphone, looked into my eyes and sang, “I Think I Love You”, to the dismay of all other females in the audience. The second is that I had a really great cup of coffee. In Vegas.
Now that’s a birthday!
So please, David. Don’t die before I have the chance to put on the old tunes and sit back with a Caramel Macchiato and remember all the good times we’ve had together. Somewhere in my garage is a box of items I never scrapbooked. In there is the table card for your concert. I think I’ll dig it out. And maybe soon I’ll stop in at The Rio and tell ’em Frankie sent me.
