Monday, September 5, 2011


Finally, NASHVILLE DREAMS is in both Amazon and Barnes & Noble e-book stores, and I'm happy to give you some inside into the story. But first, I want to show you the two guys who inspired the protagonists.

First, football player Mark Sanchez inspired Country singer David Dillard.  David is a man who wants to find love, and the only way to do that is to face  his inner truth publicly.

Violinist David Garret inspired David's love interest, street singer Jonah Stalham. With a broken heart, Jonah wants to stay as far from love as he can until David enters his life. Stalham is the last name of a Lady in a portrait at the Tennessee State Museum.

Here is the moment, when, after an argument with his manager, Bill hears Jonah singing for the first time.

When he came out of the store, a male voice accompanied by an acoustic guitar caressed his face. He crossed the street --looking for the source of enchantment-- and saw a group of people surrounding someone.
He walked in a trance, following the merman’s baritone. He tried to imagine to whom that enchanted voice might belong, and nothing came up. The guy must be sitting on one of the columns of that Bank’s entrance because the crowd circling him blocked the view.
Bill finally scooted between the transfixed people and discovered the source of the spell. The guy had long legs nicely framed by a well-worn pair of jeans. The cascade of slim, sunny-wheat hair reached below his five o’clock shadow --a hot sign for a little pass noon. An army surplus jacket effortlessly disguised a stretched smiley face t-shirt. The eyes, those were what captivated him more than the dreamy voice. Big and brown like sweet honey.
Most of the time, when people play for money on the street, they try to please the audience with cheesy songs or whatever is on the top ten that month. This song, however, was something he’d never heard before. It was a melancholic song sang with vitality mostly reserved for Flamenco. The voice was mesmerizing, but beyond that, the guy’s presence sent something roaring inside him, a mix between anger and hope.  
Conflict swirled inside him. Bill knew the burning sensation. This stranger had ignited a bigger resolution to kick Mike straight on the crotch and to vent things that were more personal with retaliating rage. What if he just grabbed the guy and kissed him there in the middle of the street, and the truth came out soaring finally?
Two things could happen, the hot-as-Hell street-singer would punch him in the face for being a fag, or the guy would return the kiss and grab his ass with abandon. This was fucking Nashville, there were no paparazzi lurking in the corners, waiting to catch the downfall of celebrities. And he didn’t even consider himself a celebrity, he was just another singer, with better luck than the one making him think all this nonsense.
He thought of giving the guy a couple of tens, but a different idea nudged him. “You wrote that, dude?”
“Yep. All by myself.” The guy grinned.
“Usually, I don’t give people money. But, I can buy you a meal, if that’s okay with you.”
“Sure. Why not?” The guy was noncommittal.
“There’s a Boxed Joker’s close. Would you like that?”
“My favorite.”

Who can tell me the real name of the franchise I named Boxed Joker's in NASHVILLE DREAMS?

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