This future music virtuoso and erudite scholar on Easter 2005 shares a moment to give me instruction and the importance of dressing for success. Yes, I remember the morning quite well...D'Jimon AsanteRomer, he of the wide infectuous smile and beguiling ways can use powers of persuasion to favor his most endearing antics. What is it about four year-old tykes that seem to give kinetic energy and hypertensity a new level of interaction?
Never one to shy from the camera, the Photogenic One manuevers me over to an ideal spot, sports that 'killer' smile and renders me helpless to a candid camera persona complete with the virtual flashback to this memory. If ever there was cause to celebrate time and place, just ask the young Mr. Romer for his tips for camera mugging, or how to dress so that people can pay homage to that 'just one look is all it took' syndrome to be subjective to his modus operandi. I, like most other people will probably shake my head and know that I'd just been hoodwinked by a little genuis dressed for the part!
Friday, August 11, 2006
Afrocentric Pride
I was reminded recently how important it is to allow familial affinity to bring a sense of harmony in line with giving something back to the younger set. D'Jimon Romer, the handsome gent you see me holding never met anything or anyone that didn't suggest intrinsic value. Naturally inquisitive, Black History month a year ago found him in my company attending a lecture and Kwanzaa celebration. 'Giving something back' attributes to me making sure that this child knows the importance of having knowledge of ancestral contribution, culture awareness, and afrocentric pride.
Here's hoping that every father and son, uncle, nephew, brother, and grandfather realize that libation is poured to honor those before us who gave their idelogical whim and lives to make it better for us...the least we can do is to make all attempts to make sure that those after us have the same opportunity.
Here's hoping that every father and son, uncle, nephew, brother, and grandfather realize that libation is poured to honor those before us who gave their idelogical whim and lives to make it better for us...the least we can do is to make all attempts to make sure that those after us have the same opportunity.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Shedding Obscurity As a Writer
Shedding Obscurity As a Writer
Am I good enough to be a writer with style, substance, and enough talent to be among the published authors with books already on bookshelves? Yes, I ask myself this constantly, and have given it much thought. Your lifelong dream is to write a book, have it published and to see your name among other authors and titles on those same shelves. How daunting is this task if you’ve persevered beyond the nuances and obstacles along the way? You carry your pen and pad savoring poignant and pensive moments by writing it down so that you won’t lose thoughts and mindsets for a future article, or essay for your journal. You may even be reluctant to share at times, not wanting people to see that perhaps you’re not ready to be unveiled. You eschew workshops and other writing classes because you’ve been there and done that.
You lobby in your mind more time to perfect the craft, and be crafty in how you can still be considered worthy. You’re driven by wit, words, and wisdom from your creative mind to be productive and provocative. You have some modicum of success as an Independent Book Reviewer, you have written columns online, and consider yourself an Essayist with at last coun,t 51 essays written within a year and a half; you have joined a number of online book and reading groups to stay vibrant and in touch with the literary Diaspora, and you blog. Blogging is fun, I have three of them and I love It! The website you’ve produced gives you a certain sense of success, but only within the margins of acceptability, but who wants only marginal success?
Obscurity. That word makes me cringe, and I admit it unnerves me in a way that I began to feel like success will elude me. When I sit down to put words to paper, be it via computer or what, I feel the butterflies in my stomach from anticipated fervor knowing that something is going to happen. My creativity is like that, so full of nervous energy until the ink flows indelibly without any inhibitions. This current essay purports to give insight to the persistence of the unknown writer. Ask me am I committed and you wouldn’t find anyone more determined to belong. I know Jean-Paul Satre and his defining principles of existentialism and commitment – the necessity of defining oneself by choosing, continually choosing, always an uncompleted act but simultaneously completing, needing to feel accomplished! I was a young man as far as I can remember being someone who wanted to be accepted as a writer – no, I was already sure that I was a writer, even though I had not started my freelance writing career, and hadn’t yet seen anything published with my name attached to it.
Remembering those days before the monies started coming in were dark and wistful, but I always found the courage to stay the course. To understand the elements that went into Satre’s work, is to be existential and the determining agent responsible for my own choices, and this is what drove me, and continues to give me that burst of psychological energy needed to keep focused. I feel no negativity being connected to his idealism because to some extent, all writers will have experienced what I’ve felt in wanting to be accepted. Talent notwithstanding, vestiges of existentialism is present in the form of terms that are synonymous with productivity, often the harbinger of doubt. We tend to call it anxiety, writer’s block, ennui, angst, or my favorite – melancholy blues. But is this the best way to define moments when nothing of note comes across your pad, the times when you fail to connect the dots?
It gets back to how committed you are and want to be. I’m aware of what needs to be done to give me mental stability and to keep my head above water to reach that higher level. I think about the stages and initiatives to let the powers that be to know whom you I am, and why I write as I do. It means not bowing down to those that may not understand or even have the type of intellect I do to allow them to see me as being pedantic. And yes, I have had a few of them who feel that I must come down to their level to be accepted and understood. I shrug and admonish them to get a bigger dictionary, or turn the other cheek when they see me coming. The persistence of the unknown writer will always be to harness obscurity, and get his/her work out there to be seen. I’m challenged all the time when I write, because I want to know that each and every bit of work I produce can be the parts of a greater whole to obtain that seemingly obscure notoriety. When there’s no check in the mail I feel the sharp edge of terror gripping me, and reality is much more than the imagery I tend to substitute it for.
I lament the fact that no agent has called me and asked for my manuscripts; no editor has offered me a chance to be redlined and marginalized with trial and error; and certainly no options to be given a pink slip of rejection, even. I suppose that there’s a consolatory rung on the ladder toward acceptance for a writer of my caliber, and it’s the hope that perseverance would continue to prevail against all odds, and that continuity is the core of it. What is the lesson for others to learn having to deal with obscurity? For those of us still languishing in obscurity we have to remind ourselves that we STILL have to keep plying our trade...and that we are not yet part of that viable network until and when we produce something that will be prominent to someone in the right time and the right place. Ralph Ellison in his superb Invisible Man classic in the portrayal of the ‘Battle Royal’, gives an excellent analogy of Black men blindfolded and put into a boxing ring in which they strike out blindly until only two are left standing depicting winners, but actually winning nothing in the process! We are sure that there have been writers who have been told in many ways that their writing is of no significance, who face this serious and continuing crisis every day. I get people e-mailing asking what does it take to be a freelance writer, or what is needed to write with clarity, etc.
There problems are no worse than mine, being obscured waiting for that chance to be seen, recognized and accepted. I tell them to pick up the gauntlet and run…for our proverbial pen will yield the necessary ink one day to smear obscurity with determined moxie. We will honor what it took to get us where we are today, because insatiable desire has always rendered us thirsty enough to not drink only a half-filled glass as long as there’s room at the top with it running over with our inexhaustible desire to make it!
Am I good enough to be a writer with style, substance, and enough talent to be among the published authors with books already on bookshelves? Yes, I ask myself this constantly, and have given it much thought. Your lifelong dream is to write a book, have it published and to see your name among other authors and titles on those same shelves. How daunting is this task if you’ve persevered beyond the nuances and obstacles along the way? You carry your pen and pad savoring poignant and pensive moments by writing it down so that you won’t lose thoughts and mindsets for a future article, or essay for your journal. You may even be reluctant to share at times, not wanting people to see that perhaps you’re not ready to be unveiled. You eschew workshops and other writing classes because you’ve been there and done that.
You lobby in your mind more time to perfect the craft, and be crafty in how you can still be considered worthy. You’re driven by wit, words, and wisdom from your creative mind to be productive and provocative. You have some modicum of success as an Independent Book Reviewer, you have written columns online, and consider yourself an Essayist with at last coun,t 51 essays written within a year and a half; you have joined a number of online book and reading groups to stay vibrant and in touch with the literary Diaspora, and you blog. Blogging is fun, I have three of them and I love It! The website you’ve produced gives you a certain sense of success, but only within the margins of acceptability, but who wants only marginal success?
Obscurity. That word makes me cringe, and I admit it unnerves me in a way that I began to feel like success will elude me. When I sit down to put words to paper, be it via computer or what, I feel the butterflies in my stomach from anticipated fervor knowing that something is going to happen. My creativity is like that, so full of nervous energy until the ink flows indelibly without any inhibitions. This current essay purports to give insight to the persistence of the unknown writer. Ask me am I committed and you wouldn’t find anyone more determined to belong. I know Jean-Paul Satre and his defining principles of existentialism and commitment – the necessity of defining oneself by choosing, continually choosing, always an uncompleted act but simultaneously completing, needing to feel accomplished! I was a young man as far as I can remember being someone who wanted to be accepted as a writer – no, I was already sure that I was a writer, even though I had not started my freelance writing career, and hadn’t yet seen anything published with my name attached to it.
Remembering those days before the monies started coming in were dark and wistful, but I always found the courage to stay the course. To understand the elements that went into Satre’s work, is to be existential and the determining agent responsible for my own choices, and this is what drove me, and continues to give me that burst of psychological energy needed to keep focused. I feel no negativity being connected to his idealism because to some extent, all writers will have experienced what I’ve felt in wanting to be accepted. Talent notwithstanding, vestiges of existentialism is present in the form of terms that are synonymous with productivity, often the harbinger of doubt. We tend to call it anxiety, writer’s block, ennui, angst, or my favorite – melancholy blues. But is this the best way to define moments when nothing of note comes across your pad, the times when you fail to connect the dots?
It gets back to how committed you are and want to be. I’m aware of what needs to be done to give me mental stability and to keep my head above water to reach that higher level. I think about the stages and initiatives to let the powers that be to know whom you I am, and why I write as I do. It means not bowing down to those that may not understand or even have the type of intellect I do to allow them to see me as being pedantic. And yes, I have had a few of them who feel that I must come down to their level to be accepted and understood. I shrug and admonish them to get a bigger dictionary, or turn the other cheek when they see me coming. The persistence of the unknown writer will always be to harness obscurity, and get his/her work out there to be seen. I’m challenged all the time when I write, because I want to know that each and every bit of work I produce can be the parts of a greater whole to obtain that seemingly obscure notoriety. When there’s no check in the mail I feel the sharp edge of terror gripping me, and reality is much more than the imagery I tend to substitute it for.
I lament the fact that no agent has called me and asked for my manuscripts; no editor has offered me a chance to be redlined and marginalized with trial and error; and certainly no options to be given a pink slip of rejection, even. I suppose that there’s a consolatory rung on the ladder toward acceptance for a writer of my caliber, and it’s the hope that perseverance would continue to prevail against all odds, and that continuity is the core of it. What is the lesson for others to learn having to deal with obscurity? For those of us still languishing in obscurity we have to remind ourselves that we STILL have to keep plying our trade...and that we are not yet part of that viable network until and when we produce something that will be prominent to someone in the right time and the right place. Ralph Ellison in his superb Invisible Man classic in the portrayal of the ‘Battle Royal’, gives an excellent analogy of Black men blindfolded and put into a boxing ring in which they strike out blindly until only two are left standing depicting winners, but actually winning nothing in the process! We are sure that there have been writers who have been told in many ways that their writing is of no significance, who face this serious and continuing crisis every day. I get people e-mailing asking what does it take to be a freelance writer, or what is needed to write with clarity, etc.
There problems are no worse than mine, being obscured waiting for that chance to be seen, recognized and accepted. I tell them to pick up the gauntlet and run…for our proverbial pen will yield the necessary ink one day to smear obscurity with determined moxie. We will honor what it took to get us where we are today, because insatiable desire has always rendered us thirsty enough to not drink only a half-filled glass as long as there’s room at the top with it running over with our inexhaustible desire to make it!
Monday, July 03, 2006
The Wonders of God's Work
Lest we forget why things are as they are, take time to inventory your surroundings and witness the awe of nature blending with the elements. Have you just took time out from life and allowed yourself to be totally mesmerized with things we tend to take for granted? The first quadrant of this year found me traveling and enjoying the lay of the land. Four recent trips I took this year (2006) brought me up front and personal witnessing what God has made for us to enjoy along the way to salvation and for redeeming value. We writers are always looking for those idyllic spots of tranquility where serious and serene mesh define time and place. In February, April and again in May, it was the historic group of sea islands off the coast of Florida northward just above the Carolinas, Hilton Head (South Carolina) and St. Simon's (Georgia) that literally took turns taking my breath away with pregnant pauses and poignant precepts.Then during the latter part of June, I tackled the majestic heights of the Great Smokey Mountains of Tennessee (Gatlinburg/Pigeon Forge). As far as the coastal island were concerned, it was nothing to do my daily Bible study with the sun peeking out on the horizon...on the beach no less, I imagined Paul starting his day gathering the needed ammunition to shoot straight and true armed with the Word with this same setting!
Of course, I happen to know the historic value of this area, where the Gullah tradition lives on today. Oh yes, I know my history: The name, "Gullah", itself probably derives from "Angola" (and possibly from the large number of slaves who arrived from that part of Africa in the early 1800s). "Geechee" -- another name for the language and culture of black Sea Islanders -- comes from a tribal name in Liberia. Traditions, language and myth stayed longer with the coastal Carolina Gullahs, who were allowed greater latitude of self-sufficiency and were relatively isolated on the Sea Islands.
Most Beaufort slaves in the first decades of the 1800s may have been first-generation African arrivals. So it was not merely the remoteness of the Sea Islands that preserved the African culture and language influences among Gullah speakers. An exorbitant number of slaves came to South Carolina from Africa between 1804 through 1807, and approximately 14,000 of these according to Grolier's Encyclopedic Index originated from Angola, Congo, or "Congo and Angola". The newly arrived slaves breathed new life into African traditions already established on the islands. A new infusion of pidgin influences would have had a profound impact on the existing Creole language. With this bit of information firmly imbedded in my consciousness, my pride knew no limits as I walked the sacred ground where my ancestors labored and lamented against all odds for survival...And here I am some 400 years later blessed enough with the opportunity to be in the write place!A few miles to the South, there's Cumberland, Sapelo, Jekyll, and St. Simon's Islands all of which are exclusive in their own individual right, but it's the collective beauty of the whole area that allows God's penchant for bucolic beauty to shine forth.
The International Youth Empowerment Retreat, under the auspices of the Seventh Day International Ministries (Church of God) invited me as a special guest to mentor and talk to a group of youth for spiritual and literary growth. The Sea enclave, originally settled by John and Charles Wesley, held this retreat on St. Simon’s Island within the Epworth founders of the Methodist movement in 1735. I got a chance to fellowship and give a keynote-like speech on the importance of self-esteem and finding purpose to life. Four days of worship, workshops, and lectures gave youths in attendance both challenge and choices. In June another wonder of God's work unveiled itself. The Great Smokey Mountains in the vicinity of Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge, Tennessee was next. Koinonia Worship Center (www.kwcfl.org) , a non-denominational church with their charismatic Pastor, Eric H. Jones, conducted its annual marriage retreat for matrimonial couples and singles alike. Five days were spent here where a series of workshops were inherent along with a dynamic banquet that featured Evangelist and Author, Kenneth Scott who delivered a spirited sermon on familial order and the importance of prayer, devotion, and meditation. There's something about that rarified air that allows eagles to soar and elevation to define a sense of separateness seemingly from the pangs of iniquity.
We stayed in state-of-the art log cabins where privacy begat hot tubs, Jacuzzis, wrap-around porches complete with rocking chairs that I used daily to read one of many books I brought on the journey. Peaks and valleys were abundant, where winding mountain streams and riveting rivers gave rise to 'running free' carving rustic routes to champion good flow. Ah, the wonders of God's work never ceased to amaze me. He gave us awakening sunrises to meditate and start days off on the right foot; He made sure that sunsets wasn't meant to be the end of anything; Gave us reasons to expect the highs and lows of majestic mountains housing valleys and dales where rivers run free, and where precipitous mists of moisture rain supreme! A good time was had by me as I was able to give insight to distinguished gentlemen and young sophisticated ladies...I participated in the various workshops, lectured to the Kids of the Kingdom, and watched with awe as I gave homage to all the wonders that have made God's work majestic and miraculous!
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
The Ink Flowing From My Pen
The ink flowing from the psychological pen in my mind is legible and visible. There’s not a day that goes by that I fail to ‘write it down’. Writing it down is just the natural inclination in me to savor every thought worthy enough to savor from mind to paper. Thus, the pad that I keep within reach, especially mentally, more often than not invariably won’t be a vain attempt at procrastinated penmanship. As an author, am I always supposed to have a ready writings created on the fly positioned to proliferate from the tip of my pen? Shouldn’t my fingers automatically find the home row keys across the keyboard any time I sit in front of the computer? I resoundingly say YES! to both observed inclinations.
There are, and have been times when the words didn’t materialized instantaneously, or I found myself juxtaposed between imagery and realism just to admit reluctantly that writer’s block can happen to the best of us. I’m okay with that. Some days are more productive than others, and there will be times of ennui and blasé routine. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a freelancer and don’t have problems finding writing projects. My research analytical duties and penchant for grant writing gives me ample opportunities to forage for ideas, and be in position to accept assignments. I do my best work when my back is against the wall, or when one of my editors calls with an assignment that’s due yesterday! But I like the lifestyle of ink flowing from my pen when adrenalin is heightened and anticipation is rushing to meld with great expectations. I move with moderate and deliberate speed, creating my own Karma where cruise control is the only option for that type of contentment.
My ‘To Be Read’ pile is getting higher and higher at the expense of the review copies and ARC’s that garner priority. I don’t allow time to dictate or commandeer when and where I write. But I do adhere to that ever-present still small voice that loves to whisper vociferously enough into my ear for clarity, control, and charisma. God is like that. I can’t write anything but what He feels necessary for s me anyway. Like most writers I get excited when I know I’m onto something. There’s a tendency to overwrite and you find yourself with so many rewrites that stifles creative flow…but not the ink! I know that what works for me is finding adequate spacing and not become exasperated when anxiety renders me with too many directives and not enough of anything to carry on.
Are rules meant to be broken? It is said that the craft of writing has so many rules…rules that have defined some, and some that have defeated others. Is the finished essay, poem, or narrative any less discernable if each concerted effort doesn’t end with what my readers expect out of me? It just may be the fodder needed to light that proverbial fire under me for continuity to be more than status quo. The writing life is quirky like this and I wouldn’t trade any of it. I rely on God’s favored hand to guide me and keep the inks flowing – literally!
Essay Literary Impropriety and Superlative Flaw in Search of the Best
In search of the best of anything, and superlative lists never ceases to amaze me. More often than not what is being compared are not equal to the parity they seek. My awe often is mired in supposition, and a natural feeling that comparative analysis will never be balanced if the entities you’re comparing are not equal to each other in ways that would make those comparisons stand up for viability. Being ‘equal to each other’ is being allowed to be judged by the masses without segregation and other institutions of biased opinion holding sway to popular opinion for inclusion. I feel it’s worse in sports and literature. The former is rife with athletes from different eras being offered to stand and toe the line with sports heroes of today. There are a plethora of reasons why it is folly to give credence to allow the vast improvements of today to think that yesteryear’s athlete was better with inferior equipment and conditions.
The latter, while easy to read into something that is not readily assumed can be dauntingly misleading, has allowed lucrative financial boons to sway the opinions of today’s writers equal status with their peers from another era. I will always ask -- what are they comparing and from what standard? It is the unbalanced nature of what is considered ‘literary’ that always tend to give comparative analysis less than what is intended.
As a freelance writer and essayist who happen to be Black, I’m not pleased at how our work is not considered acceptable to what is considered good journalism in some literary circles. Incidentally, I balked at a survey conducted recently that asked to identify "the single best work of American fiction published in the last 25 years." The survey in my opinion was predictable and not quite surprising. Why? The poll wasn’t extended to enough of us, and when I allude to ‘us’ I’m referring to many people of color in my literary Diaspora that are just as influential as specific white folk are to their constituencies. African American writers have emerged and want to be recognized! We are strong and vociferous and are just as prolific as you would find in mainstream sections of the industry. We have produced work that, if given the same equal proportion that others get, would definitely balance the scales of competition and allow opportunity to be accepted in all annals of acceptance.
A.O. Scott in his recent article of the same subject alluded that “a study of this kind where you rank the ‘best’ is akin to something of a composite self-portrait as interesting perhaps for its blind spots and distortions as for its details”. I agree wholeheartedly, and applaud his contention that equally interesting in some cases the reasoning behind the choices as for the choices themselves. My whole premise in this has a lot to do with the fact that in the last 25 years the Black community has given the literary world quite a few gems worthy of consideration. Alice Walker and Toni Morrison, notwithstanding and certainly no disrespect to the two of them, are literary, and you expect for them to garner the pundits and accolades accordingly. Mainstream publishing circles will readily cite them and a few others that are ‘name’ authors by reputation in most cases.
The fact that they have earned the right to be placed in categories of superlative verve is not lost on me, but they certainly are not the only ones worthy of consideration. But you can’t tell me that what others have read based on their individual sensibilities couldn’t give credence, or shouldn’t be considered important and respected enough to make a list like that? The problem is that not enough ‘other’ people read our books, plain and simple; and if they don’t read us how can they purport to produce a list of ‘the best’ and exclude comprehensively other works considered to be just as noteworthy? I’m sure I won’t stand alone in this opinionated view, for I only want to be pragmatic, if not logical in this assessment.
It’s so hard to deem one’s work as the best - or even to establish a short, if not incomplete list of near-bests. I surmise it would be to risk the implication that no one need bother with the rest, and thus belittle the cause of reading or comparing anything without a wider network to adequately choose from. When man resorts to abstract means to deduce what is tangible and what is relevant in reading habits in producing the best of anything, it’s fraught with danger, lest you offend those that feel they legitimately belong in the first place. Literary merit is much more than eliciting opinions where not all books are read to really make the competition fair and equitable. Reasoned judgment with good persuasive points of contention should be the norm, and not some quirky answers given to support a system that plays to chaos and skewed opinions.
Mass public opinion has ways of going against the grain where divided loyalties are par for the course in swaying votes to sensibilities closer to racial affinity. America’s penchant to rank anything and everything causes more harm than anything where the competition is not given opportunities for fair play. I worry too, about not having judges if you will, who are familiar with their own kind as opposed to having someone judge product foreign to their sensibilities. Oh yes, this happens a lot. Just look at American Idol, and you can see how and why vestiges of fabricated competition can give superlative competition a sort of triviality.
In my mind I would love to point to one of my favorite authors, Walter Mosley and fondly place several of his books on that list, for I feel that no other writer, Black or white exemplify diversity in writing acumen. But then again, the idea illustrated here may be the fodder for others to give reason to discount and de-emphasize the need to be the best, if balanced scales are not allowed to legitimize logic for all intended purposes for the sake of fairness!
The latter, while easy to read into something that is not readily assumed can be dauntingly misleading, has allowed lucrative financial boons to sway the opinions of today’s writers equal status with their peers from another era. I will always ask -- what are they comparing and from what standard? It is the unbalanced nature of what is considered ‘literary’ that always tend to give comparative analysis less than what is intended.
As a freelance writer and essayist who happen to be Black, I’m not pleased at how our work is not considered acceptable to what is considered good journalism in some literary circles. Incidentally, I balked at a survey conducted recently that asked to identify "the single best work of American fiction published in the last 25 years." The survey in my opinion was predictable and not quite surprising. Why? The poll wasn’t extended to enough of us, and when I allude to ‘us’ I’m referring to many people of color in my literary Diaspora that are just as influential as specific white folk are to their constituencies. African American writers have emerged and want to be recognized! We are strong and vociferous and are just as prolific as you would find in mainstream sections of the industry. We have produced work that, if given the same equal proportion that others get, would definitely balance the scales of competition and allow opportunity to be accepted in all annals of acceptance.
A.O. Scott in his recent article of the same subject alluded that “a study of this kind where you rank the ‘best’ is akin to something of a composite self-portrait as interesting perhaps for its blind spots and distortions as for its details”. I agree wholeheartedly, and applaud his contention that equally interesting in some cases the reasoning behind the choices as for the choices themselves. My whole premise in this has a lot to do with the fact that in the last 25 years the Black community has given the literary world quite a few gems worthy of consideration. Alice Walker and Toni Morrison, notwithstanding and certainly no disrespect to the two of them, are literary, and you expect for them to garner the pundits and accolades accordingly. Mainstream publishing circles will readily cite them and a few others that are ‘name’ authors by reputation in most cases.
The fact that they have earned the right to be placed in categories of superlative verve is not lost on me, but they certainly are not the only ones worthy of consideration. But you can’t tell me that what others have read based on their individual sensibilities couldn’t give credence, or shouldn’t be considered important and respected enough to make a list like that? The problem is that not enough ‘other’ people read our books, plain and simple; and if they don’t read us how can they purport to produce a list of ‘the best’ and exclude comprehensively other works considered to be just as noteworthy? I’m sure I won’t stand alone in this opinionated view, for I only want to be pragmatic, if not logical in this assessment.
It’s so hard to deem one’s work as the best - or even to establish a short, if not incomplete list of near-bests. I surmise it would be to risk the implication that no one need bother with the rest, and thus belittle the cause of reading or comparing anything without a wider network to adequately choose from. When man resorts to abstract means to deduce what is tangible and what is relevant in reading habits in producing the best of anything, it’s fraught with danger, lest you offend those that feel they legitimately belong in the first place. Literary merit is much more than eliciting opinions where not all books are read to really make the competition fair and equitable. Reasoned judgment with good persuasive points of contention should be the norm, and not some quirky answers given to support a system that plays to chaos and skewed opinions.
Mass public opinion has ways of going against the grain where divided loyalties are par for the course in swaying votes to sensibilities closer to racial affinity. America’s penchant to rank anything and everything causes more harm than anything where the competition is not given opportunities for fair play. I worry too, about not having judges if you will, who are familiar with their own kind as opposed to having someone judge product foreign to their sensibilities. Oh yes, this happens a lot. Just look at American Idol, and you can see how and why vestiges of fabricated competition can give superlative competition a sort of triviality.
In my mind I would love to point to one of my favorite authors, Walter Mosley and fondly place several of his books on that list, for I feel that no other writer, Black or white exemplify diversity in writing acumen. But then again, the idea illustrated here may be the fodder for others to give reason to discount and de-emphasize the need to be the best, if balanced scales are not allowed to legitimize logic for all intended purposes for the sake of fairness!
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Finding Your Own Literary Space
During my formative years leading up to maturity, and even in recent times, I can remember being alone with only the words to console me in times of depression. Desire was within me yearning for escapism to give me confidence and clarity for ways for my writing to surface and grace my writing pad. But it wasn't always so easy to allow silence and peace of mind to work hand in hand for creativity's sake. I was the eldest of seven children and finding time, let alone space was fleeting as well as daunting. The insatiable need to write was strong and reverberating. My need for my own space in my own little world was defined early with frustration ever at the ready to thwart any attempts at reconciled satisfaction. I've heard many authors speak of the same angst and other maladies aiding and abetting this problem. I've also spoken to those that have said that they've had to resort to writing at odd times within any given 24 hour period, and/or finding any type of location to generate serenity.
I've come to the conclusion that illuminating the way for the written word and authors’ commitment to literature has spawned the need for safe havens for the committed writer to continue the proliferation of titles in today's African American literal marketplace. Despite the many books that are flooding cyberspace and any other space to hold them, we writers are being deluged with deadlines, harangued with editing issues, numerous rewrites, and other maladjustments attributing to poor time management options. I'm constantly reminded of my freelance writing initiatives for finding peaceful settings amid chaos. This expose was written to give emerging and established writers to look into the wherewithal of writer retreats, or inner sanctums for retreat -- all for the purpose of finding legitimate spacing for sustained creativity. I, like many others would relish the idea of writing uninhibited and with comfort.
If you are an author and can identify with what has been ascribed above, I'd like to hear from you. Give your comments on why you feel that retreating to space designed specifically for your writing environs are important. What works best for you?
Friday, May 12, 2006
Germinating Seeds for Proper Growth
I was recently asked what motivates me in my creativity pertaining to writing. I've been asked this type of question before, and before answering, I had to stop and ponder for a moment, as I wanted my questioner to really get the gist of my answer. Not wanting to appear caustic or frivolous, I proceeded to tell her that writing comes naturally and I truly don't need to be motivated to do it. In all fairness though, I feel that there’s no reason why I cannot conjure any type of mental narrative that cannot be transposed to just writing them down. Explaining the writing life to someone who is not a writer can be daunting as you run the risk of not being understood. This itch to just tell it the way I see it came often and early. Just as it is today, I write for the moment. My yesterdays always found me with a pad and pen attached to my thoughts, that at a moments notice I found myself copiously writing with reckless abandon. That idiosyncrasy is still a part of my literal methodology.
Ah, the seeds that are within me. Even within their embryonic stage they are positioning to be heard, clamoring to be recognized and claimed for artistic value. I thought about how ideas and ideals are treated when I allow them to languish across the scope of my thought patterns. I water them, change the soil at times to assure the proper spacing for pragmatic view, and give them adequate amount of continuity for later airing. Rarely do I dismiss anything that may have potential to be expanded for an essay. I love the pleasure of coming up with titles that elicit extra-curricular thought. I try to make them catchy and have hooks that tend to play on words. I'm big on alliteration where words just roll of the tongue for intrinsic value to all that those titles should embody. I came up with the title for one of my online columns – “Views from The Catbird Sea. (http://www.aakulturezone.com/lifestyle/catbird/index.html) with this concept in mind. Most of what I write about comes purely from an individually opinionated outlook that harkens back to going deep for yet another view from what's seen on the surface. I feel too, that whenever you can endeavor to allow people to see differing slants it allows supposition to be more than just a moot point.
I will purport with relish that seeds within you can germinate at any time. With me, I want the writer's life to resonate with a voice long on imagery and just short of a dare! I invite you to read more of the seeds that reside within me by visiting the Author's Den where all of my essays are archived. There, you see how I Germinate Seeds for Proper Growth: http://www.authorsden.com/alvincromer
Ah, the seeds that are within me. Even within their embryonic stage they are positioning to be heard, clamoring to be recognized and claimed for artistic value. I thought about how ideas and ideals are treated when I allow them to languish across the scope of my thought patterns. I water them, change the soil at times to assure the proper spacing for pragmatic view, and give them adequate amount of continuity for later airing. Rarely do I dismiss anything that may have potential to be expanded for an essay. I love the pleasure of coming up with titles that elicit extra-curricular thought. I try to make them catchy and have hooks that tend to play on words. I'm big on alliteration where words just roll of the tongue for intrinsic value to all that those titles should embody. I came up with the title for one of my online columns – “Views from The Catbird Sea. (http://www.aakulturezone.com/lifestyle/catbird/index.html) with this concept in mind. Most of what I write about comes purely from an individually opinionated outlook that harkens back to going deep for yet another view from what's seen on the surface. I feel too, that whenever you can endeavor to allow people to see differing slants it allows supposition to be more than just a moot point.
I will purport with relish that seeds within you can germinate at any time. With me, I want the writer's life to resonate with a voice long on imagery and just short of a dare! I invite you to read more of the seeds that reside within me by visiting the Author's Den where all of my essays are archived. There, you see how I Germinate Seeds for Proper Growth: http://www.authorsden.com/alvincromer
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Fusing Realism and Imagery Illustrating Fiction vs. Fact
I marvel at how writers can bridge fact and fiction to weave fabrics of fortitude in writing for clarity, and not compromise a good story. It's the threads that are are woven for a good stitch in keeping it together and flowing. But I wonder do we really understand how realism and imagery can be effectively used for both to be inclusive and warranted.
I never thought I’d elicit passionate pleas to have yea and nay edify such vociferous effect when asking a simple question. “There is a thin line between fiction based stories and factual information. It’s all about dramatic effect and how one spreads it among the pages of a great book. Literally speaking, any great writer can take a small substance of a story then aim for the stars to create a masterpiece. Realism and imagery is closer than you think.” The aforementioned was given when I asked the question, “How close is fiction to fact?” I suspect that I would generally get a myriad of answers to illustrate different points of contention -- and I was right. Personally, I liken the two to be dependent on how mindsets are positioned to illustrate whatever is relevant psychologically to accept what’s real or imagined.
I have been writing for years and have always marveled at how I arrive at subjective titles worthy of my penmanship. Who can deny sharp with at the expense of a fluid pen? Not I, and certainly not others who profess to be connoisseurs of linguistic fortitude. With this in mind, I consider myself a laborer of the mind…one who theorizes about the world and writes essays to share those thoughts. More particularly, I had become this way because fact and fiction is synonymous with how I’m able to project myself intrinsically within my literary muse. In the past, and even now, nothing intrigues me more than to write from an opinionated view, and with a conviction! I admire my ancestors – those of sharp wit and mind who have endeavored to give me flavor to savor and substance to build on. As a Black intellect, I want to be a laborer of the mind…to write among, and about my people sharing the odes and stories of how we survived, and how we continue to create laughter in the eye of storms.
I have been writing for years and have always marveled at how I arrive at subjective titles worthy of my penmanship. Who can deny sharp with at the expense of a fluid pen? Not I, and certainly not others who profess to be connoisseurs of linguistic fortitude. With this in mind, I consider myself a laborer of the mind…one who theorizes about the world and writes essays to share those thoughts. More particularly, I had become this way because fact and fiction is synonymous with how I’m able to project myself intrinsically within my literary muse. In the past, and even now, nothing intrigues me more than to write from an opinionated view, and with a conviction! I admire my ancestors – those of sharp wit and mind who have endeavored to give me flavor to savor and substance to build on. As a Black intellect, I want to be a laborer of the mind…to write among, and about my people sharing the odes and stories of how we survived, and how we continue to create laughter in the eye of storms. I want my words to incite joy, evoke tears, and initiate change. This is but one of the reasons why rhyme and reason will always allow me to know the difference when fact and fiction is part of the total picture. It's all about blending the two for dramatic effect!
Friday, December 16, 2005
Living Within My Muse
When I'm alone and quite lonely, I write....I open my mind and pour out my feelings on paper. Deep inside, instrusively and with long arms I reach, feeling for something to grab ahold of to link and legitimize the psychological effect of philosophies culled from experience. Write now, I feel as though I only want to communicate via my pen....with it indeed being mightier than any sword! I fight my battles with words, and use metaphor to be as descriptive as I want to be. My vernacular is the freedom of speech that allow my intelligent quotient to define who I am, where I want to be, and with whom I want to coaleasce with.
Living within my muse, means finding semblances of eloquence to retain flairs of dramatic interlude to keep my sanity, and temper my bipolar equilibrium. It also gives me all the faith, freedom, and fortitude to create my own space and write essays that are profound and prolific....to be able to move and be removed when it's time to reinvent myself. Living within that same muse is observing from afar and gathering steam for the stretch run, hoping to cross the finish line with a book! Ask me my name and I might tell you to call me what you want, as long as you see me for what I am.
Living within my muse, means finding semblances of eloquence to retain flairs of dramatic interlude to keep my sanity, and temper my bipolar equilibrium. It also gives me all the faith, freedom, and fortitude to create my own space and write essays that are profound and prolific....to be able to move and be removed when it's time to reinvent myself. Living within that same muse is observing from afar and gathering steam for the stretch run, hoping to cross the finish line with a book! Ask me my name and I might tell you to call me what you want, as long as you see me for what I am.
Monday, December 05, 2005
My Encounter with Author, Octavia E. Butler
After twenty two years Miami’s version of a book fair, with all of its international flavoring drawing from South America, the Caribbean, Mexico and parts of Europe you’d get a delectable mix and quite a different spin than others. This year, the modus operandi didn’t change but a few alterations were at the fore. I wondered and worried whether charging an entrance fee would curtail the most diehard fan to think otherwise, or if our topsy-turvy year of weathering several hurricanes had finally took its toll. From my observation, attendance definitely was down and it seemed on the surface at least that perhaps there people would be reluctant to buy a book in lieu of protecting further against the ravishes of yet another hurricane looming somewhere off of Cape Verde heading our way. You see, our hurricane season isn’t officially over until the first of December! This notwithstanding, Hurricane Wilma shut our offices down for a week, but the facilities made it though the storm without any major damage. The fair went on and we were able to enjoy another all-star cast in the African-American persuasion from the likes of Terri McMillan, ReShonda Tate-Billingsley, Martha Southgate, John Hope Franklin, Zane, Octavia Butler, et al. Readings, panel discussions, book signings, and the after parties were all the rage as all of the authors made themselves available. Octavia Butler journeyed all the way from the Pacific Northwest to give us a try, and what time we had in her presence. I was the room host and moderated her session, as well as introduced her. I give my account of that experience below:
The Butler did it!
The science of fiction can truly be misleading…and I saw her long before I would approach this statuesque woman formidable in her stead, and quite imposing to boot. Pure fact has ways of hitting you square in the face with reality. Bushy Afro hairdo and all, her seemingly conservative dress and simplistic demeanor wouldn’t begin to defy the eloquence and wit she would later exude. More on that later. As I neared my subject, I wondered how would I present myself, and what would I say. All I knew was that I was assigned the task of being a liaison between author, book fair and the audience during her stay at this formidable literary event. Here I was quite a few hours early (by design) endeavoring to escort her to the hospitality suite that was the designated area where authors had the chance to mingle, rest, and gather their thoughts before being ferried to their respectful literary sessions. As a longtime volunteer with this being my eleventh year doing so, I still find time to be awed by the electricity of so many people – all for the love of books!
The Miami Book Fair International is a prestigious event, and considered to be the granddaddy of them all, requiring volunteers as well as staffers to adhere to protocol and represent. All of us are required to avail ourselves wholeheartedly to the betterment and success of each yearly offering. This is our 22nd year, and my bailiwick and penchant for volunteering will never diminish. When I found out that I was given Octavia E. Butler, I took it with a grain of salt and turned my thoughts to other pending matters. ‘Out of sight, out of mind’ I told myself…until it dawned on me the task I had before me, to soothe the crowd, filibuster as needed, and keep the throng at bay with chatter becoming a Room Host who was expected to ‘moderate’ and coddle. “Surely I can handle this”, I implored as the time neared for me to turn my attention back to the matter at hand as I slowly made my way to her. My knees began to wobble, my heart pounded with nervous energy and the adrenalin flowed profusely in the form of sweat from my brow, but I trudged on. Didn’t I do quite well in performing the same tasks for the likes of Toni Morrison two years ago, and meeting Walter Mosley for the very first time in 2001? I’m admonishing myself and trying to be convincing to my own lukewarm ego. After all, I truly would be in the company of an icon, a literary diva and a force within her genre that command respect…all I’d have to do was stay composed, I mused to myself.
“Excuse me, may you be Octavia Butler?” I stammered realizing that she was almost as tall as I was! She gave a pregnant pause all of 3 minutes before answering, “I have been for the last 58 years, and who wants to know?“ Without missing a beat because by now my heart was way down in the feet, I managed to introduce myself….and sensing my discomfort, she laughed heartedly and said, “relax, will ya. I AM Olivia, and I’m just an ordinary writer that happened to have written a few books that someone has believed in over the years.” With that, I escorted her to the place where she would be holding court oblivious to the many gawking fans and curious onlookers, wondering what I could say next to carry the conversation. As I mentioned, I was early. I wanted to meet her beforehand to engage her in conversation to see how would be the best way to introduce her. When I asked, she said that she didn’t care one way or another as long as I didn’t mention that she’d won the McArthur family’s 1995 ‘Genius Award’. Fearing stupidity would render my next and obvious question obsolete; I decided not to ask why. Just to be on the safe side, I found a little ditty online that I felt would be appropriate and light enough for a good intro. What made my find such an enamoring muse is the fact that she quotes in an autobiographical sketch the perfect sound bite for a good segue for me:
“I'm a 58-year-old writer who can remember being a 10-year-old writer and who expects someday to be an 80-year-old writer. I'm also comfortably asocial -- a hermit in the middle of Seattle -- a pessimist if I'm not careful, a feminist, a Black, a former Baptist, an oil-and-water combination of ambition, laziness, insecurity, certainty, and drive.
I've had twelve novels published so far: Patternmaster, Mind of my Mind, Survivor, Kindred, Wild Seed, Clay's Ark, Dawn, Adulthood Rites, Imago, Parable of the Sower, Parable of the Talents, my latest Fledgling, as well as a collection of my shorter work, entitled Bloodchild. I've also had short stories published in anthologies and magazines. One, Speech Sounds, won a Hugo Award as best short story of 1984. Another, Bloodchild, won both the 1985 Hugo and the 1984 Nebula awards as best novelette. Parable of the Talents won the 1999 Nebula for Best Novel.”
The discussion went well…so well that I hated to end it, and was castigated in a jovial way for not being considerate to her fans afterwards! Lively and upbeat, the questions flowed. Sharing the stage with her was Latin writer, Luis Alberto Urrea. Urrea, no slouch himself in the Hispanic literary world was a 2005 Pulitzer Prize finalist for nonfiction and member of the Latino Hall of Fame, but when paired with Octavia Butler he made the best of it and, frankly added comedic relief to a situation that could have gone in a different direction. Long after the discussion, and after every book was signed from the long lines, I surveyed my time and didn’t feel at all like a Fledgling (her latest book), and somehow felt that the Butler not only knew, but also winked!
The Butler did it!
The science of fiction can truly be misleading…and I saw her long before I would approach this statuesque woman formidable in her stead, and quite imposing to boot. Pure fact has ways of hitting you square in the face with reality. Bushy Afro hairdo and all, her seemingly conservative dress and simplistic demeanor wouldn’t begin to defy the eloquence and wit she would later exude. More on that later. As I neared my subject, I wondered how would I present myself, and what would I say. All I knew was that I was assigned the task of being a liaison between author, book fair and the audience during her stay at this formidable literary event. Here I was quite a few hours early (by design) endeavoring to escort her to the hospitality suite that was the designated area where authors had the chance to mingle, rest, and gather their thoughts before being ferried to their respectful literary sessions. As a longtime volunteer with this being my eleventh year doing so, I still find time to be awed by the electricity of so many people – all for the love of books!
The Miami Book Fair International is a prestigious event, and considered to be the granddaddy of them all, requiring volunteers as well as staffers to adhere to protocol and represent. All of us are required to avail ourselves wholeheartedly to the betterment and success of each yearly offering. This is our 22nd year, and my bailiwick and penchant for volunteering will never diminish. When I found out that I was given Octavia E. Butler, I took it with a grain of salt and turned my thoughts to other pending matters. ‘Out of sight, out of mind’ I told myself…until it dawned on me the task I had before me, to soothe the crowd, filibuster as needed, and keep the throng at bay with chatter becoming a Room Host who was expected to ‘moderate’ and coddle. “Surely I can handle this”, I implored as the time neared for me to turn my attention back to the matter at hand as I slowly made my way to her. My knees began to wobble, my heart pounded with nervous energy and the adrenalin flowed profusely in the form of sweat from my brow, but I trudged on. Didn’t I do quite well in performing the same tasks for the likes of Toni Morrison two years ago, and meeting Walter Mosley for the very first time in 2001? I’m admonishing myself and trying to be convincing to my own lukewarm ego. After all, I truly would be in the company of an icon, a literary diva and a force within her genre that command respect…all I’d have to do was stay composed, I mused to myself.
“Excuse me, may you be Octavia Butler?” I stammered realizing that she was almost as tall as I was! She gave a pregnant pause all of 3 minutes before answering, “I have been for the last 58 years, and who wants to know?“ Without missing a beat because by now my heart was way down in the feet, I managed to introduce myself….and sensing my discomfort, she laughed heartedly and said, “relax, will ya. I AM Olivia, and I’m just an ordinary writer that happened to have written a few books that someone has believed in over the years.” With that, I escorted her to the place where she would be holding court oblivious to the many gawking fans and curious onlookers, wondering what I could say next to carry the conversation. As I mentioned, I was early. I wanted to meet her beforehand to engage her in conversation to see how would be the best way to introduce her. When I asked, she said that she didn’t care one way or another as long as I didn’t mention that she’d won the McArthur family’s 1995 ‘Genius Award’. Fearing stupidity would render my next and obvious question obsolete; I decided not to ask why. Just to be on the safe side, I found a little ditty online that I felt would be appropriate and light enough for a good intro. What made my find such an enamoring muse is the fact that she quotes in an autobiographical sketch the perfect sound bite for a good segue for me:
“I'm a 58-year-old writer who can remember being a 10-year-old writer and who expects someday to be an 80-year-old writer. I'm also comfortably asocial -- a hermit in the middle of Seattle -- a pessimist if I'm not careful, a feminist, a Black, a former Baptist, an oil-and-water combination of ambition, laziness, insecurity, certainty, and drive.
I've had twelve novels published so far: Patternmaster, Mind of my Mind, Survivor, Kindred, Wild Seed, Clay's Ark, Dawn, Adulthood Rites, Imago, Parable of the Sower, Parable of the Talents, my latest Fledgling, as well as a collection of my shorter work, entitled Bloodchild. I've also had short stories published in anthologies and magazines. One, Speech Sounds, won a Hugo Award as best short story of 1984. Another, Bloodchild, won both the 1985 Hugo and the 1984 Nebula awards as best novelette. Parable of the Talents won the 1999 Nebula for Best Novel.”
The discussion went well…so well that I hated to end it, and was castigated in a jovial way for not being considerate to her fans afterwards! Lively and upbeat, the questions flowed. Sharing the stage with her was Latin writer, Luis Alberto Urrea. Urrea, no slouch himself in the Hispanic literary world was a 2005 Pulitzer Prize finalist for nonfiction and member of the Latino Hall of Fame, but when paired with Octavia Butler he made the best of it and, frankly added comedic relief to a situation that could have gone in a different direction. Long after the discussion, and after every book was signed from the long lines, I surveyed my time and didn’t feel at all like a Fledgling (her latest book), and somehow felt that the Butler not only knew, but also winked!
Friday, October 21, 2005
Friendship Lost...Was it REALLY Meant to be?
All is not well in my camp. This past week I lost a friend. And I can truly say that the fault is not mine. Suffice it to say, when circumstantial innuendo is allowed to hang on the surface and one fail to go deeper for clarity and better understanding, it not only clouds truth, but surely leaves one of us much worse for the wear. Inasmuch in these trying times where tenets are forged to galvanize stability there should always be room for humbleness...to keep those that are deemed worthy of platonic commaderie close at heart and embraceable. I've always felt that there's no excuse for not permeating a meeting of the minds to settle any disparaging differences for the betterment of the relationship in coming to one accord.
In my case, I did nothing but tell the truth and it came back to slap me smack in the face. My so called 'friend' only looked on the surface and made the decision she felt she had to make. You see, this happens only if you've made up your mind despite options to think otherwise. To my chagrin, and at the expense of our friendship, I continually ask myself, "was it meant to be"? Not one to cry over spilled milk, I shed true tears with this one, because this was not ordinary friend. Sharing much, and seemingly to come together despite a few character differences, we spent time talking trying always to find common bonds of ambiance.
You see, Deborah (I'll call her this to protect her 'innocence') and I met online. For a year and a half we took pains to get to know each other despite the mileage between us...and given the set of circumstances where you never throw caution to the wind, we thrived. We even progressed despite being told that it wouldn't last. I've second-guessed myself wondering did I do the right thing in expelling her from my life?Will my conscience and consciousness suffer with her absence so evident of circumstances gone awry? My best defense was, and is to embrace the fact that I don't need to lie at this stage in my life. Or, that there wasn't any ulterior motive for my actions save to make sure that if push come to shove that I'm convincing in my explanations.
Was it really meant to be, to lose like this? I stand my ground and will chalk it up to fate. I've moved on, but I know there is space reserved in my psyche that will allow me to think 'what if', coulda, woulda, or even shoulda. Now that I'm allowed to shuck the burden of guilt, I surely can lament that it shouldn’t have ended this way, that in the face of it all, REAL friends would have found a way for common ground to prevail. I would be remiss at this point if I didn't revisit essays I've written in the past extolling the virtues of true friendship. Going there, I would recall my ditty on what it takes to be a 'Friend for All Seasons' http://www.aakulturezone.com/lifestyle/catbird/content/frallseas.html, or to reminisce on saving face and send my 'Epistle to A Friend' http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewarticle.asp?id=12799 and call it a day.
I trudge on looking for more opportunities to allow Agape love to order my steps in gauging good ties to equal parity, where mutual respect is one of many ingredients to stay the course to define what friends should truly embody. I still give a toast to Deborah, as I wish her well, and will miss her terribly...and if either one of us should allow ego to subside for a minute, just maybe we will hook up again in a Providential way to save face and shame the devil. Keep your head to the sky, Deb...there's an upside to your being that will manifest success for you.
Your erstwhile friend,
The Jackal
In my case, I did nothing but tell the truth and it came back to slap me smack in the face. My so called 'friend' only looked on the surface and made the decision she felt she had to make. You see, this happens only if you've made up your mind despite options to think otherwise. To my chagrin, and at the expense of our friendship, I continually ask myself, "was it meant to be"? Not one to cry over spilled milk, I shed true tears with this one, because this was not ordinary friend. Sharing much, and seemingly to come together despite a few character differences, we spent time talking trying always to find common bonds of ambiance.
You see, Deborah (I'll call her this to protect her 'innocence') and I met online. For a year and a half we took pains to get to know each other despite the mileage between us...and given the set of circumstances where you never throw caution to the wind, we thrived. We even progressed despite being told that it wouldn't last. I've second-guessed myself wondering did I do the right thing in expelling her from my life?Will my conscience and consciousness suffer with her absence so evident of circumstances gone awry? My best defense was, and is to embrace the fact that I don't need to lie at this stage in my life. Or, that there wasn't any ulterior motive for my actions save to make sure that if push come to shove that I'm convincing in my explanations.
Was it really meant to be, to lose like this? I stand my ground and will chalk it up to fate. I've moved on, but I know there is space reserved in my psyche that will allow me to think 'what if', coulda, woulda, or even shoulda. Now that I'm allowed to shuck the burden of guilt, I surely can lament that it shouldn’t have ended this way, that in the face of it all, REAL friends would have found a way for common ground to prevail. I would be remiss at this point if I didn't revisit essays I've written in the past extolling the virtues of true friendship. Going there, I would recall my ditty on what it takes to be a 'Friend for All Seasons' http://www.aakulturezone.com/lifestyle/catbird/content/frallseas.html, or to reminisce on saving face and send my 'Epistle to A Friend' http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewarticle.asp?id=12799 and call it a day.
I trudge on looking for more opportunities to allow Agape love to order my steps in gauging good ties to equal parity, where mutual respect is one of many ingredients to stay the course to define what friends should truly embody. I still give a toast to Deborah, as I wish her well, and will miss her terribly...and if either one of us should allow ego to subside for a minute, just maybe we will hook up again in a Providential way to save face and shame the devil. Keep your head to the sky, Deb...there's an upside to your being that will manifest success for you.
Your erstwhile friend,
The Jackal
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
A Novel Idea Coming to Fruition -- At Last!
I’ve finally started writing my first novel. Yeah, yeah, the bullet has been bitten and I’m taken the plunge. I’ve been provoked into writing for reasons I can't ignore, and for having the opportunity to let others share my opinionated views and the wherewithal for writing a good story. I do realize though, that the publishing industry is a ruthless business that often do not give best returns on investments if one is not prepared for rejection and rewrites. Am I ready? You betcha! Why now? Because it’s TIME! Robbing Peter to pay Paul has been manifested in stealing time from my other priorities for the sake of literal notoriety, and a chance for me to say the book in me is being produced. Yes, sneaking away from my desk at work the manuscript clutched tightly to finish “this last chapter” only to have it turn into the next chapter, and the one after that, until it’s time to go on to the next rendezvous in life. Everyone is wondering without words whether temperance and perseverance will suffice enough for me to allow this quest to become more reality than imagery.
Oh, but do I have a surprise for those who doubt! When, and should I falter, I will have at my side the trials and tribulations of Ernest Hemmingway, who after countless rejection letters and setbacks stayed the course and wasn’t worse for the wear by producing remarkable work. I still see myself some 20 years ago as a Sophomore in high school reading The Old Man and the Sea, being that man between those pages committed to an idea and never stopping until the task is done and all storms weathered. For all of these reasons and many more, in my quest to take this idea from book to shelf.
I admit to being a greedy reader, and a voracious writer. I believe too, that the least I can do is bridge gaps to help my fellow writers realize their dreams of finally getting up and over the proverbial chasm that separates publishing success and a wannabe novelist with grandeur hopes of a six-figure income. The Romer Review will continue to be the vehicle for that journey to manifest itself relative to it’s mission statement (www.theromerreview.com). I believe in the power of a good story told simply and presented elegantly and with panache, and for that reason, I know that I will continue to allow the craft and the muse of the literati to guide and propel me toward my lofty aspiration to not only just belong, but to command respect! Keep me in your prayers, will ya?
Oh, but do I have a surprise for those who doubt! When, and should I falter, I will have at my side the trials and tribulations of Ernest Hemmingway, who after countless rejection letters and setbacks stayed the course and wasn’t worse for the wear by producing remarkable work. I still see myself some 20 years ago as a Sophomore in high school reading The Old Man and the Sea, being that man between those pages committed to an idea and never stopping until the task is done and all storms weathered. For all of these reasons and many more, in my quest to take this idea from book to shelf.
I admit to being a greedy reader, and a voracious writer. I believe too, that the least I can do is bridge gaps to help my fellow writers realize their dreams of finally getting up and over the proverbial chasm that separates publishing success and a wannabe novelist with grandeur hopes of a six-figure income. The Romer Review will continue to be the vehicle for that journey to manifest itself relative to it’s mission statement (www.theromerreview.com). I believe in the power of a good story told simply and presented elegantly and with panache, and for that reason, I know that I will continue to allow the craft and the muse of the literati to guide and propel me toward my lofty aspiration to not only just belong, but to command respect! Keep me in your prayers, will ya?
Monday, October 10, 2005
I Remember New Orleans the Way It Used to Be
She was older by far than any of her contemporaries in the region. Multi-hued and culturally diverse, she was hot, spicy and full of panache. You might say that she was a seductress that invited you to all of her wily charms, opened up and gave you all you could bear. Bared it all she did on many occasions, as she alluringly dared you to whet your appetite, when she wanted to be more than what was seen on the surface! They called her the Crescent City, the Big Easy, Sin City-- I called her whenever I needed rejuvenation and vivacity. Ah yes, New Orleans! New Orleans, the way it was known had enduring appeal found in the alchemy of unlikely combinations, where different rules applied, especially under the cover of darkness. I remember that fun place, that erudite City of the South, where beads meant something, imagery everything, and egos nothing. Will she ever be the same? Can she bounce back and give us that which we miss so much? Will we be able to afford her? Questions, queries, and quests are about us as we curse Katrina, and regret Rita.
Yes, I remember Royal Street, that paragon of priceless art, artifacts, and antique wonders! ... And Bourbon street and the rest of the French Quarter was more than mere memory -- it defined presence and perseverance, where Preservation Hall presented much more than joyous jazz and nostalgic sounds that Louis rocked to in his hey day. It was cajuns, creole, and somewhere in between, where the distinct cuisine of favor and flavor was the ultimate sense of belonging that beckoned me. I remember and miss Antoine's, Cafe Du Monde, and the taste of real hot sauce!
Oh, Katrina you wrecker of dreams, drama and desire, why so demonstrative and destructive? You ruined it all, and had help from our inept government and pathetic president, but you MUST bounce back, and with those who were left homeless and incapacitated....and I know you will. I remember you in great detail, New Orleans. The essence of music was your legacy, your cuisine your calling card, and certainly your reputation gave you notoriety. Give it back to me, and in a hurry!
Yes, I remember Royal Street, that paragon of priceless art, artifacts, and antique wonders! ... And Bourbon street and the rest of the French Quarter was more than mere memory -- it defined presence and perseverance, where Preservation Hall presented much more than joyous jazz and nostalgic sounds that Louis rocked to in his hey day. It was cajuns, creole, and somewhere in between, where the distinct cuisine of favor and flavor was the ultimate sense of belonging that beckoned me. I remember and miss Antoine's, Cafe Du Monde, and the taste of real hot sauce!
Oh, Katrina you wrecker of dreams, drama and desire, why so demonstrative and destructive? You ruined it all, and had help from our inept government and pathetic president, but you MUST bounce back, and with those who were left homeless and incapacitated....and I know you will. I remember you in great detail, New Orleans. The essence of music was your legacy, your cuisine your calling card, and certainly your reputation gave you notoriety. Give it back to me, and in a hurry!
The Writer, The Wisdom, The Woman -- Introducing, E. Claudette Freeman
Every so often along comes a talent so defined and diversified you try to draw parallels, and for no other reason than to chalk it up as unique, you’re resigned albeit reluctantly to give this talent her just due. This is because you want more and demand more from authors who are bubbling just under the radar. You realize that the writing is genuine and comes profoundly from the bowels of self, giving new meaning to originality. Her name? E. Claudette Freeman and she has arrived, ready to expand your horizons and give you new hope to literary fortitude. Who in the hell is this E. Claudette Freeman you ask? Sit back and take it all in. She’s everything you imagined, but was afraid to assume!
E. Claudette Freeman is …….. Co-author of the nationally-toured production of CHARCOAL SKETCHES, a biographical dramatic performance produced and co-authored by Bhetty Waldron on the lives of Zora Neale Hurston, Augusta Savage and Mary McLeod Bethune. Performed as a one woman show, and one woman with Chorale.
The author of PIECES AND ME: A Collection of Life, a gathering of short stories that deal with various relationships. Published by Imagine Graphics of South Florida, the book is available in Black-owned bookstores across the country and on the Internet at Amazon.com, BN.com, Cushcity.com and other sites. The author of six stage plays {two placing second and third in the Loften Mitchell Playwrights Festival, in 1994 and 1995 respectively.) The plays are:
FROM THE PORCH - Commissioned by the Miami Sports and Exhibition Authority and narrated by actor Danny Glover, this historical piece traces Black history from enslavement to the contemporary hip hop era. Told through the voice of a narrator, the piece is accentuated with dramatic vignettes that colorfully relay various timelines.
THE SLUMBER PARTY -- Self-produced in March 1995, this play centers around a night of secrets revealed when five life long friends get together for a sleep over. Tales of sexual orientation, abuse and loneliness unfold like pages from a diary. (Second place 1994 Loften Mitchell Playwrights Festival, staged at Barry University‘s Broad Theater, March 1995)
REMEMBERIN' PAPA -- Is an emotional story of the relationship between and aging father and his three children, and how the unresolved issues of childhood affect them when their father dies suddenly. (Third place 1995, Loften Mitchell Playwrights Festival)
THE PORCHES OF HOME --Is actually a collection of four pieces in one. It is small town tales that invite the audience to visit the lives of several of the town's people. These stories deal with a daughter tired of small town life, family superstitions, the memory of a painful death, and the curiosity of a teenager.
THE TEARS A SISTER CRIES -- A look at the raw dialogue of three Christian women about sex, relationships and the issues allowed and encouraged in relationships. (Staged African Heritage Cultural Arts Center, October 2001)
THE WAY MY MAMA LOVES ME - A story of unspoken emotions, unspoken pain and the tormented relationship between a mother and daughter. (Staged Florida Memorial College, October 2000, Vision To Victory Center, January 2001).
E. Claudette Freeman is also the author of a series of poetry and inspirational E-Books under the imprint, E-Inspirations: IN MY DARKEST HOUR, EVOLUTION OF A DARK CHILD, THE MORNING HOUR and DADDY'S GIRL/MY FATHER'S CHILD
She is a former student/artist-in-residence of Ntozake Shange, who personally chose Freeman to participate in an intense one month writing enhancement session. The author, erudite in her prolific writing style is recognized as rising star, and one of the most prominent African American female writers of the 20th Century by the African American Cultural Arts Coalition and the Pan African Bookfest of South Florida.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Notes on a Napkin Voume I, No. 1
Slavery is NOT Dead: The Plight of Three Lost Boys From Sudan!
Modern day slavery is alive and thriving in the 21st century. In many instances there's no varying degree of atrocity than that of social inequity where freedom is snuffed out and stiffled, and free-will is fleeting. Human bondage, no matter how the script is written, is a sordid affair that has shown its ugly head through the annals of time. Whole races and cultures have been obliterated because of it. Every so often I think of my ancestors and what they went through just trying to unshackle the chains and lighten the yoke of oppression. I've read a series of articles, books, and reports of several factions still feeding the institution. Now comes a poignant, yet harrowing experience involving our precious children, one which should make you stand up and scream!
Northern Africa, the Sahara, and Sudan has systems in place rife with all the ingredients, and very little escape. Civil wars and rumors of like wars are commonplace where raids for women, and children, especially boys are relished to fuel the fire. In Sudan it takes on dire proportions that has the world watching with a third eye, wondering how much and how long can they continue to exploit and extinguish young boys that will never see manhood. The story of The Lost Boys are told (www.theromerreview.com) in detail with a published account of how three made it out to tell their story, and if you're compelled to do something as I plan to, click here: www.theIRC.org/LostBoysEd
Saturday, August 27, 2005
The Jackal's Ligitimate Presence
From time to time people inquire about the drawing of the Jackal that serves as the mascot for The Romer Review. The ancient Egyptians were the scholars and innovators of their day and in a class by themselves. I'm a student and an enthusiast of Kemet and the benefis of Sankofa. Anubis, the Egyptian god of the underworld and chief preservationist of knowledge and literature lore, served as an ample and revered diety in providing them with wisdom and wit. It is this mantra that I wanted to have emulated as I embarked on a journey to likewise educate the masses, broker information, and supply those that want to be taught. The Jackal serves this purpose and purport to allow books and all things literary to legitimize his presence.
A Likeness for the Record
Cyberspace is this vast and nebulous nexus that has vigorously changed how we do business and interact with anything having to do with research, and just finding things! The world wide web uses computers to be the vehicle in navigating, and as I was doing just that, lo and behold someone comes around with a camera with candid intent and snaps a picture using the proverbial "cheese" utterance. Never wanting to be caught taking one where 'just as you are' render you as is and unprepared, I grinned and bore it. So now, there you have it, a picture of yours truly to finally personalize this blog with some vestige of a likeness for reference.ACR
Friday, August 26, 2005
Oh, Katrina!
A woman's wrath borne with fury and unrelenting force was experienced in paradise. Vulnerable and caught unaware, we're now able to pull our drawers up and render a feeble smile. Her name was Katrina, and she came rushing in town with her eye bent on destruction without a care in the world. She found me in a melancholy mood, blue and bleary awaiting the angst and anticipated havoc that helps to embellish others like her with the same mindset. Who set her to flowing before she got to us?
Oh, Katrina, I knew your type. You were just another upstart female eager and willing to prove that you had status and belonged. I had no choice as I watched, waited, and wondered just how you would manage to add your name to the lore that is par for this region this time of the year. The wind and rain notwithstanding, I shook my head in disgust with the aftermath of your evident destructive path before my eyes. You turned roads to rivers and gave new meaning to up a creek without a paddle. Uprooted trees, flooded streets and homes, power lines crackling with live electricity for shock value, and chaos running amok -- that was you at your best, or worst depending to whom I talked to.
I saw lines of anger creased ever so deeply in the faces of people who are still shaking fists of anger at you. Yes, we're soaked, stunned and so sick of you Katrina. You've snuffed the life out of 7 people here in South Florida, left thousands homeless and without power, and we wonder as we wander -- is it justice or just us? Yes, you found me despondent and dejected, but not for long, and certainly without my pen...for I wrote you out of my mind and communed with my neighbors to rebuild. I didn't throw caution to the wind, but chalked it up to the fickle finger of fate.
Oh, Katrina...don't gloat as you should know that we are resilient and relentless to get paradise back. We curse you and are caustic to your uncaring ways, but we are learned and DO remember your cousin Andrew. Good riddance, you bearer of ill-wind and reigns of terror. I defy you and no worse for the wear, because Hurricanes like you always manage to die anyway!
Oh, Katrina, I knew your type. You were just another upstart female eager and willing to prove that you had status and belonged. I had no choice as I watched, waited, and wondered just how you would manage to add your name to the lore that is par for this region this time of the year. The wind and rain notwithstanding, I shook my head in disgust with the aftermath of your evident destructive path before my eyes. You turned roads to rivers and gave new meaning to up a creek without a paddle. Uprooted trees, flooded streets and homes, power lines crackling with live electricity for shock value, and chaos running amok -- that was you at your best, or worst depending to whom I talked to.
I saw lines of anger creased ever so deeply in the faces of people who are still shaking fists of anger at you. Yes, we're soaked, stunned and so sick of you Katrina. You've snuffed the life out of 7 people here in South Florida, left thousands homeless and without power, and we wonder as we wander -- is it justice or just us? Yes, you found me despondent and dejected, but not for long, and certainly without my pen...for I wrote you out of my mind and communed with my neighbors to rebuild. I didn't throw caution to the wind, but chalked it up to the fickle finger of fate.
Oh, Katrina...don't gloat as you should know that we are resilient and relentless to get paradise back. We curse you and are caustic to your uncaring ways, but we are learned and DO remember your cousin Andrew. Good riddance, you bearer of ill-wind and reigns of terror. I defy you and no worse for the wear, because Hurricanes like you always manage to die anyway!
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Sharing the Muse
Today was a good one! Summer in the tropical bliss that is Miami gives new meaning to warmth, and an ideal setting to be just write. What good is it to go through life without sharing your views and writings with someone who is congenial, compatible and cognizant of what you stand for. I have an author friend who colors my world and give me insight and views of her panaromic passion for writing. We share long distance calls and e-mail, but retain affinity for close introspective musings.
I heard from her as she too, is basking in her version of idyllic paradise...she of the longing to be legitimately taken seriously, and to write without reprimand and without censure. Isn't this the very voice of most writers? There are many times when I want to trash deadlines, fire my editors, defy industry status quo, and just write to be right in my own idiosyncratic way. Then I think of my friend, so talented and taunting in her brazen way with words.....Thank you Darlene, for you are truly a blessing and Godsent!
I heard from her as she too, is basking in her version of idyllic paradise...she of the longing to be legitimately taken seriously, and to write without reprimand and without censure. Isn't this the very voice of most writers? There are many times when I want to trash deadlines, fire my editors, defy industry status quo, and just write to be right in my own idiosyncratic way. Then I think of my friend, so talented and taunting in her brazen way with words.....Thank you Darlene, for you are truly a blessing and Godsent!
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