"Apartment 2C"

Elba didn’t know much about the young woman who lived next door in Apartment 2C.

She’d moved in some six months ago, mostly kept to herself. A silent neighbor was fine with Elba. The last tenants were rowdy tattoo artists who played loud rock music all hours of the night. She complained to the Super, called the police even, but nothing was done. When their lease expired, it wasn’t renewed. They simply moved away.

And then the quiet young lady moved in.

“Her name’s Danielle Acosta,” the Super said one day while he and Elba were sitting out on the front stoop of the building, enjoying cool breezes brought on by the fall weather. “She lived over in Philly for the past 5 years. I thought she was Latino or something, but the background check said she was black.”

“Really,” Elba said, hoping he would continue. She wasn’t a gossiper like him. She liked to sit back and observe closely instead.

He lit a cigar and puffed a few times to get it to burn just right. “You know, I don’t ever ask about no race or nothing. Just couldn’t tell with her. Coulda been white for all I know. Anyway, she was in Georgia before that, down in Atlanta. She’s some kind of engineer over in Center City. Wanted to move out of the city because it was too expensive.”

“Is that right?” Elba asked. “I haven’t had a chance to talk with her.”

“She’s nice,” he said, and blew nasty smelling smoke up into the air. “Pays on time. That’s all that matters to me, you know.”

The Super was the nosiest gossip in Jersey. Elba knew if he knew anything strange about Danielle, he would tell her. She and Danielle were the only two tenants on that floor and that was good enough for Elba.

Elba never went over to introduce herself. She watched from the living room window instead. She had a good view of the whole street from there.

The girl, in addition to being quiet, was very consistent. She left every morning at seven o’clock sharp and caught the seven ten bus. She’d return around six in the evening, give or take a few minutes. She always wore casual shirts and khakis and a pair of what looked to be Rockports.

“Work clothes,” Elba said to herself while watching from her window one morning. “She doesn’t have a fancy office job. Engineer. Must work with engines or something.”

Elba also noticed that Danielle would sometimes leave in the evenings. “High heels. Short skirt. She got a boyfriend,” Elba murmured to herself as she parted the sheer curtains just a tad with her fingers to get a better look at Danielle. Danielle walked across the street to the locked garage where she stored her car, an old white Nova. She wouldn’t come back home until late, or sometimes not at all until the next afternoon.

Elba met that boyfriend one day out in the stairwell leading up to her apartment floor. She was laden down with bags of grocery just purchased across the street at Walter’s Stop-n-Shop. He brushed past her in his shiny green sports jersey and baggy blue jeans, damn near knocking her over. He didn’t even say excuse me. He strutted right up to Danielle’s door and knocked on it. Danielle opened it and he poured the charm on.

“Hey baby,” he breathed. It was followed by a soft giggle from Danielle before she yanked him through the door.

Elba scrunched up her face. “Leave him alone, honey,” she murmured to herself as she fumbled with her keys at her own front door. “Mr.Bad News, that’s what he is.”

He moved in with Danielle, and every night, the boom of loud rap music grated Elba’s nerves. She knew that the quiet Danielle wasn’t responsible for such madness.

Had to be the new fella.

But Elba didn’t know how bad “Mr.Bad News” was until she was standing in the bathroom one night a few months later, brushing her hair before bed. She heard a loud noise. She backed up from the bathroom mirror and was about to go out into the living room when the boom occurred again, this time shaking her whole apartment. She jumped when she heard a loud crash in her bathroom. She ran back in to see the crystal glass that she used for soaking her bridgework on the floor, smashed into a million pieces.

Elba knew those sounds all too well. Had been the brunt of them herself over the years.

Something wasn’t being thrown around. Someone was being thrown around.

And she knew that this someone was the nice quiet unassuming young woman who lived next door in Apartment 2C.

It was about time for Elba to go over and introduce herself.

Coming soon...

Yes... there is some mess going on in apartment 2C. A hot mess indeed.

Hmm

I've posted that excerpt before. I thought I would post it again, since I had a teaser cover made for it.

I have a fabulous graphics designer. Ms.Brandi Doane... Yes sir. She takes my inch long ideas and stretches them waaaay far. Way far. I know some of the things I've asked her to do have her a bit O_o... but we work it out. And I am very satisfied with her work.

That story is a teaser for the actual novella Leaving Jersey. That is finished, but I am having a heckuva time editing it.

If you've read here for any length of time, well, you know how much I "stalker stan" my favorite author Tayari Jones, right?  

I think I stalked her so bad a few years ago that we actually have become good friends. I think she figured that she needed to keep crazy negroes close so that she can watch them. Ha Ha. She is more like a cousin now. And interestingly, she has taught me MUCH about the art of sowing seed.  She is on some ol' other level that I'm trying to reach. (And you know how much I holler about seed.)

Anyway, I was so excited about taking my first writing class back in 2007 that I called her and told her that I had wrote my first little short story, Leaving Jersey, and it was a shout out to her first acclaimed novel Leaving Jersey. She said something that made my heart catch in my throat.

"I would like to read it, if you don't mind."

"Hold on, girl," I said. "I was just telling you. You don't need to read it. I was just telling you about it."

THE HORROR. There was NO WAY I was going to let that chick read ANYTHING that I wrote. Are you serious. The horror of her eyes falling against my writing. O_o.

But I sent it to her. And she gave me some good pointers on how to improve it. She is solely responsible for my thinking out the box when it comes to twists and turns in my story. "You have to write something and jump in unexpected directions. Don't be predictable."

"Yes ma'am," I replied, my head held low in reverence.

LOL.

She even used it in one of creative writing classes. *lee sheds a multitude of tears*

I was so excited when I got the final cover for Leaving Jersey that I texted her and told her and told her about it.

"Send it to me," she texted back.

*LadyLee shocked and protesting*

She convinced me to send it to her. And she liked it.

So I am tweaking everything with my stories... Writing and rewriting. Getting it all just the way I like it. Those are e-book formatted already. I just have to get it to where I'm really internally satisfied with the story.

And I am super duper close.

So so close.

"Gone"

That chapstick with sand all around the cap...
Got my lips all cut up and bleeding.
Sand all in my teeth now, been spitting all day, trying to get rid of it
And it ain’t working.

This paper clip necklace around my neck may not be made of diamonds,
But I feel like a million dollars when I wear it.
I walk down the street, my head held high
And people are looking at me
Starstruck by my royalty
Blinded by the glare of the sun off my special diamond necklace.

I practice my name over and over
In the same notebook, over and over again
Until I get it perfect.
Just right.
L’s big and loopy.
C’s curvy and strong.
G’s fat as they want to be.
No room for the vowels, as they don’t matter.

I run down the street holding Powerball tickets,
I picked out of the trash
I yell “I won, I won, I won the 300 million! I won!”
People look at me, keep passing me by.
No one to celebrate with me.
And I wander why.

This power chord,
It’s all I got.
Someone stole all my other stuff
Paper clip necklace gone,
Chap stick gone,
Notebook gone
300 million gone.
Everything gone.
I may as well go to the top of this bridge
The bridge I sleep under every night
And tie one end of this chord around something up there.
And wrap the other end around my neck.
And jump like they do off them bridges
That bungy thing, I think they call it
And Fly and fly and fly,
All the way down…
Hoping I’ll bounce back
So I can do it all over again.





From October 24, 2010 Women of Color Writer's Workshop...

Writing prompt: Pulled a notecard from a stack... use what is written on the card in a story/poem (10 minutes).

On my card was written

1. Chapstick with sand around the cap.
2. A necklace made from paperclips.
3. A notebook for practicing your name over and over
4. A power chord
5. Old winless powerball tickets.

Sigh. When I got that card, with all that written on it, I wanted to throw it out the window. I don't like long complicated writing prompts. This one involved things possibly found in a bag. Those were strange things to find in one's bag. (Poor Dawn, who made up the cards, got some sideway looks from the stuff she came up with for the cards, lol)

But I am glad I made a go of it. Got a useful little poem for my blog out of it!

Writing Progress...

I was walking out to the back parking lot of my building last night, just after getting off from work. It was a bit nasty outside, as it had been raining all day. But it was not as cold as it had been. I was walking out with a couple of coworkers, one of which was telling me about the insane problems going on in her workgroup. (Good Lawd, I thought I had problems. My work life is squeaky clean compared to hers. I knew there were issues when this wonderful mother figure jumped up last week in the cubicle area and opened her Book of Cuss and read a few verses. My goodness. Scared me something awful!)

Anyway, I was walking to my car, which was halfway across the lot with my other coworker. I was going to give her a ride to her car.

A security guard came running our way.

Now, he had to hike all the way from the front of the building. They have cameras around there, and I suppose he saw me come out of the building. I think he knew he had to run, because I'm the type not to be dilly dallying around.

I was looking at him like "What the heck did I do????"

"Poet Laureate! Laureate Poet!!!" he yelled.

I walked toward him, still trying to figure out what his problem was.

He was waaaaaay excited about something I gave him to read.

Now, I didn't have a work badge for about 4 months (don't ask. It had expired, and my job is ass backwards about that type of stuff), so I had to sign out at night with the security guards. The same ones were always down in the lobby, so we'd gotten a bit friendly. They found out through our quick convos that I had a passion for writing and they requested that I let them read some of my stuff. I like men who read, as they can give me a different perspective on some things, like if my male characters sound feminine, etc.

So I gave them some things to read, just a few short stories and vignettes.

And they've been feenin' every since.

LOL

One guy, the one who chased me down in the parking lot, well... I gave him my current writing project, the one I was working on for NaNo. I wanted to know how he felt about the male character. There was a certain creepiness factor I was trying to hit.

"Poet Laureate!" he beamed, showing all thirty two teeth.

I wanted to tell him that was impossible, didn't make a lick of sense, but I left it alone.

"I loved it! You got skills, girl! I want more! I wanna know what happens!"

I thought dude was gonna jump up and down and start screaming, lol.

"I don't like that dude in that first chapter. He's a creep, a pervert. Made me feel uneasy."

I nodded and smiled. "Good. That's the effect I wanted."

We had a mini-discussion about it.

And THAT'S what I like about writing: getting a reaction out of people. Folk have ran up on me all joyful... and folk have cussed me completely out.

My readers run the full gamut. It's funny to get cussed out (I even got grabbed once, lol).

I have to tell folk... uh, it's just a story, those people aren't real.

"I don't give a ****, LadyLee. You wrong for that!! Blah, blah, BLAH!!!"

Getting that type of heated reaction out of people: I like that. That's what I like about writing.

Even if I never sell a word of it.

I told the security guard I had 5 more chapters for him. I thought that dude was gonna do backflips.

LOL!!

Do ya'll remember when I use to give a report on my writing progress once a week?

Man, I do.

I miss those days.

I don't care to do that too much these days, as ya'll aren't reading what I'm working on, but since I dabbled around with the NaNoWriMo (National Novel writing month) jazz, I thought I should give a report on how and what I did.

First of all, I jumped in to support one of my favorite Chickens, my baby blog sista, Serenity 3-0. I'd toyed with participating for the past few years, but I always thought it was a bunch of bogusness. People should understand, you could write a novel in a month, but your first draft is always trash. You have to edit it. When a book gets to stores, that ain't the first draft you're reading. It could be the 5th, the 10th, or the 20th. (yeah, I met someone who had wrote a 20th draft. I gave them the hard side-eye).

No one has time for that. Not working folk. The idea is to write without abandon or second thought.

So, that gal Serenity, she always doing something. Sometimes she asks for my cooperation, other times I just get nosy, mumbling "Let me go check on this girl, so she won't get lost."

lol

But I know Serenity wrote about 4000 words. And she let me read them. Now, you Serenity lurkers who like to peak in the windows of the House of LadyLee...Man... Serenity keeping it down in the valley over on blog. Because what she gave me to read, some nonfictional memoir type stuff? That chick took it to the mountaintop, tapping into something I didn't know she had in her. I mean, her blog is a thing of brillance, but what I read was beyond that. Way beyond.

I didn't know how to motivate her to go further. So I'm leaving that up to her loyal clientele to egg her on. The Oldgirl can write her ass off. Really. Much respect, S.
I'ma need you to keep that going, Ma.

Well, let's talk about moi.

My goal wasn't to write a novel. I work everyday, and frankly, I have too many other activities going on. It'll piss me off if that was all I had to do, and I had to force myself to do just that. Sure, it ain't nothing for me to bust out a couple thousand words a day, but still... it'll just piss me off.

My goal was to work on a short story (novella really), that's been on my heart this year, a little story titled Watch. It is a story I like, one that I can't fool around with in class. (The white people wouldn't like it). So I have to work with it all by my lonesome.

It delves into a spiritual principle that has always amazed me, one that I myself have never been able to get around in my own life:

What's done in the dark, always comes to light.

Always.

Skeletons seemingly sit quietly in closets, but they're coming out that closet one day...alive, kicking, screaming, and breakdancing!

I'm constantly meditating on such, within the realms of my own life isshas. And it is a theme weaved tightly into this particular story.

There are several interesting biblical scripture supporting that. It is one of those life truths, you see. As Parliament once sang, so low, you can't get under it, so high you cant get around it... you get the picture.

One of the main characters has some secret habits, some pretty bad ones, that he doesn't think much of. But it all begins to seep into his everyday life. It becomes a powerful stronghold. And that there is a problem in itself. I do believe dude even creeps me out a bit.

I got the idea from the antics of my neighbor who lives across the street. Whenever me or my sister are outside, he makes it a point to come out on his porch and... stare. It creeps us out. We come up with all kinds of ideas behind why he does this.

We are highly offended by this. And we are waiting him to step out of his front yard. We have a large brick sitting on the front porch.

We're waiting to bust that sucka straight upside his head.

(Don't think I won't do it).

I've muddled around with the ideas, and have come up with something that I really enjoy working on.

I had about six chapters written, I believe. I wasn't particularly happy with them, and was a bit befuddled about where to take things. My goal was to spend time with it, good consistent time, and fix some of the problems in it, and move it forward. It's a little more complex than I first anticipated, and I wanted to see what I could do with it.

And I liked the results. During NaNo, I rewrote the beginning. And I think I had about 8,000 words (6 chapters).

Today I have about 13 chapters, some 19,000 words. I am VERY happy about that.

One thing that helped much is my bootleg writing vision board, where I would keep notecards containing small synopses of each chapter.

The white cards are completed chapters. The yellow cards are chapter ideas. The lone orange card is the climax. I think there are a couple of climatic moments in the story, but this one was the one I've written, and am most interested in.

It becomes like a Soul Train Scramble Board of sorts. When I pass it, I move things around, or even take things off. So it has been extremely helpful. It keeps me thinking.

But one thing I've created, which was the point for me anyway, was something very important.

A habit.

I wanted to jump back into the habit of writing.

Nothing's about talent. It is ALL about habit for me.

And I am glad for it.

I feel odd if I don't get a few hundred words written out long hand or typed up.

And that's what I wanted. That was a major goal.

And I still love that reaction I get out of folk. Sherri, aka Ms.Blackliterature.com read the first chapter and sent a disturbing email back to me. "I don't like that guy. He's creepy." I could tell she was a bit lost, confused and freaked out.

Well, Sherri... that's a GREAT thing. I loved-ed it!

LOL.

So, I think I will start posting up my progress, and even a few excerpts like I use to do. That was always a lot of fun.

So that's my NaNo thoughts and progress. Fun, fun, fun...

Fancy That, (The Prologue): "1972"

Okay Party people... I've been asked over email about the prologue to Fancy That and I decided to post it up. (I spoke of my woes concerning it in my post "Them Blues Part II" I'm not going to use it as a prologue, but I'm going to absorb in the story somewhere.

I posted 4 character sketches a couple of years ago...2 of the people are in this story.

Fancy That: Paulette Reese
Fancy That: Arthur Reese

I have 10 chapters written altogether. I haven't worked on it lately, as I put it through my writing class and I have to spend a good deal of time editing it before I move on. But it is a story that stays on my mind, and I plan to work on it next year.

So here's that infamous prologue, a slightly cleaned up version using some of the class's input.


1972

No one could remember who owned or even lived in the old dilapidated house tucked away in the woods at the far end of Pine Street. It was as if the house was just standing there, vacant as the eyes of a drug addict staring openly at whoever cared to drive by.

The centuries old house was a creaky body, racked with the pains of old age, worn down worst than someone with years of arthritis and liver spots and the like.

But it breathed, its lungs dexterous and strong as the day it was built. It was alive and well, even if it looked like it would fall apart at any given moment.

Its mind was sharp, chocked full of memories from days of old: The memory of fires crackling in the stone fireplace, offering the only protection against some of the coldest winters ever. The laughter and crying of a newborn child, hungry for its mothers milk, giggly from a loving poke from its father’s finger.

It recollected all things family: birthdays, fights, and funerals too numerous to record.

If the walls could talk, they would whisper of their memories of the love shared between a young Paulette Charlita Childs and her soul mate.

Paulette lay naked on her back in what may have been once the Master bedroom of the house one sunny Monday morning in 1972, with only a old linen sheet draped loosely across her body. She stared up at the ceiling, which was beginning to dip in the middle. Ugly brown water stains left from rain leaking through a roof far past any hope of repair stared back at her. Even though she lay on mounds of thick billowy blankets, she could still feel the buckling wood boards beneath her body and the round heads of the rusty nails poking her back.

That discomfort didn’t matter, for Paulette was caught up in the soulful croons of Roberta Flack and Donny Hathaway. The singers were pondering, mourning even, over their love for each other, and more importantly where that love had gone.

The sad song didn’t matter much to Paulette either, because the woman she loved was right there next to her.

They lay there in each others arms, caught up in the afterglow of their lovemaking, watching the gray smoke unfurl from a joint bursting at the seams with forbidden herbs free of irksome seeds and worrisome sticks.

“It doesn’t get any better than this,” Paulette breathed, her words rushing after the smoke that eased from her lips. She turned over and flicked ashes into an ashtray behind them just within arms reach. “There’s nothing in the world that compares to being with you, Fancy.”

“It could be this way all the time,” Fancy said. Her voice was quiet and shaky. “You know that.”

Paulette sighed and took another long draw on the joint. “You keep saying that.”

Fancy raised up on her elbows. “And I’ll keep saying it until it gets through your head. You are in charge of your life, Paulette, not that damn Arthur.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Well, it’s true. He stays in the way.”

Paulette waved away the smoke she’d just exhaled. “No, I’m not talking about that. Don’t call me Paulette. You know how much I hate it when you call me Paulette. I’m Lita. I’m your Lita.”

Fancy always called her Lita when they were alone together. It was her pet name for her, and what she called her in the diaries they shared over the years.

“Lita, I’m just tired of all this hiding. It’s been three whole months since the last time we were together. I miss you.”

“Well Fancy, if you wouldn’t have moved way down to Valdosta―”

Fancy sat up. “Stop blaming me for that. If Arthur hadn’t run my name in the ground and ran me out of town, then we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

Paulette took another quick draw on the joint, then sat it on the edge of the ashtray. “Calm down, baby,” Paulette cooed. She wrapped a couple of strands of Fancy’s long curly locks around her finger. She leaned over and kissed her on the arm.

“I just hate him, that’s all. Hate that you’re married to him and he’s with you every night. Hate that he keeps us apart.”

“I hate him too, Fancy. God knows I do. But we’re together now, right here, you and me. And that’s all that matters.”

Fancy pulled away from Paulette. “No, that’s not all that matters.”

Paulette picked up the joint from the ashtray. She took a drag so deep that the soft insides of her cheeks touched. She exhaled the opaque smoke into Fancy’s face. “You always get the best grass, Fancy.”

“Well fancy that. She likes the grass,” Fancy said.

Paulette chuckled.

Fancy sucked her teeth. The bacon from the bacon and egg sandwiches they'd had earlier was stuck in her teeth. “You’re changing the subject, like you always do when it comes to Arthur.”

“Don’t wanna think about Arthur, right now. Not while I’m good and high. I just wanna think about you.”

Fancy smiled and lay back down on the rumpled blankets. Paulette knew just the right words to smother Fancy’s volatile temper. She held the joint up to Fancy’s lips and watched as she inhaled.

They lay there, taking turns smoking. The music had stopped. The wind whistling through the trees provided a soothing lullaby.

“Lita,” Fancy finally said.

Paulette said nothing.

Fancy took a deep breath. “I’ve saved up some money over the past year. Close to five hundred dollars. It’s enough, enough for me to move to Atlanta. I have an interview at Southern Bell tomorrow for a phone operator job paying a hundred dollars a week.” The words rushed from her mouth like the wind rushed through the trees.

This time, Paulette sat up, dropping the joint in the process, which had now dwindled down to a mere roach. It fell between them. Paulette picked it up and patted the sheet to make sure it wasn’t burning them.

“That’s why I bring the same old sheets. You always dropping the joints.”

“No,you can't do that,” Paulette said. She picked up a new joint from a baggie next to the two of them, and lit it with a match. “You sound crazy. How will we see each other, with you all the way up in Atlanta and me down here?”

“Lita, I want you to come with me.”

Paulette coughed hard, the smoke burning her throat and nose. “What?”

Fancy snatched the joint from Paulette’s fingers. “I said, come with me. It’s summer right now. That gives you plenty of time to find a teaching job up in Atlanta before the new school year starts. I have that money saved, and that’s enough to get us a nice one bedroom apartment in West Atlanta. We could be together, buy a nice house, be a family, and―”

“I can’t just up and leave like that. And give me back my joint.”

Fancy’s hopeful eyes clouded with anger. “No. You smoke too damn much. I’m trying to talk to you, and all you want to do is get high.”

“You blowing my high, Fancy.”

“You could leave if you wanted to,” Fancy said.

Paulette looked away from Fancy towards the bedroom’s broken door, barely hanging on by rusty hinges. This room was the nicest room in the house. Fancy had found it when they were teenagers. Everyone always said it was a haunted house, but Fancy was bold enough to sneak up in there and check it out. She cleaned this room and made it a private haven for the two of them. And now, with Fancy talking such foolishness about Atlanta, their private cove would become obsolete.

“You don’t want to leave, Lita.” Fancy grasped Paulette’s chin and turned her face to her own. “Always worried about what people say. Damn what they say.”

“Come on. I don’t want to fight about this.”

“It’s 1972, Lita. Times are changing. I’m twenty-three, and you’re twenty-four. We can go to Atlanta. We don’t have to stay down here all our lives. We can leave and be free.”

“Free.” Paulette snorted. “You always talking about being free. Those folks up in Atlanta will look at us like we’re crazy if we walk down the street kissing and holding hands.”

“Good ol’ Paulette Childs.” Fancy laughed. “Oh, sorry, it’s Paulette Reese, now, ain’t it”?

“It’s Lita to you.”

“So scared somebody’s going to see you’re not perfect.”

Paulette lay back on the pillow. “I’m not perfect. Just cautious.”

“Well being up in Atlanta will be better than you being here in ass backwards Fitzgerald and me being down in Valdosta.”

“That didn’t have to happen. You could’ve stayed quiet about us, and stayed right here in Fitzgerald.”

“No.” Fancy shook her head defiantly. “You were worth it. Standing up for you, no, standing up for us and what we share was worth it.”

Fancy reached for her shirt and hastily pulled it down over her head. She thrust her arms through the sleeve openings. “I’m beginning to feel like I’m not worth as much to you as you are to me.”

“You’re talking crazy. You always turn what little time we have together into a thing of frustration.”

Fancy stopped fighting with her shirt. She blinked rapidly. “I love you. And Lita, I don’t know, you just don’t seem to get that.”

Paulette rubbed Fancy’s arm, then gently brushed away the tears that fell down her cheeks. “I love you, too, Fancy. You know I do.”

If I had a gun,” Fancy began. She reached for her crumpled cut-off jeans and balled them up tightly with her hands. “If I had a gun, I would march right out to that factory and blow what little brains Arthur has right out the side of his peanut head.”

“Calm down. Don’t think like that. I love you, not Arthur.”

“Then prove it to me. Leave Arthur. Leave this place. Leave everything and come with me. I have the money.”

“Fancy―”

“Paulette, I swear, you’re so full of excuses. It’s just one excuse after another.”
“I’m just being realistic, that’s all.”

Fancy jumped up from the floor and snatched on her cut-off jeans. “No, you’re just being a goddamn coward.”

Paulette reached out and gently caressed Fancy’s bare ankle. Fancy didn’t move, only stared down at her. Fancy was a hothead, but Paulette knew that one touch in the right places calmed her down.

Fancy lay back down next to Paulette. As mad as she was, she too didn’t want their time together to end so quickly. They’d been there since early that morning, and planned to stay there all day.

They made love once again, and fell asleep in each others arms.

They were awaken by the patter of raindrops on the house’s rooftop.

“Oh God, I left the top down on my bug,” Fancy yelled. She’d just bought the VW bug and had to dry it out once before after a rainstorm. She wasn’t interested in dealing with the smell of rain soaked seats ever again.

She quickly put her clothes back on, slipped on her wooden clogs and ran out the house.

“Be careful,” Paulette warned. “Don’t forget to walk along the wall. There are new weak spots in this floor.”

“I know, I know,” Fancy yelled from the hallway.

Paulette heard the car door of Fancy’s car open and close, and the hard creak of the vinyl top being raised. She gathered the linen sheet around her body as she sat up to feel around for her own clothes and shoes. She didn’t plan on putting them on, but was completely unnerved by Fancy’s angry search for her own. She at least wanted to have them put to the side, out of the mess of sheets and blankets.

Suddenly Paulette heard footsteps, fast and anxious, coming up the stairs.

“Paulette,” a hard breathing Fancy yelled as she ran into the room. “Get up, we gotta get out of here.”

Paulette sat up. “What’s wrong?”

“Somebody’s outside. I think they saw me.” She picked up the flashlight they used earlier when they came in. “Get your clothes on and let’s go.”

“Who’s out there?”

“Don’t worry about that. Let’s go.”

As fast as Fancy said that, she was on her way out the door, transistor radio and picnic basket clutched in her arms, running down the hall. Paulette was left sitting there, struggling to get her tube top over her shoulders.

Then that’s when Paulette heard a sound she would never forget: the slow sound of splintering wood,the sound of the floor giving way. It was followed by a muffled scream and a loud crash.

“Fancy?” Paulette jumped up from the floor. She was so high that she found it hard to keep her balance. She wrapped the sheet around herself and walked towards the bedroom door.

Paulette squinted and saw a big hole in the floor of the hallway. She gasped as she saw Fancy’s fingers hanging on to the edge of the hole, the top of her hair just visible behind her hands.

“Fancy!” Paulette screamed. She dove for the hole in the floor, completely losing the sheet draped around her body. Paulette grabbed Fancy’s forearms, as best she could with her own hands. It didn’t help that Fancy’s arms were slick from the rain.

“Don’t let me fall,” Fancy whimpered.

The wood began to give beneath Paulette. “I won’t let you fall. Try to pull up.”

“I can’t.” Fancy let go, but Paulette caught her hands in her own. They stared into each others eyes.

“Hold on. Just hold on. I won’t let you go.”

All of a sudden, Paulette was snatched back. Fancy’s hands slipped from hers.

“Fancy! No!” Paulette screamed again at the top her lungs.

There was a loud crash. Paulette was still being drawn backwards. She saw a dark shadow flutter against the wall, and whoever was pulling her away suddenly flipped her over. She couldn’t tell who it was.

Just as she was about to speak, she was punched in the face.

Her world, Paulette’s world, went black as night, as she lost conscience that early summer morning in the vacant house on Pine street.

If the walls could weep, they would weep for a love snatched away.

A love broken too soon.

Them Blues...Part IV

Them blues...them blues...

An Oldgirl and her blues.

I figure'd I'd finish up my blues isshas.

When we last talked about this, I was playing my violin very hard, talking about my writitng blues.

I miss the way I use to feel about writing.

Now, it seems I have to dissect every little thing. I can't think like a reader. I have to think like the writer I AM. Finding the fine line between the two has been like trying to find a needle in a haystack. No, like trying a needle in a landfill.

That was one of the reasons I started taking writing classes: I needed to learn to really edit and critique my own work. It is a MUST. But it tends to smother my inner fire... just completely wear me out.

These days, it is even rare for me to read book just for enjoyment or entertainment. I pick up QUICK on problems with whatever I'm reading. At the same time, I can really pinpoint what I do like about what I'm reading, and will even use some of the techniques in my own writing.

This is a good thing, and a bad thing at the same time. Let's just say, although I do read alot, my major form of entertainment these days is television.

Now, there's one thing I do enjoy, that has come away from this... Writing scripts. I've worked on something with Cheap Seats Terry in this past year, and he is simply MASTERFUL in his guidance of me in that respect. Dude is a walking book, I tell you. He has always loved my writing and has been able to pick apart in a great way, my own writing problems. I like the script thing a little better because it is a bit simpler. I've been working on it here and there, and I really need to pick that back up, because it made an Oldgirl happy.

But back to my own personal writing. It slowed down considerably.

Until someone stepped in... And she did some things that would help me look at this situation totally different.

You know who I'm talking about.

The Queen!!!!

No not THAT Queen. I don't want to deal with that Queen. Ya'll can have that.

No, I'm talking about the Queen... The baddest writing Diva in the Solar System.

Tayari Jones.



Author of the award winning novels Leaving Atlanta and The Untelling.

If you want to read something short by her, take a look at Some Thing Blue, which made this years editions of New Stories of the South.

If you've been hanging around the House of LadyLee for any length of time, you will know that she is my FAVORITE author and I'm her number one stalker, uh, I mean, I'm her number one fan.

I worship the ground she walks and spits upon. I truly do. I jock her relentlessly.

She is quite jockable, you see.

I affectionatley call her Miss Celie.

And she refers to me as Nettie...

(That completely baffles people on Facebook. I keep getting messages from people wondering what the hell we are talking about. Don't worry about it! It's secret code, lol).

I like ol' Tayari Jones. She's good peoples, just like Celie.

She got snatched up as a mentor and didn't even know it.

She's always been very helpful. I mean, I can be stuck on some particular writing issue, and I can send a message to the Queen, requesting a conversation about something as simple as the proper naming of characters, and we'd have a phone convo that completely clears everything up. She is a great teacher, and talks to me in a language that I can understand.

This type of thing has been going on for four years. And the more I talk to her, the more I like her. I told my best friend, "You know, that chick is just like us. Got the same thoughts, concerns, go through the same craziness. She NORMAL!"

I like that. She is the only celebrity I know, but she's normal. VERY nice and down to earth, even when she's walking around in her luxurious pink fur coat. (I constantly pick on her about this. I still think she needa to be careful where she wears that thing. She really needs to stay FAR away from the ho stroll when she wears it, lol).

I've learned sooooooo much from her on the writing tip. I owe her for her services. Hope she don't send me a bill.

She's been working on the manuscript for her third book for the last few years, and I have been lobbying HARD for just a page or two of it. 2 or 3 years ago I was over at her Mama and nem's house and an edited chapter was sitting on the dining room table. Tayari walked off, and it took ALLL the goodness in me NOT to steal that chapter. Ohhhh, I wanted to do it so bad, but I didn't.

Just continued to lobby for bits and pieces of this manuscript entitled The Outside Child or The Bigamists Daughters.

She just ignored me. She was being a Mean Celie.

LOL.

One day, in December of 2007, she and I were chatting on email, and out of the blue. I think I'd stop harrassing her so much. I mean, I didn't want her to think I was some strange stalker or worse...

She was like "I'm going to send you something."

She sent me the first hundred pages of that manuscript.

*Lee falls out in her cubicle*

No I didn't fall out of the cubicle. I remember my heart beating a hundred miles a minute. I remember almost tripping over my feet running to the printer at the end of our cubicle area.

Lawd have mercy! That was the BEST early christmas gift in the world. I read that what she gave me, and I remember reading the last page of it. I was sitting on the edge of my bed, shaking in my socks.

I sent her a text message of how wonderful it was... And it inspired me so much, that during my Christmas break that year, I made it a goal to spend at least 40 hours over those 2 weeks of vacation, just writing. I got SO much done during that time. So much...

Well, fast forward to June of this year (I think it was June). Tayari had finally finished her manuscript. Oh the joy we all felt!

And she asked me a most interesting question.

"Would you be one of my readers?"

*Crickets*

I had to go off on her for that one. I couldn't understand why she was asking. She was suppose to be like: "Look here, broad... I'm sending this 400 pages and you BETTER read it!!!!!"

She said she was trying to be polite.

What the HELL!??

I said, unceremoniously of course, that I would read it. (You piss me off with all that politeness, Celie. Really).

Now, I thought for a moment that she was just patronizing me. I mean, I'd been harrassing her for a long time over this. But I sent her 7 pages of notes on that 100 pages I read a back in 2007, and she actually read them and took them seriously. And we even talked about it. So I know she meant business, and wanted my thoughts on the entire project.

And it did something interesting for me. It was sort of like in the movie Karate Kid. You know, when Mr. Miagi tells the dude to go paint the fence and wax the car.

Now, every writer has a critique squad. I have my own, The Original Oldgirl Critique Team. I am proud of my team. I've been more interested in people who read for enjoyment, as some of them come back with a lot of uh, emotion. That let's me know I hit a nerve, and what I am writing is authentic. I'm not a literary writer, but I am more interesting in plot driven type stuff, more interested in shock and punch. I want to upset you, lol...

At the same time, I have the writing class for more technical critiquing. So, it's a one-two punch type of thing for me. I don't have the type of clout to have a team of writers to read my stuff. Hopefully someday I will.

But Tayari has her "Team T." And she allowed me to be on this very special team. She even posted her criteria for choosing those who would be on her critique team. (See "Assembling
Team T." )

And it was like her way of giving me a paint brush and telling me to go paint the fence.

All of it. Both sides.

Now, as a result of all this, I don't feel so bad about sitting down critiquing and editing my own work. I am MUCH more open to that. As a matter of fact, I do much more of that than writing. I am more open to stepping off my stringent path. My feelings about my own work are a bit more, I don't know... healthy.

So I thank you for that, Tayari. I thank you for allowing me to be on that first team of readers.

LOL...

I sat down, and I think over about 6 weeks times I read the whole manuscript and took copious notes. She wanted me to send her my notes, but I was hollering about how I wanted to type them up. I even rewrote certain sections, for my own learning purposes. (Man, I wouldn't DARE give that stuff to her. The horror, lol).

And it inadvertantly did something GRAND for me. I use to have an immense amount of trouble sitting down and reading and critiquing my own material. There was some block there. I would correct my own stuff, but I was upset about it.

After combing through 400 pages of Tayari's rough draft, and critically thinking about every word and idea she presented in her storyline AND having phone convos with her about certain parts really helped me with my own writing.

I have found that, after going through that process, I don't mind sitting down and reading my own work and making notes about it and making changes... to make it much better.

And I owe Tayari a load of gratitude for such.

Thank you very much, Miss Jones. Like I've always told you, you are my favorite writer in the whole wide world, and I am your number one fan. I can't really express how blessed I am to have open access to you, and for your willingness to help me freely and in any which way you can. Thanks for nurturing the writer in me, and doing all you can to help me with my confidence. And on top of that, you are a "normal" chick. That's a good thang!!

Thanks Celie, for doing something for me that at times I couldn't do for myself: believing in me as a writer, and encouraging me...

For I am the Speed Racer...



And it feels good to have my own Racer X...



And by the way... congratulations on that manuscript of yours, The Silver Girl. (I love that name. It is VERY appropriate).

It'll be published sometime next year through Algonquin books. Good for you, Celie!

Now, I'm still working through my issues... But I must tell you, I've made MUCH progress mentally. My mind is freer, and I can make it do what it do, lol.

Let's just say, I have several stories ready for submission... I hope for something interesting in the new year myself.

Ya'll have a great weekend... On purpose.

Them Blues...Part II

I got the blues, Mayne...

Them writing blues.

I haven't been writing much lately, over the past year really.

Part of it is being hard headed.

Most of it is being just discombobulated.

My writing classes were helping, but uh, I haven't taken a class in over a year...

It got a bit to, uh... well, I don't know the word for it...

Let me tell you a little story. Maybe you can come up with a word for it, lol...

I think about 2 years ago, around the week of August 2007, I posted several character sketches of characters in a story tentatively titled Fancy That, about a middle age black couple who were pillars of the community of their small town, but were hiding some very interesting secrets. One summer, their granddaughter comes to live with them, and some of these interesting secrets are exposed. (Pull it up in the sidebar if you want to read it).

The main secret is that the marriage is pretty much a sham, and the wife, Paulette, was conned by the husband, Arthur, to get married. Arthur found out that she had lesbian tendencies, and he held it over her head. So for a good 30 years, Paulette has been going with the flow, out of fear that Arthur would expose her.

I am really fascinated by the storyline, as I have never read anything like that before.

Now... I decided to run parts of this story through my writing class.

Something interesting about class: I have to pick and choose what I do in class.

I have a gazillion stories laying around my house that interest me.

Most of them appeal to black women, or may only be understood by the black community.

With my classes, I'm usually the only black person there.

So you already see the problem.

Let's just say, I turned in the first chapter of my completed first draft of my manuscript (a rewritten polished up first chapter, really), to see what my teacher would say, and uh... I got dissed.

Let's just say, she didn't get it. I have passed this through the hands of a couple white folk. They didn't get it.

Oh, the writing was superb, they said. But can't you write something that is more out of genre.

No, the question should be... Can't I write what I like to write?????

Back to the Fancy That storyline...

I have about ten chapters of that manuscript banged out. I'd been reading it in class, and people really liked it, and I got some really good feedback which I will think about incorporating. Sometimes that is what I need, and my Original Oldgirl Critique Squad is also good for this: just say something to me about what you are reading to jar a thought loose in my head and to help me with direction in untangling problems...

That's all I want, really.

So like I said, I'd been busting out chapters and what-not...

Then I messed around and read a prologue I'd written. True enough, I didn't like it. It was messy, and I didn't know where it fit in the story. I am hearing that prologues are cliche, and that's cool. But I wrote it anyway, with the goal of absorbing the info into the story later on...

So I decided to read it in class.

It was about a young Paulette, circa 1972, I think. She is laying on the floor with her lover Fancy, after a little lovemaking. They are laying their talking, smoking a joint, and listening to Roberta Flack's Where is the Love...

Paulette is newly married, even though she don't care to be. She sneaks off with Fancy every once in awhile, and that is fine with her. Fancy don't care for this shit. She wants to be with Paulette. They live in a small Georgia town, but Fancy has scored a job with the phone company up in Atlanta, and has found an apartment in the West End. She does her best to convince Paulette to leave Arthur and move up to the ATL. Paulette won't go for it. An argument ensues.

Paulette calms all of that down by well... you know... Let's just say she kills that noise...

LOL!

Anyway, it begins to rain outside. Fancy realizes that she has left the top to her convertible Volkswagon Bug down... She throws on her clothes and runs outside to take care of that.

She runs into trouble, because someone is out there...

That's all I will say about that.

When I finished reading, with a cliffhanger, of course... the whole class is eyeing me pretty hard.

And we must've discussed all of that for 30 minutes.

I was like "Well, like I told ya'll, this is just a piece that I don't know what to do with. It is very pivotal to the story. My goal is to not use it as a prologue, but to absorb it somewhere later in the story."

My teacher was like, "Well, we know that."

I fielded a few questions. Got a few comments that I wrote down, so I could think about them later.

Then my teacher starts in from left field...

"LadyLee, you have to watch that joint. They are talking, laying on the floor wrapped up in that bed spread, and passing it around. Someone's eye is going to get poked out or they're going to drop it. Be careful with that."

*crickets*

I really had to process that. True enough, I mentioned that joint too much. The smoke was really unfurling off that thang. But I was jumping off my own experience of laying out on the floor with my MAN smoking on a joint.

Let's just say, LadyLee was NOT concerned about dropping no dayum joint or poking out my man's eye. LadyLee was REAL high, and feeling good after some good sex. I could've dropped that joint and burnt the whole place down, and probably wouldn't have cared.

In other words, I was pulling off my own experiences, babes... lol.

Anyway, I wrote this all down. I had to think more about this joint issha.

"And another thing," my teacher added, "When Fancy realizes she left the top to the Bug down, and she jumps up and throws on her jean short cut offs, I notice she doesn't have any panties on."

I hadn't noticed that, but it was true. "Uh, I guess she don't," was my reply.

Everyone in the class was looking at me a bit too hard.

"Why is that? And where are her panties?"

Wow. I wasn't thinking about all that. "You have a point. I wasn't thinking about that."

No, I wasn't thinking about that. I again was bumping off my own experience. Man, I haven't been able to find my panties before, and didn't care. I just left them there. I had nice enough men who would wash them with their own laundry and give them back to me.

Yeah...

Anyway my teacher gets a bit stirred up over all this.

"Maybe that could be Fancy and Paulette's little signal or something, a signal that they were to see each other. They don't wear panties."

I just stared at her. The crickets also stared at her, stunned into silence.

"You know, Arthrur could be giving her a kiss goodbye and be like "Paulette, you don't have any panties on, hubba hubba!!"

Oh goodness. That was too much for me. I just nodded and wrote that down.

Ugh.

And there were more questions from the class, followed by me pointing and saying...

"Look, I ain't gay. So no, it ain't all that realistic. I don't know what two women do together! I'm trying to figure out where to place this material!"

No, there was nothing graphic in that piece. (I HATE erotica)... It was stuff left up to imagination. But I hated the fact that I got defensive.

This was a messy piece, by my own prior admissions. I wanted to deconstruct and absorb it.

No one seemed to understand that.

Oh well...

And that is one of the sources of my writing woes.

I have lost the "fun" part of writing. Everything has become about writing what someone wants to read or what someone will buy and publish.

I don't like that at all. And it has stifled my writing.

But at the same time, I have to be a big girl and do what I have to do: hone my craft...

Hence, the reason I am perusing the book of GLBT short stories, particularly those by African Americans.

I absolutely LOVE anthologies. This is how I come across new writers... This anthology served a different purpose. I have a very unique character in this character Paulette. I was looking for some stories of black women coming up in the 60s and 70s who felt the need to hide their love for women. I don't understand this or know anything about this, so I have to research this...

I just happen to see the aforementioned book on a cart at my local library, so I grabbed it up. I actually have 2 copies: the library copy, and a personally ordered copy. It had a lot of useful history tidbits that helped me understand some things, as the stories are set up by decade.

There's an author in there, Shay Youngblood, who Miss Celie (Tayari) hipped me to...

I read an excerpt from a book of Ms. Youngbloods in there (Soul Kiss). I bought the book and read it. Excellent book, superbly written, but let me tell you, it soooooo emotionally drained and disturbed me... But there were women in the book who were about the age and persuasion of my character. And it will help me flesh out Paulette's character a bit more.

So I am being mature about it all. I have to learn to hone my craft, and make an attempt to make my characters more realistic.

But at the same time, it has smothered and stifled me... I can't freely write without all kinds of thoughts going through my head. I can't freely enjoy my own writing.

Now, I can do that on blog... Because I'm not trying to sell the blog. It is like lotion for ashy skin. It soothes that writing beast within me, you know. I can write freely here, with no fear of judgment, of things not being good enough, etc...

So what is an Oldgirl to do?

That is where good ol' Miss Celie, Tayari, comes into the picture...

And ya'll know how I worship the ground Miss Celie walks on...

LOL...

to be continued...

Them blues...

This book is sitting on my coffee table right now. . .

Don't look at me in that tone of voice.

I SAID, don't look at me in that tone of voice!.

I ain't gay... An Oldgirl done been with quite a few men.

And I don't ever forsee myself batting for the other team.

And if that's your lifestyle, do you. I still love you, and God do too (and anybody who tells you different, don't believe them!)

No, there's a good reason for my browsing through it. It was on the bookshelf, but I read a story from there this weekend, and just so happen to leave it out.

However, upon recently learning that my mother lingers around my house when I'm not around, and has proudly announced that she likes to "clean up" when she comes over, I wonder what she'd think if she saw that book on the bookshelf??

Or all out on the coffee table?

LOL!

Maybe I'll leave some bogus criminal papers on the end table. Or directions to my halfway house on the kitchen counter.

Oh, the family gossip will light up! That would be like tossing a match into a dry forest!

I would never do such a thing.

It's just that an Oldgirl got them blues.

Blog fam yells "What's wrong, LadyLee?"

I got them blues, man.

Them writing blues...

To be continued...

LadyLee's 40 Hours of FUNK!

For Miss Celie:) , Ms.blackliterature.com, and the Original Oldgirl Critique Team...

I had the best time off from work during Christmas Break.

I say that because I RARELY take time off. The Oppressor (job management) looks at me like I'm crazy when I request time off. I was off for 2 FULL weeks, and I haven't had that much time off since 2002, I believe. So five years was a long time to wait for such, but believe me, it was well worth it.

And it won't be another five years before I do that again.

Really though.

Now, I gave myself a challenge:

"I will spend 40 hours of my vacation writing new material."


I called it my "40 HOURS OF FUNK"


LOL!

Now, that seems like much, but it isn't. From the time I left work, at 3 pm on Friday December 21st to the time I went back to work on Monday January 7th is about 399 hours. So 40 hours of writing was essentially only 10% of my time.

(Yes, I calculated that ish. Yes, I am such a NERD, lol.)

Why did I do this?

Well, I have been a slacker with my writing. I was sick for most of December and I wanted NO parts of sitting in front of computer coming up with new material. When I got off from work, I would take my sick tail straight to bed. Plus, my writing class ended in October, so there was no reason to MAKE myself write. The most writing I did was my blogging, and I jotted down a few ideas here and there. But that's about it.

But I got an interesting gift from That Original Oldgirl Racer X, and I tell you, it left me quaking in my shoes. Literally, just shaking, my heart beating a bit faster than normal.

So needless to say, it lit a fire under my tail...

I was more than inspired, to say the least. It was more like using a blow torch to light a simple cigarette, lol.

Thus the mandate:

"I will spend 40 hours of my vacation writing new material."

And I don't mean, editing old material, rewriting stuff... Not starting all new stories, though, because I have at least 10 stories laying around. That was my goal: NEW stuff. True enough, I worked on old stories, but I was more interested in pushing those stories forward.

For one, I knew I had a 10 week workshop class coming up, starting January 3rd. So I had to get ready for that. I tend to crank things up a couple of weeks prior to class.

Anyway, I met my goal. That Sunday, the day before I went back to work, at about 10 p.m., I officially completed my 40 hours...

I tracked my progress in a spreadsheet.

The results:

I generated approximately 96 pages of new material.

Number of words written: 28,226

Average number of words written per day: 1764

Average time spent each day writing: 2.5 hours (which makes sense, since 40 hours total time). I spent at least 1 hour a day writing. The most I wrote in one day was 7 hours (broken up in 2.5 hour increments).

I worked on three stories during that time:

Leaving Jersey: This story is an offshoot of my Sweet Heat manuscript, and concerns a minor character from that manuscript. I think I may have written 10 pages worth of material, which brought that story up to about 80 pages, I believe. This story will be about 100-120 pages long.

Fancy That: I generated some character sketches sometime ago in preparation for my fall writing class, and posted them here on my blog. I think I wrote somewhere around 20 pages during my class time. Well, I cranked out the first 10 chapters during the 40 hour stint. This came up to about 65 pages or so. This could easily stretch out to novel length.

The Greyhound Blues: That funny short story I wrote for Tayari's birthday. Uh, the story didn't stop there. I wrote two other parts, and am currently in the middle of writing part 4. That story held my interest for some reason. Some of the Original Oldgirl Critique Team have read it, and it is NOTHING like they would have expected it to go, and it stepped away from being funny, and got a bit dramatic. I want to use it for an upcoming STORY WEEK here on the blog, but it is a bit long (21 pages worth, and that's only up to the middle of the story), so I don't know what I will do with that. Part of it will go up on the blog. But I think I will chalk it up to being good practice, lol.

This story had a couple of VERY interesting lines:

"The “ssssss” that flows from his lips is like that from the serpent that moved through the garden, and hung from a tree, convincing Eve that she could be all she could be. . .if she would just listen."

I have NO idea what THAT means... We were laughing hard at that. Cowgirl Cre kicked an especially hard eyeroll behind that one. An Oldgirl trying to be literary is not a good look, lol.

"But I know. And he knows. Even though wine mixes with tears, it’s not a good combination, as one weakens the other.
Wine made weak, and cleansing tears made strong.
Whoever knew that such coming together could be so wrong."

Ha! I know Miss Celie is going "WTF?" LOL LOL!!!! Chile, that ain't your character, and has nothing to do with you... not at all. Remember, you're just concentrating on getting to the Heavies concert. Keep driving that bus, girl. LOL!!

But that one had me doing the hard eye squint... Trying to figure out what it means, lol.

I learned a lot about myself during this time:

1. I HATE writing in the morning. Absolutely HATE it. I can't think straight for some reason, until about noon. Now, I can do my personal journalling and blogging in the mornings, but as far as writing fiction? NO! That part of my brain doesn't turn on until noon. Thus, this is why I like writing in the evenings. Best time: between six and eleven at night.

2. Editing time has to be different from writing time. I think I understand that now. During this time, I believe I spent 3 hours editing (not included in the 40 hours). This is the point that I wanted to get to. I've hated editing up to now, but don't mind so much these days. As a matter of fact, I've spent this month editing up all which I wrote during the 40 hour stint. I've also turned in 5 edited chapters of Fancy That for the workshop class I am currently taking, and will be reading from it in class in about 2 weeks.

3. Most important thing I learned: It is a MUST that I sit my butt in a chair and write, with no worry about how it sounds, or if it is totally junk. It simply doesn't matter. I've read this in several of my writing craft books, but I didn't have an UNDERSTANDING of such until I completed the 40 hour stint. I've learned that even if I write a a thousands words, a good fifty percent of it is usable. I will find out something new about the character or situation. And that's a GOOD thing!

4. I've learned that I must be opened minded about editing. I guess this coincides with number 2 above. I must say that I like my own writing, very much so, and as far as I'm concerned, no one has to read it but me. But in order for me to grow, I have to be ruthless with myself, and be my own harshest critic. With that said, my major goal right now is to "see" problems, then fix them. For example, the Greyhound Blues story I posted had about 20 problems. I listed them out, then went back and fixed them within the realm of the blog post. The story now has about 4 new problems, which I will fix. In the past, I really didn't give a damn one way or the other, but my goal now is to be able to "see" the issues, and fix them without hesitation.


5. I now have a good understanding of my writing patterns, and can now comfortably set my writing goals. I know one thing: after about 2.5-3 hours of straight writing, I start drifting and getting tired. I can take a break and then go back. I think my goal will be 10 hours a week of writing, and 2 hours a week for editing. I think that is good, considering my work schedule. I also like the idea of tracking my progress. It only takes a few seconds, and it is nice to have a record of what I am doing.

6. I can't stand working on one story at a time. Simply HATE it. This may be a good thing or a bad thing. I know that I don't like it. Hence here, I worked on three stories. I think that will be my limit.

So, I must say... I am growing. (Or at least I feel like I am growing, LOL).

But I am glad that I did this. Really glad.

Maybe next time, we'll have "80 HOURS OF FUNK".

Yeah right!!

LOL! !

Convo with the Queen!!

I had a convo with the Queen the other day...

Yeah, that's me that her majesty is calling on the phone... The Queen was like...

'Sup LadyLee!!! Let's get together for a spot of tea and a couple of scones! Hollar back, You Original Oldgirl You!"

Yeah, right...

I ain't talking about Queen Elizabeth...

I'm talking about my faaaaaaaavoorrrrrittttte author, the REAL Queen!!


TAYARI JONES! The Queen of LURK CITY, Inc.

I call her the Queen of LURK City because like many, she lurks over here on my blog from time to time. She is getting better about raising her diamond and pearl encrusted gold scepter and blessing me with a comment or two every blue moon.

*Lee bowing so low that her lips kiss the ground*

I'm not worthy! I'm not worthy!!

And if you didn't know, I am her #1 Fan. I am not a groupie. A groupie follows people around, waits outside of hotels, weird stuff like that... I'm too old for that ish. Shoulda caught me when I was in my late teens/early twenties. The Queen of Lurk City better let an Oldgirl know when she's gonna be in town. I'm always quick to show up and give my full support then.

But I am a big fan... I worship the ground she spits on...

And I JOCK very hard. And I am proud to say that.

Blog fam screams... "Stop all that jocking, LadyLee!!!"

Shut up.

'Tis a priviledge to be jocked by me. Afterall, LadyLee don't jock many folks.

Well, as some of you may know, I've been in a writing class for the past 6 weeks. It was an enlightening experience. I won't write about it now, but later, I will reflect.

Anyway, we were required to write a story for the class. And you know me, being a #1 fan and all, I named my story "Leaving Jersey" which is a take-off of Tayari's novel Leaving Atlanta.

Yes... that's a real fan for you.

I even emailed her about that story. I gave my first reading EVER in class and I wanted to tell her about it. She sent an email back saying...

"...I'd love to read your story if you feel comfortable sending it. :)"

I was like... WTF???

Let's just say an Oldgirl had brain freeze for the rest of the day.

Now, asking her to read a story has been an issue that I have debated many a time with peeps. Even Tayari's good friend, The Good Nurse, said she didn't think Tayari would mind reading a little something. Good Nurse almost heard the good dial tone after that statement. She almost got hung up on, LOL. One of my book club sistas was like "Bump that, I would just have to be uncouth and ask her." A full fledge brawl almost broke out after that comment.

To hell with that! My whole answer has been that it is NOT proper writer etiquette to ask a writer to read ANYTHING. Not sure where I got that from, but I have heard it around. I am sure that is out of some writers etiquette book that I haven't been able to get a hold of. Anyway, I am VERY adamant about doing that.

I don't want the Queen to think that is the only reason I would run up on her. And I know she knows that I am in a learning stage right now, just happy to learn. My coworkers and such read my stuff. And that is good enough for me, until I get better.

Plus Tayari is good people, like Miss Celie. This is why I call her that, you see.

'Tis rare for me to like people, you see. And the more I talk to her, the more I realize that she is just, well... normal. For some odd reason, I don't envision her sitting on a perfect mountaintop anymore, in the perfect breeze, writing perfect prose all day. She's just a normal chick.

And me casually asking... "Hey Celie, could you read this for me?"

Shoot. That don't cross my mind, and it don't even sound right. I almost had a stroke when she asked me what my manuscript was about. Asking her to read something? Now that's just downright crazy.

But I sent my rough 5 page beginning of "Leaving Jersey" to her anyway. Haven't heard anything back about it. She said she was going to critique it and send it to me. That almost caused me to break out in hives. I am not looking forward to that. Don't know how hard she beats the brakes off of people's writings. May take a bit of courage just to read what she has to say about it. All in all, I know it will help me better the story.

We were also instructed to pick a short story to read, one that we have read before that we really liked. We had to read a page of it a day, read it forward, read it backwards and side-to-side. Just read it real HARD and dissect it and study the structure, voice, characters, etc...

Of course I chose one of Tayari's stories: "Press and Curl".

I'd been studying that story REALLY REALLY hard for a couple of weeks. I picked it like an afro, and saw a lot of interesting things. I emailed Tayari a question about how she determines the "voice" of a character.

She emailed me back. "Let's talk on the phone about this. Call me at 123-555-1234"

**crickets**

I had to peer hard at that email. I turned around and called over my cubicle mate Cowgirl Cre. We both stared at it hard. Pondered it deeply. We were wondering if she was stranded or something, like the last time she emailed me her phone number.

A telephone number. And I think it was a home phone number. WOW. I saw The Good Nurse whip out her cell phone and call her while she, myself, and my brother were dining at the shed. My brother and I talked about that later on...

"Did you see The Good Nurse just whip out her phone and call her??"

We were in deep awe, to say the least...

I called her, and we talked about my question, which was HARD. Why? Because even though I am very bright and hold a doctorate degree in organic chemistry, I am very much ebonically inclined. So, I try to watch my english, especially since hers is so PERFECT. This is hard because that means I talk slooooowww when I do that.

I know she was wondering "Why is the Oldgirl all tongue-twisted and tripping all over her words? Good grief."

Your english gotta be right and proper when you talk to the Queen... right?

She answered my question, like she always does, with the greatest of ease. She made it all so... clear and simple. She asked if I had any more questions and I do have a zillion, but I told her that I would ask her a question a month or something like that, LOL. I think we talked for about 15 minutes, which is the same as a one day writing workshop when dealing with her.

Now if you've seen the 70's Japanenes anime Cartoon SpeedRacer, you would know that their are times when the SpeedRacer gets into a bind, and then Racer X comes along and gets him out of that situation. Racer X knows he is the man... he's just trying to help Speedy out, make sure Speedy is on the right road, and get the heck out of dodge...

Tayari is Racer X...

I am the SpeedRacer!

LOL LOL LOL ROTFLMAO!!!!!

So thanks Tayari a.k.a. Queen of Lurk City, Inc. a.k.a. Miss Celie...

I came away enlightened and refreshed. I used her advice to make my story better... much better. "Leaving Jersey" is a rough 35 pages long now... Needs a lot of work, but I have some good ideas about how to shape it up.

Yo... and I know if I can't figure out?

A convo with the Queen will do the trick!!

Afterword for "Presumption Personified"

Click here to read, "Presumption Personified" , my scandalous tale of the Escalade, before you read any further here.This blog post is a analysis or self-critique of sorts. So bear with with me. I'll probably do this everytime I write a story, because I am trying to work a few things out in my head concerning the story...

Now,I liked "Presumption Personified".

I read it to my Auntie Joyce back in December. Everytime I read it now, I have this image in my head of my Auntie Joyce, sitting at her dining room table, her chin down on her hands, which are resting on the table. Her eyes were wide. She was listening intently to me reading it off of my laptop.

She said she liked it, and thought it was a good story.

That made me happy.

I read it to LadyTee, who snapped HARD after I read it. (She always going off about something, LOL.) She said that that type of sh** happens all the time. A broad got everything going for her- she look good, nice ride, everything- and can't seem to pay the damn childcare bill.

I liked that reaction from her. Her feathers were ruffled. That meant she liked it.

Anyway, like I mentioned in the last post, "Presumption Personified" is partially true.

And here's the story behind it.

Hen-Dog, who chauffeurs me too and from work, uh, I mean, who is my carpool partner, has his daughter Chayse for the week sometimes. So, we drop her off at daycare every morning on our way to work. The daycare is only a couple of miles from our job in downtown ATL.

Well, we rolled up on the woman in this story a couple of times. We'd pull up to the curb right behind her late model Escalade. She would jump out of the truck, sharp as hell. I mean, whatever she wore always matched her Escalade. She would take her baby out of the car seat, and take him into the daycare. The baby was old enough to walk, but he looked as if he'd just learned to walk, so she would carry him in.

Well, first of all, the protagonist/narrator in the story is NOT me (although I do use the Afro-Sheen... Ultra Sheen Cosmetics, lol). I'm not married and I don't have a child, and I don't drive a Honda.

Now, when I would see this chick jump out of her Escalade, I would always be like...

"Hen, that chick right there got it going on! She kicking that Escalade! Go head on, sista!! Do YOUR thing, my sista! Yeah"

*LadyLee kicking the HARD fist pump*

Heck, I was cheering her own. I love seeing folk do well.

One day, we pulled up behind her, and she did the usual: get out of the Escalade, get the kid out of the car seat, and take him inside. Hen-Dog did the same with Chayse.

Well, Hen-Dog happened to come out earlier than the woman one day. I thought that was odd.

Hen jumped into the car. "Lee bet you don't know why I came out of the building before that chick did."
I looked up from the book I was reading. "No, I don't."
"She didn't pay her daycare bill. She been bouncing checks. They told her that they couldn't take anymore checks from her, and she was going to have to figure out what to do with her kid until she straightened it out."
"Really??"
"Yeah. "
"Stop playing, Hen!"
"No, Lee! She hasn't been paying right."

Man, I was shocked, dazed, and confused. On the way to work that morning, Hen and I pontificated about what was going on with this woman.

Because surely, she wasn't outright NEGLECTING her child's daycare, so she could be a fly girl.

Nope. That couldn't be it.

Hen thought that she'd gotten caught up with a baller, and he left her high and dry or something. I don't know what I was thinking. I was just hoping she knew that the "check floating" thing could no longer be done in the electronic age. Maybe she had lost her job or something.

I really don't know what Hen and I decided. All I know, I was like...

"Hen, tell me again exactly what happened. Man oh man, I'm gonna use this for a story!"

He told me what went down, and I wrote it in a notebook that I use for story ideas.

The main character, who was nameless throughout much of the story, was a figment of my imaginanation. She was a woman whose self-esteem was already a bit shaky. Her self-image was really shot after having to see this nameless woman everyday. Afterall, she didn't feel all that great about herself in the first place. She was dark-skinned. She had a natural short afro, not the silky long hair. She drove a fifteen-year-old Honda that had a jacked up driver's side door. It bothered her so bad to see this woman everyday, that she changed her schedule up a bit, so that she wouldn't arrive at the daycare at the same time as this woman. And God forbid that the glamorous woman would EVER see her have to slide from the driver's side of the car to the passenger side of the car to get out of the car. THE HORROR!! She was a bit perturbed that her son was not as well behaved as that woman's son. And the icing on the cake was that the daycare worker was nice to the other woman, and not to her.

What is really suprising is that the protagonist imagined that the tinted windows on the Escalade were needed as a cover to keep men from trying to "holla." But at the same time, late in the story, the protagonist, this "Mrs. Adams" I finally called her, was a bit suprised that the woman in the Escalade had a name (Diana).

Chosen, one of my favorite bloggers, said something in the comment section of "Presumption Personified":

"...people are just like books with beautiful covers, sometimes the stories inside don't match its exterior."

Really though.

I thought that this was true. I have no idea what kind of a financial bind "Diana" was in... It disturbed me, however, that "Diana" had an ongoing problem with bouncing checks, and the daycare was trying to work with her, but was finally like, to hell with it.

Don't come back until you can figure something out.

Goodness.

Now my biggest issue with some people is that they would actually let it bother them to see someone else doing well, even though it may be a facade of some type. (We will never know, until some ish go down, like in this story, would we? Our society is good at faking the funk.) I am always happy for people who have more than me. I believe life is like a grocery store line. I applaud you when you get your groceries sacked up and paid for. That means my turn-my successes- are coming up next.

But there are many "Mrs. Adams" in this world. And that ought not to be so. We should be thankful for wherever we are at. "Mrs. Adams" had a decent husband in "Bill". She had a job. I'm sure she was blessed in many ways, like us all. Why couldn't she just be happy with her portion?

And I really don't think the husband Bill was eyeing "Diana" hard. He was eyeing that truck a little harder.

And then there was this one line in the story that "Mrs. Adams" thought to herself after her husband Bill made comments about the Escalade. I thought about exploring it further, but decided against it:

"But I didn’t make a fuss. Bill was a good husband and his wondering eye never caused any harm. He was as consistent as the rising and setting of the sun, more than I could ever say for myself."

Damn. Looks like "Mrs. Adams" has been a problem for Bill in the past. I didn't explore it further. That "Cheatin'" facet of my personality would have played into it, and it would have taken away from the story.

Hmmm... Perhaps I will explore that some other time. I just wanted to get across that she had isshas of her own, and didn't need to be worried about some "perfect" chick, who apparently had problems no one knew about.

But anyway, I like short stories like this. Gives me a chance to write something quick. I am taking a 6 week writing class right now, and we have to write a story, or continuation of a story, per week. The teacher tells us what direction she wants us to go, and we have to do that... In a freakin' week. The stories or continuations are only to be 5 pages long. Let's just say that it took me a month to write and edit "Presumption Personified."

HAA!! My last continuation I gave to the teacher was 14 pages long and had 3 cliches...

She said, after seeing the final one.

"stay away from the usuals... your work is too good for that!"

...To which I wanted to scream: "I am NOT Tayari Jones!!"

LOL!

And besides, I work everyday. I'm doing the best I can, coming home and writing for 2 hours a night...

Ya betta chill, Teacha!!

Whatever. I will take the advice, and try to figure something out. Tayari Jones hipped me to how to conjure up original similes and metaphors. I was just being a lazy bones.

But for now, I will practice a bit, and keep writing.

Whatever I write, I will probably throw up on the blog for amusement, if it is short, i.e., no more than 2000 words. And of course, I will present some type of afterword of my thoughts...

I am very glad you all liked my story. Makes me a happy chick. Let's me know that I am improving. That's the point in the first place... to learn and improve on my storytelling skills.

So stay tuned... You never know what I will put up next:)