Oh What a Night

All I can say is...

Oh What a Night.

Four simple words. But they are full of glee and joy. They leave me breathless.

Oh what a night!

This was the first time that I can remember not being nervous when giving a talk in front of  a bunch of people. And it was a packed house, standing room only.

I have always done great with the scientific talks. But I have never given a reading before.

But it went well. We signed a load of books beforehand. And they sold out. How cool is that?

And I don't even know what to say about the GREAT Tayari Jones.

How awesome is she? She is awesome to the nth degree. She never ceases to amaze me.

And I don't say that because she gave a great reading. She always does that.

But I say that because she beckoned me over to her parents house in SWATS on Sunday and we practiced for a couple of hours. She taught me in that time how to properly read a piece of fiction. And how it is much different from reading something technical, much of which I've been always accustomed to. I will never forget her taking time to help me get my diction and pitch just right. Her Mom and Dad even took time to listen to me read, and they gave me great pointers. I incorporated ALL of that advice, and I did a pretty good job.

I can look over the past decade of our acquaintance, and she is one of those people over that period of time that's made a lasting and positive impact on my life and well being. I can't say that about many people. And I can only hope that someday, someone in the world  will be able to say the same about me that I say about her. 

I am simply shocked at doing something new and so different at this time in my life.

I will never forget it.

Oh what a night.

I have 2 more readings this month.

But I know they will never be good as the first time. :)

I Love to Write, but...

I love to write.

Ya'll know that.

I have scratched out 3 or 4 rough drafts of novels. I have numerous short stories. (I prefer flash and short fiction over long form). I will go so far as to say i have written out some half million words.

Yes I love to write. More than I love Chemistry. And I have a Ph.D in Chemistry.

That in itself lets you know I really love to write, but.

But I always get the same old question: When are you going to publish your stuff? You should publish your writing.

Sort of like one can just wake up, send your stuff out and voila! Published! Rich and Famous.

Hmmm...

It doesn't work like that. You wouldn't believe the stories I've heard from favorite authors over the years.

You want to know why I haven't gone that route?

Because it's a pimp-ho game.  And a VERY bad one at that.  VERY BAD.

You don't believe me?

Read this:  Harlequin Fail.

And read it before some cease and desist order or injunction gets slapped on the person's blog. Or before they up and disappear for putting the truth out there. I would be shocked if it stayed up for long.

I already knew this years ago. No one can convince me to go such a route. Not worth it. And someone came out and exposed it all in detail.

Pimp. Ho.

Yeah, the very thought over the years about the struggle to publish just kills a little of my writing joy... every time I think about it. I don't want what I love to die off... because of a pimp-ho thing.

Yeah, go read that post. And we don't have to worry about all the questions... ever again. You as a reader of books should understand what goes on.

Really though.

I'd much rather do my own thing... own my own:

*Ladylee slaps hands over mouth*


*LadyLee's eyes widen in surprise*


LOL

Excerpt from "Leaving Jersey": People and Money

I posted a quote last week:

People were their bank accounts. And their bank accounts told the whole story.

CowgirlCre, my cubicle mate, had become interested in a draft copy of a novel I was finishing up, and she read the chapter that contained that quote. That really drew her attention, and we had a lively discussion about it.

So I thought I'd post the page from whence the quote came from...

Enjoy!

Craig didn’t have many wants and dreams for his life. But if he had one wish for the human race, it wouldn’t be peace on earth, good will to all men, but it would be for each and every human being to spend at least a year of their lives working as a bank teller.

That’s because he himself had been a teller for five years, and had been promoted to head teller last year. And the one thing he understood is that people were not always what they seemed.

People were their bank accounts. And their bank accounts told the whole story.

People were diverse.

The female tellers oohed and ahhed at the tall, dark and handsome brother in the two thousand dollar Versace suit despite his bleak account, eaten alive by the twelve-hundred dollar a month car payment to Mercedes and countless charges accrued from blazing through every bar and club in town.

All they knew was that he was fine.

“He could get it,” was their constant commentary.

They didn’t pick up on the fact that these same striking men always came to Craig’s window, and spent time flirting with him, long past the completion of their transactions.

That happened at least once a week. Craig wanted to tell them all that he wasn’t interested in men. And if he was, he wouldn’t give the time of day to one who flunked high school personal finance.

No, it was against the rules for tellers to peruse the customers bank accounts. But when a customer leaned forward and quietly asked for his bank account to be checked to make sure a certain check had cleared, or for money to be transferred between accounts post haste, it wasn’t hard to put two and two together.

People were their bank accounts. And their bank accounts told the whole story.

Craig knew and understood that with the utmost clarity.

Money was to life like blood was to the human body. And the general population needed to understand that too.

If they did, the world would be a better place.


Personal Thoughts:

You know, I actually came up with the idea about this from a few sermons I heard on money here and there, most notably about concerning working on the debt issues that have plagued most of our lives at one time or another.

Everything always starts with: look at your checkbook registry. Look at where your money is going. Your treasure is usually where your heart is. You have been praying to God for help, but what are some of the practical things you can do, or stop doing, to be a better steward and manager of your money?

And it's followed by deciding when, where, and how to cut out all the unnecessary fat from our spending. And let's face it: if you make a good salary, and money is running through your hands like water, there may be a habit that needs to be squashed.

Interesting.

But it all didn't make as much sense to me as when my little sister Kentucky began working at a bank. Especially at the call in centers where she had to look at people's bank and credit card accounts. I remember her whispering "Lisa... you wouldn't believe some of the things people are doing.

I heard tales of people moving hundreds of thousands of dollars around to get the lowest interest rates. People you thought had going on were in all reality neck deep in debt.

I told her that I was glad that she had the opportunity to work there. She needed to see that people weren't always what they seem. People can put on some serious airs. But you check that bank account and they are literally in a state of poverty.

I know it gave her the courage to work on the debt she had. "Lisa," she said. "You know, this little stuff we dealing with ain't much. We can knock it out."

Sure can, Kentucky. That's what I was trying to tell you, Kentucky.

"I'm glad you had those few years of working at the bank, Kentucky," I told her one day. "You learned some things that the rest of us will never understand fully. And it will always stick with you. Always."

It's like digging a ditch with a toothpick. Even if we're removing one speck of dirt at a time, the important thing is this: progress is being made, albeit slow.

And this morning I was watching TD Jakes before leaving for work, and he was saying that we all had "sacred cows" in our lives, and that a man may be fine, but he had problems, that would come out sooner or later. He wished people would come with side effects warnings, like they have in the drug commercials.

That man is gorgeous, and here are the side effects: he is violent, got a bad temper. He's gonna beat you. His money is messed up, and he will mess up your money, etc....

Goodness. That's a lot going on. Aint that the truth. Everyone has side affects. His statement made me think of this passage I wrote.

I can look at my bank account... and that bank account tells it ALL.

Money is to life like blood is to the human body.

Hmmmm....

Craig is a very minor character in Sweet Heat. I love exploring the lives and thoughts of seemingly quiet minor characters in my stories. They are always good for a good offshoot story. He has some very interesting thoughts about money, doesn't he? He's a very interesting character, one of the smartest and at the same time, darkest I've ever written.

And I learned some powerful lessons from him.

Character Sketch: "Touch"

I'm a hardworking man...

And my days are long.

I wake up at 5 in the morning, and I’m going strong until about 8 or 9 in the evening. Get on home around nine thirty, and I'm in the bed by eleven.

Six days a week.


That’s what it’s like when you’re running the neighborhood community center. A very popular neighborhood community center at that.

I’d been running it for the past seven years. And in that time, I’d seen it grow from a little hole in the wall with cement floors and a few scattered chairs, only useful for meetings, to an sprawling center of the community.

The senior citizens held their civic league meetings there. The boy scouts and girl scouts met there every month. The workout room was getting good use. There were birthday parties, awards ceremonies and the like. Hell, there’d even been a few weddings there over the years.

I stand in the place at night sometimes, just before I'm leave, and look around in amazement.

I, Toucheaux Baptiste, had put my business management degree to good use. I was an expert at writing grants and obtaining funds, and this place was growing. And we were always in the black, never in the red.

I was helping people. Building up a community.

I, Toucheaux Baptiste, was doing a good thing.

And that was my nature, you see. Just like my great great Aunt Toucheaux. I was named after her.

Don't you laugh now because I was named after a woman. Don't laugh. I'm proud of my name.

I have a twin brother, who was born five minutes after me.

He's the unlucky one. His name is Tony.

I was lucky enough to be named after such a great woman.

For my Aunt Toucheaux Baptiste, she was the family matriarch. Great great woman. She lived to be 105 years old. I don’t remember much about her. I just remember, from a young child's point of view, that she was old as hell. She had long flowing silver hair, and she spoke the creole language all the time. Only spoke to me and my brother in clipped English from time to time.

“You boys, whatever you do in life, please make sure you take care of the village. The village, the community comes first. Always.”

We didn't know what that meant. We just wanted her to stop talking to us so we could go run and play in her big front yard.

We didn't go over there much. Sometimes we went just to visit and have lunch. This unnerved my mother something terrible. I’m not sure she ever adjusted to the Baptiste family and its ways. She’d always tell the two of us…

“When we go to Aunt Toucheaux house, you two best behave yourselves. Don’t touch nothing, you hear me? If you touch anything, I'm whipping tails, you hear me?”

My brother and I nodded our heads.

It would’ve been best that two hard headed boys were not told such things. It always peeked our ever active curiosities.

Aunt Toucheaux had trinkets and figurines everywhere. She called them antiques. We called it junk. And everytime we lifted an antique, there was money underneath. Dollar bills were even under placemats. I opened the kitchen drawer to get a spoon for my ice cream, and instead of silverware, there were stacks of shiny quarters. I'd never seen so much money, ever.

Mama would yell at us good. "I told you boys not to touch nothing in that woman's house!"

You see, Aunt Toucheaux was a true woman of the community. She ran numbers. She was a loneshark. She sold moonshine, too. I heard she ran guns. And no telling what else she was into.

(Probably why I love Eartha down at the Copper Skillet so much. She believes just as heavily in "supporting" the community in much the same way Aunt Toucheaux did.)

Yeah, I was named after this flawed great woman. I don’t mind. It don’t sound like a woman’s name. And the name fit right in where I was raised, in the Bayous in Lousiana.

Aunt Toucheaux's lecutures on community must've sunk into our heads. I ran a community center. My brother Tony was a hotshot lawyer. It trips me out everytime I see his commercials on TV, him standing there at a car wreck, decked out in a designer suit and fresh gators.

"Been in a wreck? Them people did you wrong? Did you fall on the job? One call, that's all. Call me! The Storng arm! Tony Baptiste, Attorney at Law!"

That Tony... he had his own special brand of community service going on.

Anyway, people don’t call me Toucheaux anyway..

They called me Touch.

I don't have to think back to far to remember where this started. My nickname has always been Touch. Me and my brother were some wannabe rappers back in our teen years, and we formed a group called "Touch Tone". We rapped over homemade beats laced with the touchtone sounds of the telephone. Our silly butts walked around with big sunshades on, and big fake rope gold chains with telephones hanging from them.

Let's just say Touch Tone won a few talent shows. Touch Tone was popular with the local girls. And that's about as far as that ever went.

It's just within the last few years that people took a notion to calling me “Touch the Baptist”. It started when all the grant money started coming in for the community center and progress was being made.

One of the elderly women of the neighborhood asked me one day, while looking all around, eyes darting back and forth in an effort to make sure no one was listening, “Boy, you doing all this with drug money?”

“No ma’am,” I said. “It’s being done with grant money from public and private sources. There's plenty of federal and private money available for community projects.”

She smiled. She had no idea what I was talking about. I could see it in her eyes. She was just happy I wasn’t a drug dealer.

And sometime later, she raised her shaky hand at a community meeting. It was just after I'd given a speech on some of the progress and plans for the center and had opened the floor for questions. She stood up, and walked up to the front and stood next to me.

She grabbed my bicep with her wrinkled bony fingers and hollered, “If you want blessings, or some of that good luck in your life, all you gotta do is Touch the Baptist!”

“Touch the Baptist,” everybody yelled in unison.

Scared the hell out of me. Especially since I’m not even Baptist. I was raised Catholic. I haven’t been to a Mass in years, but I still claimed Catholic.

So every since then, the myth was in full affect:

If you touch the Baptist, you’ll be blessed. You’ll have good luck.


This was alright when it came to the old ladies. But some of them started winning the Cash 3 numbers game, coming into money. Good things were happening for them and their families.

And it all supposedly came from “Touching the Baptist”.

I gotta tell you, it got on my last nerve. It’s bad when you gotta hear each and every day, sometimes ten times a day,

“Can I please Touch the Baptist?”

That doggone prostitute Cinnamon Sugar was the worst one of all. I did all I could to avoid her tail. Everytime she saw my truck turn the corner, she’d step out in the middle of the street and block my way. I’d try to go around her and she’d move to block my way again. She’d walk slowly around to my drivers side window and rap hard on it until I let it down. She’d blink her eyes, like she just knew she was the sexiest woman on earth, and croon in a low voice

"Look at you, Toucheaux, with your pretty curly hair, and that sexy deep voice, with your ol'high yellow pretty self. There's nothing like a big strong pretty man. I'll do you for free, Touch! Anytime, Anyplace!"

"Come on, Cinnamon. Now you know that's not gonna happen."

"I bet if I do you, I'll win that Mega millions or that Powerball. And if I do, I'll split the 300 million with you. Right down the middle. I'm good for it. Just tell me where, how, when and how long. Me and you, Baby."

"Cinnamon, I ain't got time for you today. I got things to do, now. Come on, now."

She's put her hands on her narrow hips and say real low, "Baby, I just wanna know. Can I please touch the Baptist?"

I wouldn't even say anything else, just look straight ahead. She’d grab my tensed up bicep and squeeze it with her bony fingers.

“Bye Cinnamon,” I always yelled, just before hitting the gas and screeching off down the road.

And the whole world, even the dead, could see her standing in the middle of the street, doing some crazy Hammertime dance hollering “I touched the Baptist! I’m gonna make big money, money tonight, baby! Big money, Big money!”

One of the other prostitutes told me, when she came down to the soup kitchen we held on holidays, “You know, Cinnamon Sugar clear a good two or three hundred dollars a night whenever you come through and she touch you. You might be a good luck charm after all. A real live magic genie. I might have to touch you, too.”

I wish everybody thought that.

I wish Commander Bivins thought that.

Everybody wanted to touch the Baptist.

I just wanted to touch the Commander.

Let me tell you something. I’m all man and everything, all about taking care of a woman, being the man of the house. Just a man's man.

But there is nothing sexier than a woman who runs things. Nothing turns me on more than a woman who wields a gun. Lord have Mercy, I’ve seen this woman draw her gun, yell “Police”, and bust a door down with one kick. She’d run up in the place and drag out whoever didn’t do what she say.

She was the wrong person to mess with. She could jump a fence in a single bound. Knock down and cuff a fool twice her size. Interrogate a smug joker so hard that he would pee on himself.

She could clear the room with one look.

She was bad. She was ALL that.

And she loved her community.

A bit too much, if you ask me..

And that's coming from a man who's all about the community. Community is my life.

We’d been friends for many years. I was in the military with her late husband. I was there for her when he passed. I became a stand in father figure for her son, who's away at law school now.

I’d see her up at the bars over on Marietta street unwinding with some of the other cops, even though it wasn't her thing. “I’m all about comradarie and morale,” she’d told me one day. “I’m all about being a good boss, and if that means hanging out in a smoky bar drinking Shirley temples from time to time, then so be it.”

I would kick back with her sometimes. I didn’t like smoky bars myself, but I liked her. Yeah, her late husband had been my friend, but he was gone.

And no woman should be alone.

Unless she wanted to be.

So I started taking her out. A dinner, a movie on the north side of town, away from the static of the hood. Just a friendly thing, you see. It had to be hard running a police department. The girl had to woman had to kick back and unwind sometimes.

Might as well have been with me.

So one day, we were talking about some of the things she needed done around the house. She really needed some bookshelves built in her den. I volunteered to do it, since I'd done much of the carpentry up at the community center, for free if she bought the materials. We each took a much needed day off and got to work.

I have to tell you, besides seeing my daughter born some fifteen yeas ago, that had to be one of the absolute best days of my life. We had the best time.

I built shelves with the Commander.

I painted shelves with the Commander.

I ate with the Commander.

I watched a movie with the Commander.

I danced with the Commander.

I made love to the Commander.

I swear. Hear me now, believe me later. That was one of the best days of my life.

I understand what they mean now when they say time stood still.

Time stood still that day.

To hell with that “Touch the Baptist” business.

I touched the Commander.

I was walking on air after that. I went down to the police station whenever I got a chance. I was front row and center whenever she gave the neighborhood updates at the weekly community center town hall meetings. I was waving and smiling hard whenever she drove by, playing that Dianna Ross music. (Not sure what that was about. But hey, if she liked it, I loved it).

If the collar of her shirt was crooked, I’d stick my hand out and straighten it. If her hair was in her face, I’d move it out the way. If her badge wasn’t hanging right, I’d straighten that up too.

I was crazy about the commander.


Then one day, I’d made a trip to her office at the police station, just to give her a bag of fresh vegetables from our award winning community center garden, as I liked to do from time to time. She asked me to close the door, because we needed to talk.

And my smiling tail did just as she asked.

She was sitting in her chair, with her feet propped up on her desk, in her trademark black outfit, staring at me.

I wanted to kiss the commander. Right then and there. But I hadn't been physical with her since that day that time stood still.

And I took a step closer to her. She held up her hand to halt me.

“Uh, we can’t do this, Touch,” she said. “People are starting to talk. And we just can’t do this.”

“What?” I said.

“This situation that's trying to get started between us. It's a breach of community trust. Not good for the community.”

"What?"

"Touch, you heard what I said. You're not deaf."

I threw the bag of vegetables down. “Screw the community!”

“Keep your voice down now,” she said, in a tone like she was talking about the weather. “Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down,” I said. “I'm down for you, Lutrice. Me and you, we got something special. I won't calm down.”

“Oh yes you will. And you will right now,” she said. “You’re gonna pull yourself together, walk out that door, get in your truck, and go on back to the community center. That's what you're gonna do. Right now.”

“No,” I said.

“Yes,” she said.

"Nope."

"Yes you are."

"Lutrice," I whined.

"No, call me Commander from now on. Commander Bivins while I'm on duty."

Let’s just say, she got her way. I left up out of there.

Crying like a bitch.

Shit.

It hurts to even talk about it right now.

Things hadn’t been that great between us since then, when that happened. Nothing but business when we talked. She’d sent a text message wishing me happy birthday.

I deleted it. I didn’t even answer it and say thank you.

And I tell you, my mind ain’t been right since then. I swear, every time I close my eyes I’m thinking of her. I’m thinking of that soft brown skin. The sweet scent of her still clings to my nostrils. I can still see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes.

I can stll taste her and feel her.

I still see her guns on nightstand. And I can hear her gun holster knocking up against the wall and the bed post when I was loving her down.

It’s like she’s on me, and I just can’t get her off of me.

My heart was all broke up. Wish I could do what everybody else like to do: touch myself for a bit a blessing, some good luck, or whatever came along with touching me.

And I did that sometimes. I’d put my hand on my own chest. Nothing special ever happened, save for feeling the beat of my own heart.

Even though it was broke, it was still there, beating hard.

Touching myself brought me no blessings. It brought me no good luck.

I guess touching me didn’t do for her what it did for others, either.

Getting to sleep at night was hard. It was fall now, and my baby girl Lil’ Touch, who always spent the summers with me, had gone on home back to Louisiana to her Mama. I loved having her around. At least she gave me something to focus on. I wish I could get custody of her. But it was best she be with her Mama and stepfather and siblings.

I was too much of a mess. And as a man, that’s hard to admit.

I think about this each and every night when I’m alone with my thoughts, trying to fall asleep.

And tonight, I was laying there, listening to the sound of the evening rain, when I got a call on my cell phone from the Commander.

“Touch, I need you,” she’d said.

My heart felt like it stopped. I even got light headed. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out.

“Let me rephrase that,” she said, when I didn’t respond. “I need you down on Pine Street. There’s been another murder. And Frank Simpson is out of town. You’re second in command of the Neighborhood watch, so I need you down here asap.”

My heart started beating again.

Business, I told myself. It’s business.

“Okay, give me fifteen minutes. I’ll be there.”

She disconnected without saying another word.

“Yes, I’ll be there, Lutrice,” I said as I got out of bed and pulled on my pants.

“I’ll be there, Commander.”

I’ll always be there... whenever you need me.

Character Sketch: "Police Commander T.L.Bivins"

Omens and signs.

Signs and omens.

I believe in them. I believe in them all.

I love Jesus. I love the Lord, too. Like I was taught from an early age.

But I do know if I am driving down the road, and I hit a squirrel, it means there’s gonna be problems on the job that day.

That’s an omen that makes me close my eyes tight and hold my breath. It never fails. The last time that happened, one of my officers was shot. The time before that, we lost a few squad cars in a high speed car chase.

Omens and signs, signs and omens. A black cat running in my path. Breaking a mirror. They are all signs.

Signs, omens.

I’m not suppose to believe these things. That’s what my pastor says, as he screams it from the pulpit.

“Jesus is the truth and the light. Those things are things of the world. We are not of the world. We’re covered by the blood.”
But the pastor wasn’t there when my husband Jeffrey was in the bathroom, shaving that morning, and telling me about the squirrel he hit, and how the fur and blood was still stuck all in the grill of the squad car, and how it was hard to wash off, even with a fire hose. The pastor wasn’t there when my husbands shaving mirror fell off the pedestal and hit the counter. The pastor wasn’t there when the shards of glass, too many to count, fell into the sink. He wasn’t there when Jeffrey said “Baby take care of this for me. I’m running late, gotta go. Got that big sting going down tonight and I can’t be late.”

And I wanted Jeffery on out of there, too. He always played his Diana Ross greatest hits CD when he was getting ready for work. I never understood why he loved Dianna Ross so much. All I knew was that as soon as he left, I could turn it off.

The pastor wasn’t there when I got the call in the middle of the night that the sting had gone terribly wrong, and Jeffrey had been killed in a shoot out.

It had been a warm sunny day, not a cloud in the sky. And when I was standing on the porch waving goodbye to my Jeffrey as day turned to dusk, I heard the low rumble of thunder, and felt the raindrops fall on my face.

Signs and Omens, omens and signs.

Dead squirrels in the road. Shards of Glass in the bathroom sink.

A bright sunny cloudless day morphing into a thunderous cold rainy night.

Signs and Omens, omens and signs.

They are not of God. But at the same time, they never lie.


Some five years later, and something's wrong. I hit a squirrel on my way home from work. I did my best to avoid him, but it was as if the rodent had a suicide mission. I saw the blink of his eye just before I felt the crunch of his body beneath my tire.

The magnifying mirror I use when I remove my makeup at night fell over somehow, even though I am careful when I use it.

And as I lay in bed, in the dark, in the quiet of the night, lost in my thoughts… a low rumble of thunder as menacing as the growl of a protective dog invaded my space, soon followed by a hard steady rain.

It was just sunny and hot today, I thought. Not a cloud in the sky. Now it was raining?

I lay there listening, thinking of Jeffrey, and how he died on a night such as this.

It had been five years since I buried Jeffrey. I’d made my peace with it. There were times, though, when the feelings from the weight of his loss crept up on me and covered me like a dark shadow.

Those times were few and far between, though. I was a Commander now, leader of my own zone. I had to be strong. I was the first black woman in that role, a squadron of officers under my charge.

I had to be strong, even though my heart hurt.

Just as I had drifted off to sleep that night, my phone rang.

“Bivins,” I answered.

“Commander, this is Officer Dawkins. We have a problem in Pop City that needs your immediate attention.”

I looked over at the clock. 10:45 pm. The last time I’d glanced at the bright digital numbers, it was a quarter ‘til 10.

An hours worth of sleep. Better than no sleep at all.

“Fill me in.” I sat up and swung my feet over the side of the bed. I winced at the coolness of the hardwood floor on the soles of my feet.

“There’s been another murder.”

Another murder. Another young brother gunned down in the streets. And this wasn’t a turf war thing, dealers killing rival dealers trying to take away sales.

No, this was something more. Someone had been killing the young black men, popping them off one by one, execution style. Clean and professional. There had been ten murders in the past two years. The only positive thing that had come out of it was that everyone was scared and stayed behind closed doors.

Crime had gone down to nothing in Pop City… save for these murders.

“Where at?” I asked.

“Over near Poplar avenue.”

“Really? After all that mess that went on last week?”

“Well not Poplar Avenue. On the cross street, Pine street, right off of Poplar.”

Shoot. That was close enough.

We were short a couple of officers, both who had been put on administrative leave pending investigation of that mess last week. That meant I had to do a little more than I had to do. I had to make sure I made a presence at any violent crime scene.

“Give me twenty minutes,” I said. “I’ll be over there.”

We hung up. I washed up and quickly threw on my gear that I laid out earlier for the next day… black turtleneck, black slacks and black boots.

I grabbed my badge on a gold chain from the doorknob of my bedroom door and hung it around my neck. I put on my holster, secured my guns, and grabbed my keys and got out to the car.

I turned the volume on the portable CD player up. Diana Ross was talking about my heart right now.




I hurried down the street, off to Pine Street to see what was going on.

Character Sketch: "Cinnamon Sugar"

“Cinnamon Sugar.”

That is how I always introduced myself.

And if you pay close attention, you will notice that I don’t say “Hi, my name is Cinnamon Sugar.”

First of all, I ain’t formal like that. Never was and never been.

You see, that’s because I’m not a fancy secretary, or a teacher. My occupation don’t involve getting a steady paycheck every two weeks.

I make my money by the day. No, that’s not quite what I mean.

I make my money by the job. Some day I have many jobs, and I make good money. Other days the jobs are scarce, and when you gotta compete with other girls in the same line of work as you are?

You get creative.

And that’s why I always introduce myself with two words.

“Cinnamon Sugar.”

Those two words bring about a change in a man. Makes his mind go back, way back to when he was a little boy, and his Mama would make toast. And Mama would take that knife and spread a little butter over the top. Then she would sprinkle cinnamon and sugar on top, and then toast it in the oven until it’s nice and golden brown.

“Cinnamon toast,” the boy would say sometimes. “Mama can I please have some cinnamon toast?”

“Yes you can, baby,” she’d say. “Anything for my baby.”

I would’ve like to called myself “Cinnamon Toast”. But that just sounds downright crazy.

Besides, it don’t roll out the mouth and off the lips quite right.

So Cinnamon Sugar it was.

“Cinnamon Sugar.”

Of course even though cinnamon was the color of my skin, it wasn’t my real name. My birth name is Samantha Ripley. That name sounds funny coming out of my mouth. I rarely say it. And I haven’t been called that in years. As a matter of fact, if you see me far off somewhere, you may have to yell it once, twice, three times before I turn around. And if I do turn around, it ain’t to answer. It’s to see who the hell yelling like they done lost their gotdamn mind.

People in this neighborhood would do better to call me by my street name.

“Cinnamon Sugar!”

Yes, that’s my name. And I have a lot of regulars who know it well.

But one day, one hot spring day last year, there was a new man walking up the street. I had never seen him before. I noticed he sometimes went into the Copper Skillet, the neighborhood restaurant and bootleg house. So he had to be alright if the owner Miss Eartha was letting him in. Miss Eartha don't fool with many people.

Me and the girls would stand on the corner and watch him when he walked by. No, we never called out to him. He coulda been a cop, you see, and who the hell wanted to spend time in jail when that time could’ve been spent making money?

He looked kind of different. He was a white man, but he had those strange eyes, like he might’ve been one of them Asian people, but not quite. So maybe he wasn't a white man. He was mixed with somethingn else. Me and the girls, we talked, no, we debated this thing. (That is a fancy word, isn’t it? Debated).

And one day, when he was walking past us, down the other sidewalk on the other side of the street, I said something.

“Hey man, come here a minute!”

Of course he didn’t come my way. That meant that he probably wasn’t a cop. Because cops quick to run up on you, and act like they’re your best friend, when you ain’t seen them a day in your life.

That next day, when he walked up the street, I got a little bolder.

“Come here, man! Let me talk to you for a minute. You want a little company!? I ain’t never did a Chinese man before. Come here and let me talk to you for a quick minute.”

He wouldn’t say anything, only touch the tip of his baseball cap, and nod and smile.

After awhile, I just stop calling out to him. Wasn’t no use in me wasting my time on him. We just watched him as he walked by, with his tacky self. Always had on some of those red high top sneakers and shorts and a muscle shirt that didn’t match. Just tacky.

Then one day, me and the ladies were talking and he crossed the street and walked right toward us. I mean he walked right up to us.

I was ready for him, and the other ladies were ready too. You see, We took a self defense class up at the community center. It was free, and we got to yell “No!” and “Stop!” as loud as we could. They taught us how to poke a man in the face with our fingers and do a throat chop, bust him in his neck. It was exciting, and we were ready to use our fighting skills.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so rude to you, Ma’am,” he said. He held out his hand. “My name is Andrew Hattori. I am new to the neighborhood.”

I looked down at his hand, then back up at him. “You kidding, right?”

He stood there with a slight smile on his face, his hand still outstretched. “No, I’m not. What’s your name?”

I slowly took his hand and shook it. “Cinnamon Sugar.”

The ladies giggled.


“Ah, that’s a very nice name. My mother use to bake apples, and sprinkle cinnamon and sugar on top. I loved that.”

“I can only imagine,” I said.

“I miss that. It makes me want to almost go home and make some. Or ask Miss Eartha what day she’d have that on the special down at the Copper Skillet.”

The ladies laughed. And so did I.

“Eartha would tell you about yourself if you walked up in there wanting some apples covered with cinnamon and sugar. She’ll have security escort you out.”

He laughed. “You know you’re probably right. Miss Eartha will let you know exactly how she feels.”

I nodded for lack of knowing what else to do or say.

“Would you like to accompany me down to Poplar City Park?”

I glanced back at the ladies, and then back at him. “The Park?”

Andrew nodded.

“You want to handle. . . business. At the park.”

“Well, if you want to call it that. If handling business is a nice walk to the park and sharing my dinner, then business it is.”

He offered his arm, and I looped mine with his.

And we walked to the park, like we didn’t have a care in the world, with nothing but the sounds of our footsteps and the chirping of birds creating our runway music.

It was only a block and a half to the park, but it felt real good, walking down the street on the arm of a man. No, on the arm of a gentleman.


Honey, I wanted to turn around and do it all over again. But we headed towards a lone picnic table under a large poplar tree at the edge of the park. I across from him, at the table. He placed the backpack he always carried on the table.
I closed my eyes and pretended that I was sitting across from my man at the Red Lobster.

(Well, I closed one eye. I kept my good eye on him. He coulda been pulling a gun or a cop badge out of that backpack.)

“What’s your name?” he asked, causing me to open my eyes and realize that I wasn’t where I wanted to be.

“Cinnamon Sugar,” I said, low and slow, like I always do when I’m trying to make my money. “I told you that already up the street at the corner. You forgot that quick?”

“Of course I didn’t forget. Cinnamon Sugar is a beautiful name,” he said. “But I’m sure your mother and father didn’t write that down on your birth certificate.”

“No they didn’t,” I said. “They said ‘Look at this little girl child. Her complexion is the same color as peanut butter. So they wrote my first name as Peanut, and my last name as Butter.”

He laughed.

I liked his laugh.

“I’m just playing with you, Andrew,” I chimed.

He smiled. “I hoped you were. But that was funny.”

“My real name is,” I began. I cleared my throat and sat up straight. “My parents name me Samantha Ripley.”

“That’s really pretty. Samantha Ripley.”

“You can call me Cinnamon, though.”

“I will,” he said. "Even though Samantha is a prettier name. But I can call you Cinnamon.”

I liked the way my name sounded coming from his lips. I wanted to ask him to say it again and again.

And again.

But I didn't. This was business. At the park.

“So,” I said. “You a cop?”

He smirked.

“I mean, what are we down here for?”

Andrew unwrapped a sandwich and laid it on a napkin. “I wanted to share my dinner with you.”

He pulled out a baggie of cheese cubes and two juice boxes.

I was so hungry. I hadn’t eaten all day. I don’t eat unless I make at least thirty dollars during day. And today, I’d only made twenty. That meant that I couldn’t take a break before the nighttime action, and I'd probably have to be on the corner a bit late that night. And I was here, talking to this man, when I could’ve been making some money.

“Look, I don’t have time for that. You wanna go over there in the bushes or something? What you want done? Fifteen dollars if you want some head. Twenty-five if you want to bend me over and hit it. Thirty-five dollars will get you both head and ass.”

“I don’t want to do anything.” He pulled out a crisp fifty dollar bill and sat it on the table. “Eat with me. Just share dinner with me.”

The sandwich did look good. The money looked even better.

I palmed the money from the table. “If you’re a cop, you can’t arrest me for sitting here and eating with you. You know that’s against the law, right?”

“I’m not a cop,” he said. He took a big bite of his sandwich.

It looked so good. I could smell the bread and the mayonnaise. I could hear the crunch of the lettuce as he chewed.

“What kind of sandwiches are those?”

“Ham and cheese, with tomato and lettuce. And peanut butter sandwiches.”

“I’ll take the peanut butter sandwich, please.”

He gave me one,hen handed me a napkin. I tore the crusts off the sides, and set them on my napkin. I tasted it. Savored the creamy peanut butter and soft wheat bread. It was good.

Or maybe I was just starving.

We ate quietly. And I have to say I was glad for the peace of it all. It was good to sit and relax, instead of calling out to cars as they passed by my corner, hoping to convince some lonely man that he needed my company. For a small fee.

“So, Cinnamon Sugar. Tell me about yourself.”

I finished chewing the piece of the sandwich I’d just bitten. “About myself? Why?”

“Just curious. You seem like a smart girl. Why are you out here?”

I leaned forward, looked him square in his eyes. "You sure you not a cop?"

He held my stare. "I'm assuming you don't like cops."

"Hell n'awl," I said. I turned my head to the side and pointed at the tattoo on my neck. "What that say, Andrew? What that there tattoo say?"

"It says 'Fuck the Police'."

"That's right. It's written in prison green, not in the cute colors these little girls around here do their tattoos in. That let's you know I mean business. I don't like cops. When they drive by, I point at my neck. This lets them know how I feel about them. And I'm the wrong one to step to."
"And I'm not going to even ask why, Cinnamon. I'm just not. I don't even think I want to know why."

"They shady. That's all you need to know."

Andrew sipped red juice from his juice box.

"Can I have some juice, too?"

"Yes, of course," Andrew said. He handed me a juice box.

"But I like the lady in charge of the police department. That detective lady. Always booming Diana Ross from her car speakers. Cool cop."

"Commander Bivins," Andrew said. "Commander T. Lutrice Bivins."

"Yes I like her. That's a bad sister right there. She a cop, but she fair. She act like she got some sense. When she roll by in her black undercover police car playing that Diana Ross music? I hide my tattoo." I thrust my chin to my collarbone.

"Really?"

"I sure do. And I hold up my fist in the air and get in that black power stance. I give her her respect. One of the men cops was talking trash to me the last time I got locked up. I cussed him out. I caused such a commotion that she came and talked to me. Next thing you know, she fired that sucker. I'm down for her."

"Even though she's a cop?" Andrew asked.

"Yeah. Because she's a sister first. Cop second. And I respect that."

"Okay Cinnamon, I'm not a cop. Now answer the question. You seem like a smart girl? Why are you out here?"

“You saying I’m not smart?”

“No, I didn’t say that,” he said. “I think you are smart. I don’t see this as a career choice for someone as bright as you.”

I finally managed to stick the skinny straw in the juice box. I sipped hard. The juice was good and cold. “This isn’t a career choice. This career here, my line of work? It chose me.”

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at me as he ate his sandwich.

I sat up straight, careful to remember my posture. “My family, they are from the northwest side of town. Over in Vine City. The Ripleys were very prominent people back in the sixties, seventies and eighties. We had a liquor store and a grocery store. Granddady had an auto repair shop. And a gas station , too. My family were business people. We were entree pures.”

“Entrepeneurs,” Andrew said.

“What?”

“Your family. They were business minded. Business people. They were entrepenuers.”

“Entrepeneurs,” I said, pronouncing the word real slow.

Andrew popped a cheese cube in his mouth. “So that means you’re an entrepenure, too. You come from a long line of important business people.”

“Yeah, I’m business minded all right. I handle my business on these streets. Without a pimp. If that's not being business minded, I don't know what is.”

“That’s one way to look at,” Andrew said. He bit into his sandwich.

“That’s the only way to look at it.”

“Well, if that’s what you say,” he said with a raised eyebrow.

“Humph.”

He pushed the bag of cheese cubes towards her. “What’s that suppose to mean?” he said.

“Andrew, I’ll have you know that I was prom queen at Archer High School. I was homecoming queen for each grade, every year I was there. I had real good grades, even did a little college. I have my Associates of Arts degree. I have a college degree.”

“Wow. Okay.”

“I was on my way to being somebody, until life balled its fist up tight and bust me in the face. I went to one too many parties, screwed one too many men, drank one too many dranks, and did more drugs than a person should do in a lifetime. I should be dead. But I’m not.”

I looked up at the sky. “Then one day, I looked up, and I was out on a corner, selling ass. I was sleeping on people’s back porches. Doing whatever I had to do to get that next high. Even though I look up at the sky, and it’s the same, clouds rolling by, still blue as ever. My life, though. It changed.”

“Everyone’s life changes,” Andrew said. “I think some of us hold on a little tighter to the reins of the horse when it starts kicking and bucking. Some of us fall right off.”

“Well I fell off the horse and the horse was gone, you hear me? I fell on my ass, Andrew. And I got the bruises on my behind to prove it.”

“I’m sure you do.”

"The horse gone. Some people have a horse. I don't. My horse, it left me in the dust years ago."

Andrew nodded. "I understand."

“So you asking all these questions about me. What about you? Why you here in Pop City?”

“Why you say that? Is there a rule against me living here? It’s a real nice place to live. Nice people. Nice streets. And a real nice park.”

I laughed hard. “The hell you say. This is the hood. This Pop City. And not many people like you live around here. The Lings own the corner grocery store down the road from Eartha’s, but they don’t live around here, and they treat us like shit.”

“I like it here. I work nearby.”

“Really,” I said. I leaned forward a little. “Where you work?”

“I teach History over at the community college. And it’s only three miles away. Good for my gas tank.”

“What street you live on?” I asked.

“Over on Poplar Avenue.”

I mashed a cheese cube between my fingers so it would be soft enough for me to eat. “Pop Avenue. And you not bothered by the killings that go on around here?”

“Haven’t heard much about that.”

“They killing thugs around here. Look like every time you turn around, somebody get popped.

I formed my hands into the shape of a gun. "Rat-tat-tat-tat. POW."

Andrew's narrow eyes went wide.

"Some say it’s the klan. Some say it’s the cops. No one seems to care. Crime is real low now that the thugs are scared. You can walk these streets in the middle of the night with hundred dollar bills taped to your body and nobody’s gonna bother you. It's like Mayberry around here the past couple of years. All the thieves behind closed doora. They scared of getting their wigs split. It's heaven on earth in Pop City!”

Andrew frowned. “Wigs split?"

"Yeah, Wigs split. They scared of getting shot. Scared of death."

That’s a bad way to live, scared like that.”

“Better scared and alive than dead and gone,” I said.

We sat there and ate our dinner and talked for a whole hour. Never has a man stared so deeply into my eyes and listened to every single word I said. You couldn’t tell me that I wasn’t that same smart girl back in high school, able to make a perfect speech, and make those good grades.

At that picnic table, I was Samantha Ripley.

Cinnamon Sugar had taken a nap.

Sometimes I’d wish she would stay gone.

“Oh, I have apples,” Andrew said as he pulled a sandwich bag of sliced apples from his backpack.

I grimaced at the sight of them. My hand automatically went to my mouth. My mouth of rotten teeth began to ache from just looking at the crisp apple wedges. It had been so long since I ate any hard food.

“No thank you. I’m full.”

He nodded. He ate the apples.

He continued to let me talk.

“You sure you not a cop?” I asked again.

“You can think what you want to think, Cinnamon Sugar. I would rather you think that I am a man who just shared a nice dinner with a nice woman who calls out to me each and every day that I walk up the road.

"Hey Man," he said, making his voice all high. "Come here a minute. Let me talk to you for a quick minute. I ain't never did a Chinese man before. Come here, man!"

I laughed so hard that I started coughing and choking. "I do not sound like that."

"Oh yes you do. And I love it. A lady calling out like that, like my name is Denzel Washington. Wow."

"Aww, you need to stop tripping. I'm a ho. I call out to everybody. I'm trying to make my money."

After an hour, he walked me back up the road. My arm was hooked in his, and I closed my eyes and imagined myself the same young lady who wore a crown and walked on the long red carpet at the Homecoming dance. Except I walked the concrete sidewalk back to my place of self employment– the street corner.

Cars blew their horns as they drove by. And my coworkers–the Pop City hos–laughed at us.

He said good-bye, and wished me a good evening. And then he was on his way. I stood there and watched him as he disappeared around the corner.

“What you and that Yang do down around the corner, Sugar?” one of the ladies asked.

“We had a real fine dinner.” I rubbed my stomach. I was full from the two peanut butter sandwiches I’d eaten. I thought about saving the crusts that I tore off. I could save them for later and suck on them if I got hungry. But that would’ve been embarrassing in front of such a refined man.

The ladies laughed. “She think she something special. You just a ho, Cinnamon. A ho name Cinnamon Sugar.

“No,” I said, my head held high. “I’m not just a ho. I’m Samantha Ripley. That’s who I am.”

"Samantha Ripley."

Them Blues...Part III

I got them blues...

Yes Lawd, yes Lawd...

Them sitting in the back of the club, crying in your beer, cuz my man done left me type of blues...

You know, that reminds me of a song I heard on a Sunday afternoon blues show on one of the radio stations here in the ATL was hollering in the chorus of the song...

"You some kind of lover... but you a no good nigga."

Oh my. Now there's a woman who is happy in bed, but she got some isshas: like dude done messed up her credit, whooped her tail on a regular basis, wrecked her car, cussed her out, stepped out on her... just no good.

Let's just say people were calling in telling the disc jockey not to play the song anymore. EVER.

Oh my. I don't have THEM type of blues. The horror.

No, not quite...

Just got them writing blues.

Ugggggghhhh!!!

If you've read the last 2 parts of this series of posts, you know my dilemma: My mind is getting all tangled up when I write.

And I know I have to understand that I can't write from a reader's point of view, but from a writers point of view. And this is hard, and makes it more work and strain then anything that I enjoy doing.

Now, even though I have to be picky about what I turn into class, I must say it has been more beneficial than not. For the two years that I took writing classes, I got a LOT better at listening to people read and critiquing other's work. And the critiquing of my own work has helped me immensely.

But I must say that there are things that I write that I can't put through the class. Sweet Heat for example. Many of you on the the Original Oldgirl Critique Squad suffered through all 1086 pages of that rough first draft. Many of you REALLY read that thing and we really talked about it. I do believe that a few of ya'll cussed me out at times, lol...

The thing is, I REALLY liked that manuscript. I enjoyed working through it. I enjoyed the fact that my critiquers enjoyed it. I enjoyed the criticism of it.

And I just want to get that feeling back. That feeling of really enjoying this lil' writing hobby of mine.

That's what I want the most. It's like the first time you fall in love, though.

Do you ever get that feeling back?

Can I get that feeling back?

Sweet Heat to me is EXTRAORDINARY. First of all, it is something that I completed. All 1086 pages, but it is completed. The first 450 pages were edited line for line by urban literary author Nichelle Tramble, who has written 2 books, has a ton of editing experience, and is currently a writer on the NBC show Mercy. We talked much over email about it, and she really got me fired up about it. She really liked it and told me that I have "excellent story telling chops".

Oh, that made me feel good. She gave me a lot of things to work on and things to think about.

The thing about Sweet Heat is that it is basically 2 books. (That's why she only read the first 450 pages. We determined that was the break.). Second, I've muddled around in a bunch of offshoots. For those who read it, there's a whole novel manuscript idea involving Vaughn's lawyer. I have a rough draft of a novella finished up for Vaughn's best friend, Danielle titled Leaving Jersey. If you've read the Biscuit Blues series of stories here on the blog, posted up some 3 years ago ("I Love My Wife", "Buttermilk Biscuit Blues", and "Cold and Heavy"), well, that's all about Vaughn's secretary, a very sweet, unassuming woman name Sylvia.

My teacher said something in class one day that made me cheese like Celie...

"LadyLee has this wonderful way of taking a minor character or side plot of a story and going off and exploring them and writing a whole other incredible story about it all."

Yes I love a good sidebar story. If you read the story "Ma'am", posted here during the week of my birthday when I was off on a cruise, well, that is a side story of the story I am working on during NaNoWriMo month.

That's a good thing, and a bad thing at the same time:

I have very little focus.

I rarely finish stories.

And I realize that's just my thing, you know? But it won't get me very far.

Now, I am trying to figure out what to do with myself concerning these high post issues of mine...
And there are some things that have happened to snatch me in the right direction...

To be continued...

Manuscript Critique Announcements

What's up er'body... It's your friendly neighborhood Oldgirl!!

I probably won't be posting much this week, but I wanted to give a shout out to Racer X, i.e., my idol Tayari Jones (lol) for a fundraiser she's heading up over on her blog for the Dunbar Village survivors.

She and several authors are offering up manuscript, poetry, and story critiques on ebay. You can head over to eBay and bid on them. All proceeds go to the Dunbar Village survivors. (click here for ebay page).

Participating authors include: Tayari Jones, George Saunders, Martha Southgate, Carleen Brice, Sarah Schulman, and many more.

Now, for you writers out there... I participated in something similar to this last year, and won a manuscript critique from an author I really like, Nichelle Tramble. She edited, line for line, the first 450 pages of my Sweet Heat manuscript. I can not tell you how much her comments and advice helped me, so much so that I decided to take classes. I really grew in my writing because of it.

So you up-and-coming writers who have a manuscript, story, or piece of poetry you want critiqued... go on over and have a look-see.

And don't forget to bid, bid, bid!!

Have a good week:)

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! !

The Non-Blog Meme Tag

Guess what, Party people...

I've been tagged.

Ick. Don't like tags. Don't like tags. Don't like tags.

But, if I get tagged, I usually do them. And you know how longwinded I tend to be.

I was tagged by Rosemarie, Ms. Miscellaneous Matters herself. This tag confused me a bit for a moment, but I think I understand what is required of me...

The Rules:

1. After your intro, copy/paste this line and the rules below it: The originator wants to see how far it goes so please keep his link intact: http://rileycentral.net/

2. Encourage people to post with the incentive of a link by including those who have passed it along here:(Your link here and so on . . .)

3. Visit at least 3 on the list that’ve written and passed this meme. Leave them a comment..

Damien at Riley Central says, "Today I hereby unblog my mind with this post. One reason MANY of us writers get writer’s block is because we don’t nurture the things that give us joy. We spend too much time on the computer trying to write when we haven’t done anything worthy of writing about! To illustrate what makes me tick, and what gives me pure joy I am choosing 3 things I enjoy more than blogging and writing about them! Pick three things that enrapture, consume, fascinate, or otherwise enliven you more than blogging. Then write a few lines about each to explainwhat the nonblog activity does for you, why and how."

Well, now... I really like to blog, but there are a few things that I enjoy more than blogging:

1.Writing- Now, ya'll know I like to write A LOT. A whole lot. I am a member of the world's best Inspirational Journal Writing group. I am also currently taking writing classes. I have completed the first draft of my manuscript back in March, the infamous Sweet Heat, and I have several short stories/novellas (Leaving Jersey, Fancy That, My Special Auntie, Daddy Matters, etc.) at various stages in the works...

I think my teacher has an issha with me... She looks at me with hooded eyes and pursed lips when I turn in one story, and she expects continuation on another. She wants me to concentrate on ONE piece, and make it the best it can be. I like to jump around a lot from story to story.

Teacher: "What about Leaving Jersey, LadyLee? I miss Danielle! I worry about her, and what happens to her!"
LadyLee: "Uh, I ain't feeling that right now. I want to work on my Fancy That story."
Teacher: hand to chest followed by... **silence**

She's gonna jump up and punch me in the face one day.

I had the NERVE to turn in the revised first chapter of my beloved 1000 page, 273,000 word Sweet Heat.

Teacher: "It's chick-lit, it's romance, LadyLee!!"
LadyLee: **LadyLee grins hard like Celie**
Teacher: "Place Leaving Jersey on the front end of this Sweet Heat chapter. That would be interesting!"
LadyLee: ** LadyLee's Celie grin melts into a Gas face**

Yeah, she's gonna pick up something and knock me upside my head someday...

I think she has a point though. I accept that she knows better than me, because Lord knows, I have learned A LOT from her. I'm just an impatient broad. If I hit a tough spot in a story, I will set it aside and let it marinate for a minute, and work on something else, until I am ready to come back to it. Don't know if that's a good or bad thing, but it seems to be my funky way of doing things... Hmm.

Let's just say... the Oldgirl likes to write! Perhaps a bit too much...

I have my first all day workshop coming up in a couple of weeks, so I am nervous, but at the same time happy about that. I am beginning to see a little improvement, and I am doing better at seeing and fixing problems in my writing.

And that's a good thang!!

2. Reading - I love to read... I try to read a good 40-50 books a year. Haven't read as much as I should this year, because I have waaaaay too many other activities going on. It looks like I'll probably read 30 books this year. Two of my favorites have been Khalid Hosseni's A Thousand Splendid Suns and Martha Southgate's Third Girl from the Left. Hopefully I will come across more that'll knock my socks off like those two did.

It is difficult for me to read books these days because I start looking at the style of the writing. I may find something that will help me with my own writing, stuff like that. So I tend to get bogged down and read slow... That keeps me from reading like I want to read.

My writing teacher stresses that our writing class is a "hard fiction" class... (**Ms. C looks and squints at directly at LadyLee when she says that**). I am suppose to read "hard fiction" and leave my usual fare alone. So she knows I like black writers, and wants me to read some Toni Morrison. I looked at her, **crickets** all up in my eyes. Toni is a bit too hard for me, and I ain't ashamed to admit that. But I read one of her books last year (because Tayari suggested it, and ya'll know I do whatsoever the Queen says), and it was, um, interesting, but required toooo much concentration to read. I read for ENTERTAINMENT, ya'll...

But maybe I will try to read a little more "hard fiction"....

3. Music - I love music. Good music. I am slightly narrowed-minded when it comes to the music I like... I like a LOT of Old School music. I outright REFUSE to listen to today's urban radio, and can't tell you a current popular song or catchy lyric to save my life.

No, I favor old school music. I can usually remember the state of my life at the time each song was popular, so I must say my love for old school is more from a nostalgic perspective. I also create a music list according to what I am writing at the time, something that relates to the mood of the story. My stories usually have a character that loves certain songs or music in general.

And ya'll know that I am always quick to break out with some Mixtapes. LOL!! Really though.



Alrighty then... that's that... I have completed my tag!! Hooooraaaay!!!

And who shalt I taggeth?

I tag the apples of my eye- my three wonderful, fabulous, successful, smart, intriguing, wry, lovely, incredible Blog Sistas:

My #1 Whoadie, The LBeezy.
Super-duper shoe queen blogger and wine mistress Serenity23.
That unbeweavable Chick on the wheels of steel, THE DJ DIVA.

Ya'll broads go head on and get that done, ya heard me???