Courting Confusion

Late afternoon sunrays streaming through the blinds draw slatted designs on my curtains and tease warmly as though December is not just days away. But the hallowed holidays of Thanksgiving and Christmas loom along with the promise of more seasonal temperatures accompanied by the fan favorite, ice and snow. For me little will change in my daily routine, despite the holidays. On Thursday, I'll eat some turkey with my Mom, enjoy a sweet or two and keep doing what I do, because time doesn't allow that I do much more. Of one thing I am sure, and that this is the last year I will straddle two worlds. At the end of this school year, I will be choosing sides for good which means I will finally be thrusting all of my energy into my writing and teaching ambitions.

We are heading into the forward stride toward getting my manuscript to publication. The great news is that several of my favorite folks have agreed to be early readers, including writers Angela Benson and Claudia Mair Burney and RawSistaz founder, Tee C. Royal. One of the most difficult questions I encounter when I tell folks about the upcoming publication is, "What is your book about?" So, I've been working since July on blurb that answers that question in a manner that is succinct and informative yet entices them to want to read the story. There's a lot going on in this story and its not easy to sum it all up folks, but a short blurb might read...

"“The Other Sister” is a modern-day take on the story of the prodigal. Told from a woman’s perspective readers will soon find the wares squandered by the sister in this family drama are not money…”

That doesn't read well though and makes it seems as though the story is salacious and it is not. So, I could say...

"Sisters Carla and Sanita Jefferson have never been close, separated by years, personality differences and family circumstances. Still, Carla IS worried about Sanita when she falls under the radar while attending college in California. So, when Sanita suddenly blows back into town with the brisk fall wind, celebration and joy abound, but soon all begin to wonder what HAD Sanita been up to while she was away?"

But, that seems to lack a little something. So, how about adding this...

"Older sister Carla Jefferson is the steady professional and athletic Sanita the outgoing sister, in this modern-day take on the story of the prodigal. Both sisters believe they are on the threshold of finding love in their lives and both long for the respect of their parents, and neither wants to be the “Other Sister…”

Love the ending on that one. Still, no mention of many of the other important characters in the story. Hmmmm. Let's see, let's combine the sections and include a little more about other characters.

Sisters Carla and Sanita Jefferson have never been close, separated by years, personality differences and family circumstances. Still, Carla IS worried about Sanita when she falls under the radar while attending college in California. So, when Sanita suddenly blows back into town with the brisk fall wind, celebration and joy abound, but soon all begin to wonder what HAD Sanita been up to while she was away?

Become aquainted with the Jefferson family and friends. Father James is the Bishop of a burgeoning church congregation and his wife Lena a steady, supportive companion. Manipulative Marcella is the daughter of the church founder and mother to Sanita’s best friend Denesha. Handsome ex-NBA player Terrence Catchings unwittingly lands between Carla the steady professional, and Sanita the athletic outgoing sister, in this modern-day take on the story of the prodigal. Both sisters believe they are on the threshold of finding love in their lives and both long for the respect of their parents, and neither wants to be the “Other Sister…”

This one might work, but we'll let it marinade here at the blogspot awhile. I'll change it time and again I'm sure, but at least it's a beginning. Leave me a comment if you visit and you like it or you don't. It would help a lot. Some might find it interesting that now that I am writing about a minister and his family since I now know my niche is writing contemporary rather than Christian fiction. It's not so odd. Using mid-America as a setting and a contemporary minister's family as the main characters allows me to juxtapose edgy situations some characters are in against their middle-class values. The resulting tension, conflict and reactions to these situations can be great fodder to create a thought-provoking, interesting and relatable story that also entertains.

So, what else is new with me? Still "Courting Confusion," it seems. ::This was the name of my first blog:: I got so bummed after reading a reply to my "Precious" blog, that I've pretty much decided to try to keep my comments here about writing and my book. I am not politically correct, nor am I "in" with any group. I stand up for what I fundamentally believe to be right and that's not always the popular, or these days, the "intellectually correct" stand. My experience as a single mom who felt marginalized and even rendered invisible, coupled with my passion that there be more help for young people living in horrid situations, fuels my comments about the movie "Precious." Truthfully it infuriates me that people are even talking about whether "Precious" is worthy of having been produced, rather than doing something to help children who every day slide through the cracks. As you can see I'm still hyped about it, so "Imma" leave that alone for a while.

I also forget that writers often relate to one another in categorical ways as well. In my zeal, I keep standing up for folks who may not want me speaking up for them because frankly, they may not consider my one published fiction work on their plane. That's okay, because in the sense that I don't write with heavy poetic nuance, or use highly interpretive phrasing, I am not a literary writer. However, in the sense that I a growing writer, working to get better all the time and that I am a great storyteller who creates memorable characters--I am literary. But, unashamedly as a good friend says, "I write my stories with the intent of casting my net to the widest reading audience possible." I write the type stories I enjoy reading so how can I take it personally if others don't connect to my work when I don't really connect to theirs? However, I can respect all artists fundamental right to create wonderful works of art capable of touching diverse groups of folks' lives without being a fan of their style.

The best part of all that's going on, is that I'm evolving in how I process life. I am admittedly a sensitive spirit. Physical pain used to be agonizing. In fact, there was a time when my threshold was low for any kind of pain. But over the past few weeks I've been getting some dental work done and some of it has been painful, but the hurt is tempered with my happiness that I can even budget in GOing to the dentist to get the work done. In the emotional realm, it used to be that feeling snubbed, overlooked, marginalized or disrespected was excrutiatingly painful. No more. Life is too good. It's a blessing to be writing and to have a publication I'm quite proud of on the horizon. Additionally, despite daily challenges wonderful, unexpected blessings continue to orchestrate in my life...

So, as the setting sun renders my front room into a dusky still life painting, I'm enjoying a calm sense of spiritual peace and I tell you I don't take that serenity for granted. And, I will be celebrating during the holidays alright. Celebrating this wonderful season in my life that requires flexibility and faith and is pressing me into a more sturdy mold. This is time that deserves gratitude for both the good AND for the challenges unfolding--and believe me, I'm thankful.

Hope life's changes have you thankful too. Happy Thanksgiving all...

:-) Cheri

Invisible Lives...

November has rolled in bright and sunny, warmer than October though many of leaves have already faded or fallen to the ground. I've been back in my tunnel maneuvering between my dayjobs, trying to keep up with home tasks, and most importantly finishing the last of my line edits. I've had little time for much else. However, I did see that poet Sapphire's PUSH soared to the top of the New York Times bestseller list in anticipation of the opening of "Precious," the highly anticipated film based on the book. I'd seen the trailer several months ago, which left no doubt the movie was going to pack an emotional wallop based on the powerful performances of the cast. As a writer of color I am stoked by the success of the novel and the movie, hoping it may indicate broader acceptance of diverse literary and media offerings.

Led my Mo'Nique's breakout acting as the bitter mother "Precious" received rave reviews at the Sundance Festival. Afterward, mega-wealthy producer Tyler Perry, and Oprah Winfrey became co-producers of the movies, throwing in their considerable marketing weight and resources. Though it released on only a few screens, the film's box office was unexpectedly high and it's received mostly rave reviews. Didn't take long for the "other" unpaid critics to chime in though and some of the most vocal are African-Americans. One complaint is that much of the time African-American movies are either comedic or tragic with little grey area in between. Another charge is that the lead character stereotypes those who are dark-skinned and heavy.

I haven't gotten to see the movie yet, and don't know when I will because I know it will be a wrenching experience that I am unwilling to undertake right now. Yet, unlike the critics, I am extremely grateful that the movie was made because it illustrates a reality that I've experienced personally. Years ago, on one of my many attempts to complete college education I took a 3-D Sculpture course. One assignment led me to experiment with stiffening a pair of jeans so that they perched as though occupied by limbs on a stool. One day I hope to complete an entire grouping of these "unbodied" articles of clothing and title it, "Invisible People." These postured articles of clothing would represent the people folks don't see--the homeless, the unattractive, the poor, and the struggling single mother pushing her baby in a stroller who for a while was me. See, when I became a young, poor, single mother to many, like "Precious," I also became invisible.

Later I was able to re-integrate myself into mainstream society through purchasing an automobile, getting a better job, and most importantly gaining higher self-esteem and I began to work in a school setting with students considered "at-risk." And, I tell you that since the day over 15 years ago that I became engaged with students along the way, I've met plenty who were experiencing challenging lives like Precious. I've hunted down parents in the projects and then watched them hand off a joint and turn to me nonchalantly to sign the school papers I'd brought on the hood of my car. I've knocked on doors that opened to let out a rush of heat smelling of stale cooking oil and hair grease. I've stood inside dirty, cluttered homes and almost became nauseous from the piney smell of cleanser and roach spray in others. I've heard the frustration and anger of mothers who are so hardened by life they have little trace of their feminity left. These mothers were giving all they knew to give--it just usally didn't include any soft love. I've looked into the eyes of drug addiction, depression, neglect and seen shame so profound in a student's faces when I entered her ill-kept home that it sent me rushing back to the school office to cry.

Once a student who didn't read very well pulled papers from a backpack and asked that I tell him what they said. After scanning the pages of documentation, I lied because I couldn't bear to tell him that the papers from Department of Welfare chronicled the systematic sexual abuse he along with his brothers and sisters experienced from their father most of their young lives. I've visited students incarcerated in the Juvenile Justice system and exchanged letters with others. I actually saw prison change the life of one. After seven years in for attempted murder at age 14 he's been out several years and is working and doing well. I've visited trailer parks where students lived in such squalor I couldn't imagine how they managed to ever feel happy. And, I've seen death. I've sat in memorials and funeral of students who died young and looked in the eyes of many more who at least seemed spiritually dead.

It's true "Precious" chose the most stereotypical character to create its movie's successful equation, by using fat and black equals unwanted--but there is truth there. After all in this society beauty has historically been defined as white is right and slim is what's in. Add in rapes of slave women that resulted in micegenation along with illicit and forbidden affairs that resulted in lighter-skinned mixed children receiving preferential treatment in early America and you have deep-rooted conflicts about skin color that still exists in larger society and even more so in the African-American community. However, talented first-time actress Gabourey 'Gabby' Sidibe presents the most credible case against taking the stereotype too seriously. She is absolutely lovely. Attractive and well-spoken, Gabby is also funny, self-depreciating, yet confident. Gabby says she was well-loved by her family and her youthful composure and the ability to summon the courage to play this complex character seem to attest to that fact.

I can't help but wonder if some of those doing the complaining aren't so far removed from the reality of those like "Precious" that they would deny her existence still again. No, it's not an easy story, which is why I probably won't see it soon. Tragic, certainly, but still a REAL story. A few years agso, I struggled through watching "Their Eyes are Watching God." I had not read the book and could not believe how tragic the story was. I mean she SHOOTS the love of her life--how horrible is that! And, how realistic is it? I would NEVER shoot my love under any circumstance. So, I guess in my estimation, one real story about a girl who finds her spirit trumps one woman killing the man she loves. So, I guess I'm saying I'll take "Precious," over Zora's classic tale. It's a reminder of the resiliency of the human spirit and that no child should be invisible. ~Just like our own children all of them are precious.

:-) Cheri

The Other Sister...

Been thinking a lot about trying skydiving lately. With clarity, I see myself stepping into that snazzy suit and strapping on the heavy parachute. Moments before the jump I huddle in the front cabin listening to the roar of engines. I feel my heart thudding as I watch the tops of tree tops whizz by and see the patchwork world beckoning below. Stepping through the door I begin to fall and watch wide-eyed as the earth moves closer. Then, at the right point before landing, I pull my parachute string with full faith that it ease open and I will float to the ground with a soft thud.

Faith. That's what it takes to skydive. According to author of "The Wisdom of Insecurity," Alan Watts, "...faith is an unreserved opening of the mind to the truth whatever it may turn out to be. Faith has no preconceptions, it is a plunge into the unknown." He explains, "Belief clings, while faith lets go." Belief would have me stay where it safe, to hold on. It is letting go that is key in building faith though and it's a concept that I've blogged about before. My tendency is to "hold on" and it's no accident that whatever requires the greatest amount of trust, or faith are what I usually choose not to participate in. But, I've lived half of my life "holding on" and I think I may have missed a lot. So, I think I'm gonna put skydiving my "to do" list. Yep, might be a great birthday present to give myself this year. The worst that can happen is that I'll crash, burn and leave this world for the next and truthfully dying is the one certainly WE all have anyway. Throwing myself out that door into an unknown reality would be wonderfully liberating and tumbling to earth all in one piece a tremendous faith and confidence builder.

Now, I know some will say tenets of faith should always be rooted in the Christian God for believers. But, my faith tells me God is not really reflected in words, but should shine in each of us through our actions. The Christian faith works for me on a personal level, but I don't know that it's all there is. I didn't meet God in a church and my faith tells me the Spirit is more expansive than we can even fathom. The truth is, I've found that church-based Christians to be inflexible and small in their thinking and that doesn't seem God-like. In fact, other adjectives I might use to describe some Christians are pious, self-righteous, judgemental, and cliquish. Jesus Christ's walk was built on love groomed in a circumcision of the self-ish spirit and is not rooted in religious rules and frankly, many Christians don't represent Him well and are really annoying. Additionally, some with no religious affiliation have more personal integrity, empathy and generosity of spirit than those who say they know the Lord. Bottom line is my ideas and thoughts about faith may be more open than some, which segues well into the next topic, sort of.

Onto the "now" agenda for novel stuff. We are proceeding on down the editing path and are now 2/3 of the way through. My deadline to get the final draft in is 11/14 and I'm confident I'll make it. ::Side Bar- It's interesting, I have confidence is what I do, but faith requires you have confidence in the unknown. Skydving.:: Anyway, a possible new title is percolating with Ti and myself. I have began to love it. It's not new to any who have read my self-description on the side of this page or on Facebook. The new title simmering is the, "The Other Sister." I love it for a variety of reasons, but mainly because it is ambiguous. The story is a family drama with two sisters who are prominent characters, and the title could refer to either sister. What's clear is that the title references a sister who is "other" than something, and that's a situation I can relate to and I think "others" will, too.

Got some sun this weekend and took a few fall shots around town. It was wonderful fun. This weekend looks to be sunny and pleasant and hope to get some shots in "Tree City" Champaign-Urbana. I glanced down the streets on the way to my dental appointment and the streets are lovely. So, hopefully I'll rise early Saturday morning and take some sweet shots before the population begins to bustle.

Well, I'm sleepy so I guess that's it for this week.

::Singing:: ~"Happy Trails to you, until we meet again..."

:-) Cheri

Work, work and...more WORK!

Relentless rain has all but washed away chances we will see the vivid colors more common to an Illinois autumn this year. Drenched leaves have gone from green to orange and faded to brown. Many have already drifted downward, leaving only dried remnants underfoot as a reminder of another summer gone too quickly. Farmers are mourning their loss too, since all chances of a profitable harvesting season has now been washed away. Several projects have kept me busy over the last six to eight weeks and I've been operating with the tunnel vision that I get when work gets heavy. I wake at 5 or 5:30, pull on sweats and rain or not, head to the track for a 2 mile walk. I return home, turn the coffee on, take the dog out for her walk, check the mail, Yoga, shower, and on to the work during the work week. I come home fix a little dinner, work a while, Yoga again, take the dog out, work some more and go to bed. I clean, wash, and do other chores in between. On the weekends I follow the same schedule. Though the intensity varies, this has been my life for about seven years now.

So, I'm thrilled to peek my head out of the tunnel and take a look around today. I've almost finished one project that now being editing and for the past few weeks, simultaneously I've been working on my upcoming novel's line edits done by my publisher/editor Ti. I'm telling you, these line edits are keeping me humble. Ti is a brilliant editor, pulling out excesses in the story like weeds and leaving behind a pruned garden of a novel. But, believe me, she's taking me to school in the process. However, I am learning to recognize my shortcomings so I'll know what I need to work on when completing my next project. Thankfully, many of my writing miscues are repetitive, and I'm relieved that none have to do with the framework or interweavings of the story or characters.

Still, when making my way through the "sea of blue ink" I'm truly slogging away at it. It doesn't help that I have a tendency to get distracted, especially when I get as overwhelmed as I've felt with work and life lately. For example, one morning when I took down my pony puff, the steam in the shower made my hair fall into a wonderful style. I hopped out, dried off, threw on some clothes and took tons of photos to see if I liked the look. Then, of course I spent time editing and posting them at my various sites on line. *Sidebar* What the heck did we do before webcams and digital cameras? Were someone to get a look at my hard drive and see all the photos of me there, they would probably think I'm vain. In reality, like most women I'm more insecure than confident about my physical appearance. It's just that artist/photographer in me that makes the process really become work, but its just not the work I'm supposed to be doing. The truth is, surfing the net, taking/editing photos, watching posting music YouTubes, cleaning even, are all distractions. *sigh* Anyway, we're halfway through the novel--almost there, but not quite.

A good significant change I've made, has been to divorce my TV except for one or two shows per week. The negativity on the screen over the last few months were capped for me when President Obama endured such unflattering media scrutiny after he won the Nobel Peace Prize and I cut it off. These days, I listen to more music and the offshoot is I find I do generally look at life in a more upbeat way. That means I haven't been plugged in to the news so I don't have much to tell. I am stoked to read today that Gil-Scott Heron is traveling and singing again and it will be bittersweet seeing Michael Jackson's movie tribute "This is It" later this week. Finally, I'm ready to "fall" back. I hate there was a decision to move the seasonal time shift back so many weeks. I've grown weary of dark morning walks and no daylight before 7:00.

I was unexpectedly touched when I saw the flags lining the streets to welcome home the body of Chris Rudzinski. The 28 year-old was killed in Afghanistan last week. For any who wonder who are those who enlist in the miliary during wartime--it is brave young men from small towns just like this one. Chris was on his fourth tour in a war zone. Been doing a little reading, too. A good friend recommended, "The Wisdom of Insecurity," by Alan W. Waits. This is a great book. It's philosophical, but not so densely written that it's a chore to get through. I'm on my third read, just because I really like it and I want to rehash some concepts while making sure I don't miss other. The basic message is this. The past is just a memory, and tomorrow only a promise, neither is real. The only reality is today, so live in this moment...

Till next time...

:-) Cheri

My take on "Good Hair..."

Ode to Coils

Away from the forehead it floats ethereal
Coiling tight, curling ends, softly waving
No one identity depicts its true nature
Tamed with oils, scarves, bands and barrettes
Unloosed it springs free with abandonment
freely flowing it plays with long-lost friends
Rising, twining, climbing to greater heights
‘Happy to be free,’ she thinks with a smile
Firmly, pulling the hair between fingers
Twisting brown, gray, deep sienna strands.

© Cheri Paris Edwards 2007

I've Got the Key...

Despite my best efforts to keep my two writing projects traveling down separate avenues, they've wound up cruising smack dab down the same street! Now, I'm splitting my time between both, and both have deadlines. I'm editing and being edited. I must confess I thought I would need less editing than I do on my book. How wrong I was. But, once I read it after the edits were finished, omigoodness--thanks to my brilliant editor, it was smooth--like butta! I think my son pegged my writing style correctly. When I'm in the process of fiction writing, I see the story unfold in my mind, like a movie. That's reflected in how I write. Now, that I understand that's my process, next time--I'll be more adept on my end. We should be finished with this level editing in about two weeks. Then, comes copyediting. I don't think it will be too time intensive. Once that's done it's on to proofreading galleys all that less taxing stuff. So, we're definitely getting there.

Actually, I'm reminding myself this IS the most exciting time in getting a book published, and this time I'm determined to absorb each moment of it. We are now heading down "make-a-book-from-a-manuscript" road and it's a one of a kind adventure. Sisters Sanita and Carla, their parents James and Lena and a cast of characters including Marvelous Marcella, her teacher daughter Denesha, the Deacon, Preacher, Terrence and the rest are waiting in the wings to be introduced to readers. Learned last week late author E. Lynn Harris will have a new offering published in July next year. The title? "In My Father's House..." Yep. ::for any who don't know that was my book's tentative title:: So, there may or may not be a title change in store for my book. We're still working that one out. I've put a new title on the table (it's familiar too) and I'll let you know if it's the one, as soon as I do. Along with visualizing book covers I am readying myself for a personal project I will be embarking on in the next month.

Other business. First son is well, visited second son at college this week and he is going through first semester transition, but seems okay. Hope to get back down there for Homecoming weekend. Had a tetanus this morning, at the Public Health District--it's where you go when you're uninsured. My arm is a little sore now. Not too bad, but bad enough. And, oh, when it comes to that thing, you know the one you were wondering about? Yep. That one. I got the key...

Hope I can get back here soon.

;-) Cheri

The Good Stuff...

As the cool days of Autumn roll in with the clouds, I am finishing the project I began in August. A phrase, "scarcity thinking" stands out in my mind as I think about how often black women lament the shortage of "good" men. In this case it would refer to women unable to trust, like, love, appreciate, or support other women. They feel threatened because they believe there is such a limited number of men, jobs or whatever. Truthfully, I wonder if some African-American women have been sold a bill of goods regarding marriage. Not to say marriage is a bad thing. It's not. But, based on my own experience I wonder how many realize marriage is a job, it is a responsibility, a duty, a commitment.

Maybe some of us don't know because we didn't come from two-parent households. We didn't smell Daddy's dirty socks, or hear him snore, or watch Mom clean up behind him or see her "submit to him" with regularity. ::For those who don't know, "submit" sometimes means, allow "him to be right" even when he's wrong:: We didn't see all the nights Dad may have come in with liquor on his breath, or know that he had an affair with the neighbor, or deal with hardships when he lost his job and money was tight. Or maybe we just don't know that what seems to makes marriage/relationships last is based mostly on a couple's ability to love the imperfect in another. You better be friends with one another, have mutual respect, share common interests or other variable(s) "as the glue". Maybe too much of what we know about love and relationships we have created in our heads, read in book, imagined from a song or watched in a movie. Without root in reality we don't have a clue about the day to day of it. Many of us imagine the fairy tale wedding, think "we-make-a-cute-couple", he'll be my rock to lean on and all that other "good stuff".

The "good stuff" brings me to Tyler Perry. Perry's worth has grown exponentially for me after reading a great FaceBook note from Alisa Valdes entitled, "What I Learned at Border's". In this witty, insightful writing, Valdes gives words to many of my frustrations as a black writer. So, though I've ranted about Tyler Perry, I must give Perry kudos for finding success in a publishing/media world that too often seems only comfortable highlighting all that's wrong in "sister's" life. It's comforting that at least Tyler allows his female leads to find some happiness. Why prescreen to critics when he knows five stars go to those movies showcasing a sister's misery and limited opportunities? Black women are constantly reminded that our chances for love and happiness are limited. On top of that everyone from Aunt Sophie, to Steve Harvey, to the minister got advice. In one way or another they tell us if we "want a man" we should be thinking, planning, and reconfiguring ourselves to get one. And, while we can weave, mani, pedi, exercise, educate, enlighten, ourselves-- there are some things we just can't change, can we? Twitter lit up days ago when Khloe Kardashian got ready to marry some basketball player. Some black women again were feeling that they've been kicked to the curb--as if he was going to marry one of us. Truth is, that brotha has 3 children with another woman and guess what? She ain't black either.

This brings me to my third point. Sisters, like you I LOVE brothers. I am the mother of two. I had a father. Though he was not as involved in my life as I would have liked, I still dream about my father and he's no longer here. Just mentioned that to testify how much I love him. But, guess what? Brothers, are usually not as loyal to us as we are to them. Got lots of males in my family and most will date anyone they think is attractive or who thinks they're attractive. Regardless of skin color. This means we might need to expand our thinking, ladies. I've bought into this thinking. Not the scarcity part--for some reason I've never had too much trouble meeting men--but the "you need a husband/man to be fulfilled part". Flustered and feeling the pressure of being alone in the past I've moved too quickly, right into the wrong relationship. My advice to young women is don't allow "scarcity thinking" or the "tragedy-that-is-the-black-woman's-life" philosophy to be a self-fulfilling prophesy. Can't tell anyone what to do, but with age, time, and hopefully wisdom I've come to believe the best equation for me to meet a great guy is this. LIVE. Take care of me. Love me. Do what I love to do, and I believe that in that experience love will find me. And, every day I choose to find joy. And, throughout the day when I least expect it, happiness suprises and that's all right...

Will blog on the violence in Chicago, good hair and other stuff later this week. The blessing is, the video. Now, everyone knows...

Dreamin's Out of Season

So, on Saturday, on a writing/editing break I looked up this song. I had written a poem using a lyric line from the song in class several years ago. After listening to the song a few times was inspired to finish the poem. Almost a week later and the tune continues to play in my head. A mid-week convo with my publisher mid-week hashing around ideas for my new book has me thinking this song will figure in there somewhere--or perhaps into the next story. The wistfulness in the poem IS relatable to the next story I'll be penning soon, but not really to the song which really celebrates the unity of a love relationship. Maybe it'll even be a book title. I'm loving it though. It definitely captures a familiar feeling...

Take a listen. Then read my poem and let me know what you think.



dreamin’s out of season

I want to sing love songs again,
in blue light, we danced the popcorn and bop.
Poured into crowded basement squares love called.
Slow dancing, boy chooses girl and he pulls me close.
‘La-la means I love you,’ hums sweet in my ear.
I remember the afro-ed doo-wop group
from East St. Louis spin-dancing
in shiny pale blue suits straight out
of Eleganza Magazine--
singing in soaring falsetto,
dreamin’s out of season…

what do they know?

A perfect moment...

One early evening some time ago, I lay across my bed. A warm summer breeze fluttered the yellow curtains now and then. Ronald Isley crooned sweet as candy from my CD player, "At your best you are love, you're a positive motivating force within my life". My body felt as relaxed as I can ever remember as I listened. It was a perfect moment. If only real love could be that perfect. It's never been that way for me. If anyone is the poster child for making bad choices in love, it is me. Well, truthfully, I didn't do the choosing all that often. Never been the assertive type. Always sorta fell into that old-fashioned role of women from back in the day, and let an interested man come my way. Call me. Ask for my affections. Admittedly, I stirred the pot now and then, or at least tried. You know, did this and that to draw someone's attention to me. But, the best of my relationships were those when I was unaware of his attraction until he made himself known to me.

These days, however, I'm batting zero in the relationship arena. Back in the day, when the Dells were singing, "Stay in My Corner" and the Delfonics pledging, "La-La Means I Love You," love was simple or so it seemed. "I like you, you like me", we have a nice warm feeling when we look in one another's eyes and the rest will work itself out. Maturity and disappointment, wound with the complicated threads of emotional issues rooted in dysfunction or whatever changed all that. Suddenly, what once seemed simple now seems complex. But, then again, it's not that love became harder, it just that now, to be "in love" I "knowingly" must do what is challenging for me. Let go. The Apostle Paul wrote that Faith, Hope and Love are the three most important acts. I agree. Finding and living in faith IS hard. But, faith is mine. I can hold on to my faith or let it go. Likewise, hope can be tough to find also, but still it's do-able, because I control my hope{fullness}. Hope is what "The Course in Miracles" teaches. I only need change my perception, to have hope. That power resides in me.

But, that doggone love is a whole 'nother story. It's just not that easy. When I was about twelve, some crazy girl trying to be funny pushed me into the deep end of the pool during our YWCA Tadpole Swimming class. The worst part of it was I didn't see the fall coming. One minute I was safely on the side, dancing and laughing at others splashing about in the pool, and the next I was flailing in the water. Sputtering and spitting my lungs filled with water and air until the instructor fished me out with a human sized net. That's how loving another feels. You know, like free-falling from a plane. Especially when love shows up without an invite. One minute you're in the plane riding along with the hum of engines in your ear and then someone shoves you through the door and you're headed downward. Falling, you see deep green trees tops brushing high. Cities and land spread an enlarging patch quilt below. Finally, as the earth draws near, you squeeze your eyes closed, mustering faith and hope that you will land on that place that's soft and safe, instead of crashing on a hard spot splintering your heart to pieces again.

Truthfully, the mere thought of being in love makes my stomach and shoulders tense. I feel anxious. And, angry. Why? Because really loving requires I give up control. Love requires I trust another. That's difficult. And, probably more difficult, is that love requires I trust myself. And, that's not worked out so well in the past. Jimmy Ruffin sings, "What Becomes of the Brokenhearted?" I know. They hold close all that they used to give so freely. Love. And, there's that word again. Trust. Doesn't help that couples I know, don't have relationships I would want for myself--not that they're bad, just not for me--especially at this stage in life. Still, Erykah Badu warns, that without letting go, you'll never know if "...maybe love will make it better". In my new story, "In My Father's House," my protagonist, refuses to give in when unexpected love comes her way. In fact, she practically bristles at thought because she's no pushover for love. It's not in her plan. Why the struggle? Because like all my characters, Sanita's part of me. And, for me giving in to love IS REALLY hard. Like Sanita, it's my MOS to run hard (in one way or another) when potential love comes my way. Even when I didn't know I was running, I was. Heck, these days I'm already toeing the mark, ready to sprint when any man-energy gets close.

Still, I know shutting everyone out won't help. A closed heart won't heal wounds. As life expands and I now have time to examine me with more tenacity, hopefully there will be more healing and less running. Now, there are no children's needs diffusing my view. See, part one of my exploration of love was in "Plenty Good Room". Again to some extent like me, Tamara fought loving anyone. Though she and schoolteacher Isaiah were becoming close, Tamara's fight wasn't so much with romantic love, but with sister, mother, daughter, love. Shell-shocked by abandonment, neglect and abuse experienced in her life, Tamara didn't want to love Sienna. Sienna persisted though. Despite herself Tamara began to love the feisty girl and viewing herself through Sienna's eyes, learned to love herself in the process. It IS truth, and especially with often-single parenting African-American women, that the longest, most consistent love affair experienced, is with our children-ours and other's.

There IS great power in love. And, forgiveness. And, heartache. And, love. And, healing. But, the trick is, you have to give love in order to get it. Paul writes, "...faith, hope and charity, these three...but the greatest of these is love". And, though just the idea of loving another still most-often finds me dropping into the now familiar running position, that other part of me--the inner spiritual one connected to God, fully acknowledges He's absolutely right.

And another week passes..

In the scope of a mere two days, warm breezes have segued into a chilly fall day, leaving little doubt the end of the summer season looms near. Last week, three more deaths of well-known folks made the headlines. Teddy Kennedy is the one who's passing most touched me. The day after he died, some FB young’ins asked and debated the question whether an “old white man’s” death was relevant. Based on all he tirelessly stood steadfastly for during his time as a public servant, I’d say his life and death is relevant to us all.

All of the Kennedy’s impressed me, including Teddy. Rumors abound about how the Kennedy fortunate was made, but what does it matter? Committed to social justice, this family could’ve easily laid back and lived a life of luxury and entitlement. Instead, the Kennedy’s chose most often to become public servants. What makes the Kennedy’s continuous commitment more impressive is that they continued to give back, even when dealt more than their share of unnatural deaths of family members. One sister thought to be either mentally challenged or suffering from chronic depression, was eventually lobotomized and committed to an insane asylum where she died. Three Kennedy’s died in plane accidents, including Teddy’s brother and sister and more recently, his nephew John. Teddy himself was involved in a plane accident, two staff died, and he lived suffering injuries that he eventually overcame. Then of course there were the two brothers, one who was President and the other who almost-was. John and Robert Kennedy were both assassinated. Along the way the family reeled from other assorted tragedies. A skiing accident caused one Kennedy's death, bone cancer caused the loss of the limb of another Kennedy, Teddy's ex-wife Joan struggled with alcoholism and the family patriarch suffered a debilitating stroke that kept him confined to wheelchair.

After all this and the incident resulting in a young women's death at Chappaquiddick, some would’ve quit--faded into the background. But, not Teddy. I don’t know what happened when the car went into the water that day. But, I know Teddy returned to public service to fight the good fight again. In a final testament to courage, last summer, Teddy literally faced death to come to the Democratic Convention to “pass the mantle” on to Barack Obama. What a moving event. Point is this. Many won’t stand up for what’s right when it’s easy. Those willing to stand through difficulty, those courageous enough to put their lives on the line for others, deserve respect and esteem. Only weeks ago, Teddy's Aunt Eunice Shriver passed away. Perhaps it was his cue to let go, too. Rest easy, Teddy. You WILL be greatly missed. The passing of Teddy Kennedy marks one less connection to a past fondly remembered by some as Camelot. Certainly, it was was a period marked by idealism, hope and a belief that the country, and the world could be made better by the involvement of it's citizens.

Perhaps I expect too much of this generation. A friend reminded me recently that the 60’s were a once-in-a-lifetime era. Hadn’t thought about this turbulent, wonderful, memorable time I grew up in like that, but I guess that’s true. Maybe some of the young don't get "it" because they haven't been imbibed with a social consciousness born though a shared view of a burgeoning civil rights movement. There has been no Malcom, no war or outrage at injustice that's hewed them to be passionate fighters that we learned to be. Ah well. I'll turn that thought over in my mind for a while. On the home front, I managed to finish five chapters of my book collaboration project this week. Good stuff since I got a late start, AND drove to Charleston on Friday to deliver Sam his computer. Had a nice realization dawn on me slowly, that I wasn’t as without direction as I thought back in the day. Something was guiding me from within, or quite possibly I was wiser than I knew.

On my own now, I'm enjoying open doors. I'm working hard to love me with the alacrity that I have loved others and to not feel guilty about it or anything else. I’m even penciling in a massage for myself into my budget. Love others as you love yourself is the rule--I’m finally getting around to loving me.

That Girl...

After hoisting boxes heavy with my belongings down the steps of the Amtrak train, I landed in the small southern Illinois town of Carbondale. Away from home for the first time, I'd chosen to attend notorious party-school, SIU over the almost-local campus of the University of Illinois and over a sorta prestigious all-women's school heavily recruiting me that I can't even remember the name of now. Years later, I wished I'd gone to that all-female college, sure with no men to distract me, I may have walked away with a degree. But, on that first foray into life on my own, no family helped me move in, tour the campus or make sure I had all I needed. From that first day forward, I was pretty much on my own.

Determined to send my son off with all the support I did not receive, more than thirty years later this Sunday, we will make the hour drive to his college dormitory. Waiting to be stuffed into the trunk of the car in the corner of the living room pile packages of bright white socks and tees. Wal-mart bags hold fresh new toothbrushes, shampoo, lotion and other grooming iems. New black sheets are ready to be tucked tightly onto the top bunk mattress where he will sleep and a brand new pillow made especially for stomach sleepers is safely wrapped in plastic. The alto saxophone is shining, the bank account has been opened, the classes have been chosen and the cafeteria food awaits. It's almost official. He's leaving. And, once he's deposited in his room to begin this new chapter in a life, a new phase begins for me as well.

Yesterday I was oddly calm, almost ambling through the workday. Later I enjoyed running errands, and hummed along to a favorite CD, while contentedly watching clouds meander above the road on the drive home. No rushing, stressing, worry, just enjoyed everything at a leisurely pace, feeling wonderfully relaxed. Earlier, watching an YouTube of the movie Claudine, with Glady Knight crooning, "The Makings of You," in the background, I'd heaved and sobbed, feeling as though my heart was being wrenched from my chest, as I thought about parting with my last son. Only later did I realize the root of this deep relaxation. In just a few days, for the first time in my life the only one I'll be responsible for on a daily basis, other than my doggie, is me. No reason to rush through the day and get home to make supper. No need to call and see who's doing what. No reason to try to squeeze in time to write throughout the day. For the first time in forever, my life is almost my own.

My sons and I are close. My oldest and I grew up together. I was a "young" 23 when I had him and his Dad wasn't really part of our lives. As was my pattern as a young woman, I'd fallen into his father's arms hoping for love. I followed him to Milwaukee and got a secretarial job at the NBC affiliate there. Weeks later, a pregnancy test came up positive. Around this same time, Charles' Dad left one day on a truck run. I found out days later, when he didn't return, he'd move back to our hometown without telling me. Family helped relocate me back home. Arguments with my disappointed mother followed, and I shipped out to spend a great deal of my pregnancy in an unwed mother's home in Waukegan, Illinois. Later, when Charles was born, it was basically just the two of us. I remember rocking him shortly after his birth in the old black recliner singing husky-voiced, "...nothing they can say can make me stay away from my guy." That became our song. Without a car, I wrapped him tightly in blankets and either carried or pushed him everywhere in a stroller. Riding the city bus we traveled to sitters, to grocery shop, to work and back from sitters again. When he began to walk, his short legs would pump furiously as we ran to catch the late bus. In winter, we'd leave in the dark and arrive home in the dark.

Ten years later Sam came along. It was no easy pregnancy. His father was struggling with binge drug use. Each time we'd catch up on bills he'd disappear, returning once his entire paycheck was gone. Stress and age bought on monthly bouts with preterm labor. I was placed on bedrest and spent weeks in the hospital mostly alone, body trembling from steroids trying to forestall labor. There was no family able to regularly visit me there. My mom was in Texas, my sister busy with her husband, children and Charles and I don't know where Sam's Dad was. Not with me. Sweet nurses and a group of ladies from a local church kept me company most often. Finally, June came. On the stormy evening when labor began this time, Dr. Adesida gave the go ahead. Of course it couldn't be easy. Not with Sam. He was positioned sideways and they prepped me for a C-section. By the time surgery was to begin he had flipped into the correct position, but we went on as planned. When they brought him around where I lay strapped on the bed, his almond eyes glued to me, watching me, watch him.

And, so we three began a life together. After half a dozen moves and a baby, I was tired of the ups and downs of living with his Dad. In my basement apartment, exercise with Gilad helped me lose much of the 80 pounds I gained during my pregnancy. Able to get back into my clothes, I began looking for work. One afternoon Charles and sat playing the "balloon game", which meant we simply hit a balloon back and forth because it's all we had to do. Sam was not quite a year and lay on the couch sleeping. We were without power again. Sam's bottles were cooling on ice in the sink. We were waiting for his father to come home with pizza which had become our nightly dinner fare. He had spent all of his paycheck and taken a job delivering pizza to help us get along. I remember, looking Charles in the eye and saying, "I promise you. This time next year we will not be in this situation. We will never live like this again." That was a promise I kept. A month or so later, I'd had enough. Packing all my furniture into my sister's garage, I stowed away on her couch for about 3 weeks. One step from homelessness, I found an apartment. We've never been without one again.

In the midst of seems-like-always being almost broke, mostly broke and broke-broke, we three had fun times. Charles and I rallied around Sam who was a late bloomer in almost everything. Charles and I made him begin to walk when he was almost two. Sitting across from one another on the floor the two of us cheered him on as he hobbled uncertainly toward one of us. Once close he stretched his chubby arms out to circle our neck and fall gratefully in our lap like a swimmer panting toward the shore. For a long time he observed the world in silence too. Sucking his binkie he'd eye everything, never say a word. Then one day without provocation he began to speak in full sentences--been talking ever since. Because I worked at the school Sam's summer birthday was always a lean time. I would take a $20 to the dollar store and fill a bag full of cheap goodies. Throughout the day, he'd gleefully pick out a toy and play with it for hours. One Christmas I bought Sam a huge Connex lego set. Charles and I sat on my bed talking and all we heard coming from the bedroom was "click-click, click-click." It seemed like only moments later that Sam emerged with a huge blimp he'd built from the toys. Charles and I looked at each other, both of us knowing Brother Sam had a special gift.

The turbulent teen years reconfigured the relationship with both my boys. Closeness vanished and suddenly we were at odds over everything it seemed. Once we moved to our small town home several miles away from family, Charles' rebelliousness shifted into overdrive. And, while he often describes me as "girly" by nature, "I ain't all that sweet" when I feel disrespected. Oprah Winfrey tells Harpo in her role as Sophia in the Color Purple, "..all my life I had to fight, Harpo.." and, that's me. Especially then. Charles and I fought hard. When he was about 16, he let go of some wack statement and I slid between my long-time boyfriend at the time and him, to slap him so hard his head banged the side of the closet and began to bleed. By the time Sam begin his acting out, I was calmer most of the time. Years in the educational climate had taught me to depersonalize his behavior. Somebody had to be a grown-up and most of the time it was me. We old-school folks were raised to only speak when spoken to and all that, so from my perspective, as many in this generation can be, Sam is sometimes over the top. Still, somehow we made it. Through the fights, the disappointments, through the struggle. We made it.

In my narrative for my first publisher's website, I wrote that when folks see the girl pushing the stroller down the street with a baby, "that's me." And, it is. There are two "baby's daddy's" involved, though I've always called them the father's of my children. Thankfully, both of the Dad's have wrestled through some of their own problems and are now involved or at least available to their sons. The babies have grown into men and now if they choose not to reflect on what's been taught, the world will now be doing more teaching than me. It "ain't been no rose garden", baby, but then nobody said it would be. Now, its time for mother to start mothering herself. It's been a long time coming.

I "Heart" Words...

I was telling a friend the other day that I am a word lover. It's true. These days my greatest relationship is with words. Humorous moments brim with what I hope are witty words. In the melancholy of my poetic writings, words and me cry together. Wordy thoughts lull me to sleep and when I wake each morning I'm word-filled all over again. When I'm silent, words lurk in the quiet corners of my conscience waiting for me to listen to them again. Truth is, I'm rarely word-less. Sometimes my brain grows cloudy when I'm overstressed and I can't focus, but words have not forsaken. Merely obscured by anxiety, words reveal observant and thoughtful, when calm prevails. In dark times some count on people and family, some gorge on food, some overindulge in sex and others try to insulate their hearts with drugs. But when all is dark, words are my light. Some tell me I write all the time. I do, and it is words that are my impetus. Words move me to speak and the first person "hearing" the words I write is me.

My first book was not sold in the Christian fiction genre, though many assumed it was. Overwhelmed by everything going on I didn't give it a lot of thought, just went with the flow. I even described myself as a Christian fiction writer. But, somewhere in the promotional cycle or probably more after the fact, I realized I wasn't all that comfortable in the Christian fiction category. See, I've never been an insider. In fact, I've discovered that resting comfortably in any prescribed niche pretty much goes against my grain. So, while the characters I create may espouse Christian tenets, I don't consider my books a ministry nor am I trying to convert anyone through the stories I tell. I am first a writer and desire that the story I tell is entertaining. A good read. I don't believe readers must be a believer to enjoy my books. If readers come away with a deeper message, than I hope its because I've imparted some wisdom in the words. And, if they receive an inspirational message, I'd say it's the Spirit speaking to them, not me.

Genuflecting before the candle-lit altar, inhaling the heavy fragrance of incense and singing the haunting Latin lyrics of Kyrie Elesion in the Episcopal Church is how I grew up. Much later, I attended a lively non-denominational church for many years. But, I wasn't introduced to Christ in either building. No person ministered me to the Lord. Instead I met His spirit in me when times were were difficult and all seemed lost. God and I became acquainted when I was 22, pregnant, and living in an unwed mother's home house in a Catholic hospital in the Chicago suburb of Waukegan. It was then I first felt a stirring hope that along with my yet-to-be-born son, a deeper spiritual strength rested inside. When I was 28 and dangerously close to being seduced by a drug that has proved powerfully addicting to some, I discovered the Bible. Whenever I became fearful or didn't know what else to do, I began to read the Bible time and again. I am truly a New Testament Christian. Reading the Gospels of Jesus Christ, and the wise words written by those like the Apostle Paul, I found a workable blueprint for more profitable way of living. Most of all, in brother Jesus' sacrifice and missive to love I find purpose. Though it sounds hokey, when all else fails, the one thing I, you, we, can do is love.

I can't imagine life without melody and music often sings through the words I write. I love sweet soul music, jazz, gospel and neo-soul. Politically, I lean left. I believe women should have the right to choose and am more interested in the welfare of children already here than the unborn. On a given day, I don't answer with a smile, "I'm blessed" when folks ask how I am. My usual reply instead is, "Fine. How are you?" To those who believe this and/or anything else I do/say/write or whatever somehow damages my credibility as a Christian--I'm thankful Jesus gave His life to to set me free. His judgement is what concerns me, not yours. He and I talk two to three times daily in the silence of meditation and I'll share with you that those aren't the issues he "checks" me about.

So, my authorial self-description might read like this: I write popular fiction exploring the experiences of folks who take the long way home. My characters, like me, get off-track sometimes and struggle to find their way back to the main road. The short version of my self-description is I "heart" words. Every day that God gives me words and I give them back through my writings is a good one. All else is gravy.