I Ain't Said Nothin' But A Word...

Lord, have mercy! I just couldn't help myself! I don't necessarily celebrate Halloween, most especially now that the young'uns is all grown up. It's not like when they were little and I would make them these really cool costumes to wear. I use to get a kick out of that and I have the many photos to remind my brood of just what a good time I had. (And no, this is not one of them.) For me the day marks the beginning of the holiday season and I love the holidays. I'm like a little kid in a candy shop come Thanksgiving and Christmas. Last year the holidays sucked big time. We didn't even bother to put up a tree. This year I plan to make up for that. Might even have me two trees if the moment moves me. I'm approaching this holiday season with a renewed spirit. It feels promising and I'm excited about the prospects. So, for those of you who get into the ghouls and goblins, have a great day! For those of you who don't, have a great day! And to all of you,

I purposely don’t make writing the main focus of my blog. Although I may share my writing experiences and dilemmas as the moment moves me, I don’t feel that I have the expertise to tell others how or what or why in a professional capacity. I had an author-acquaintance (notice I did not say friend) comment that I should be blogging more about the art and craft of writing instead of the “mindless mutter” that I do share, and most especially because I am a black, female author, but I strongly disagreed. It was truly an “oh, hell no” moment. To put it more politely than I put it to her, this is my space and I will blog what I want and for no other reason than I can. If you like it, please come back and do tell a friend. If not, well then it was nice you stopped by for a visit but I certainly understand if you don’t come back again. Folks looking for writing and publishing how-to can find such easily. There are plenty of blog and web sites that offer an abundance of information, more

Disclaimer: All names have been changed to protect the guilty. So, Jackie was bemoaning her man problems this past weekend at the beauty salon. Her man, Jack, has been giving her mixed signals and she’s gotten caught up in that drama that being in love can land a soul in. All was peachy, keen, and dandy in the beginning. Brother was sweating her big time – romantic dinners, expensive trinkets, and weekend excursions that didn’t just include the bedroom. Girlfriend fell and fell hard and just when it had gotten too good to her, Jack started to distance himself with no explanation for his cooling behavior. Jackie tried to play it cool, like she wasn’t but so bothered by it, but beneath her smiling facade, her heart was being ripped to shreds. The last time they talked Jack told her that he really cared for her, that he couldn’t call it love, but that she definitely moved his spirit. A girl could have gone into insulin shock from all his sweet words. Then he ended the conversation

I wrote poetry before I wrote anything else. It was middle school, seventh grade, and I would scribble poems in the margins of my science workbook. My science teacher gave me validation when she told me to keep writing and to not let anything or any one deter me from my love of the written word. I am eternally grateful for the kindness and encouragement she gave me and the passing grade in a science class that I had no interest in being in. The Naked Truth Can you see me behind the shadows of who I want you to know? And if it’s me you think you see, how can it be that what I know about me and what I show, gets lost in the not so black and white gray area of my truth and your truth and the real truth? And if it’s me you think you see, how can it be that you love me so and still know that the naked truth of who I am and what I be, is lost, even to me? Been To The Promised Land Been to the Promised Land on the sweat of your brow, riding the shadowy mist of a stolen kiss and promises of

Friday night the son and I went to see the touring production of the Lion King . The boy balked at first, eyes rolling, head waving, insisting that he was going to be bored for the entire night. Even had the audacity to say that I was his one and only mercy date for the year! Of course, he left the theater with the biggest grin on his face. After spending some sixty bucks on a tee shirt and a little stuffed Timon souvenir he is still raving about how spectacular the show was. The entire performance was a reminder of what I miss most about not living in Connecticut. I miss how easy it was to catch the train into New York for an evening of dinner and theater. If you have an opportunity to see the stage production of Lion King, please do. It is well worth the price of a ticket. It was absolutely captivating. The entire show was just a breathtaking spectacle brought to life. They had giraffes strutting, birds swooping, gazelles leaping, an oversized elephant that strutted, and grass that

Rereading all of this after so many years brings back many memories. Two women in my critique group actually told me not to give up my day job. They said I couldn't write because they didn't understand or like the story. Oh, well! Enjoy! It was one of Miss Tolliver's dusty days. The heat hung unbearably, blistering the green leaves that sheltered small gnats and flies. The air was thick and filled your lungs with the heavy fumes of the hibiscus and gardenias blooming under the sweltering sun. Miss Tolliver called it a dusty day because by nightfall even the brownest of skin was coated ashy white from the dry dust that rose in large swells. Everyone in Delacroix knew Miss Tolliver, the Voodoo woman whose eccentric manners frightened and enthralled the most sincere skeptic who doubted her abilities and questioned her sanity. Although she professed to have drawn her first breath on the shores of France, somewhere along the Baie de la Seine, the elderly brethren of Delacroix w

Fifteen years ago, I took a creative writing course where we had to write a series of short tales that could stand alone but then be incorporated as chapters of a longer body of work. These have been gathering dust since forever and I thought I'd finally share them. Enjoy! Musethal Copage The playground sat at the very edge of the cemetary, the sliding board facing the headstone of Paul Patrick, 1889-1959, Beloved Husband and Father. Musethal Copage imagined that if you scooted too far off the end of that old metal sliding board you might well land bottoms down right where she imagined Paul Patrick’s feet rested in peace. She smile faintly at the thought. Pulling herself from the window, she straightened the lace curtains, then glanced quickly over her shoulder at the large grandfather clock in the corner. It was five minutes to one and it was almost time for her stories. At one o’clock she would turn the CLOSED sign outwards and would lock the front door to her antique shop before

My dog died yesterday. His name was Charlie Brown Eye. He was a “somma” dog – a mixed breed of “somma” this and “somma” that. And he had one bright, baby blue eye that made him look kind of loopy when you looked at him straight on. Charlie had suffered from epileptic seizures for over a year now. Saturday he suffered his last one and was unable to recover from it so we had to put him down to ease his suffering. I’ve been crying for days knowing that Charlie and I had come to the end of our journey together. There are folks who don’t understand my attachment to my pets. For them an animal is just that, an animal. For me, I have yet to meet an animal that I didn’t like. I have met quite a few humans that I can’t stand. I loved Charlie. He was our second dog. We lost our first, a rottweiler named Jaxx, last year on July 19th, 2005. The vet believed Jaxx had been bitten by a snake. He was vibrant and full of life one day, and just a semblance of his self the next. A day lat

I so believe in the power of prayer. And I believe that prayer can work miracles. I am sending up a whole lot of prayer this week. This week could make or break me. I am praying for my agent and the editors and publishers she will be meeting with. I am praying that my proposals and my manuscripts are on point. I am praying that others will see the same beauty in my words that I see. I am praying that someone will think me worth the risk. And I am praying that my Higher Power is answering his calls this week, that there is nothing wrong with my prayer-filled transmissions. I am praying and I could sure use a few extra prayers on my behalf.

I am reminded of a moment in time when things weren’t going well for me. Not only was I unhappy with life, but life was really unhappy with me. Had I been able to I would have just walked away from it all and never looked back. Unfortunately, there were children who were dependent on me, family with expectations, employers making demands, bill collectors trailing my every move, and there didn’t seem to be an end to it all. Because I couldn’t walk away, I kept smiling, holding all my frustration and unhappiness inside. It was mine and mine alone to contend with and I was determined not to allow it to invade anyone else’s life. I firmly believed that my problems were my problems to deal with by my lonesome. During that time I made some really great choices and probably just as many really bad choices. When desperate times feel like they call for desperate measures it is sometimes difficult to see one’s way straight and I readily admit that I couldn’t begin to see my way clear at all. I h