Many of my fellow authors are very private souls, introspective by nature and sometimes painfully shy. We are very secure in our aloneness, with characters of our own design, manipulating scenarios to fill our spirits. Too many have no level of confidence with the public personas that are necessary to promote the words we hold in such high regard. I personally marvel at the authors who run from conference to conference, beaming at every book signing imaginable. Not all authors can claim the talent that must shine when they step to a podium or are spotlighted out of a crowd. For many, the magnitude of their words must simply be enough.
Writing is a very solitary art. Words come at their own pace, in their own way, and rarely can others move them along faster or maneuver a writer to get them out at a pace that is not purely of his or her own design. Writers spend hours in solitude with our words, leaning on them for nourishment as the moment moves us. And we can become addicted to that solitude, our need for it so great that the slightest intrusion can send us right to the edge. And then there are other times we so desperately crave companionship that we would readily push our words to the side and out of the way.
I am not overtly outspoken and I admire authors who are. And while my verbal skills might be lacking, I can write. In fact, I’m a damn good writer if I say so myself. But there are other traits I wish I possessed, traits that would likely benefit me in marketing myself and my books better.
Alone, I spend much time surfing the internet, following behind favored authors like a lovesick puppy. I maneuver from blog site to blog site, track book titles and reviews, anxiously seeking out words of wisdom or rants of the moment. One author in particular held my attention on a daily basis. Her introspections were thought-provoking and humorous. She was opinionated and unapologetic for being so. It was a joy to read her words and to know that she spoke from a place all of us writers, black female writers in particular, know so well.
And then she disappeared, dropping off the radar without a grunt or a groan. I understood that she was going through some stuff. We all were. I understood she was frustrated. I could commiserate. I could also understand her need to withdraw to her place of solitude, to regroup, reflect, and hopefully write. I’ve done so a time or two myself. But she didn’t come back and every day I’ve searched for something to let us know that she is well, googling for the latest news release that would affirm she had not gone far.
But she is gone and no one seems to know where she has disappeared to. Those of us who admire her tenacity and her drive, who work to emulate her talent, we would like to hear that she has taken this hiatus to bring us the next great work in literature to ever be written. We would just all like to hear that even if she’s not writing, that she is well. She’s been missed and many of us would like to know that she has found her way there.
So, if you know, and you can say, please tell me, what has happened to renowned author, Monica Jackson?
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