Chronicling the Google Wave Writing Journey: Author Pascalle Onika Lewis

The summer of 2010, six women decided to join together and accomplish the goal. The goal was for each women to write an 80k novel between June 25, 2010 and November 25, 2010. The group used Google Wave as their major communication tool, using it to make updates, share excerpts of WIPs, hold monthly whine fests, get advice, and receive encouragement and inspiration through the journey. Life got in the way--a lot, but ultimately, each woman learned a few things while riding out this journey...



GWave Writing Journey Member

Author Pascalle Onika Lewis




Born in Trinidad, Pascalle Onika Lewis now resides in Brooklyn, New York. She currently holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in Psychology from Medgar Evers College. Her first published books of poetry entitled, Collections of a See Through Soul - Portraits (2008) and Collections of a See Through Soul – Bardvillian Symphonies (2009), were both written under the pen name Onika Pascal and published by Osbey Books. Since then, she has been working on other projects, a novel titled On the Eve of Goodbye as well as penning a memoir titled, Becoming More Than Just An Orange.

Pascal's talent of turning words into phenomenal stories and pieces of art is one that is infectious. Pascal's publisher, Pam Osbey of Osbey Books, Inc. solidifies this: "With words that pierce your soul and beg you to enter the temple of openness and curiosity for life, Onika Pascal's pen commands your attention at first glance," Osbey explains. "Working with this inquisitive soul whose spirit is unique through a lens all her own, I have been honored to see the progression of a writer who has only touched the surface of her literary purpose."

When she's not writing, Pascal serves as an event coordinator and a youth mentor with the Misunderstood Youth Development Center, a non-profit organization that provides a place for youth to express themselves. It is here that Pascal has shared the wonders of poetry with the teens in her group. You can learn more about Pascal at [Facebook].



The GWave Writing Journey

What is writing to you?
Writing is a classical way of expression. I say classical because there’s now a “Lady Gaga” type way of expressing yourself. Writing helps me to unscramble scenes and characters that rest in my mind. In my head they all make perfect sense, but writing them into existence is a challenge. And I love it.


Why did you agree to be a part of the GWave Writing Journey?
I agreed to be a part of the GWave because I felt like I was slipping from the writing world. I was losing my zeal, and the GWave Writing Journey/group helped stir up my hands and story idea.


How did friendship and sisterhood help/hinder your writing during the journey?
The friendship and sisterhood helped tremendously. The constant support, motivation and encouragement played the role of that little “ummph” that you’d need to complete a project. When life took reign, the sisterhood was there to help push you on.


How did the use of GWave help facilitate conversation amongst the group during the journey?
I was introduced to other readers, and the use of GWave helped me to feel comfortable, and see that I wasn’t the only one with some doubts. We were all in this together. When I saw the excitement and pride the other group members had for their work, it was a clear indication that the decision to be in the group was worth the journey. Birds of a feather flock together. Right!


What were some of the successes and or pitfalls that occurred for you during the writing journey?
Success, I started. I researched and believe I have a plausible plot. Pitfall, I stopped. Life happens. It’s the best way I can sum it up. I always say to myself, “I don’t have a writer’s life.” My career is a bit demanding, and many times I have to succumb to it, and my writing gets tossed on the back burner. Though I didn’t complete my journey, it is NOT forgotten.


What did you learn about yourself through the writing journey? As person and as writer?
The journey helped me to learn/see that I am NOT disciplined. That I allow too many incidents to occur and take away from my writing. And I’ll be honest in saying my fear of criticism is what creates that wide enough gap to slip away. But the group helped me see what it takes to get the job done.


Well, supposedly, you wrote during this journey...what do you plan to do with what you've written?
I did write. And though I haven’t finished, I plan to complete it, and take a chance at shopping it around, or possibly self publishing. Writing isn’t about keeping it bottled up inside. It’s about putting it out there for the world to see…a polished product is a proper product. And it takes hard work.



Excerpt from GWave Writing

Parting Clouds


PROLOGUE

He didn't imagine that his feet knew the way. His mind surely didn't. The Cassandra Hills wasn't one he'd quite known. But fear makes a man do anything. He chased after Cobra like death chased an ailing man. Destined. He was out of control. He was possessed. Demonesqued, almost. He saw his way without guidance. He didn't map his step but somehow knew where he was going. His breathing was fueled by something other than a natural movement. His eyes were wide, glaring, with no sympathy, and somehow shone its own light to the darkened hill top. The trees, grass and creatures once told in folklores didn't seem to matter. All he knew, was that he was on a mission. His target was the only thing on his mind, and he was out to fulfill what needed to be done.

His already ripped used Dockers, barely-there shoes and gray stained with-the-past t-shirt finally took on a new person, when he saw the body movement before him. And in the pull of the trigger, the night air was filled with bellowing shots. Loud. Incandescent. Frightful. Twelve.

After the last shot, he ran cold. His blood stopped pumping through his veins. And as if he too had been hit by one, or more, of the 12 shots he'd just fired, so did his heart. The heat from the Beretta didn’t bother him, but the scent of the gun powder burnt his nose. A scent he’d smell for the rest of his life. He blinked slowly. Not sure what he'd see when he re-opened them, but he did. He looked down and saw Cobra’s twitching body flicker like a fish on land, then coming to a still, stiffened object. There were still had beads of sweat on his victims face, and for a minute the shooter had hoped he’d get up and start running again. He just had too. But the body laid there on the wet leaves, twigs, stones, and worms. His eyes stared at his assassin as if he didn’t want to lose sight of his face. The pistol left the hands of the assailant and dropped to the earth. His hands opened as if to let the breeze blow away his sin. He looked at his hands, and his body shook like the wind was whirling around inside him.

Thick blood flowed from the dead body and touched the toes of the now shaken man. The warmth of it made him jump back into the trunk of the tree behind him. The bats fluttered from their resting spot and danced around the listless body, like they knew he was the one that disturbed them. The fear of what he just did and the bats, all made him lose his manhood for the first time, in a different way. Wet and warm.

He hoped that it was a nightmare. His life flashed before his eyes. A brave man never second guesses his movements and re-opened his eyes swiftly. He opened them and confirmed that he'd be running again. Running from the corpse, running from his own life. He'd be running from everything he had, his family, his home, his way-ward lifestyle, but running as a fugitive.

He'd never killed a man, and never imagined killing one that was so close to him.

He kept seeing the same face, same blood, same veins, but saw a different path in life. To him, he had shot himself. And as far as he was concerned, whatever took over him then, told him that he too was no longer alive. And he ran.

He laid as stiff as the very same dead body amongst the stench, fish nets, bait buckets, and hooks used by the fishermen. He knew at that hour no one would be around and he would be safe until dawn, when the fishermen would return. Right before he felt the twinge of the cramp in his neck from the entangled position he was in for the last 5 hours, he heard the horn of one of the steam ships. And his mind mapped out how he’d keep running. He’d have to jump ship.

The water made a pocketing sound. Cupping the little bit of space between air & the surface of the water to the bottom of the boat. He could hear the fishermen get ready for their day. "Boy, hear nah, if I doh ketch real fish today, my wife tell me doh come home", said one of the fishermen. He couldn’t see who, the position he was in didn’t give him room to make out any one. But the voices were groggy and heavy, and thick with the country’s accent. “Doh come home? My wife cyah tell me dat. Dis fish here is we bread and butter. I ketchin dis here, not she. Bout doh come home! Woman not supposed to talk to man so. NOT in dis day and age. We run tings in de household.” The other was quite stern with his words. The man’s voice alone led Tennessee to imagine his physique. He was tall, strapid, dark, probably bald, maybe a mustache, and with arms like a tree trunk.

In between some hearty laughter & heckling among the seamen, he smelled what his stomach wasn't able to avoid. Food. Smoked herring, probably spread in between freshly home baked bread. Or it could have been placed neatly on the side. He also caught the aroma of freshly grated cocoa as he heard the crunch of one of the men’s thermos opened.

He was reminded that he hadn't eaten for two days, and two days too long. So hungry, he forgot about his getaway. He couldn't move his head far enough to see if the steam ships were there or gone. Last he remembered was the sound of the horn, but uncertain if it had docked or left the pier.

As he closed his eyes to rid himself of the hunger pangs, he remembered why he was there. It was a memory he didn't want to relive. The scent of the gun powder replaced the food. It petrified him. His heart banged on the inside of his chest. Shaking him a bit weaker than he already was.

To calm himself, he bit into his bottom lip until he tasted the warmth of his own blood. As his blood dripped and coated the inside of his mouth, he built the courage to get out of his hiding place without being noticed. He unfolded from his pretzel like position, promising himself to not make a sound with the fishing equipment entangled around him. And like a magician, he managed to slip out from the space and slip under the pier, and hunched over, as to not his head on the boardwalk above him. He stood shivering in the iciness of the water. It’s unpleasantly cold, bitter, angry temperature awoke him instantly. At 4am, the seas water holds a chill, just as the mind holds a dream.

He delicately and smoothly stroked through the waters. Making sure to not wake a ripple, nor splash a sound. The piers and waters of Chaguramas were heavily guarded as it was owned by the Americans. They owned that part of the country as well as the mindsets of some of his fellow African brothers. With the strong tension in the country, getting caught would end his life, just like he ended a brother’s life.

He had to make his way before the soldiers saw him. He no longer had his shield made up of the seamen’s nets and hooks and bait and buckets.

It was time to move on.

The See-Through Soul of Author Onika Pascal

The Author



Born in Trinidad, Pascalle Onika Lewis now resides in Brooklyn, New York, where she recently completed a Bachelor of Arts degree in Psychology at Medgar Evers College. Her first self-published books of poetry entitled Collections of a See Through Soul - Portraits and Collections of a See Through Soul – Bardvillian Symphonies were both written under the pen name Onika Pascal, debuted in 2008 and the latter in 2009. Since then, she has been working on many projects, a novel titled On the Eve of Goodbye as well as penning a memoir titled Becoming More Than Just An Orange.

Pascal's talent of turning words into phenomenal stories and pieces of art is one that is infectious. Pascal's publisher, Pam Osbey of Osbey Books, Inc. solidifies this: "With words that pierce your soul and beg you to enter the temple of openness and curiosity for life, Onika Pascal's pen commands your attention at first glance. Working with this inquisitive soul whose spirit is unique through a lens all her own, I have been honored to see the progression of a writer who has only touched the surface of her literary purpose."

When she's not writing, Pascal serves as a group leader with the Misunderstood Youth Development Center, a non-profit organization that provides a place for youth to express themselves. It is here that Pascal has shared the wonders of poetry with the teens in her group.

Learn more about Onika at her blog.



The Book



A compilation of poetry and prose that gives such vivid imagery that the words seem to dance. Its prose is engaging and its poetry is true to life. If you didn't appreciated the art of poetry before, this collection of writing will.


Click the cover above to purchase YOUR copy of Collections of a See Through Soul – Bardvillian Symphonies today!



The Interview

Let's start with an easy question - as hard as it is to get published today and as much work goes into being an indie-publisher (if that's your mode of publication), why do you keep coming back to the WORD, to the writing?

In my “light-bulb” moment of deciding to publish my writing, mainstream was much of a scare for me, simply because I didn’t want to toss myself into the sea of all the famous authors. It’s a competition out there and I wasn’t prepared for that. I wanted to make a dream realized and like you said, it is hard to get published today, so going the indie route afforded that possibility. And I don’t regret it. I actually applaud it; it makes me believe in myself and definitely supports my confidence to keep writing. Writing is my passion, I’ll always return to it.

What three writers have influenced your writing and how?

I have done at least three interviews already and have been asked this question and probably gave the same replies each time I was asked. I love reading literature that gives my imagination a surge. And though I have many who have influenced my passion for writing, you asked for 3 and it’s a tough pick, but will tell you my top 3 and why.

Maya Angelou first and foremost. Her writing is my motivation. She’s poetry, she’s fiction, she’s literature, and she is my she-ro. After reading “I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings” and “Gather Together In My Name” and her countless poems, I fell in love with the notion of putting out work that’s just as valuable. Her writing is true to life. Her words are woven in such a way that the imagery is almost 3D…it’s the best I can describe it. I read and imagine myself in the moment. That’s how I want to write. I want my readers/audience to see themselves in my character’s role, in that place and time that I write about and to let my words play a scene in their heads as they read.

Nikki Giovanni: Poetically she is phenomenal. Her prose and poetry reminds me that there’s a purpose to writing. I re-read her collection and get a renewed reason to write. She’s mindful of painting a picture with her words. She spells out her passion with every literary piece she publishes. It’s what I aim for. Am I aiming to high? Maybe, maybe not…but I love knowing that I have a standard to work with.

Elizabeth Nunez: Author of “Prospero’s Daughter”. She is a very recent influence. I’ve read “Prospero’s Daughter” twice. First time was to see what the review raved about and the second time to really take in her writing style. One it took me back to my days as a child in Trinidad. She’s Trinidadian born. As I. But her background isn’t why she made the list. Her craft in making a story come to life is. I pictured myself on the island. I pictured the country club, the police constable. My dad was a constable, so with the read I was imaginatively placed in her words. For me that’s what reading is about. Seeing yourself in that place and time, amongst the characters, in every word and picture it paints.

How do your beliefs, values, and cultural awareness reflect themselves in your writing?

Ahhhh, my beliefs! My belief that one must always persevere to reach their goals resonate with just about all that I write. You see it in my blogs, my poems, my prose and soon to in my upcoming novel. My values of respect and decency has its place in my writings as well. In that I’m mindful as a mother that one day my son will read my work, mindful that I have my grandparents and my mother, my elders, cheering me on. I want it to be tasteful. Not that I’m perfect but I have a sense of who I am and what I want to stand for. My culture is in my blood. My first and second collection of poetry has something dedicated to that. It’s inevitable. It may even show up in my first novel as well. How can I leave it out when it’s my genetic makeup? It won’t always be present in story lines, but it’s very much present in my being. It helps me be who I am for the readers.

What are some of the themes you find yourself circling back to in your writing?

Most of my writings revisit the theme of perseverance and love. It’s my own personal regimen for success. And a writer writes about what he/she knows. I couldn’t make it up if I tried.

I selected you as an October feature because your "writer's heart" connects with me. When I read your works, I sense your passion for writing and for conveying images, sounds, emotions, feelings to your reader. If you could, describe what "the heart of a writer" means to you.

And I was truly floored with appreciation that you reached out to me for the interview. I thank you for the kind words and as you know, I too feel heavily connected to you as well. I believe it’s why we click. Hmmm, what “the heart of a writer” means to me! To me that means the pleasure of knowing words are there to tell a story and as a writer you can use them infinitely to convey a message of your emotions. In my first collection I stated that they say a picture paints a thousand words, but I always beg to differ and say that words paint a thousand more. So many pictures are painted when reading something that a writer has to have heart to give that gift to a reader/audience. So the “heart of a writer” comes from his/her love for words. And as I say, if words came gift wrapped, everyday would be my birthday.

Yes, writers "feel" the need to write, but we have to be realistic, too: writers WANT to get published. Talk a bit about your publication journey and some of the important things you've learned while on that journey.

For a very long time I wrote only for myself; my poems, my stories and of course in my journals. But when I decided to publish my poems, I didn’t imagine ever being on this path. It was to be a one time, self published book. I found information via google and decided to go for it. But a snowball effect took place and here I am. I’ve learned the importance for my work to be copyrighted before putting it in the hands of others is mandatory, I’ve learned to have a budget to work with, I’ve learned to not feel intimidated by others and especially, learned to be confident in my work. With two books under my belt, a first novel to be published and all I can say about the journey is that it is a learning experience. I have my fears of being tossed into the sea of veteran authors, however, this world is big enough for all of us to dream and accomplishing what we set out to do is the only thing that should matter. And that’s just it…I accomplished that. So my journey isn’t one built on competition, but one that makes me feel completed in bringing a dream to fruition. We all have what it takes to succeed, we have to persevere (there goes that theme again, :-) ). So though being published wasn’t quite a fleshed out thought, its one that I fell into but I’m learning with every step I take.

Writers are more than writers today; they are publicists, marketers, brands, a whole product aside from the book itself. What are you doing, as a writer with many hats, to market/promote yourself and get your works into the right hands?

It’s so funny that I’m answering this question. For weeks I spent with pen and paper, mind to thinking as to what is my purpose on this journey. Sure I love to write and want to put something out there with content tasteful enough for readers to oooo and ahhhh about. Yeah it’d be nice to have that. But then what? In looking back at who I am as an individual and the people I’m surrounded by, I finally found my niche. As a writer with many hats, as you put it, I aim to help inspire and motivate other single mothers and anyone in general who has a dream and have that fear to pursue it. I’m one of many who have had the fear, but broke the barriers and made it happen. But that in accomplishing that dream of theirs, it’s to not focus to heavily on success but just knowing that they can make a dream realized and knowing that achievement can be satisfying. So to be a marketable product, I have the help of my publicist to reach out and find the audience that my writings pertain to and be that product that instills something in them to go after their own dreams.

What are you working on next?

Aside from my grad school applications, I am currently working on my novel “On the Eve of Goodbye”. I’ve been working on it since 2006 and now feel like it is completed and ready for the process to be published. I’m hoping it would get picked up by household name publisher…as a writer your dream expands and the recognition is as rewarding as publishing it yourself. I’d love to see this out on the shelves and in the hands of avid readers of a wonderfully woven skit/plot. I’m excited for it and hope to have it out no later than summer of 2010.

The Excerpt

Taken from Collections of a See Through Soul – Bardvillian Symphonies


LISTENING TO GOD, 1985


What I remember mostly about it was the darkness and eeriness of the room. It was so enclosed and so guarded. The humming and mantras caught me off guard because I never understood what the singers were saying. It scared me a bit, but yet I felt safe. I paid it no mind when I saw the sponge cakes and colored caramel popcorn and sweeties and cheese‐paste sandwiches that lined the table in an adorning manner. At the end of the event, they would all end up into one bag creating a popcorn‐sweetie‐cheese‐paste sandwich‐cake. Everything just mashed together as though it was a collage. I enjoyed it though.

It was the highlight of the event for me. I wondered how fat their god was. My Allah was a thin man with a matching whitish gray afro and beard and dark skin that made molasses bow down in shame. He was darker than all the Negroes put together. I’d sit in the far corner of the room and wondered when they’d finish. Sometimes, it’d last longer than the time before. So I never knew. Yet I always came. And when I was there, I never truly liked the sprinkling of the water. I was never able to time when it would hit and when it did, I’d jump out of my skin, startled like a deer in headlights and then I’d jump back into it seeking warmth and comfort and love.

I’d come to this event because I was bonded to my cousins in such a way that I experienced their living as though we were one. And this event made me look at them in awe, holy and special, for they knew God. I visited them on some days and Sundays. Sundays were the best, except when six o’clock came and the streetlights came on. It meant that it was time for me to go home. But there would be one streetlight that struggled to come on as though it knew I wasn’t ready to go, so it stayed dim, for me.

The humming got louder and my heart got louder with it. Pounding as though that god they were summoning was trying to come though by way of my heart. And that woman who spoke in a different language knew just when he’d get here. As I tried to decipher he hieroglyphic tongue, someone beat me to it and responded to her with a baritone voice. Powerful she was. The leader I gathered her to be. Some sang happily, while some cried. Was it a happy cry? I didn’t know. I watched just as a child would. Full of confusion, yet finding humor in the instances one would seem to hit the roof and come back to earth full of glory. In 1985, nothing was serious to me.

I wanted so badly to ask how they’d know when to stop. But my aunt, in her red head wrap would shoot me a look from under one eye. The look had magical powers, for it shot across the room, through the humming and hymns, and it’d be able to creep into my ear and say “Chile, doh cross meh here tuhday…yah hear meh?” Too afraid to even wonder what the other eye would have to say, I’d watch quietly at the other children who were used to this play and ignore the magnificent spiritual antics and dances going on.

When my heart slowed to its regular pace, it was when I thought he had arrived. It was when he had come. He too would eat with me, the very same popcorn‐sweetie‐cheese‐paste sandwich‐cake. He would sit and pick it apart like I did, hoping to separate the 9 popcorn without losing the cake to crumbs. Spiritually, I didn’t know how powerful prayer was and how seriously things in life needed it. This event, these women and their humming and their mantras and their God taught me that. It was their thanksgiving. No turkeys were involved, but the spread of food was immaculate. Just as if the native Indians taught them as well. What they taught me was how to listen to God. He’d come when my heart raced to the pace of lightning, when it would beat as hard thunder and when it fell as though it was 135 feet in the air. I’d listen to Him the way I listened to Him back in 1985. Like a child.