OK, not true, but I had to say it.
In the last 72 hours, I have spent over 25 of them here on campus, reading through this developmental writing book that should have been out to the publisher Friday. It's Monday. Today, I'm going through the back end with the senior faculty member overriding the project. Yesterday, I was here from 9am to midnight. Friday, from 9am to 9pm. Today, I'm here to do round robin grading of essays for someone else's class and to try to finish this book so it can be shipped out today.
To say my eyes are bleeding would be an understatement. My beautiful, brown eyes are marred by their own little luggage, :-(
I am DREAMING about this book. I can't wait for it to go away from me. If I hear of faulty predication or mixed construction or subject-verb agreement error, or fragments in the next three to four weeks, I will shoot somebody. Be warned! Thing that sucks is that I know when we get the book back, there will be that ONE error I WISHED we would have caught. Isn't it always the case?
I'm really hoping it's done today because I do want to get a few days of sleep in. Well, SOME sleep. I do have some things planned for this week. Plan to get websites again for the two magazines, SISTERDIVAS and THE NUBIAN CHRONICLES and have them out for the summer by the end of the month. Two weeks late, but hey...grammar and essay writing called. SOWWEE!
I also plan to outline a new book idea that has been burning my brain for about a month now. It's a chick lit mystery that I hope to work into a series. Really excited about it. Also, probably starting next week, I will begin working on a screenplay with my friend Bill. We've been talking about the story for about a year now, and I have some time to start working on that. I know in the fall, with Bill graduating and me losing my mind with a new "gig", it will be hard to find quality time to write.
You know what this means, don't you? ORGANIZATION. Stellar Organization to be exact. I will need to plan my next five weeks away from school meticulously so that I can get a few things underway:
1) Create lesson plans for my new classes
2) Outline a book (maybe start it)
3) Begin a script
There may be, and probably is, more things on that list. I can't just do one thing at a time. I need to juggle all the dishes and the appliances in the kitchen or I feel off.
Anyway, let me end this here. I'm in a rambly mood, and I feel a long ramble coming on!!!
ONE LAST THING: Starting this weekend, I will be posting occasional interviews from hot and up-and-coming (and still HOT!) female authors here. I am a writer--though the writing is slow coming these days--and immersing myself back into writing by talking to writers about writing seems like a good thing to do. PLUS, you guys get to see what good writers consider good writing AND read some interesting things from these authors as "women" and not just writers.
TTFN
Monday, July 18, 2005
Sunday, July 10, 2005
A Brief, Early Morning Moment of HMM
yeah. 7:31 in the morning. on a sunday. crazy. should be in bed sleep. yeah. well, haven't got much sleep since the break-in. i still sleep with the light on, with a weapon and the phone in my bed. when sister isn't here, i sleep with most of the house's lights on. but these things are neither here nor there...
got up early because someone's been stealing my sunday paper, which i PAY for, so damn it, i went outside to get it. scanned the paper real quick (an article about the academic book i helped to write--with a pic--should be in the paper soon), and came upon a q&a column in the LIFE section.
a 12th grader wrote to the columnist, asking if he knew of any black colleges because she planned to apply to black colleges "since she's black." even this early in the morning, with unflattering crust in my eyes, i paused, tilted my head and thought, "doesn't this child know she can go to ANY school she wants (for the most part--money and grades DO amount for something)?" i don't know why her statement "crinked" something in my gut, but it did. i'm all for historically black colleges, but to apply just because you're black is like white people listening to, say, Pat Boone, just because he's white and they're white, too.
i don't know if this child had other reasons for going to a black college, but this is the sole reason she stated in the column. the columnist, bless his heart, writes about Howard University, a prestigious university PERIOD. if i were he, i would have responded with, "baby, child, it's 2005; surely you know you're not kept from going ANYwhere you want."
overall motto for today: get OUT of the box. you might like what you see.
got up early because someone's been stealing my sunday paper, which i PAY for, so damn it, i went outside to get it. scanned the paper real quick (an article about the academic book i helped to write--with a pic--should be in the paper soon), and came upon a q&a column in the LIFE section.
a 12th grader wrote to the columnist, asking if he knew of any black colleges because she planned to apply to black colleges "since she's black." even this early in the morning, with unflattering crust in my eyes, i paused, tilted my head and thought, "doesn't this child know she can go to ANY school she wants (for the most part--money and grades DO amount for something)?" i don't know why her statement "crinked" something in my gut, but it did. i'm all for historically black colleges, but to apply just because you're black is like white people listening to, say, Pat Boone, just because he's white and they're white, too.
i don't know if this child had other reasons for going to a black college, but this is the sole reason she stated in the column. the columnist, bless his heart, writes about Howard University, a prestigious university PERIOD. if i were he, i would have responded with, "baby, child, it's 2005; surely you know you're not kept from going ANYwhere you want."
overall motto for today: get OUT of the box. you might like what you see.
Lit? Genre? What's the deal? Can't we all just get along?
Was out with one of my friends and his wife today (waving to them because they read the blog). Whenever I get around Bill, we talk about books and writing. As you may know, I graduated from a MFA program in '04; MFA programs work to generate writers of LITERATURE. I came to the program as a pure GENRE head. I wrote mysteries. I wrote women's fiction. My goal in coming to the program wasn't to necessarily write LITERATURE. It was to better my writing in general so that EVERYTHING I write, no matter the "genre," was the best writing I could do.
Needless to say, the program shoved LITERATURE down my throat (which isn't a bad thing) and at times, I felt compelled to hide the fact that I was a published author of genre novels; in fact, my fiction professor did not know about my published activities until my third year at the uni.
So why am I telling you all this?
Well, Bill and I talked about lit and genre today. I was telling him how it's gotten so outrageous; IT'S being the riff between genre and literature. He's a big sci-fi/fantasy buff and believes that there are some sci-fi/fantasy books that are literature; I agree. I told him about the huge CHICK LIT vs. REAL WOMEN'S LITERATURE clash that's been going on for a while now.
I remember back when I was like 14, and I would write scripts and bad stories in my 5-subject notebook, and I didn't think about whether it was popular, or whether I would be Shakespeare's long lost illegitimate great (to the umpteenth power) literary grandchild (though I wish that were true--totally dig Shakey!). It was just the love of words and the visions of stories that played on my mind's screen that now others could enjoy. I miss the idea of writing SOLELY what I love without someone going, "Hmm, so well, you write the stuff that goes inside bubblegum pink covers?" And being black, it's even harder because most of the stuff I like to read comes in one color: vanilla. So here I am, liking bubblegum pink, but bubblegum pink isn't dark enough (though I digress).
I'm staring at one of my bookshelves now. I see Plath and Sexton. I see Donald Goines. I see black feminist thought. I see semiotics. I see I'm with Cupid, The Pact, The Psychology of Suicide, Alcohol and the Addictive Brain, The Godfather, several books by Virginia Woolf, nearly two shelves of Red Dress Ink and Downtown Press books. I'm an eclectic reader. I like to think. I like to be entertained. I like to be rescued from my life and to escape into someone else's for awhile. GOOD stories, whether they are chick lit, lit, mystery, sci-fi/fantasy, etc., do that.
I think both sides of the fence--genre and lit--need to come together and realize that just as there is literature that is entertaining, there is genre that makes one think, that is about character development and not strictly plot based. Though....I can't help but think of how ANY story, any story that's good mind you, could NOT have something happen (plot) and strong characters that change and call itself a STORY, but then, that's just my opinion...
Needless to say, the program shoved LITERATURE down my throat (which isn't a bad thing) and at times, I felt compelled to hide the fact that I was a published author of genre novels; in fact, my fiction professor did not know about my published activities until my third year at the uni.
So why am I telling you all this?
Well, Bill and I talked about lit and genre today. I was telling him how it's gotten so outrageous; IT'S being the riff between genre and literature. He's a big sci-fi/fantasy buff and believes that there are some sci-fi/fantasy books that are literature; I agree. I told him about the huge CHICK LIT vs. REAL WOMEN'S LITERATURE clash that's been going on for a while now.
I remember back when I was like 14, and I would write scripts and bad stories in my 5-subject notebook, and I didn't think about whether it was popular, or whether I would be Shakespeare's long lost illegitimate great (to the umpteenth power) literary grandchild (though I wish that were true--totally dig Shakey!). It was just the love of words and the visions of stories that played on my mind's screen that now others could enjoy. I miss the idea of writing SOLELY what I love without someone going, "Hmm, so well, you write the stuff that goes inside bubblegum pink covers?" And being black, it's even harder because most of the stuff I like to read comes in one color: vanilla. So here I am, liking bubblegum pink, but bubblegum pink isn't dark enough (though I digress).
I'm staring at one of my bookshelves now. I see Plath and Sexton. I see Donald Goines. I see black feminist thought. I see semiotics. I see I'm with Cupid, The Pact, The Psychology of Suicide, Alcohol and the Addictive Brain, The Godfather, several books by Virginia Woolf, nearly two shelves of Red Dress Ink and Downtown Press books. I'm an eclectic reader. I like to think. I like to be entertained. I like to be rescued from my life and to escape into someone else's for awhile. GOOD stories, whether they are chick lit, lit, mystery, sci-fi/fantasy, etc., do that.
I think both sides of the fence--genre and lit--need to come together and realize that just as there is literature that is entertaining, there is genre that makes one think, that is about character development and not strictly plot based. Though....I can't help but think of how ANY story, any story that's good mind you, could NOT have something happen (plot) and strong characters that change and call itself a STORY, but then, that's just my opinion...
Monday, July 04, 2005
Storytelling in Aisle Five: ramblings
First the fetish. Then the answer to the question that plagues millions of women.
To you, I will openly admit this: I have a fetish. It’s a succulent, little fetish that sparks all the nerves in my body. It’s. Well, it’s a book fetish. There. I’ve finally said it. I love books. Absolutely adore them. Every time I enter a bookstore, I know that I will lose half my paycheck in there. Usually, anything with words makes me tingle: how to build a better resume, autobiographies, creative non-fiction, inspirational…but I’m particularly fond of fiction. I have books on shelves. Books in boxes. Books in closets. Books under the bed. Books at friends’ homes. People assume I’m well read. Thought-provoking. Well-rounded from all my books. Between you and me, I salivate over a good title and cover and will buy a book and maybe never read it. Time eludes me. Keeps me from reading every book I buy. But I still buy. It’s because of the words. It’s the words that make me walk over to a bookshelf and skim up and down the spines of books, wanting to open each of them and become ensconced in their secrets. Words.
Late at night, I like to turn off the lights in my bedroom. Slip into bed. Retrieve the book du jour from the nightstand. Grab the mini-flashlight that lies beside the book. Read in the dark. There is something so alive about being in the dark—with only you and the words. Physically, beyond you and the book, the world is nothing. Blank. A newly washed blackboard. Except for the one beam of light that filters from your flashlight. A beam that illuminates the book. Brings light to words. To your mind. Imagination.
You may not be able to see your hand about your face. Or the leg of that table you’re bound to snag a toe on when you head to the bathroom at three in the morning, sleep embedded into the corners of your eyes, but you can see—for example—Cheryl, a young woman whose family is on the verge of destruction. You see the tears that hold fast to her lashes, begging gravity to make them fall. You smell the pineapple lotion that Cheryl delicately rubs into her soft shoulders. You taste the rain that falls onto Cheryl’s face as she tilts her head up to the sky, welcoming nature’s cleansing. You hear the screams of Cheryl’s parents that stab through every wall of the house that Cheryl calls home. You feel Cheryl’s emotions. You become Cheryl. Or the antithesis of her. You love or hate her. But you feel something for her.
Sure, you can get the same thrill out of movies, TV, and radio, but think about it. With movies and TV, the images are given to you and for the most part, the five senses are spoon-fed into your psyche. Where is the imagination in that? Nowhere. Radio comes close to stories. A good song can be a story that elicits various emotions from the listener, but why listen to a song to get a story when you can read a story? Have your mind interact with the words. Bring life to the inanimate ink stains on the pages called letters that form words.
(more to come...later)
To you, I will openly admit this: I have a fetish. It’s a succulent, little fetish that sparks all the nerves in my body. It’s. Well, it’s a book fetish. There. I’ve finally said it. I love books. Absolutely adore them. Every time I enter a bookstore, I know that I will lose half my paycheck in there. Usually, anything with words makes me tingle: how to build a better resume, autobiographies, creative non-fiction, inspirational…but I’m particularly fond of fiction. I have books on shelves. Books in boxes. Books in closets. Books under the bed. Books at friends’ homes. People assume I’m well read. Thought-provoking. Well-rounded from all my books. Between you and me, I salivate over a good title and cover and will buy a book and maybe never read it. Time eludes me. Keeps me from reading every book I buy. But I still buy. It’s because of the words. It’s the words that make me walk over to a bookshelf and skim up and down the spines of books, wanting to open each of them and become ensconced in their secrets. Words.
Late at night, I like to turn off the lights in my bedroom. Slip into bed. Retrieve the book du jour from the nightstand. Grab the mini-flashlight that lies beside the book. Read in the dark. There is something so alive about being in the dark—with only you and the words. Physically, beyond you and the book, the world is nothing. Blank. A newly washed blackboard. Except for the one beam of light that filters from your flashlight. A beam that illuminates the book. Brings light to words. To your mind. Imagination.
You may not be able to see your hand about your face. Or the leg of that table you’re bound to snag a toe on when you head to the bathroom at three in the morning, sleep embedded into the corners of your eyes, but you can see—for example—Cheryl, a young woman whose family is on the verge of destruction. You see the tears that hold fast to her lashes, begging gravity to make them fall. You smell the pineapple lotion that Cheryl delicately rubs into her soft shoulders. You taste the rain that falls onto Cheryl’s face as she tilts her head up to the sky, welcoming nature’s cleansing. You hear the screams of Cheryl’s parents that stab through every wall of the house that Cheryl calls home. You feel Cheryl’s emotions. You become Cheryl. Or the antithesis of her. You love or hate her. But you feel something for her.
Sure, you can get the same thrill out of movies, TV, and radio, but think about it. With movies and TV, the images are given to you and for the most part, the five senses are spoon-fed into your psyche. Where is the imagination in that? Nowhere. Radio comes close to stories. A good song can be a story that elicits various emotions from the listener, but why listen to a song to get a story when you can read a story? Have your mind interact with the words. Bring life to the inanimate ink stains on the pages called letters that form words.
(more to come...later)
Sunday, July 03, 2005
Briefs...
A lot of things going on:
- 12 days until academic book must be in to publisher. needless to say, the upcoming week will consist of long days, revising and tweaking the book.
- putting SisterDivas and The Nubian Chronicles magazines together to be released within two weeks for their summer issues.
- typing a manuscript for a client to get it out to publishers.
- editing a novel for a client.
- getting my newly revised novel, DEATH AT THE DOUBLE INKWELL back out into circulation for possible publication.
- creating lesson plans for the new courses I'm teaching as a part of my new position.
- co-authoring a casebook on African American literature that will go into a new English 102 book we are publishing.
- getting forms filled out on a study I'm doing, along with a professor, on the students I'm teaching in the fall.
- translating Latin.
- outlining a new book that I really want to start on, but it seems like there is never enough time.
See where my "writing" fell? Tenth! And these are just the things I can remember right now. About to clean my bedroom a bit, organize myself some before my friends call and drag me away from my home.
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