Sick Day

I'm not going to write much today because I have the flu, and in my delirious state, I might write crazy stuff. I want to keep my promise to myself to blog every day, so I'll just post a poem I wrote as a little kid about being sick.

Being sick means
No food to pick
No ice cream to lick
So I have to get well quick
Because I hate being sick. 

The lesson for today? Sometimes you need to stop everything and take care of yourself.

Olfactory Senses - Writing About Smells

This skunk looks so cute, right? I woke up at around 1:30 last night, and as I was trying to fall asleep again, the smell of skunk spray filled my room and invaded every breath I took. It was not cute at all. Thankfully, I've been practicing mindfulness, and after acknowledging that there was nothing I could do to stop the smell, but that I did want to rest, I was able to fall asleep again, but that took some work.

I wonder about the most effective way to write about smells in my novel. When I think about narration, I don't ever want my writing to feel like I'm just checking off a list of sensory information ("Okay, I included what someone looked like, what they heard, what they smelled, etc.). I want sensory details to be included when they should. This means that I need to spend more time putting myself into the characters' shoes and setting, and writing about what's noticeable, and relevant to character and plot development.

I think I need training wheels, though. It'll help for me to think about powerful smells for me:

Smells I enjoy:

• Wood burning in a fireplace
• Rain approaching
• Freshly cut grass
• Pine trees (especially in our house at Christmas time)
• Apple Flower and Oahu scented candles (Bath and Body Works)
• Incense
• Freshly baked bread, cookies, or cake
• Carol's Daughter's Chocolat Shampoo and Conditioner (discontinued 😔)
• Lilacs
• Clean laundry
• Coffee brewing 
• New books

Smells I don't prefer:

• Fuel
• Burning rubber
• Bleach
• Public restrooms

Smells I loathe:

• Well . . . skunk spray
• Vomit (😫)
• Sour milk
• Our dog's farts
• Something rotting (like a dead mouse)

What are some of your favorite and least favorite smells?

What Does Terror Feel Like?

We weren't separated for very long, but it was the most terrifying five minutes of my life. When Serena was 2, and Cairo was 1, they spent their days at the home-based Academic Fun Pre-School Day Care not too far from our apartment in the West Roxbury section of Boston. Dishon and I both worked for Boston Public Schools. Our routine was that he would drop the kids off in the mornings, and I would pick them up when I came home from work.
Dishon and I shared a car back then, so on most days I took the 1 bus to the Orange Line (train) to the 34 bus, picked up the car from the parking space in front of our complex where Dishon would leave the car for me, and I'd drive to pick the kids up.

The sun sets earlier in the winter months, so by the time I picked the kids up, it was pretty dark outside.  Those of you who've raised children close in age know how hard it is to wrangle little people to the car by yourself, but I usually managed pretty well. I'd usually carry Cairo in one arm, and Serena would toddle along next to me holding my other hand, as I balanced their baby bag on one shoulder. Serena usually stood next to me as I buckled Cairo into his car seat and then I would buckle her in next to him, but on this day, when I turned around to pick her up and put her into her car seat, she was nowhere to be found. 

Academic Fun is just off of Washington Street in Dedham. Although there is a circular driveway in front of the house, there is nowhere to park on the street, as Washington Street is very busy with cars regularly zooming past, especially during rush hour. To keep from blocking the circular driveway while I loaded the kids into the car, I usually parked the car along the edge of the cul-de-sac behind Academic Fun's playground.

I tend to freeze in an emergency. When I couldn't find Serena, I had no idea what to do. I had to shake off the feeling of disbelief and the myriad questions that flooded my mind and figure out what to do. Did someone snatch her? They couldn't have. I didn't even see anyone else out there with me. I would've heard someone come up behind me and take my child. Did she somehow get into someone's shed? Was she crying for help, and I couldn't hear her? I tried to be still and listen for her voice, or her screams, but I heard nothing but the cars zooming by. Was someone driving away with her while I stood there? I didn't want to leave Cairo in the car by himself, but I needed to find her. I screamed her name over and over again, but she didn't answer. I tried to pray, but it was hard to form words. The only words I could put together were, "Please help me!"

Since she wasn't in the cul-de-sac, I went back toward the house to see if she had tried to go back inside. She loved it there. That would make sense. That's what I hoped. As I rounded the playground fence no more than 10 feet away, I saw her. I felt both relief and horror. She was standing at the edge of Washington Street with rush hour traffic flying past her. There was no more than about a foot separating her from the oncoming cars. She was too small and it was too dark for drivers to see her. If she took one more step, our little girl would be gone. Not just gone, but gone in a way that I was sure would compose the images of my nightmares for the rest of my life. Gone. Gone? Gone.

This little girl who we prayed for, and waited for, not sure if I'd ever know the miracle of carrying a child inside me . . . 27 months of trying to start our family, months of bed rest because my doctor was afraid that something was wrong . . . being induced a month early, and discovering, with great relief, that she was perfect . . . and I adored her. This little girl who loved her little brother, delighted us with her spunk, awed us with her intelligence . . . this couldn't be how her life was going to end. 

I felt like vomiting. Suppressing all of the frantic, hysterical instincts welling up inside of me, I crept over to her so I wouldn't frighten her into any sudden moves by calling her name. I grabbed her and held onto her so tight. I don't know if I've ever cried the way I did in that moment. I tried to get her to look at me, but she was experiencing her own terror. Being that close to the blinding headlights of the oncoming cars made it so that she couldn't see me, even as I held her. She looked all around me, but not into my eyes. Cairo was alone in the car, so I ran back over holding Serena, and buckled her into her car seat. Filled with gratitude, regret, fighting off imagining what could have happened that night, I drove my children home. 

When I am writing my novel, and I am describing the emotions of the characters, I want to tap into these raw, authentic emotions. That will make the story more real to the readers. 

Learning to Practice Mindfulness

A couple of weeks ago, I started practicing mindfulness through guided meditation each morning. I wanted to learn how to focus my attention, and get back in touch with my creative self.

Here's what my initial sessions were like:

Welcome to the 7 days of calm. This practice will help you to deal with overwhelm, recognize unhealthy habits, become less judgmental and kinder to ourselves and others. 

Yes! That's what I need! My mind is way too busy. I have to play a show on Netflix to fall asleep every night. I'm tired of doing that.

We'll do a breathing meditation to calm the mind. Find a quiet place to sit where you won't be disturbed. Sit with a straight back in a comfortable position. Rest your hands gently on your knees. Bring your attention to your breath. 

Okay. I wonder if it matters if I breathe in through my nose or mouth? Probably not. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe . . . I hope I wasn't wrong about what time my coaching call starts. No, I'm good for another hour. Oops . . . breathe in . . . breathe out.

Become aware of your breath as it comes into your body and leaves your body. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe . . .  I need to order more food for Rabbit. I wonder how she's doing with the transition from wet to dry food? Ugh! I'm supposed to be focusing on my breathing.

If you find your thoughts drifting away from the breath, it's okay. Don't judge the thoughts. Notice them, and then watch them float away like a cloud. Return your thoughts back to your breath.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in . . . I think it's about time to schedule another hair appointment for Serena. I need to text Shayla to book time. Oh, and it's been a minute since I got my eyebrows done. I need to text Tram, too, and the groomer for Rabbit. I need to put all of this on the whiteboard so I don't forget. Dang it! Focus on the breath. Breathe in. Breathe out.

If it helps, count one, two, three in your mind as you breathe in, and do the same as you breathe out. 

Breathe in ... 1-2-3 ... Breathe out ...1-2-3 ... Breathe in ... I can't believe we've almost been married for 20 years! Amazing. I wonder if we're going to be able to go away for our anniversary? Wait ... I'm supposed to be thinking about my breathing. Breathe in ... 1-2-3. No judgment.
  
Now as the practice comes to a close, wiggle your fingers and toes and bring your attention back to the room.

It's cold in the room. Next time, I need to put on a sweater or something, and I need to pick a new place to sit.

Slowly open your eyes. Congratulations on completing day 1 of 7 days of calm. 

I've been practicing for two weeks, now, and I'm getting better at it every day - clearer, more focused, better able to process and manage my emotions. This morning on my walk with Rabbit, a new idea for the beginning of the novel came to mind, and I can't wait to explore it!

How Do You Write About High School When Your Experience Was So Weird?

The main character in my novel will most likely be high school aged at the beginning of the story. Writing from the perspective of a typical high school student will be a challenge for me.  My high school experience was more like what I imagine it would have been like if my parents were in the military - moving around from place to place, never being anywhere for too long.

Most people start high school in 9th grade. My junior high school provided high-achieving seventh graders with the opportunity to skip the 8th grade and go to 9th grade at the same school. My "freshman" year was really my last year in junior high. I didn't test for admission into exam schools, and I didn't get into any of the high schools I really wanted to attend. I was hoping to go to Midwood or John Jay High Schools, but the lottery dictated that I could go to George Westinghouse or the High School of Graphic Communication Arts. GCA had a creative writing program, and that appealed to me, but it was also a pretty long train ride from home. When my mom and I went to the orientation, the administrator talked about how overcrowded the classes would be (~400 more students than expected, if I remember correctly), how many beer cans they found, and the weed that was smelled in the halls the previous year. I was also aware that there was a significant Decepticon gang presence at the school. I was a 13-year-old 10th grader (a very young 13), and I was terrified.

My mom and I left the orientation, and my parents enrolled me in Boro Hall Academy. The school was located in a former office building on Smith Street downtown Brooklyn near the Hoyt Street train station.  My mom worked in Brooklyn Criminal Court, which was only a few blocks from my school, so we'd ride into work/school together each morning. We got on the 2 train at the Church Avenue stop. Sometimes, we'd ride back to the Flatbush Avenue stop (only three stops) so we would have seats.  BHA was a small school with no gym, cafeteria or auditorium, so we got to go out for lunch every day, and our gym class (if I could call it that - we mostly played dodgeball) was a six-block walk to and from the local YWCA each time.

I made some wonderful friends there, some of whom I'm still in touch with, and some I haven't been able to find. Unfortunately, Boro Hall Academy went bankrupt after my junior year, and my parents had to find a school for me for my final year in high school. Interestingly enough, I ended up going to Bishop Loughlin Memorial High School in Fort Greene, which was the school from which my church rented space for our Saturday services (we were sabbath observers, and the church didn't believe in owning property so we'd be ready to go when it was time for rapture).

Senior Picture

I loved Bishop Loughlin. Although it was a little strange being a student at a Catholic school while attending a church that taught that everyone outside of the church was deceived (each morning, the whole school prayed to St. John Baptist de La Salle, and as a cult kid, I wasn't sure how to feel about it), that year was my best high school year by far. Again, I made great friends who I'm still in touch with and I wish I could have been a student there the whole time.  It was very different than my other schools. I had Death and Dying class in which we watched On Golden Pond to learn about aging, and we wrote our own obituaries (Brother Dennis Cronin was my Death and Dying teacher, and in his obituary, he wrote that he'd die when he was 67. He's now the President of the school, and I'm glad things didn't turn out the way his obituary stated). 

The eight-block walk from the Atlantic Avenue train station to the school was a bit much sometimes, especially because I took that walk to and from the school every day alone, but I loved my friends, and developed a significant crush on the guy who was one of my student teachers in the sophomore saxophone class where I learned to play the clarinet (nothing came of it though, because my parents told me I couldn't date until I was 18, and the church taught that we shouldn't spend too much time with people outside the church, and that interracial dating was wrong [he was Puerto Rican]). I took classes like Marriage and the Family, French, Public Speaking, Creative Writing, Economics and Law, Minority Studies, and I worked in the office during my free period.

Because I skipped both kindergarten and eighth grade, I was just turning 16 when I graduated from high school.  I don't have any pictures from my high school graduation, except this one that a friend tagged me on through Facebook years later. I remember being really sad that night. My high school graduation was on a Saturday night, and we celebrated Old Testament holy days back then. That night just so happened to be the night before Pentecost, which was one of our high holy days, so after my graduation, while other kids went to special dinners and parties, I went home, mourned in my diary and went to sleep. 

I only applied to go to two colleges - one was Ambassador College, which was the college my church sponsored in California, and the other was Brooklyn College. I wasn't admitted to Ambassador because they felt I was a bit too young to be so far away from home. They were right about that. I enrolled in Brooklyn College and did very well that year.  I enjoyed my classes, especially Intro to Music and Women in the Arts. It was a weird time socially because I was told that I could no longer be in the church youth group since I had graduated from high school. I had to join the church single's club (creepy!). So, I was considered a single woman, but I didn't have permission to date. Can you say confusing?

I met a guy named Mark at Brooklyn College, and I really liked him. Nothing much came of that either, but I started to learn my lesson about saying too much about my feelings. Not being able to go to the prom with Axel broke my heart, and trying to explain why ended our friendship. He was a really sweet guy . . . an absolute gentleman, and I think we would have had a wonderful time. I kept my study sessions and lunches with Mark to myself. I wish I had learned to keep more to myself. Instead of being encouraged to help one another, church members were encouraged to expose the struggles of other members. When a member's struggles were made public, they'd be suspended from the church, and not allowed to talk with the other members so they could be "buffeted by Satan." It was a spiritually caustic environment, and I was too young to understand that even sharing something with the best of intentions, I would cause tremendous pain someone very close to me . . . but that's a story for another day. 

Anyway, although my school experience in my teenage years was atypical - a public junior high school, a private school, a parochial school, and a community college - I can absolutely use some of my experiences to craft the narration for my novel. I'm looking forward to developing this story, not only through memories, but by wondering about how things could have been.

Commute Observations - Thursday, January 26, 2017

I work from home on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and every Thursday, I go to my office in Cambridge for coaching and team meetings. I could drive to the office, but I hate traffic. Instead, I drive from Randolph to the Braintree Station, ride from Braintree to Porter Square (which you can see on the map is pretty much beginning to end), and then walk for 15 minutes to my office.

As I'm reading more about novel writing, I see that I need to work on being more descriptive about the characters' physical attributes. To practice that, I've decided to blog about what I notice about other passengers during my trip. Sometimes I dread my commute, but if I drove, I wouldn't be able to people watch. I'll do my best to do what I've seen Sherlock Holmes do :).

Here's what I noticed today:

A middle-aged White woman, sitting pigeon-toed with white and pink sneakers, holding a tote bag with frayed handles. She wore glasses and was mostly looking down at her phone in her lap. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a neat ponytail, and she typed methodically with her index finger. I didn't notice the color of her coat, what was written on her tote bag, what style/color her glasses were, what type of phone she had, or which hand she typed with. I'll try to pay more attention to those details next time.

A Black woman, maybe late 30s, sleeping, her hands folded as if in prayer, securing her purse with her folded hands, and she was wearing double hoods (a blue sweater with black and blue frayed hood edge under a black winter coat with black faux fur on the hood). Her skin was a beautiful shade of brown like Hershey's chocolate, and her nose and full lips were the only parts of her face that were visible under her hoods. Her boots were black, long, laced, and they stopped under her knee. Her feet were crossed at the ankle. I think she wore jeans. 

A White woman, maybe mid-20s sitting with her legs crossed at the knee, her right hand supporting her forehead as if worried or stressed, first staring out of the train window, and then sleeping, her long, knit black scarf thrown around neck carelessly. She had thin pouty lips and long, messy brown hair. She wore a mini-skirt and thick black stockings that seem to have been washed many times.

A middle-aged White man, balding, hair combed forward with a little too much oil on it, quickly removing his foldable black ear warmers after finishing a text. He closed his eyes, with his backpack between his feet. The top front of his black shoes were significantly worn. I wonder how that happened?

An Asian boy, maybe 12, wearing a blue (somewhere between azure and Persian blue) puffy coat, a matching water bottle in the side pocket of his backpack, reading the Metro. Hmm. Is he doing that because he wants to, or because his teacher wants him to keep up with current events? One sneakered foot overlapped the other slightly. He pinched his nostrils to keep his nose from running. The mom in me wanted to pass him a tissue from my bag. 

I wanted to observe more, but when we got to Andrew Station, I think, a flood of people came in, and it was hard to really see anyone anymore.

If someone was recording their observations about me this morning, I think it would look something like:  Middle-aged Black woman, long dark brown locks, wearing a winter coat the color of green grass, jeans, and Skechers. Looking down at her iPhone, earbuds plugged in, eyes closed.

Warts and All

For the most part, I was a very well-behaved kid. I did my homework, got good grades, and followed the rules . . . for the most part. But people, including children, are multi-dimensional and complex. Even the most well-behaved kids do things they shouldn't do, or things that are just weird to do . . . things that would surprise the adults in their lives. That's important for me to remember as I more fully develop the characters in my novel. No one is all good or all bad. 

When I was in second grade, I told my teachers I knew how to tap dance. Did I really? No. I thought the sound that my dress shoes made on tiles was tap-ish, so I figured I could wing it. My teachers invited me to tap dance for our class, and I agreed to do it. I never mentioned it to my parents. I snuck around, stuffed my fancy long pajama dress and dress shoes into a bag and crept off to school with it without mentioning it to anyone. When it was time, my teachers asked me to change into my tap dancing outfit, so I did, and when I came out, there were about 50 of my classmates and our two teachers waiting to see me dance. I looked out at them, froze, and ran off crying because I did not, in fact, know how to tap dance. Claude McKay made fun of me every day that year because of that botched show and tell. 

I was a little kleptomaniac. When I was six, I stole a pencil case from a pharmacy. I didn't just run in and grab it. I was methodical. My dad was doing some work for Flatbush Development Corporation, and while he was working, I went in and out of the store . . . looking around to make sure no one was watching . . . I must have gone in and out about three times before I swiped it, and I had the nerve to run out of the store holding the pencil case up to my dad, proclaiming that I had stolen it.

When Cabbage Patch Kids first came out, people were going crazy for them. When I went with a friend and her mother to Macy's one time, we went downstairs to the toy section, and there were tons of Cabbage Patch Kids everywhere that had been ripped from their boxes. Without wondering what my friend's mother would think when she saw me, I stuffed a Cabbage Patch Kid under my shirt and tried to escape with it. I chickened out when we got near the exit, lifted my shirt, let the doll fall the ground, and I kept running. You know what's messed up? I already had my own Cabbage Patch Kid at home. 

We had a phone in our bathroom when I was in elementary school, and I would sometimes sneak into the bathroom to call naughty phone numbers. I'm sure my parents thought it was my brother when they checked the phone bill and saw all those 976 numbers. It wasn't him. It was freaky, curious little Afrika. 

Once I asked my father if I could go out and play. He told me that I could if I changed out of my good shoes, stayed in the courtyard where he could see me, and stayed away from the corner store where my sister was. I agreed, and then went outside in my good shoes, left the courtyard, and went to the corner store. I thought I was slick, and that he hadn't noticed that I disobeyed all three things he asked of me. I was wrong. Our kitchen window faced the courtyard, and it was quite obvious that I hadn't listened to him at all.  

I'm not sure how, but I discovered that if you pulled the handle of the elevator on the first floor of my building while someone was in it, the elevator would stop. I hardly ever rode the elevator because we only lived on the second floor. Out of sheer boredom, I would randomly pull the handle as I was passing by. I have no idea why I did that. It would only stop for about 30 seconds and then restart, but the people in the elevator didn't know that. It reminds me of the scripture that talks about foolishness being bound in the heart of a child. It serves me right that I am now desperately claustrophobic. 

I went to a camp called Discovery Day Camp one summer, and it was one of the best summers I can remember. I made good friends there, and got to do a bunch of fun things all summer. Every Friday, exemplary campers were awarded with a Discovery Day Camp plastic mug. I really wanted one of those mugs. After several weeks of not being picked to receive one, I surreptitiously took one from a fellow camper when we were on the bus on our way home from camp that day, and passed it off as my own.  You know what's messed up? The next Friday, I was selected to receive an exemplary camper mug, so I ended up with two while the deserving child I stole it from the week before had none.  Smh . . .

So that I would no longer be a latch-key kid, my parents arranged for me to go home with a friend every day after school when I was in sixth grade. I loved it. She and her older sister were so much fun, and it was such a relief not to be alone. My family didn't have a VCR, but her family did, and we watched Purple Rain. I knew my parents wouldn't approve, but I did it anyway. For reasons I still don't understand, we would regularly fill large silver mixing bowls with water, and pour it out onto passers-by on the street below her sixth-floor window. I do believe that you reap what you sow, and one Halloween as I passed by Kings County Hospital on my way home from junior high school, someone threw a rock at my head from the roof. Could it have killed me? Probably. It was quite painful. I made different choices, though, about throwing things at people passing by after that incident. 

My sister, Bootsie, had these really cool orange and white high-top Nikes back in the day. I was going on a field trip to Six Flags - Great Adventure, and I really wanted to wear her sneakers. They were pretty new, but she let me borrow them anyway, under one condition - that I not ride on water rides with her sneakers on, or at least put them in plastic bag while on water rides so they wouldn't get wet. She told me that them getting wet would ruin them, but I didn't believe her. I wore them on a water ride, and I ruined her new sneakers. My sister, who had only ever been kind to me. I had one job.  Sigh . . .

While I was by no means The Bad Seed (that little girl was a straight-up psychopath), I definitely engaged in questionable, self-serving, sometimes illegal behaviors. My family joined a cult when I was 11, and while there are obvious problems with cult membership, I think part of the reason I was so compliant as a member was because I felt guilty for the mischievous and inappropriate things I had done. This church taught that if I was well-behaved, I could earn God's favor. My view of God has changed significantly since then. I know that my worth is not attached to my behavior. Instead of feeling shame for past misbehavior, I can use it as a reference point for building holistic, multi-dimensional characters. Several of the characters in my story are children, and depending on what I decide at the retreat, the book may begin when my main character is a child. Remembering what it was like to be a kid who was mostly well-behaved, but not always will help me to create believable characters that readers can relate to.

Oh yeah, and I used to eat matches. It might explain some things ;).  What are some of the mischievous things you did as a child?

Defining Sisterhood

Afrika and Bootsie

I am the youngest child in my family, and like most youngest children, I longed for a younger sibling. It wasn't so I would have someone to boss around, though. My oldest sister, Bootsie, is nine years older than me, and she was such a loving big sister. We shared a room for years, and though I'm sure that was probably way more fun for me than it was for her, she never made me feel that way. I loved watching her, listening to her sing along with Stevie Wonder and Phyllis Hyman, sneaking looks at the books in her library (I learned A LOT about Our Bodies, Ourselves ;), and sleeping in her bed when I was scared. I remember how she took care of me - so sweet, gentle, and protective. She made being a big sister something I wanted to be, too.

I never did have younger siblings of my own, but I learned that God can satisfy the longing in my heart in creative and unexpected ways. I was almost 13 when Bootsie's oldest child, Gabrielle, was born. Her first few months were challenging, because she had colic. But that's not what I most remember about her.

I remember holding her, playing with her and being captivated by the love in her eyes when she looked up at me. I remember putting Mr. Bubble in her baths, watching Sesame Street with her, and making her tuna fish sandwiches. I remember turning on the tape recorder so we'd always be able to remember her singing all the songs and saying all the words she knew - even phrases from commercials ("Have you shopped Strawberry today?" and the Food Emporium song, "Someone made a store just for meeeee."). Our time together exploring words and phrases were captured in her baby book, and cassette tape . . . including Gabrielle weeping slowly, and saying, "I'm tired!" when I asked her to talk and sing for too long. I definitely could have benefitted from a babysitting class or two. I didn't mean to frustrate her - I was just so fascinated by watching this beautiful little person grow and learn. I shared with her what I knew best. Words.  

Peek-a-Boo Gabby

"People usually consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle. But I think the real miracle is to walk on earth. Every day we are engaged in a miracle which we don't even recognize; a blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, the black curious eyes of a child - our own two eyes. All is a miracle." - Thich Naht Hanh, quoted in Life as a Verb by Patti Digh

On vacation in Virginia Beach

Gabrielle was my introduction to true wonder and joy - my blue sky and my clouds. I got to see the world again through everything she noticed and learned. Before Gabrielle, I didn't know what it was like to change diapers, give a child a bath, do a little girl's hair, make her laugh, answer lots of questions, be a role model, and to also feel the horror and powerlessness that you experience when someone you want to protect is in harm's way (I still remember vividly when she stuck her hand into the trash and gashed her fingers on the edge of an open can, and when she was choking on an unnaturally long lo mein noodle, and I didn't know how to help her). It is a vulnerable and wonderful thing to love a child. Our relationship laid the foundation for the kind of mother I've chosen to be.  

When I narrate, when I create characters, when I write their dialogue, when I create their circumstances, I go back to places in my memory that help me to connect to the characters' thoughts, feelings, experiences, desires, hopes, and dreams. Do I need to actually be a big sister in order to write from the perspective of a big sister? I don't think so. Though I never had a younger sibling, I have always loved Gabrielle like a little sister. Because of my relationship with Gabrielle, I can write from the perspective of a big sister even though I've never enjoyed that title. Remembering all the things I have learned and experiences I've enjoyed in my relationship with her is a great place to begin.

Writing About the Almosts and What-Ifs

I was sick a lot as a little kid. I know the breastfeeding experts say that if a child is breastfed, s/he is less likely to get sick. I was definitely one of the exceptions because I remember being far sicker than my formula-fed siblings. I regularly had ear and tonsil infections, and I remember having both while I had chicken pox - three of the most excruciating weeks of my young life. I was in so much pain that when my mom made me my favorite - home made french fries - I couldn't even finish them because my ears popped painfully every time I swallowed, and my throat burned like a furnace.

Chaka Khan is one of my favorite singers. When I was little - maybe around 7 or 8 - my dad used to work at a place called Joe's House of Sandals located in a loft in lower Manhattan, I believe. He worked with a guy Chaka Khan was dating at the time, and I was invited to her son's birthday party through my dad's friendship with her boyfriend. I couldn't believe it . . . and I almost went to that party. But I didn't because I was sick the day of the party. Words can't capture the disappointment I felt that day.

Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like had I not been sick that day. What if I had been able to go to Damien's party? I didn't know Damien, and I doubt I would've known anyone else there, but I would have met Chaka Khan. That would have been so cool . . . or at least my imagination tells me so. Several years ago, I read Chaka Khan's autobiography, Chaka! Through the Fire, and I think the fact that I almost met her made me read the book a little more voraciously to see if, perhaps, there would be a mention of that party. There wasn't.

I'm not big on regrets. I believe that things happen the way they're meant to. It made me think, though, about some of the almosts in my life. Some are displeasing, like almost going to Damien's party, almost making my flight in Tyler, Texas that day, almost going to the prom with Axel Marrero, or being assigned to intern for Parents magazine instead of Essence. Some fill me with gratitude, like almost being hit by a car, almost being dropped off of the crown of the Statue of Liberty by my uncle, almost falling down a steep hill in Prospect Park in Brooklyn, almost passing out in a train station after donating blood, or almost not going to visit my friend in New Jersey the weekend I first met Dishon. Some just make me wonder, like what if I had moved in with my aunt so I could attend the gifted and talented junior high school I got into? What if I had taken the exams for Brooklyn Tech, Stuyvesant and Bronx Science? What if I hadn't skipped the eighth grade? What if I stayed in Boston University's Graduate Creative Writing Program instead of transferring to Boston College? What if I stayed in New York City instead of moving to Massachusetts?

The space that wondering about some of the almosts creates is a great space for novel writing.  Through writing, I get to explore what could have been . . . not from a place of regret, but from a place of creating the world where my characters live.

Do you ever wonder about some of your almosts or what-ifs?

Beginnings

 As I start to truly revise my novel (and, without giving too much away, it looks like there are going to be some major shifts - very exciting!), I've been thinking about how and when to begin the novel. Do I start with a flashback in a prologue? How old should the main character be in the beginning? Do I begin with dialogue? Narration? What should the opening scene of chapter 1 be? Do I include dates to guide the reader? Does the book begin with each chapter having its own name? Should each chapter have a different character as a narrator?

So I reflected on some of my favorite books, and how they begin . . .

"Mma Ramotswe had a detective agency in Africa, at the foot of Kgale Hill."
- The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, Alexander McCall Smith

"When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow."
- Jean Louise/Scout Finch, To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee

"There was a time in Africa the people could fly."
Hetty Handful Grimke, The Invention of Wings, Sue Monk Kidd

"Little Man, would you come on? You keep it up and you're going to make us late."
- Cassie Logan, Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry, Mildred D. Taylor

"You were picking your teeth with a plastic straw - I know, I know, it wasn't really a straw, it was a coffee stirrer."
- Ophelia (Cocoa) Day, Mama Day, Gloria Naylor

"I leave this record for my dear children, Hortense and William, in the even that they never see their loving mother again and so that they might one day know the truth of my unjust incarceration, my escape from Hell, and into whatever is to come  in these pages."
- May Dodd, One Thousand White Women: The Journals of May Dodd, Jim Fergus

"Mae Mobley was born on a early Sunday morning in August, 1960."
- Aibileen, The Help: A Novel, Kathryn Stockett

"I have never been what you'd call a crying man."
- Jake Epping, 11/22/63: A Novel, Stephen King

"Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, than you very much."
- Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, J.K. Rowling

"When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton."
- The Lord of the Rings, J.R.R. Tolkein

"There is one mirror in my house."
- Beatrice (Tris) Prior, Divergent, Veronica Roth

"When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold."
- Katniss Everdeen, The Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins

"I'd never given much thought to how I would die - though I'd had reason enough in the last few months - but even if I had, I would not have imagined it like this."
- Bella Swan (Preface), Twilight, Stephenie Meyer

- Saving Cece Honeycutt, Beth Hoffman

This was a very helpful exploration. I'm still not sure yet how I'll begin this book. I do want each chapter to have a title, and I was toying with the idea of song quotes at the beginning of each chapter, too. I imagine this novel as a screenplay sometimes, and music is very important to me.

I like the idea of including quotes from the songs that I imagine as the soundtrack for the movie. The idea of different characters narrating each chapter is intriguing, like in The Help and The Invention of Wings. Stephen King did a masterful job with Jake Epping as the narrator for 11/22/63 for 842 pages. . . but multiple perspectives are important to me.  

If you have favorite novels, tell me why they qualify as your favorites. How do they begin? Who is the narrator? Is the narrator consistent throughout the whole story? What is the first sentence? How do you feel about it? Tell me . . .

Harmonizing

I have a deep voice. When I went to church as a kid, we used to sing songs from this purple hymnal, and I didn't know how my voice was supposed to work with that music. I often sang very low. That didn't feel right either, but I did it so I wouldn't experience the pain I felt when I tried to sing higher than my voice was intended to go.

"Any note you can reach, I can go higher."

As I write this, I'm remembering that I sang publicly before I started singing in church, and I enjoyed it! When I was in fourth and fifth grades, we performed musicals, and I sang then - the holiday show and Annie Get Your Gun (I Got the Sun in the Morning, Anything You Can Do, There's No Business Life Show Business) and The Pajama Game (Steam Heat and Hernando's Hideaway). I really enjoyed singing in musicals, and I'm not sure why those experiences differed from singing in church as a kid. Maybe it was that my teachers made it fun when they taught us the songs, and at church it was all . . . so . . . serious.

My siblings and I were a part of a youth drama group called Of, By, For. I was so little, so I was more of an observer. I remember my sister and brother performing in The Wiz and Dreamgirls, but when I had a chance to be in a performance, I opted out. I would've been playing a mouse, and I found the person who'd be playing the cat to be not so nice.

My sister sang in the gospel choir at New York's Laguardia High School when she was a student there (yall know the school Fame was based on?), and I LOVED listening to them sing. I longed to sing like that. Even when I was in music class in sixth grade, I didn't learn how to use MY voice (it was like the teacher only focused on sopranos and tenors), and I was so relieved when I switched over to playing the flute in band the following year.

For a long time, I thought that I didn't know how to sing, until I joined Harvard's Gospel Choir, Kuumba, around the time that Dishon and I started dating. I found out that I was an alto, and learned how to harmonize. Singing songs like Ride On, King Jesus, Order My Steps, Nkosi Sikelel, iAfrika gave me life. Then sang with the choir when we were attending Massachusetts Avenue Baptist Church from 1998 - 2001, and under Crystal Dixon's leadership, I learned even more. It was so wonderful to finally have a mentor who helped me to realize that it wasn't that couldn't sing. It's just that I need to learn how to properly play the instrument that was my voice.

I sang with the praise and worship team when we were members at our previous church, and I learned how to harmonize even more. I've been singing as part of Grace Christian Church's praise and worship team for over two years, and I lead praise and worship at New Heights Camp every summer.

I don't sing perfectly at all. Sometimes I can't hear the harmony in the song, and the sounds come out all crazy, so I go back to that deep voice for safety. But I've learned to be more playful with music, and it's one of the most enjoyable parts of my life.

Writing is like harmonizing. Sometimes it flows perfectly, and sometimes you have to really listen to figure out where, when, and how your voice blends in. When you try to sound like someone else, it doesn't work. The important thing is to find and love the sound of your own voice. Keep singing. Keep writing. Keep playing with your voice until you find that sweet spot, and then let it flow.

Carvel

I've always enjoyed vanilla soft serve ice cream. Sometimes I ask for chocolate and vanilla swirl, but vanilla soft serve is my favorite. I never liked sprinkles (I think they call them jimmies in Massachusetts) on my ice cream cones. They taste like clay to me. How I know what clay tastes like is inconsequential. I know what matches taste like, too, but I digress ;).  So sprinkles weren't my thing, but you know that chocolate crunch at the center of Carvel ice cream cakes? I LOVE the chocolate crunch.

I grew up in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn on Linden Boulevard between Nostrand and Rogers Avenues. I lived there from 1977 until I left for college in 1991, and one of my favorite things was to go to the Carvel shop on Church Avenue and get an ice cream cone.

I'd walk down the stairs from the second floor of the C building at 201 Linden Boulevard, through the courtyard (the grass wasn't fenced in when we first moved there, but things change. I'll blog about my feelings about gentrification in Brooklyn another time), down the block toward Nostrand Avenue (we lived closer to Rogers) . . .

Past the fruit market
     Past Michael's Meat Store
          Past the Shoe Repair Shop
                Past White Sheep Cleaners
                     Past the Chinese restaurant
                          Past the laundromat (not the one we went to. The other one on Martense)
                               Across Martense Street
                                     Past the check cashing place
                                          Past the fish market
                                               Past Pumpkins Bar (I think that was there, then)

And made the right turn on Church Avenue near the train station to the Carvel shop. I remember the woman who usually served me. She was short and traditionally built (all my fellow/sister No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency fans know what I mean ;), she had dirty blonde hair, a weary, somewhat sad look on her face, and she wore a black Carvel uniform shirt. I feel like her name was Pat.

There was a large light yellow container where she kept the chocolate crunch for the ice cream cakes. I don't know why she ending up telling me that I could get chocolate crunch on my cone instead of sprinkles - knowing my personality, I probably let her know how much I loved it, and something in her made her offer it to me. She didn't have to. She could have just let me choose the plain cone without offering me an alternative. She chose kindness and generosity, instead, and brought me so much delight. We need more of that in the world. 

I remember watching her roll my cone in the container to get the chocolate crunch on it, and I was always a little nervous that the ice cream would fall from the cone . . . but it never did. She was so careful with it. I would ask for chocolate crunch every time I went there, always a little afraid that she'd say that she was no longer willing/able to offer it to me as a topping. That never happened. She would always give it to me.  Even until I left for college.

Carvel isn't there any more. Now it's Carver Federal Savings Bank, and Church Avenue is now also Bob Marley Boulevard. 

As I'm thinking about ways to improve the novel, I see how important it is to explore the details of memories, both good and bad. In exploring the texture of memories - like when you caress fabric between your fingers - interesting thoughts and questions start to surface. I wonder what Pat's work hours were, how she got to work each day, and where she lived. What made her choose to work at Carvel? Was she sad and tired as the lines on her face and her posture seemed to indicate? Did she have a family? Maybe her own kids who didn't like sprinkles, either? Maybe offering me something different was her own creative outlet? An escape from the mundane? Imagining answers to questions like these will add depth to the characters I create.

Wherever you are, Pat, thank you for making the chocolate crunch available as a cone topping. It was a small kindness that added joy to the tapestry of my childhood, and I'm so grateful.

Quiddity

I learned a new word yesterday while reading chapter 1 of Life is a Verb. Quiddity. What is quiddity? I'm glad you asked :). Quiddity is the inherent nature or essence of someone or something. I like that word. It reminds me of the word serendipity. It's fun to say, and I like what it means. In the book, Patti Digh describes quiddity as the whatness of something. What is my whatness? I think. I notice. I listen. I wonder. I'm curious. I ask questions. Lots of questions. I hate secrets. I don't hide things or keep things in. I tell stories. I speak truth. I laugh hard. I'm courageous. I sing with words and sounds and harmonies. I dance. And I write. I like the whatness that came to mind when God made me :).

Two quotes that made me think yesterday:

1. "The pen is the tongue of the mind." - Miguel de Cervantes (quoted in The Writer's Little Instruction Book by Paul Raymond Martin)

Some people speak their words. I do too. But I really love writing my words, and it's important not to let anyone make me feel like something is wrong with me because they would rather have me express my thoughts and feelings the way they do. This is my way of being. Part of my quiddity. It allows me to be more thoughtful and reflective. Not impulsive. I like to ponder and make word pictures, and that's a good thing. 

2. "Writing is like breathing, it's possible to learn to do it well, but the point is to do it no matter what." - Julia Cameron, The Writer's Life: Insights from The Right to Write (my mom gifted this book to me in 2005 :).

This has deeper meaning to me now that I've been practicing meditation. I didn't realize how shallow my breathing was until I started focusing on my breaths - inhaling . . . holding . . . exhaling. In order to exhale for a count of eight, there has to be enough air in my lungs, so I need to breathe more deeply. It's harder to fill my lungs than I thought. I'm learning to breathe better now, and I'm writing every day. Some days I'll write a lot. Some days, not so much. The important thing is to keep writing.

Change is Good

Something surprised me last night. Part of my preparation for the writers' retreat involves daily and nightly meditation, daily blogging, and reading several books about writing and creativity (Life is a Verb is one of my new favorites - I bought it almost six years ago, and it has been collecting dust on an upstairs bookshelf). As I read these books, I began to explore the why behind some of the decisions I made about my novel.

I realized that in completing the first draft of the  novel in preparation for a first novel contest, I was more motivated by meeting a deadline than I was in letting the story unfold naturally in its own time.

Because I was trying to win a contest where the judges held a certain worldview, I limited the development of the characters and plot to try to please them. My own worldview has matured since then, and I won't make the same mistake twice. The characters deserve to live, move, breathe, fail, grow, and just be. 

There were also parts of the novel I wrote about because some memories were so delicious to write about . . . but they didn't actually advance the plot. Those parts have to go. If I want to reminisce and be nostalgic, I should write a memoir and not a novel.

There were characters I included because there were things that I wished were different. This book belongs to the characters, though, and not to me.  If I were to compare writing this book to making cookies (I make really good oatmeal raisin cookies, by the way), my life and experiences should be like nutmeg and cinnamon, and the flour, eggs and sugar should belong to the characters.

There is so much about the story that is good, and those parts will survive the upcoming pruning. It's been very helpful to start to identify the parts that need to be removed so that the other parts can have the life they deserve. 

Afrika Writes

I stopped writing. I can't even say exactly when it happened, but as I reflect on it, I see why it happened. There were a lot of reasons, really.

When I was a little kid, I loved to write.  I wrote my first poem when I was five, I started writing in a diary when I was seven, and then I started writing stories . . . lots of stories. Stories kept me company. I didn't feel as lonely with all those characters surrounding me.

I finished the first draft of a novel years ago when I was part of the Christian Writers Guild. The Christian Writers Guild doesn't exist anymore (it closed in 2014), but I am so thankful for the experience I had. It helped to develop me as a writer, and connected me with a wonderful mentor. It also gave me the motivation I needed to finish the first draft of my novel in preparation for CWG's First Novel contest.

Unfortunately, I think that's when I started to allow discouragement to set in. I really wanted to win the contest, and didn't, and then as I tried to find a Literary Agent to represent me, I wasn't able to. Some said that my story idea was good, but with the economy being as it was, they were having a hard time getting their current clients published, so they weren't taking on new writers. I wondered if they responded the same way to all queries.

I tried not to, but I saw that rejection as an indication that my story wasn't worth telling. It wasn't just that I couldn't find an agent, though. I sent my story out to people who said they were interested in reading it, and then they either did and said nothing to me about it, or didn't read it. It's hard to admit (what did Langston say about a dream deferred?), but that silence was hurtful.

I thought of self-publishing the novel, but self-publication requires funds that I don't have. And if I couldn't even get people who know me to read it for free, I wondered if it was even worth trying to publish. My desire to write decreased progressively, like a bright balloon with a small hole. 

I didn't just experience feelings of disappointment and rejection with my novel. There have been a number of occasions when I took the time to write something important . . . to attempt to connect with people through my writing, and the recipients didn't respond. It's so hard not to feel invisible when that happens, or like your thoughts and feelings don't really matter. There's that, and battling feelings of resentment toward the people for not responding, especially when you share deeply personal thoughts and feelings. Being vulnerable starts to feel like too much of a risk. 

All of these things swirled together and created a perfect storm of sadness in me, and because my writing felt like a source of pain, it became a casualty of that sadness.

Thank God for resurrection. In the book of John, in chapter 5, Jesus encounters a man who had been disabled for 38 years, and he asked him an important question. "Do you want to get well?" The man responded by talking about what kept him from entering the healing waters. He said, "I have no one to help me into the pool when the water is stirred. When I am trying to get in, someone else goes down ahead of me" (verse 7). Jesus then said to him, "Get up! Pick up your mat and walk!"And at once, the man was healed.

If Jesus were to ask me, "Afrika, do you want to write?" My response would have been similar to this man's response. "Jesus, people don't always respond when I write, or they don't respond the way I expect them to. And even if I had the money to self-publish, I don't know if anyone would even buy my book." I think Jesus would tell me, "Write! Sit down at your computer and write." 

By worrying about whether or not people will respond to my writing (the way I want them to, or at all), I lost my connection to something very special. But now I'm remembering that connection. I love stories. I love listening to stories, and I love telling stories. Listening to stories takes me into an amazing place full of wonder, curiosity, intrigue, suspense, and connection, and telling stories provides me with an opportunity to invite people to enjoy the same.

I love connecting with people, and inviting people to connect with me. Some people reciprocate. Some don't. That's okay. I still need to be who I am. And God has shown me through a new friendship with someone I feel like I've known all my life, that when someone does reciprocate, it is such a rich and wonderful experience.

So why do I write? Is it for the response, or for the experience of expressing something important in me?  It's definitely the latter. The people who are meant to respond will. Working with BetterLesson has been such an amazing experience both professionally and personally. It is so refreshing to regularly have my ideas and contributions valued. It has provided me with the desire to re-enter that creative space personally.

Winning the When Words Count retreat has given me new focus and determination. I'll be enjoying a week of writing at the When Words Count Retreat Center in Vermont at the end of February, and I'm putting a plan in motion to rediscover my love for writing and creativity. I'll be blogging about my journey here.

I almost didn't enter the contest because I wondered if I even considered myself a writer anymore.  But I am a writer, and this is just the motivation I needed to remember who I am, and what I do. Afrika writes.