So many changes have occurred over the last three to four months.
Things happened that I expected like:
- My kid driving – Really Driving. Like For Real All By Herself. Like No One Else In The Car With Her. Like By Herself. You moms out there that have teens that are new drivers how do you deal with this? I don’t know how to deal with this. I literally followed her around the first day, sort of how you do when you’re teaching them to ride a bike, when I couldn’t someone else was. All I could remember is not wanting to let go…eventually I did, but I cried the entire time. Not because of fear, but because of the loss that I felt. She’s growing and less needy and I miss her already.
- Moving to a different part of town, leaving the familiarity of a home and neighborhood that I’ve lived in since coming from college.
- Weight gain – you can’t eat that much and expect to stay a little chubby…eventually you’ll get fat…I got…a little chubbier, bastards. *offers you shifty side eyes*
- Pretty sweet changes at work (The gig that pays the bills right now) – like for real good changes. I’m stoked.
Things happened that I didn’t expect like:
- The independence and growth of my little girl.
- The independence and growth of myself.
- The resilience learned when things DON’T come to pass.
- Weight gain—you can’t eat that much and expect to stay a little chubby…eventually you’ll get fat—wait I said this already. I think you get it.
- Book legal mumbo jumbo making things official in my (literary) world; which is frightening and also surreal (In a good way).
- A HUMONGOUS SLUMP. LIKE WITH LIFE, WORK, KID, MY OWN INVOLVMENT WITH PROCRASTINATION, I WAS IN A SEVERE SLUMP. DIDN’T WRITE A THING. NOT ONE THING. TRIED. BUT NOTHING. LIKE FOR REAL DRY AS MENOPAUSE…or so I hear. I really wish I hadn’t heard that, because it bummed me out. I’ve got about 25-30 good years left apparently. LOL
Things didn’t happen that I expected to happen like:
- Releasing Wanted, which is now Wanted, Those Laskins Boys series– Date pushed to December which ultimately bums me out because other things are pushed back because of this. The bright side—and keep it mind that it took me a while to get there—is that I’ve had time to rework/word some things that didn’t work. Figure out another direction and realized that there’s a pretty dope series in this tale. Yeah, that’s it. That’s what I’ll keep telling myself. Anyway, hopefully, it’ll make someone an awesome Christmas gift. In the meantime, stay tuned for excerpts.
- Weight loss—you can’t eat that much and expect to stay a litt—to hell with this, I didn’t lose weight, but I didn’t try that hard, so whateves.
Anyway there were changes that happened and changes that didn’t happen, but the constant, change will happen.
I didn’t edit this or proof read it.
I needed to get it out.
If you judge me, then I’ll refer you to the phonetics of the beginning of this sentence…
*chubby girl wink*
I’m writing in an opened space.
I got the clarity that I was seeking; the moment that I so strongly wanted all last week, and so much more. I was afforded the thoughts that were jumbled or willed away by the happenings of life.
The thought of this seems weird. At 10:16 tonight, it’ll be more than a notion.
I was just holding her on my hip.
Hell, I was just carrying in her my womb.
I was just taking her off to her first day of school.
I just bought her Junior Debutante dress.
I was just explaining the intricacies of being a female and all the weight that, that carries.
And now, my little, semi-sweet, chocolate, pudding is suddenly at the age where independence is hers for the taking.
Life will seem grand through her newly freed eyes. She’ll enjoy it on levels that mommy no longer will be able to supply.
That frightens me.
That makes me happy.
It was during the sixteenth year of my own life, when she came to existence and I pray, preach, and scream for her not to have to write this same post at thirty-two-years old.
Though now, I can count her as a blessing because having another child is nearly medically impossible for me, but who knows things could happen…but it won’t bother me any if they don’t. Because of her early presence in my life, I was afforded something that many women with my disorder won’t be. I got to experience childbirth.
Then it didn’t seem all that fantastic.
Now, I’m thankful.
Happy Birthday, Sweetheart!
My pretty, little, darling, will be off to college soon and I’ll be—for the first time—an uninhibited woman free to do the things that being a young mother hadn’t afforded me to do. You know the stuff like just up and moving when I please, kind of just do whatever the heck I want to do without being considerate of someone else’s feelings.
I don’t think any mom can do that…so I digress, but at least I’ll get the chance to live alone.
The thought? At one time sexy to me.
Now? It’s scary.
I’ve lived my life for her and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
She is my everything. EVERYTHING.
The reason to breathe, the reason to love, the reason to believe, the reason to keep going…when I’ve wanted to stop.
I miss her already.
I want to hold her tight and not allow her the freedoms that she deserves.
I want to protect her from the world that she’ll now see through new eyes.
I want to keep her the little baby that held on to me for dear life when strangers were around.
I want to keep her the little one that said, “Don’t worry, mommy. We’ll be okay, huh?” with bright-eyed optimism that said I could and would fix everything for her with just a simple band-aid.
I want to protect her from the heartbreak she’ll experience.
I want to protect her from the failures that she’ll take personally.
I want to protect her from the mistakes that she’ll make and more importantly, I’d like to protect her from herself.
She’s wonderful, adventurous and has no care in the world about being herself.
She calls herself the Black-Hippie. Which, yes. All complete yes.
She’s awesome, dope.
And really, those of us born in the 80s know that being dope is a very important part of life.
But, that’s scary to a mom that wants her to be the same little one that thought that a band-aid could fix everything.
I’ll have to let go.
I don’t like this idea.
I’ll adhere to the rules.
She’ll be off to live her own life very soon and I’ll have to begin…again.
Yeah, I miss her.
Happy Birthday, Baby.
I love you, lights out!
This Is a Blog Post. I Am a Writer. This Is How I Write…and other surly things
Okay, so let me thank my “kindred” and super awesome writer friend, extremely talented, just all around dope person and Author, Kennedy Ryan for even thinking of me for this whole blog hop/how you write thing. Whether I was first on the list or last, it means a ton to a newcomer like myself.
I don’t ever think that I could express the gratitude.
Right now, however, I’m impatiently awaiting the release of the first book in her Bennett’s trilogy, When You Are Mine. Order in advance, stat!
Having said that, I graciously accept the “blog hop baton” from her, as well as the talented and crazy witty gal; Author Eliza Freed
I feel kind of nervous-gutty to be following such wonderful story tellers, but I’ll do my best. Would you like to hear it? Here it go! Those of you who remember the nineties and Calhoun Tubbs from In Living Color definitely remember that line.
Anyway, here goes…
What are you currently writing?
Hmm…well…see…it’s…like…well…wait, what was the question?
I’m working on my FIRST (you read that right) release into the world of fiction. It started off as a novella, one that I was going to just self publish to sort of get my feet wet, but after receiving drafts back from the lady that ensures my stories, you know, make sense (LOL, but serious), I was encouraged to make the short tale a complete novel.
No problem, right?
Wrong. The short tale went from novella to series in fast-point-zero seconds.
The first book in the series is called Wanted, and without going into a full-fledged synopsis (by the way I detest trying to write those things), it’s about a woman who hasn’t had the easiest of lives, but has tried damned hard to live by the book—not the bible— but, by following the sort of unpaved path and unwritten rules. You know, the ones that say, graduate high school, go to college, get a job, find a husband, have children, live happily ever after.
Yeah, that one.
The thing is, that’s damn hard to do with a mother that’s a drunk (not a lovable one either, but funny as hell), and a father who loves the drunk ’til death (literally) does them part. When things sort of hit the fan for her, she starts to look at life differently.
Enter a sexy man to stir things up right nice.
“Sexy man” has had the complete opposite life of “By the Book Gal,” and has literally followed the rules and succeeded. But within a span of six-months, all the rules fly out of the window. You can’t have rules when your wife dies two months after giving birth—to your first and only child—and four months after that, your mother passes away.
How in hell does one recover from that?
It was ridiculously hard, but regroup he has. He had to; a five-year-old little boy and a sickly father were depending on him. After such an ordeal and few years of living his life numbly, “Sexy Man” begins to reevaluate his life and just as he does, he’s tortured by the likes of a woman that he meets in the worst way possible.
“By the book gal.”
Instantaneous sparks and other cliché romance novel things happened at first sight, but what happens after, has caused me a many sleepless night and a many smiles and giggles.
I’m praying that it’ll do the same for you.
Seriously, that’s not the synopsis, but that tends to sum it up.
You curious or nah? #Hip
Oh yeah, the release date for this was originally in June, but due to the fact that my characters and that lady that I spoke of earlier needed/wanted more, it’s been pushed to July 8th. Be there or be square.
But no, seriously be there. Please?
What makes your work different?
If you’ve bothered to look at my website, if you’ve seen my tweets, or if you know me personally, I’m sort of The Cosby Show’s, Denise Huxtable, meets Freddy from A Different World, turned Joan Clayton from Girlfriends, sort of girl. I’m slightly a mess, but I’m all for the cause (whichever one I love at the moment), and about my business. I’m polka dots and stripes. I love bright things and bright colors (I think my web layout can attest to that). I wish my house was decorated in all glitter. It’s not, but it’s bright in here. I also love funny stuff and anytime a situation is too heavy for me…I gotta go find something fun and/or funny to do. My work is sort of like that. It’s not the traditional deep romance and I won’t necessarily call it RomCom…it’s fun-love. For a while, admittedly, I struggled with finding MY
voice; because after reading so many wonderful romance novels, it’s hard not to lapse into a tone that belongs to one of your favorite authors.
When I did, when I really decided to pursue this writing thing with my all, I realized that what I was missing was me. No, my characters are definitely not me in any likeness, but there are bits of my own personality in my writing. A personality that loves to golf, but hates watching it, that can quote Jay-Z and Biggie in the same sentence, but appreciates and adores the Arias of Giacomo Puccini and Leo Delibes, the one that wears her natural curls when feeling funky, but straightens out the hair when it’s time for business, the one that curses sailor-like during the week and Sunday afternoon, but crosses her legs at the ankle and uses a lap cloth in church if warranted.
Yeah, so, my work and my characters are laced with this.
What makes my work different? It is the exact same thing that makes me different; it’s mine and there’s no one else like me/it.
Did I sell it? If yes, thanks, I felt pretty good about the pitch.
If no, then don’t criticize without direction. Offer up something, damn it. The comments below will allow you to do just that. Thanks! J
Why do you write what you do?
I’m in love with love. I love the idea of love, I love the concept of love, and I loooovvvve loving (yes, in every sense of the word) and I want everyone else to feel the same way. I thought about Women’s Fiction, but at the end of the day, whatever ailment or story that I gave my Heroine, the fix was always love. I feel like that’s the fix for any ailment in real life…but I pilot my own flights of fancy with rose colored aviators.
Seriously, the concept of love has always fascinated me. The one and only emotion that has the ability to provide and prolong other emotions like fulfillment, happiness, courage, passion, etc. to me, is the greatest thing in the world. To watch a person fall in love in real life is amazing, hell, to fall in love in real life is amazing. To be able to orchestrate the process and know the outcome without the proverbial butterflies or fear? Incredible.
So, I tried it. I did it.
Now, I do it.
What is your writing process?
I hate everything about structure. It’s a naturally ingrained part of my entire being that won’t allow me to just have a damned process. No matter how hard I try.
And that’s not just with writing, it’s with anything.
When I write, there’s an idea, there’s a beginning and there’s an ending. The direction that I take and the path that I choose is up for grabs. I’ve tried it all; note cards, plot boards, story boards, all sort of damned boards, but nothing has worked…with the exception of just sitting down and writing. I hear you “Writing Gurus” call that being a “Pantser,” well, here’s what I call you “Writing Gurus”…never mind, I may need you later.
Seriously, I just write. I have a blackberry Q10 because when the ideas are there, I gotta get ’em down. I hate using real paper and pen, though if the battery’s low on the ol’ Q10 then I’ll go for it.
I guess there’s a bit of a process that I use and that’s giving my characters their names and bios as well as their birth certificate, which seriously, I legit have a birth certificate of each of them and in my series cases, I have marriage licenses. Of course, I’ve created each of those, but it helps me keep up with the type of person they were, are or are going to be. I think that’s about it. I’m sure this didn’t provide you with an ounce of enlightenment but who the hell ca—never mind, I meant to say, thank you for reading.
Up next on this blog-hop/writing-process-thingy my lovers and others, Author Necole Ryse Seriously, I can’t wait for hers and I can’t wait to read her new book which is due…well, I’ll let her explain it from here. In the meantime, please, I beg you to check out one of the DOPEST thing I’ve read in a while.
The concept? Brilliant.
So, today is a day of love, of wonderfulness, of kindness, of sexy thoughts and naughty parts, and I’m here for it. Every drop of it. However, I’d be remiss if I didn’t take the time to jot this down; the time to allow my present self to chastise my former self…and to also be thankful for her as well. There are a few posts here about a guy that I spent too many years of my youth (listen, my early youth, because I’m still young. Thank you kindly. Shit.*stares at you and dares you to refute*) and there’s a lot about him in those post that don’t necessarily paint him in a good light. Trust me it was well deserved. Okay, okay, it wasn’t all bad. The times that I didn’t spend crying, or angry, or pissed, or worn, or battle weary, I spent laughing, smiling…loving him. I’m not angry that it happened; I’m angry at how everything happened. It was hard losing a best-friend, a lover, a partner, a confidant, just…a what was once a wonderful human being, but I’m thankful that I opened my eyes and saw what really needed to happen. The first year, (three years ago) after our break up on a day like today, I thought that I’d never laugh, smile, even love again because I was a woman scorned. I was hurt, I was angry, and I felt foolish. Foolish? Yes, foolish. Why? Because I, from a family of WELL educated African-American, strong, independent (yet dependent when warranted) women, raised by a father that said take no shit and give lots of hell, had succumbed to what amounted to an unhealthy relationship. There was no violence, (that I’ll admit to now, because…well, I want you to come back and read more whenever I decide to open my heart up and write part three or four –I can’t remember and I ain’t going back to fact check, so shut up—of the saga of that crazy relationship in which I speak.) (I was going to type “speak of” right there, but the prepositional ending got me, so I changed it. You’re welcome, critics.) There was no mental abuse, none of that stuff (or was it…stay tuned. o_O) Anyway, the point is it wasn’t all gravy and I should’ve known better. I was warned, I’d been told, I’d even given advice to friends and some family members to stay away from the exact situation I was in, but I didn’t listen to myself or anyone else. So, yeah, on days like today, three years ago, I was puke-gut sick. Like for real y’all, sick. Sick, because I reminisced about all of the good dudes that I had maybe passed up to stay with this one guy that deep down in the pit of my spirit I knew was never any good for me, but for whatever stupid reason that I may have had, I stayed. I was sick because I remembered on days like today, what I wanted to remember. I remembered the flowers he brought me, the candy he brought, the envious and jealous looks that I received from co-workers, the wowed eyes that I got from the students in my class, the jittery feeling that I got when I knew those roses, those candies, those cards were from me, and they expressed how he felt. I didn’t remember the next night sending silly messages of “Where are you?” I didn’t remember calling too many times, never getting an answer, but listening to that stupid voice message over and over and each time getting excited that this might be the time that he might pick up and tell me the current lie of the day.. I didn’t remember feeling puke-gut sick when I found out that those cards, those roses, those candies, those sexy pieces of lingerie were all just tangible items that held me over until the next heart break and brake. But on today, three-years-later, as I prepare to have a wonderful evening—something that I never thought I’d be able to do, because as stated, I was battle wearied, I was hurt, broken, confused, angry—I’m glad to remember it all. The good, the bad, the worst, because without it, I wouldn’t know how to be thankful, I wouldn’t know what a real relationship was, and I wouldn’t have had fodder for my soul. Damn the chicken soup.
The point, ladies and gentlemen, is that no matter how bleak it looks right now, no matter how bad being alone (if you’re alone) right now may hurt (what you think hurts), absorb this feeling. Enjoy it; be thankful for it, because there’s a lesson there somewhere. There’s a story there somewhere, there’s a reason there somewhere. Instead of crying or being angry, or wondering…just try figuring it out…or you know, don’t. What the hell do I know, I’m just out here tryna make money to feed muh daughta, it’s all good baebe babaee (RIP Biggie Smalls…you hip hop heads will get that that, for the rest of you, who the hell cares?) Anyway, if no one else has said this to you today, then let me be the first. I love you and I mean it…you know as much as I can without knowing who the hell you are. Whatever to your faces! 🙂
Vive Sine Paenitentia
Res Ipsa Loquitur.
As for the other shit that hurt. Y’all, I’ve got a brand new pair of Spanx and I promise you nothing has ever been more uncomfortable (sans childbirth) but damn it, I’m kicking ass in this shape hugging dress. Suck it universe and society that are trying to make me lose weight. No way. No way! I laugh at you, because these Spanx are doing the trick. Never mind I can feel all of this chubby pushing against my bladder. Never mind it, I say!
Note: I legit didn’t edit this, this time, becuase I’m fixinta go *virginia drawl*. I mean, I caught what I could, but I didn’t go back and proof, so if there’s something out of place, grammatically incorrect, or misspelled… keep it to your damned self, you judgemental shrews. No, seriously, though, I love you. Really. Whateves.
I waited for a while
I listened for a while
I hoped for a while
I prayed for a while
I still believe
I’m fed up, I’ve had enough
And that’ll be enough.
Vive Sine Paenitentia
Res Ipsa Loquitur.
So, here’s the thing…this year I’m making NO resolutions. Why? ‘Cause every time I-do, I break ’em. (Read that in southern and you’ll laugh)
i.e. I tried to psych myself out and make an end of the year resolution that would just carry over to this year, it was fairly easy, one that said I would blog every day. Totally attempted to for three days. Went strong. Rocked. Day four? It all went to pot. Not the drugs, stupid. That’s a saying from the ultra southern (read country) women in my family.
So yeah, no resolutions. Why? Because I’m tired of lying to myself and I’m tired of silly internal failures.
I take those things to heart.
This year, I win life. No resolutions. No failures.
Only took me thirty-two years but I got it. Got it good, too. And with no hands. Damn right, I did. Thanks. (Insert sassy head nod and long eye-blink)
I get the whole new-skin of it. New year. New chances. Different outcomes. Etcetera, Etcetera.
Sidebar: Listen, was that a little pretentious of me to spell it out? Yes. Who cares.
Anyhoooo, like I said I get it. I get that we all revel in the chance to start over, but here’s the thing, do we really ever start over? Do we really ever completely begin again? You know, brand spanking new? I do NOT think so. Unless one of you bastards have crawled back into the uterus and demanded a do over, let’s move along. So yeah, no, no starting over. We can try again, yes. We’re always welcomed to try again, give it another shot, whatever “it” may be. And I will, I will continue to try until there’s no tries left.
i.e. If like I’m on world 8-4 or 8 and that’s the last world in the game (read life) and Jesus is all like, “Well, you didn’t slay the dragon, so you’re done now.” (Read that in a sanctimonious Jesus voice and you’ll laugh and get it) then I guess all my tries are over. I imagine I’ll be okay with that. But then, satisfied is something that I’m no longer willing to be or accept so I also imagine that there will be some sort of Jesus-Me debate…not saying that I’m going to win, but like for real, I think I could give it a good go. Is this sacrilegious, smite-worthy, and/or blasphemous? Yes. You sure? Yikes. *commences to rectify*
Side bar: Jesus, listen, I’m a writer, I’m colorful. No harm, no foul. K? Thanks…oh yeah and Amen. *looks around for determined lightening rods”
No resolutions was what we were talking about, right? Yes. Good.
So yeah, no resolutions, only a very resolute promise to myself to continue to try. After all, that’s all we can ever do…right? (I think you get it.)
Happy New Year!
Vive Sine Paenitentia
Res Ipsa Loquitur.
Note: Refer to the unedited part of this blog.
Note again: Soon I’ll stop giving a damn and let you correct me all willy nilly, you pretentious, good spelling, grammar having, no-editor-needing, no-proofreader-needing, snobs.
Note again, again: And I’ll still love you just the same.
Tonight I’m heading to the Battle of the Bands between the high school that my kid attends and the high school that I attended…ironically enough, she also attended this school.
In a much different capacity.
During the fall of 1997, curiosity in all its splendid glory, literally killed the cat (pun intended).
I had sex.
During the spring of 1998 I had a daughter.
During the summer of 1998 I turned 17.
Yeah, go ahead do the math (add ‘em up).
So, yeah, she was at school with me…not everyday silly, but I marched in the band that they’re (my kid’s school) battling against this year. My mother was the PTA President and the Band Booster President, very active in school, and even though, her daughter, who played sports, instruments (yeah plural) in all bands, and was a pretty good student got pregnant in the 11th grade, she didn’t hide her face. She wouldn’t let me hide mine either, or my baby for that matter, which meant, at the PTA meetings my babe was up there by mother and during the band competitions much like the one tonight, she (my babe) was decked out in Green and Gold garb, beside my mom and the rest of my family cheering her mother on. I’m not ashamed. I’m not very proud of the ill-thought out decision (my kid isn’t a mistake, her mother didn’t make the best decisions at the time), but I’m not ashamed. Around about now, she’s looking like a blessing, because the sheer fact that she’s even here, is a miracle in and of it’s self. I have PCOS and tried several times to actually get pregnant.
The feat? Undoable.
So no, I’m not ashamed. At all.
As mentioned in previous blogs, I’m one of the few fortunate ones to have had a support system that allowed me to finish school, go off (out of state) to college, complete undergrad and post grad studies, and you know, just live like I was normal.
I spent a lot of time aware that I wasn’t. I left my kid with my parents for two years, (but she may as well have not been left, because during marching band season (see previous blogs, etc., blah) my mother was there every weekend with my kid routing me on, like she always did. When the season was over, (when I wasn’t off somewhere being even faster than what I was (see previous blogs)) I was home being a mom. In-spite of those things, I didn’t miss out on much, my life is comparable now, to that of any thirty-two-year-old woman.
The exception? My FIFTEEN-year-old daughter.
Tonight, I’ll be heading back into that same gym, where my spat covered feet marched, where I played basketball, where my senior convocation was held, where I watched one boyfriend or another wrestle, where my friends and I laughed and played during Gym class, where life seemed sooo much different then it is now…and my soul can’t help but to look back and wonder how I got over.
Not too many teen moms make it to the point that I am in, in life. I’ve been afforded luxuries that they don’t get. You know, post high school education, other luxuries in life that have afforded me at the age of 32 to buy my newly, Learner’s Permitted Daughter a car, that ain’t (that’s right, you heard me) run-down (or in the words of 80’s babies, a hoo-ride or a hoopty), live in a nice home, in a nice neighborhood, and have a little money in my pocket to be able to switch careers to do what the dream is. In-spite of the humongous mess my life could’ve been, it’s turned out pretty great. And tonight, as I step in the gym, I’ll be even more thankful to the woman that will be sitting next to me, routing on that same baby that once sat next to her, routing me on.
Thanks, MOM! I love you and I appreciate and am thankful for you and my kid, more than either of you could ever know!
Vive Sine Paenitentia
Res Ipsa Loquitur.
Note: Refer to the unedited part of the tagline to this blog.