Muhammad Adeel

Inside A Writer’s Life 5 A Limited Series Episode 5 Keep It Real S. LYNN CONTENTS Prologue Recap CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2 CHAPTER 3 CHAPTER 4 CHAPTER 5 CHAPTER 6 CHAPTER 7 CHAPTER 8 CHAPTER 9 CHAPTER 10 CHAPTER 11 CHAPTER 12 CHAPTER 13 CHAPTER 14 About The Author More Books by S. Lynn PROLOGUE With most folks I learned early on that talking about what’s on sale is the safest subjects we can have. So, having a place to put intense issues became more detrimental than I would ever realize. Early on I learned I had to command my respect rather than assume it would be given. Today when I think about some of the people I’ve been subjected to over the years, it is to their advantage I prioritize my thinking to fit what works best for me and not act solely on emotion. It apparently never occurred to such individuals that I might need their sincere empathy to embrace whatever might be going on with them. Ideally, we’d like to have people around us that encourage and support our efforts even if they’re not sincerely interested. Even religion or Christianity is taking a beating in what many continually call our end days. Every day is the end of something and the beginning of something else. I’m left with the impression it is not for me to fully embrace any religious philosophies. I embrace the word Good, as God is good. Good is the higher power within. The better part of who we are. But imagine existing in a world most of your life that is contrary to who you are inside. When you feel your back is against the wall you either give up or fight back. Writing is the only weapon I’m willing to use. I pray I am not antagonized into anything more. As a writer I like the mix of intense drama with mild humor I describe as intriguingly serious but lighthearted. This would also describe my real world quite adequately. I grew up reading the traditional romances and I mean a library of them and initially wanted to write such stories. It was a long time before realizing my gut writing, in my opinion, is my best work. It’s like finding a place inside you and presenting what you feel most strongly about. I thought writing a fictional memoir, inspired by actual events would be easy. I discovered it is the emotional connection that make it difficult. Some might be outraged at what I divulge while others will laugh out loud at what a fluff piece it is. I will present the events based on how I remember and perceived them. I write from the heart. In fiction I’m true to the characters and story I’ve created. With my essays I needed to get some things off my chest and strongly felt it was observations you all needed to hear. I considered the various things that went on around me in the last nine years and felt this book was handed to me on a silver platter and couldn’t pass it up. I knew my valued privacy would be lost to some extent with the decision to move back to my old community and its new vibe. But I didn’t anticipate my nerves and my patients taking the beating that it did. Here, I will obviously exaggerate a little and pull the shade on some details. This account of my life is about relationships, how they link to my writing, how I struggle to stay motivated and focused despite the distractions. It starts around the later part of 1998, the journal version in May of 2005 and the computer manuscript file in January 2006. The original title was, ‘My Grandfathers House, Inside A Writer’s Life. Setting Boundaries In A Noisy World’. Struggling with health care, debilitating stress related issues and bad credit slamming the bars behind this lateral move; I figure I may as well write about my time here. It is in this house where I proudly wrote my first books. This is a behind the scenes look at the many diverse distractions surrounding me as I attempt to write a book to completion. Knowing it was still empty; it was one Sunday after church when I asked about the two-bedroom basement apartment. My Dad, the current official owner of the property agreed to let me rent it knowing the place needed a lot of work. But once the deal was sealed the next four weeks while packing, I dreamed about what it would be like to live on that side of the city again. I say dreams, but they felt more like nightmares. RECAP I wasn’t writing all the time. Platonic friend, Old Joe lived in the middle of an infamous hang spot by the railroad tracks. My dad would be happy to know the ice is broken between me and his new tenant, his 22-year-old God daughter, Charity. The funeral is the last time I’d seen keyboard player Tiny but still couldn’t believe how I’d flipped out after running into him at the club that night. Infamous music legend Gee and I reconnected by phone as he made unfulfilled promises to come spend time with me in Chicago. I knew Copper Penny was the grounded me. The one raised in church on the westside of Chicago. But the fictional characters that dominated my thoughts needed a home so despite whatever was going on around me, I had to write. I had to filter my opinions, my deep feelings through them. The now Pastor Rome was the strong teen-age crush that wasn’t meant to be. The unscrupulous activity saturating the community continued to amaze me. Computer guru Reece was the exception but fell permanently in the friend zone. I make myself laugh out loud when I remember my cards and letters to Bill. Gaylan and that infamous hang spot is a distant memory. I prefer to remember the suit and tie Rimani, our summer lakefront picnics and touring fabulous condos for sale as if we could afford to buy one. Mom’s birthday flood was emotionally devastating but overall, a small setback. I didn’t lose Faron as I never really had him. Just twenty-four hours of how good a relationship can be. I will always be grateful to him for providing that brief breath of fresh air. My siblings were living the life they chose for themselves and I continue to focus on mine. Making this move solidified what I already knew. That it wasn’t about where I live but what I wanted to do. I could write my books from anywhere in the world and feel the gratification of having had my say without interruption. Living back here came with plenty of distractions but also provided me with a strong motivation to succeed. CHAPTER 1 My first book signing was that June at Chicago’s McCormick Place Center, the 2004 Book Expo America. That Friday seeing former president Clinton at the expo promoting his book, made this feel even more special to me. I was scheduled for Saturday and Sunday at two different booths. I had been planning for this since January of that year. No matter what else might be going on around me, I made a point to continually put some effort in my writing career. I needed to feel something good was coming my way and didn’t want to rely on wishful thinking. I invested in five copies of each of my books, the most I’ve ever had at one time to date. I loved just looking at them stacked up near my rolling suitcase. It was zipped open containing one acrylic 8X10 flyer stand, business cards, promotional post cards and 5X8 flyers I designed on my computer and had copied at a print shop. I also had promotional ink pens with my website address. I was trying to think of everything. My mom volunteered to buy me a new pantsuit while cruising the mall one week. Even though I have the money, Mom will often offer to buy me something when we’re out, but I normally decline. This time I took the offer and purchased a purple pants suit that included a mid-length skirt with a slight split up the back. I look like an old lady in the skirt and preferred the pants. I wanted the skirt to have something else to wear to church. The color purple matches the design on my website. When it comes to spending money, I prioritize the many different directions I’m trying to take with what little I have after all the important bills are paid. I had to keep up with office supplies like one ink cartridge is close to $60.00 and DSL internet made my phone bill one hundred dollars or more per month, but the internet is my main source of inexpensive marketing and communication, especially with my publisher. Buying clothes, shoes or jewelry is a luxury. Cable or satellite TV is a luxury. Hitting the club, fast food, or having my hair done at a salon is a luxury. To this day I have never had a professional manicure, pedicure or full body massage. But for this very special occasion I walked across the bridge to De LaSalle hair salon to get a line and my ends clipped. As often as I wear wigs and weaves, for some reason it was important to me I wear my own hair that weekend. Leading up to this event I did good to ignore the butterflies in my stomach. For some reason this book signing was something I just had to do, and that desire was in a serious battle with my anxiety. Mom had also loaned me $1,300 to buy a car and was in the process of looking for one. Exactly one week before the big weekend I had decided on a rental car. This was something I never did before and looking forward to driving a newer car with a working radio and air conditioning. As luck will have it, Dad found a ‘93’ LeSabre in the paper at my price. That Sunday he took me to the owner’s house to check it out. The outside look pretty good but you could tell it had been in an accident. The windshield was cracked. The lock on the trunk broken and couldn’t see what was happening in there. The dirty oil stained, peeling interior indicated the car was used for hauling. The power locks and windows weren’t working on the right side and there was a big gaping hole where the radio should be. On a test drive it was obvious the brakes needed major work as Dad’s mechanic friend said he had to practically stand on them before the car would stop. After driving an ‘85’ Plymouth Reliant about fourteen years, this big modern looking car was like a brand-new Cadillac and couldn’t believe it would be mine. Dad talked the seller down to $800 dollars pointing out all the work that was needed. We went flying to my bank and I pulled out the cash we needed but that’s when everything changed. He tried to play it off but of course I’d figured out Dad wasn’t feeling good and had to stop by the house so he could lay down for a minute. He was saying we could leave and go pick up my car after he rest. I was like forget that car. The car wasn’t that important. But Dad barked out orders from the sofa deciding me and my mother should get the young man who lived upstairs with his wife and kids to go with us to pick up the car otherwise someone else might come along and get it. My mother and me fussed all the way over there convinced we shouldn’t have left him home alone. Mom instructed me not to leave when we got back as she was pretty sure we would have to take Dad to the hospital if we could get him to go. Of course, there was a glitch after the title and cash exchange. The power in the car wouldn’t allow me to move the seat up and my feet didn’t reach the petals. I couldn’t drive the car, and neither could mom, so the young man had to. It was dark by the time we got back to the house. I was told to stay outside on the porch. My already frazzled nerves were shot by now. Having noticed the flurry of activity in and out of this usually quiet house, a few neighbors came by the gate and asked me if everything was okay. I just shook my head and said I don’t know. A nerve wreaking twenty minutes went by before my mother came out handing me keys to pull her car up in front of the house and open the back door. I nervously sat in the car waiting another twenty minutes tears now streaming down my face honestly wishing someone else were here to deal with this. Two of the neighborhood young men that grew up with Vernon stood by the gate looking as worried as I was. I saw people standing on their front porch looking when my parents finally came out. Mom was holding Dads right arm while the boys offered to help. I could hear Dad refusing but before he could get halfway down the steps, he passed out almost bringing mom down with him. The neighborhood boys rushed in picking him up carrying him to the car. I could hear neighbors saying call an ambulance. I was thinking that was an excellent idea but could just hear both my parents disagreeing because that outrageous bill would be added to all the others. I kept waiting for someone stronger to slide under the steering wheel and take charge. I really didn’t like being in a car at this point let alone driving due to an occurrence that took place a few months prior to this. The twelve stitches over my chin hadn’t heeled yet. My hands were literally shaking trying to put the car in drive and barely felt any sensation in my legs. They put Dad in the back seat and mom got in the front with me. As soon as the doors were closed, I took off like being handed the wheel of my grandfather’s speedboat and headed into open water. The tightness in my chest almost cut off my breath and had to keep taking several deep breaths. I never felt anything like this in my life. Halfway to the hospital Dad woke up long enough to tell me I was driving too fast. He scared the heck out of my mother and me but then we both laughed. It released a lot of tension. Mom was surprisingly smooth, but later admitted she’d been through this a few times before. CHAPTER 2 I knew all the repairs wouldn’t be made on my new car by next weekend and decided to pick up the rental as planned, a 2002 candy apple red Ford Escort. I loved it. I had air conditioning and a radio that work. Interior felt fresh and new something I never had in the last five used cars. Let’s see the first one I got was a yellow Maverick when I started college, later a red ‘67’ Galaxy I nick named the tank, then the aqua marine blue Camaro which I associate with my years working at the hospital. After that, there was a yellow station wagon Dad sold me or did, he give it to me? The red Reliant, a gray Cutlass I barely remember and now the dark greenish blue LeSabre in need of some work before it’s drivable. It took a few blocks to get use to this escort but an old pro by the time I pulled in front of my house to pick up my rolling case with all my books and marketing material. Thankfully it was a beautiful sunny morning and couldn’t have asked for better weather. This was absolutely me to be doing this. I’ll never forget the surge of excitement and a sense of achievement that swept over me. I felt so much like who I am more so than any other time I can think of. Most of the elements and experiences in my life I just tolerated always wishing I were in a better position to call my own shots. Looking back to the time period where I’d lost everything, including myself, I would’ve never believed this day would come. It was after the initial Tiny episode when I’d gotten where I couldn’t leave the back bedroom of my parents’ house. My hands would perspire and felt nauseous and faint as my heart was beating at an alarming rate. I had to figure out a way to get over this. I had to find a strong incentive and the transformation started with asking Vernon to pick up a Smith Corona typewriter with the last check I got from the hospital. I wasn’t even sure what I was going to do with the typewriter but just knew I wanted one. Eventually I invested in a word processor, and then a more updated word processor. My nephew’s old computer was free and with good reason. Even my first women’s Black Expo and drumming up the courage to stand before that panel of notable authors seem like an eternity ago. Suffice it to say I had come a long way and couldn’t believe I was about to attend my own first book signing. Before I could pull away from the curve, I felt lightheaded and my fingertips started sweating. Not now I thought. Please not now. I looked over at my house with the front brick porch leaning to the left and the top portion in need of a coat of paint knowing I could always say forget it and go back inside. The streets were quiet this early and only the wind in the leaves could be heard. I turned the car off and sat back taking several deep breaths. The logical side of me couldn’t understand why this was happening. I had to wonder if someone else were here would it be enough to distract me from feeling like this. I turned up the radio tuning in a favorite soft rock station. A song that reminded me of the romance between Julian Parker and Crystal Alexander came on. ‘A New Day’ by Celine Dion. This wasn’t a seventies song matching their setting, but it did remind me of that basement apartment, sitting in that little office with my parakeets, the late Fred and Wilma as I worked on the book. It was like existing in two worlds at the same time. The story of Julian and Crystal was my magic carpet ride to a whole new world. I started the car and pulled off. This would be the longest drive in history. With each block I seriously considered turning back but convinced myself I would just circle around the building and come back home. But before I knew it, I was caught up in the flow of traffic that led to the parking attendants flagging us into the garage. Once rolling in there the intensity of what I was feeling slowly subsided. By the time I opened the trunk and retrieved my case I had to wonder what all the fuss was about. I know many people can’t even imagine something like this and wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I’m sure most folks keep it to themselves and think it’s no big deal. Unfortunately for me it’s very real. I see no pattern I can cipher out. Just that I was already worn out and the weekend was just getting started. Some attendees might remember seeing a purple pantsuit with a gray rolling case sailing around the convention floor as I covered every inch. It was great rolling up to The Bowker large elaborate booth. The information on my badge immediately told them I was one of the authors listed in their book and they started falling all over themselves to accommodate me. I honestly hadn’t expected that but certainly appreciated it. Walking pass one of the well-known romance publisher’s booth engraved a visual I’ll never forget. I eventually rolled up on my brothers and sisters with urban fiction publishers pushing the new tales from the hood genre. Weeks after this book expo a writer’s group was still having a field day posting criticisms against these books, feeling they present a negative, onedimensional image of African Americans, and lack quality writing. Personally, if it’s not a romance, I have no serious interest in reading it, but I do study authors writing style. Such books remind me of the Donald Goins, Iceberg Slim book series from the sixty’s and seventies. I can hardly understand what the author is saying the slang is so heavy and different. Right On. The interesting element to this is, in time today’s street life books will reflect this era and young people of the future will be amused at the terminology. Such books do capture an era. But I encourage writers to tell their story as to give this genre the variety it deserves. As strict as my upbringing was, the thug life was never my world no matter how much other folks tried to make it my world, but I’m not above writing about it if it will make me money. This was always an option. I do like the colorful covers these books get. While it might take years to write it, a book can be read in forty-eight hours or less so there is plenty of room for more. Under the erotic fiction genre, I rolled up on author Z’s booth. Her assistant, this young girl was very nice and polite, but Z completely ignored me for some reason. I was excited at first and had no preconceived notions about her for at this point hadn’t read any of her books. When the assistant told me, this booth was Z’s own publishing company I really got interested thinking she might consider picking up one of my books. Z continued to ignore me or just didn’t see me though I doubt it because after a while no one was standing in front of her booth but me. This really didn’t set well with me and wanted to go off especially when another African American woman walked up to the booth and Z immediately turned around and gave this chick her undivided attention. At that moment I felt I was wasting my time standing there and had nothing I wanted to say to her. Not anymore. When I was about to walk away Z shoved an author’s book in my hand insisting, I take it, read it. I did and later posted the candid review online. I’m truly amazed at how this undeserving book and many others manage to get the marketing hype that they do. For sure I was moving in the wrong circles. CHAPTER 3 I collected over fifty books total this weekend and didn’t pick up or take every book that was being given away as some other greedy folks I know would do. I accepted the books I had an interest in reading or felt my brother Dash might like to read. Saturday, I had booked a one-hour spot with the African American mother daughter law firm team. They look so much alike I couldn’t tell who the mother was and who was the daughter. As buyers and library representatives came by the booth, some found it necessary to tell me how to describe my own books. I knew I didn’t need to be in public because I was likely to jump over that table and start clowning. Especially and there were no chairs and had to stand there the whole time. On a few occasions one of the lawyers cut me off placating the interested party. I didn’t feel that was necessary. I thought I was handling things well under the circumstances. In the end I’m sure these extremely nice, wellpolished attorneys considered me a little rough around the edges and wouldn’t be inviting me back next year. It cost $75.00 to reserve this time, display my books and distribute one hundred flyers. Later that day I was exhausted and sitting on the floor along a back wall when I spotted my author friend Kendin. We gave each other a hug and took pictures. It was great to see a friendly familiar face. It wasn’t until this point, when his out of town male author friend walked up, and we were introduced did I become conscious of being by myself. Most people travel in pairs or groups. I always said when I get enough money, I would hire a good-looking male escort, I mean assistant. But Kendin and I had a little bit of a history. When I talked to my platonic author friend Kendin about the real-world characters around me he understood perfectly. Believe it or not Kendin and I met through the personals around the same time I moved in the basement apartment. We were both still working on our first book. We enjoyed lengthy conversations that often lasted until daybreak. I treasure the association we developed during that time. We talked about our characters and the type of stories we hopped to create. Of course, we took time to read other published authors and had quite a bit to say about what commercial publishers were putting on the market. We both felt our own work was much better. It encouraged us to persevere. Kendin originally classified his writings as Christian romance. I would classify my edgy novels, mainstream Christian romance as well. But after reading his first manuscript I was shocked to discover the graphic violence. Also, Kendin’s author voice put a negative slant on women, as if it’s our fault men stray from the word of God. I was offended. If you’re strong in the teachings of Christ, nothing should be able to shake that. I think men may use women as an excuse to do what they were going to do anyway. Nevertheless, I felt Kendin had a good grip on Christian life. Even though his books are saturated with biblical quotes, he wasn’t an extremist, bible-quoting fanatic with a dark side underneath. At least I hope not. Like myself, his writings and philosophy straddled the fence with one foot firmly planted in the real world. I find the hard-core Christian, who only talk about religion, God and the bible shallow and boring. Unfortunately, I’m left feeling this type is covering up some other undesirable element of their personality that will eventually surface. I can appreciate some tasteful, non-critical humor and someone who don’t live in the book of revelations twenty-four seven. I don’t want to morn all through life and rejoice only in the thought of the heaven that awaits me. I want a taste of heaven right here on earth. As a result of my own young adult experiences, I had to come up with my way of keeping faith in God and put in perspective all the different ways in which bible verses are interpreted. Seeds of this is planted throughout the romance with Terry’s reference to slave owners using verses to keep their human property complacent, Julian Parker considering the priesthood and Crystal defending this new church to her older brother. The following scene in the romance is unfortunately a true experience for me. Excerpt… “I would like to point out to sister Alexander that, the Lord, works in mysterious ways. He knows what he is doing. In other words, you don’t question him, you don’t question God!” His voice thundered throughout the church. His intense gaze set on Crystal sent her heart racing with fear. The Elder was obviously angry, angry with her. This had to be someone else’s bad dream she quickly concluded looking behind her. “It’s right here in the book!” He went on patting the bible in his left hand. “I don’t care how right others think they are. I got news for them. Their all goin’ to hell!” “That’s right, that’s right.” The old mother shouted in agreement rocking faster. Something pulled Crystal up out of her seat facing the pulpit, and Elder Seymore. “Can I say something?” She asked nervously, trying to remember what was in her testimony that enraged the saintly leader. “You must have misunderstood what I was saying …” The Elder’s face seems to contort itself into the shape of an evil demon. Part of his expression clearly conveyed his shock at her having the nerve to speak up against him. “Don’t blasphemy God! You don’t blasphemy God!” Elder’s voice again rumbled throughout the room as his right index finger vibrated toward Crystal. The whole church now turned to stare at her. The visiting Elders in the pulpit stood on their feet to get a clear view. *** At the age of sixteen I thought I had found the one place I could go and have peace, but this elder ruined it. It never occurred to me that something like this would really happen. Up until this point I had poured my heart into these people thinking I finally found some real Christians. I had put them on too high a pedestal. I left that day and never returned. Even though he’s been dead for several years now, I still think this elder was wrong and he’d given that church a strong cult vibe as a result. A lot of the main character, Crystal’s emotional turmoil grows out of this one incident. Raised a Baptist then becoming fully immersed in the radical teachings of this sanctified church is the motivation behind my joining a non-denominational one in later years. I found it silly to hear the elder’s prophecy that I would become possessed by seven demons. I played on this analogy in the romance when Crystal takes a drink of champagne during the Florida vacation. She also put on a pair of pants for the first time in years and wears jewelry. All of this really happens to me, but the trip was to California, not to Florida. This is where the character Crystal Alexander meet and hook up with a member of the famous band Universal Madness. This brings us full circle with how Gee and I first meet. It was emotionally traumatic for me to withdraw from the stringent rules of this church, convinced I was committing an unforgivable sin just by putting on a pair of pants, earrings or sleeves above my elbow. CHAPTER 4 Kendin is a tall gangly brother that looks good in a suit. He was too good to be true. In the long run, I believe Kendin concluded I was too rough around the edges for a Christian woman. Considering his writings, I say we’re even. It was a good while before Kendin confessed a slight difference in our age. Our lengthy conversation’s hinted at that and wasn’t too surprised. But the age gap ultimately had me hitting the brakes on a romantic association. As the years progressed, I started not to care about that as I was discovering firsthand how difficult it is to find a mature, intelligent, ambitious, Christian man. In recent years I met this guy that impressed me to be a nice person. We talked on the phone off and on for nearly a year before I’d agree to meet up with him at church. Church service had been especially up lifting that day which is probably why he confessed his life story. This was a warm sunny day heading into spring, creating the illusion that everything is okay and wonderful. So, we decided to meet up later. I wasn’t ready to disclose where I live and now glad I didn’t. He confessed he was on parole after a five-year prison sentence. When he sketched a portrait of just how corrupt and big time his past had been, I honestly couldn’t believe he was that person. His story was truly interesting and equally scary. He accused me of being afraid of him now and I lied and said I wasn’t. But I did encourage him to write his life story. The truth of the matter is, even before his confession, casual dating is all I could see happening between us. Just trying for that is like pulling teeth. Being nice to seemingly nice people come easy to me and always open to making a new friend. But in my experience, if our backgrounds are too different, I know even a friendship will not work. This was an old school African American male from government housing projects. He would assume a well-groomed, proper talking, as he would phrase it, twoparent household raised female like me would look down on someone like him. Even before this one time date was over, sitting there in his broke down vehicle in a downtown brightly lit drugstore parking lot, giant rats running rapid in the nearby evergreen bushes, I was already picking up that, ‘oh you think you’re too good for me’ vibe from him. His assumption would be correct, as by this point in my life I didn’t sympathize with him one bit. If anything, I was upset because this was a waste of my time. Again. I strongly feel I have let people get away with too much and that pressure cooker is going to blow one day. I was tired of people tripping on me for their own brainless reasons. When your young you do things because you’re too stupid to know better, but when you get older it’s because you’re convinced things will never get any better, and you have nothing to lose. That’s why I couldn’t be afraid. I was poised and ready for him to try something. I guess he thought, maybe he could pull a good woman like me, and I was hoping he turned out to be one of the good guys, a doctor, lawyer, or levelheaded minister from a family of the same. But we were both out of luck that night. If he stays out of rehab like he swears he will this time, it might be a good woman out there for him. So, despite the age difference, Kendin was looking better to me all the time. As young as I discovered him to be, he had no kids, never been married and was already a college graduate, worked as a reporter for a small newspaper and living in his own single-family home. I remember that 4th of July we went to the show arriving at the mall just before their annual fireworks show. It was smoldering hot outside, and there's something very romantic and bigger than life when it comes to fireworks. I knew we were not on the same page, which is why I never told Kendin how very special this holiday, felt to me. Shortly after this, I had my characters Crystal and Julian get caught in a thunderstorm after leaving Chicago’s great July 3rd. fireworks show. I added the storm to that scene because it also reminded me of the hospital years when one summer, I briefly dated a University of Chicago resident student. CHAPTER 5 Chris was tall and slim with thick curly blond hair. He had the persona of a doctor, as I was most attracted to his strength of character. He was this no nonsense intellectual. I like the way he gently claimed me from the first night we met. Chris never seemed bothered by anything and not by our racial differences even when we went out with his friends who weren’t as relaxed with my presence. But I did sense an, ‘I like that in you’ vibe from them. For some reason I felt he garnered more respect from them after being seen with me. Chris was proud to show off the writings he already had published in thick medical journals. I remember sitting on the edge of his twin bed staring at the pages knowing I didn’t understand a thing it said. This is a time in my mid-twenties when writing was the furthest thing on my mind. I was busy crushing tablets and preparing I V’s in the pharmacy, as well as hanging out at Rush street bars after my second shift. Yet, it was something about his enthusiasm and sense of accomplishment that rubbed off on me. Now that I reflect on it, there are several scenes in the romance, I pulled from this relationship, but I was conscious of not inserting the emotion packed kiss Chris and I shared in the pouring rain on the university campus one night after seeing a movie. Knowing how well I could detail it, I wanted to keep that special just between us. I never thought you could feel love so soon after meeting someone, but when everything falls into place, you can’t help it. My pride soared the night I picked him up at his hospital’s emergency room entrance after his shift. He was the supervising intern on duty and seeing how the nurses and staff respectfully interacted with him left me feeling intimidated and nervous once we were alone. This was ridiculous of course considering how close we’d become by this time. We did have our moments, mostly surrounding his preoccupation with baseball games and keeping up with papers. If I recall correctly, he was there on a scholarship through the Catholic Church and expected to eventually take a vow of celibacy before fully incorporating the priesthood. I suspected he was lying about this to endear himself to me. But how he treated me accomplished this and didn’t seem like the type to lie about it. If I were to adopt Dads philosophy, I should assume all men are perverts and up to no good. Chris and I spent an equal amount of time at each other’s place but the priest I eventually met in the fraternity house was pleasant toward me but understandably with a look of disapproval. Chris was still struggling with this course of action during our time together. He didn’t inform me until later in the relationship and while touched by his choices, I also knew it meant the end of our relationship. Chris did eventually take the New Jersey internship he was offered. The last day we parted I tried not to cry but couldn’t help it. I was surprised when he said, if he couldn’t stand being apart from me, he would send for me, emphasizing he needed time to get settled first and see what his responsibilities would be at the new hospital. Even though I felt he really meant that. I knew it would never happen. This is as close as I’ve gotten to being with my definition of a man. I can’t ever recall my emotional state feeling so at ease and supported. The memories of Chris whom I’d almost forgotten take me back to a time when my mind and spirit was light, crisp, and clear, opposed to the cloudy, tension backed, eeriness that surround it now. The scene I wrote in Julian’s dorm room, and the deep conversation him and Crystal get into derived from this relationship. The dorm room is one of my favorite scenes between the couple. When I look back on the holiday date with my Christian friend Kendin, I realize part of me was imagining myself to be with Julian Parker who was really Chris. I was so into that story I could often feel the love between them. Still, it was no wonder I fantasized about Kendin because in my imagination love conquers all. Like myself, my author friend now has three books on the market and started his own publishing company. But Kendins career has surpassed me by leaps and bounds and didn’t know how on fire for the Lord he really is until reading his short story published in a collection that made Essence magazine bestsellers list. His writing style is admittedly like no other author I’ve read before, as he challenges his reader’s intellect. I couldn’t be prouder of him. I had to drill Kendin on what his royalty checks look like and happily impressed, considering his story is only seventeen pages long. We can only laugh at toiling away for years on three-hundred-page books, making little or nothing and a short story bring in a sizeable lump sum. But a short story collection was always on my, things to do list, and in later years will release a modern romance suspense series and a holiday romance series. I have attended at least one of Kendins book signings, and though he’s happily married today, we still exchange valuable writer’s information and hope to one year put together a world book tour that include fellow authors. I knew Kendin would be at this book expo as he attends every year whatever city it’s in. I believe last year it was in New York and this year 2006; the convention will be in Washington. I’m willing to try this again when it’s in California or Las Vegas. Kendin and his friend had parked several blocks from the center saving money on parking. I offered to drive them to their car at the end of this session. We were all loaded down with books; Kendin had already made one trip to his van earlier. During this ride is when I learned about all the other networking events I hadn’t considered, like the breakfast, a brunch, luncheon and a dinner set up at Chicago’s Pick Congress hotel. After dropping them off I cruised by seeing the cabs double parked and a crowd already gathering. According to Kendins friend the dinner was free if you had your convention badge. This was so incredibly tempting especially considering how hungry I was, not to mention the networking potential. But I couldn’t deal with the parking hassles and opted for a White Castle drive through. CHAPTER 6 The next day started with the toothache from hell. Sunday was the big signing at my publisher’s booth and upon arrival wondered if the sparse crowd and already packed up booths was the norm for this event. I was to discover, just before my scheduled hour, that one of our former presidents died, and people were leaving early. On top of that, I was asked to move from the author spot my publisher had been using all weekend with white authors. All weekend, white men stood at this podium pushing their book, but it wasn’t until my turn when they called floor security saying our booth had no right to use that space. I was done. My joy was robbed for sure. I had every intention of going over to that complaining booth and speaking my mind, but because my publisher’s representative was so nice and apologetic to me, I didn’t want to create a scene. Out the corner of my eye as I signed away all my books from another location, I did see my pale skinned, red-haired author representative go over there, and from her body language she was giving them hell. I believe she was truly embarrassed by this, and maybe it was her first up close and personal experience with racism. I had too many other issues going on for this age-old continuing drama to stand out. I should’ve given them a complimentary copy of the romance and insist they read the first chapter. Then again... maybe they already had. Excerpt… ‘Poor white folks resented upwardly mobile Blacks, the first generation after slavery. They couldn’t stomach us dressing well or living better than them. That’s why they created Jim Crow.” “Ah, Ms. Alexander.” Danielle heard the teacher but wanted to get as much of the report read as possible. ‘Around the late 1800’s, white folks figure we had what we had because they gave it to us, not because we earned it or smart enough to acquire it for ourselves. Had we been left in Africa where we were already kings and queens, white folks wouldn’t need signs or have to shit in their pants whenever they see one of us today.” “That is enough!” The teacher clapped her hands causing the class to flinch. Several students snickered. High school student, Danielle Alexander is acting up in class. Aside from being an intense, coming-of-age interracial romance, it is also a somewhat historical, multi-cultural drama. I like the various twists and turn this story make. I wanted it as fast paced as I could make it, as I prefer stories that move. I heard it said that in my books, if you blink you might miss something. Even with all the setbacks, I was proud of myself for getting through this weekend and glad when it was finally over. I didn’t begrudge this former president because he was one of the only republican presidents I like. As a former actor I grew up truly fond of his movies and today they remind me of those simplistic years as a little girl, cozy Sunday evenings after church, big Sunday dinners, Family Classics and the prime time show Bonanza, a time when I was too young to comprehend the sting of racism or discrimination. But I was so charged up after the convention I had to run by my parent’s house pacing back and forth excitedly relaying everything that went on. I showed off my rental car parked across the street. I was so caught up in my own world I’d nearly forgotten it was exactly one week ago, we were making a mad dash to the emergency room with my seventy plus Dad, who now sat on the sofa next to my mother, both smiling at me with pride. I think they were more excited to see my real hair for a change. I popped over taking for granted they would be here for me to share my excitement with. As the memory of the previous weekend came flooding back, I lost my momentum nearly losing my voice. I was struggling to be successful at something and they were at a time of struggling to make it through another day. Hospitals don’t keep you like they used to. Dad was in only three days, I’m sure to the utter shock of his neighbors. They figured he’d bought the farm this time. All of that was two years ago, and just the other day looked out the back door to see him by the garbage cans rolling up that ugly carpet the workers tore out of the second-floor apartment. You can’t tell him he shouldn’t be doing that. When I talk about the memoir my mother says, “Just blame the parents for everything and get it over with.” No situation is perfect, but I knew I was lucky to have them. CHAPTER 7 Any extra money I had went on marketing my books, as it was imperative, I get enough to move. Saving just wasn’t going to get me out fast enough. Now my life consisted of periodically yelling at the noisy, unsupervised kids who moved upstairs after the church people were evicted. The mother was never at home with a baby, toddler and loquacious pre-teen that was attracting the neighborhood boys in droves. The activity level around the building went up by a thousand once this family moved in with their friends, relatives and their friends’ kids. I really wanted to like this family, but it quickly became obvious they lack social graces and had to be reprimanded often. Nobody likes to be told anything, especially twenty-year old’s, so the reprimand would generate even more hostile tension. I constantly heard heavy objects crashing to the floor, glass breaking and running up and down the front and back steps. My parents would try to smooth things over by saying it’s just kids as they have four or five small children living over their head. “Think about how much noise you all made when we lived upstairs”, My mother often pointed out. For me it doesn’t matter who or what was over my head. I don’t want to hear it. Not having any children, myself worked out, as they would’ve perceived me the harsh disciplinarian, I did my own parents. But Dad wasn’t sympathetic with this new set of tenants very long as it was awhile before I found out she wasn’t paying her rent or paying on time. I did see a glimpse of potential, but for the most part, this was the type you’d see on a daytime low-level talk show arguing loud with her breast jumping around. For sure she had the classic angry neck roll down pat. Based on the book club literature found in the hall, I’m thinking at least she’s a reader. Their kitchen sink overflowed on several occasions causing water to pour down from my ceiling into the cabinets and over my sink area. I would be in my front office on the computer and suddenly hear raining in my kitchen. Dad said that ceiling had fallen in once before in the past, which meant it could happen again. I had to throw out any food that wasn’t sealed in plastic. Hearing how unkempt the unit was upstairs, it wasn’t long before seeing little black bugs down here. This was reminding me too much of the north side apartment I left. But to my disappointment I had only a year in a half to enjoy my open terrace like back porch before any chance of privacy was lost. I soon realized there was as much or more foot traffic in the ally as it was in the front of the building. Only more unscrupulous activity took place in the back with drug dealers hiding their stash in the yard. Police dogs were occasionally seen sniffing for it and naked prostitutes hiding as if someone was after them. That summer I started collecting box’s preparing to move. I’d had enough. Ivy and I lost contact for about a year, but I was housing some of her things while she rented out her condo. I sent her an e-mail informing her of the situation, that I was planning to move. This opened the door to another Ivy era of events. Instead of getting rid of the ceramic zebra, flower vase arrangements, and other items, her storage was closing out, and a whole living room set, painting and file cabinet was moved in New Year’s Eve, a couple hours before midnight. Ivy favored huge expensive vintage furnishings that fit perfectly into this apartment with the dark wood crown molding. Yes, the crown molding was still here. My inner circle was impressed and as nice as it was, I personally would’ve never purchased it for myself. I favor a more pristine clean Star Trek look, chrome, glass and mirrors. Clean lines and an ultra-modern look. But I did feel Ivy should’ve compensated me for housing her furniture when she sold her condo. A few hundred out of several thousand still left quite a bit to pay off any debts. Apparently, she felt a whooper sandwich from Burger King was payment enough. I do appreciate the sandwich. One thing I like about Ivy is, she doesn’t rehash or sweat me about a lot of stupid things I do. I once told her I wouldn’t wish me as a friend on anyone. That’s just being realistic. It’s safe to say neither of us is perfect. Gee is also like this and appreciate their forward motion quality. That’s the only way you can maintain an association with me. I never have time to chase relationships or a desire to do so, if I had the time. I’m sure they have their opinion of me but like any form of noise, I’m not trying to hear it. CHAPTER 8 I got the call months in advance requesting I do a reading from one of my books. I accepted, not knowing at the time if I could really go through with it. But this was just what the doctor could’ve ordered. It made me clear my head and refocus on my goals. I was on a quest to sharpen my social skills and the main reason I decided to attend this downtown luncheon. As a published author, on occasion I receive invitations to conferences or special functions. I signed up for this one a month in advance. The event was held downtown in the Harold Washington library atrium level. I stepped off that elevator into a whole new world. It was Chicago, August hot that day, and chose to wear a sleeveless black sundress with a slight split up one side. This dress was an old standby that work perfectly for casual or dress. I breathed a sigh of relief that I hadn’t been any more casual then this with all the black and navy-blue suits floating around. I was so awed by the sunlight streaming in from the glass ceiling, and tuxedo-clad waiters swarming around with drinks on their tray, I almost forgot to pick up my badge on the long table at the entrance. The round tables scattered neatly throughout the gymnasium size room was covered with burgundy table clothes and set to perfection with the crystal glasses shimmering under the stark sunlight. I was in the middle of a dream, I thought, as a waiter approached me. “Would you like tea or lemonade?” He asked and glad they weren’t serving alcohol. I took lemonade thinking the tea wouldn’t be sweet enough. This predominantly white crowd was standing around mingling and talking in various groups. As usual I became conscious of being there alone. I’m sure Aria, Rimani or quite a few others would’ve loved to take advantage of this free event and would complain shamelessly throughout the whole thing. Except for my brothers Vernon and Dash, or my cousin Merry, a supervising nurse at a nearby hospital, I knew there was no one else I could attend something like this with and not be embarrassed. While I often came to Ivy’s rescue, I don’t recall or see her coming through for me if I ever really needed her for something. I found a table on the far right with two people, a man and a woman. I could tell from their conversation they’d just met and looked a little perturbed when I chose their table. The waiter had already told me I could sit anywhere there was an empty seat. After settling in that’s when I noticed a Baby Face song was crooning softly in the background. It was perfect, wondering who thought to choose that song. I didn’t feel quite as alone. By the time the place filled up it was over sixty people. There were a handful of women, the rest men. I saw two other African Americans, one man, one woman on opposite sides of the room from each other and me. A news crew had arrived along with some paparazzi. From the badges I read, everyone was associated with the writing industry in some way. If I had been thinking or had a trustworthy assistant, my flyers would’ve been on every table. I was conscious of the fact that my sales literature wasn’t four-color glossies but obviously done on my home computer. People are quick to advise me to invest in quality, but never offer to sponsor. If the budget were there of course I would pull out all the stops. But I was still proud of what I’d accomplished and sat in front of my fancy plate feeling as important as anyone else there. This environment was totally me. It could’ve been an all African American crowd or not, if it carried the same ambience. Yes, give me floating waiters in tuxedos carrying beverages on a tray. I would add a jazz quartet in the corner near the tall palm plants. If you can rent this place at night, I could see tiny white lights around the walls with moonlight streaming through the glass ceiling. I knew then, I would eventually use this setting in a future book. It was perfect for a wedding reception. No one would understand this, but I had to blink back tears feeling the weight of a dark cloud lifting from me. I knew it wasn’t about living in my grandfather’s house or a community I no longer identified with. It wasn’t just about the precarious relationship with Gee or what happen with Tiny. I was too conscious of getting old. I was slowing down and couldn’t do as much as I use to. At forty-five plus, I still had the agility of a twenty-year-old and that just wasn’t true. Yes, I’m tired. Tired of trying so hard and getting nowhere. Like mom was now fond of saying, I have more time behind me than I do in front of me. But I would never be successful if I was too shy, too inhibited to put myself out there and talk up my books. For sure, I was headed for anger management, but convinced they would piss me off before the session was over. I was caught in a George Bailey loop searching for the lost money I never really had, and struggling for contentment in a mediocre existence. I was forced to watch my peers excel and move on to a better life. I was expected to give up my time and limited skills to help others because no one else in my immediate environment was going to do it. If I didn’t, I would be swallowed up in a Pottersville of crime, despair and indifference. Time was running out to accomplish something, to firmly, permanently plant my feet in a world I can call my own. If I was struggling financially, I hadn’t accomplished much at all. One good thing that comes out of my joy of writing is reading the overview of my experiences and ultimately being able to conclude I really did have, an interesting life. I must not care if the people around me don’t identify with my goals. I knew for many of the suits at this function it was just another required business luncheon and took it all for granted. But I was standing at the bridge and this is what fell from the sky for me and knew I should enjoy and appreciate this brief taste of heaven. CHAPTER 9 Ultimately seated at my table were three men and the one other young lady that turned out to be a writer’s magazine editor. Rather impressive business cards went around the table including another author and graphic artist and illustrator. The men launched into their own conversation that moved so fast I couldn’t keep up. Eventually the young lady struck up a conversation with me. Now I could be wrong but sensed the young lady who reminded me of Jennifer Love Hewitt resented the lack of attention from the men and felt obligated to strike up a conversation with me. I had said a few things upon arrival out of courtesy but didn’t force conversation turning my chair to face the stage putting my back to them. We now had to shift our chairs closer in order to hear each other. Since she worked for a magazine, I considered sending a book proposal to I picked her brain on how receptive they might be to my idea. She wasn’t from Chicago and like many others in the room was attending a convention over at McCormick Center. I was left with the impression she doesn’t encounter people of color very often if at all. I felt she was surprised and resentful of the fact that I’d written three books and how well I articulated that. This is a vibe I just don’t get. Why would she care? Air conditioning aside I noticed the heavyset man sitting across from me sweating like a pig, resembling a chief of police in an old southern town. I started thinking maybe he was having a heart attack. But considering he was an author and remembering my own experiences, I concluded it was an anxiety attack. I was a little nervous but not as much as usual. Eventually the program started with several introductions and various speakers. An author was being awarded a $5,000 contest check for her memoir. I’d always witnessed scenes like this on the news when someone walks up on stage with a giant check and cameras flashing from every corner of the room while the audience applaud. I found the whole thing quite fascinating. The young lady at my table got up and found it necessary to place her butt right in my face, in my line of vision in order to snap her picture. I felt this was rude and deliberate. I also considered maybe she was gay and wanted to show me what she had to offer. The third possibility was she simply lacks discretion. If your rhythm is off, you’re going to step on a few toes. I wouldn’t have thought much of it if her butt hadn’t appeared to snap into a slot designed to annoy me. She stood there so long; it even looks odd to others glancing her way. The program finally concluded, and a nice lunch was served. During desert another meeting for writers and publishers was announced and about to start in a conference room down the hall. There were two female speakers promoting their books and stacks of them had been placed in the middle of every table in the room. I had ignored them up to now and took only one of each. I felt certain at least one person at my table expected me to clean the table off dumping everything I can in my purse. Something Aria would do for sure. She always came out of a club or function with either extra food or a couple of wine or cognac glasses in her purse. Glasses are glasses and you can get some nice stemware at the dollar store. I don’t need to steal them. I lined up to have my books signed by the author and presented my business card indicating we should stay in touch and exchange helpful writer’s information. This was met with a yeah, yeah sure, hurry up and walk away type of vibe. So far on this social interaction quest, a few people have promised to contact me with some information. So far no one has. I personally pride myself on doing what I say I’m going to do, and don’t make a habit of making promises I can’t keep. In my dealings with other people, it only takes one time to mess up, and I will never trust you to keep your word again. You’re either a flake or incredibly irresponsible. Based on past experiences I was thinking it would be better not to meet the author considering their lack of social skills. It affects my desire to read their book. But when I eventually read her book, she echoed my own social inadequacies, all authors including myself had been redeemed. True enough I prefer being home alone with my computer for company. Who wants to visit other planets and mingle with aliens you can’t control? I knew I should’ve attended the conference room meeting but had a feeling they weren’t going to discuss anything I hadn’t heard already; plus, certain it was a promotional to try and sell authors something. CHAPTER 10 The same day as the luncheon, I was still searching for an apartment and had made an appointment to see a place right up the street. Chicago’s Marina Towers I nicked named the corn on a cob building. This was a place I always wanted to live. It was still a beautiful day outside and decided to walk to the other end of State Street crossing Whacker Drive. This area always reminded me of my characters Terry, Kelly and Crystal downtown after attending a Jackson Five personal appearance. They stood on Randolph crossing State Street heading to Buckingham Fountain. In the later college years Crystal and J.P. are walking up Michigan Avenue looking in store windows at the Christmas themed displays. I didn’t realize how much my real-world life was wrapped up in this book. It got where I prefer to hang out with them rather than anyone I really knew. I was Crystal and J.P. was my high school boyfriend. I wanted to detail their high school experience much more than I did. The book started getting so long I seriously considered splitting the storyline creating two separate books, one the high school years, the second the college years. I think the reading would’ve become redundant as your sophomore and junior year is not that much different. There was something majestic about approaching this building with the infamous House of Blues, numerous restaurants and valet parking just steps away. All of this had the feel of importance I like. The managing agent wasn’t as professional as I would expect in a building of this stature and had nothing to do with the way she looks but how she handled me. The agent or office worker took me to see the first apartment on a high floor where the minute I stepped off the elevator my dream was shattered. I wasn’t impressed with this extremely narrow, dreary looking hallway at all. The walls needed painting and concerned the strange extraordinarily low ceiling would pull my wig off. Someone even slightly taller than me or the agent would have to duck to walk through here. We know from the outside the building is round but walking the halls I mean it is round like being in a space capsule or that St. Louis arch I had the opportunity to venture into once. I had to slow down to keep from getting dizzy and couldn’t believe how many doors there were thinking this association was milking every available square foot. The most impressive thing about the first apartment was the large window on the opposite wall of the front door. There was the kitchenette that needed updating, opening to one room about the size of my current living room. The only other room was the bathroom where it should’ve been a law against the small space between the wall and face bowl where the toilet sat. It is a limited number of people whose butt could squeeze through here and sit on the toilet. The condo owner at the kitchenette counter with his laptop was tall and slim and apparently had no problem with it. I knew the building was old but still, this bathroom needed some serious updating. The next largest space of this studio was the balcony. The door to the balcony looked as bad as some of the original doors that basement apartment had. The agent presented the balcony like handing me an academy award, apparently considering it the unit’s best feature and it was. I had trouble stepping to the edge not used to being fifty-one floors off the ground. I would’ve been more impressed with an unobstructed view. But the gaudiness of the surrounding, up close buildings was creepy. I didn’t want this right outside my only window twenty-four seven. “Oh, and at night it’s beautiful.” She said. Yeah and in the winter it’s cold as hell, I thought. It might be fun to sit there and observe other people in their apartment, but still I couldn’t help thinking about the romance where I’d described the character Marcus Agee’s birthday party in his newly acquired condo in this building. I had visualized a spacious contemporary penthouse where the entrance to the patio is sliding glass doors. Not a single cheap door that blended in with the drywall. Plus, the threshold had such a high step, my idiot friends and family would easily trip up and go sailing over the railing. I noticed one patio on the twin building had green carpet, a loveseat, two chairs and a plant. Considering how small the condos are I wasn’t surprised. The second studio was the same size and layout. It was beautifully updated with the clean lines and contemporary look I prefer. But the bathroom was still tight and the view outside the window was still creepy. If I didn’t have anywhere else to go and forced to stay here, I would take this apartment. But in a perfect world, I would require the largest amount of square feet this building had to offer, even if that meant buying two whole floors to acquire normal ceiling height. I didn’t bother to hide my displeasure and saw the agents face drop to the lobby when I mentioned the section 8 voucher. “Oh, we don’t take section 8”. She said with an unwavering finality. “We?” I questioned. “You’re a property manager and it’s up to the owner of the condo if their willing to accept a voucher. I could’ve by passed your office and dealt with the owner listed units.” I informed her. “I can assure you there is no one living in this building on section 8. We have all working tenants or students taking up temporary residents.” I had to explain to her the reason I came to the building was because a friend of a friend was already living there under a voucher. Most people have a preconceived notion of what section 8 tenants are like and in too many cases their right but there are exceptions for some families and individuals like me. I didn’t have to mention the voucher especially when I didn’t like the apartments, but I was curious as to how she would react. We are told in a long seminar that we cannot be discriminated against for having a voucher, but it still happens too often. What she didn’t know is all they had to do was run a credit check on me and that would put the brakes on any negotiations. It would cost me, but I decided to act like I didn’t know my credit was jacked up. This was typical behavior of downtown gold coast buildings with their too good for section 8 attitude. But many of these buildings are on the section 8 website list. You must know somebody to get pass the office snobs who may not be versed with this information. From my observations it is the children that grow up in these buildings that qualify for the subsidized units, regardless of who is next on a long waiting list. Many high-rise residential buildings are built with the help of government grants and required by contract to make a percentage of the units available to low income or section 8 recipients. On talking with various realtors over the years, I’m told such buildings run from section 8 mainly because they don’t want to do the work that is required under section 8 rules. There are too many things they wouldn’t be able to get away with. Such buildings can always claim they’re squeaky clean but judging by what I saw that day in my former dream building, I know that’s not true at all. I had a lot of balls thinking I could go from Jackson and Pulaski to Marina Towers. Some months later, condos owned by a white doctor in this building were busted for operating a global prostitution ring. So, there’s no getting away from illegal activities. It’s just on a larger scale here. With the sticky hot temperatures outside, by the time I got off the bus to my air-conditioned, three-bedroom vintage apartment with high ceilings, I felt like I was walking into a mansion. I never appreciated this place more than at that moment. Even the crown molding was lovely that day. I would never see the corn on a cob building the same way again. CHAPTER 11 The last thing I wanted to do is fall into that mentality of always chasing the next high like there’s nothing else I could be doing. Yet there had been too many days of just that. What was supposed to be three years is now nine years later. While keeping up with the journal, I took a year or more off before seriously starting this book. Like Dad recently put in new front windows, I finally got my satellite bill caught up and turned back on. That lifted my spirits but also added a new $50 monthly bill, further reducing my ability to save for the security deposit and first month’s rent I needed to move. The gas bill was now in my name and wouldn’t dare skip a month considering the double payment that would be next. I honestly couldn’t afford to keep this apartment. I felt trapped. This environment just wasn’t working for me. Even the club scene had gotten tired. When you go too long without positive, interesting conversation, it can be extremely frustrating not to mention depressing. It will certainly make you less patient with people. Dialogue should lead to untangling this web of confusion we too often find ourselves in, just from the stress of daily existence. If you, too often talk to individuals more tangled than you are, over time you will lose your own personal momentum. You will mentally digress or stay in one place. People might think I’m just spoiled and maybe I am by comparison to some. But at least I’m not voluntarily a jerk or an asshole. I don’t dump my insecurities, jealousies or envy on others. I wouldn’t try to swindle $1300 out of an elderly family member just to hold on to some man’s dick. I don’t always get ugly angry when I’m not the center of attention or someone disagree with me. I don’t have to always be right even if I’m wrong, and I try not to be too erratic. You don’t have to worry about me stealing your credit card. I wouldn’t lie to an old man about paying my rent or allow my children to live in squalor while I run the street. I would rather be considered spoiled than a lying scheming thief. I’m as independent as I can be and always striving to do better and move forward. People with no integrity, no respect for others is a waste of everyone’s time. And yes, with some people no matter what you do, it’ll never be good enough. I feel God must’ve put me in this place for a reason. I must assume it was for me to write these four books from the perspective that I did based on my experiences up to now. But for sure, my opinions will find their way into my writings regardless of the genre. If it were up to me, guaranteed my life would’ve gone an entirely different way. I spent the day with a friend, got my laundry done before the rain came and enjoyed a new movie, putting me in a better mood for a change. Later that night, Dad called checking on me. “I’m fine. No company.” “But you had company. You’re alone...” It was something about the way he said alone that didn’t set well with me. As if it was better to be alone while you enjoy the comfort of a fifty plus marriage. “So, who was he?” Dad surprisingly asked. “A friend of mine.” I clipped, wondering where he could’ve been to see this, considering how hard it was raining. “What’s his name?” “Dino.” “Dino what?” “I don’t know. I don’t remember.” “Oh my God, come on now.” I did know his last name but felt this interrogation was moving into the twilight zone. I was tired and had taken my shower and ready for my clean bed. For the most part I appreciate it but Dad’s level of concern border on disturbing. It’s now after 3am and decided to write all this down in my journal as Dads three alarm phone call shattered that warm and fuzzy feeling, throwing my tension level back to high alert. I was now rethinking all my decision-making and considering all the things that could’ve happen and still could. Maybe my friend was a professional thief casing my place for a heist. He might be a pimp with the intention of putting me on the hoe stroll. But this guy barely put an audible full sentence together. I couldn’t honestly give him credit for much of anything but guzzling down beer and running to the bathroom. Dad didn’t have to concern himself with this guy as he had the nerve to complain about my car not starting like it should. A complaint from someone who don’t even own a car and riding on the passenger side when it does decide to start. I deleted most of what I would’ve said about him as he wasn’t relevant enough to talk about here or with my parents. I needed more personality and personal initiative from Dino. He would end up with an assertive woman that tell him what to do, pretty much leading him around on a leash. He may act like he doesn’t like it but wouldn’t have a life otherwise. If the car is not starting, look under the hood and hook it up or whip out your credit card and let’s get it in the shop. Don’t be a wimp whining, waiting for me to take care of things. Handle it or shut up. Better yet, get your own car. CHAPTER 12 At my first reading, I wasn’t nervous until my name was called and walking up to the podium in this small bookstore meeting room near the university. I just knew my legs would buckle under me seeing the room was now practically full. I’d intentionally sat on the front row so I wouldn’t see how many people were there. For sure I was wondering how I got to this place. The first two authors books were serious. One was about Africa and the other sociology. Here I was about to do an about face with a gritty coming-of-age interracial romance set in the seventies. I released a breath and dived right in setting up the scene. I printed out a more appropriate section for this venue and didn’t add anything but certainly removed the language or passages that refer to other characters or scenes unrelated to this one. “A Forward Motion’s first rough draft was started in 1988. It was considered finished in 1994 and for five years, shopped around to numerous publishers and agents under various titles. December of 2001, the 400-page manuscript came off the shelf and began a new revision process. It was made available to the public in June of 2003. Though the story, A Forward Motion is considered fiction, the plot is patterned after certain aspects of my own teen-age years.” My voice was clear and concise, but my right hand was shaking like a twohundred-year-old woman. I knew I nailed it with the reading but embarrassed at how obviously nervous I was and thinking I would never put myself through such torture again. Authors were also required to provide their economics of writing along with a, ‘be honest’ attached to the request by the chairperson. “Only 55 copies have been sold since its release in 2003 generating $92.89 in royalties.” Anytime I had copies of the book, I sold out meaning I needed to be able to afford to buy them at the authors discounted rate first in order to turn a profit. “Today’s new-age publishers contribute only so much, and any other marketing and promotion is up to the author. From what I’ve heard, pretty much the case with any publisher.” This surprisingly opened a torrent of questions during my Q and A session. I was more comfortable addressing questions then I was standing there reading from my notes. During the reading there wasn’t time to consider the photographer standing in the middle isle snapping my picture several times as it was more important, I reel the audience into my book. The chairperson had to cut off the questions to make time for the next speaker indicating I would be available for questions during the break. I was so glad to be back in my seat I didn’t know what to do. But it wasn’t long before the break and surrounded with more query’s I had no trouble answering. Flipping through her little notebook to remember the questions she wanted to ask, a young reporter interviewed me before the evening was over. “Why do you continue to write if you’re not making any money?” “That’s a good question. Any true writer is going to write, published or not, making money or not. Writing is like taking the next breath or quenching a thirst. It’s going to happen.” This reporter was tossed between starting her book now or concentrating on a major that will bring guaranteed cash flow. This has always been a dilemma for most writers. The authors who spoke this evening extended their appreciation for their spouses support otherwise they wouldn’t be able to afford this pursuit. The beauty of writing is, you can work around other things. If you can manage to pull out one hour in the morning before starting your day and one or two hours in the evening before you go to bed for one year, eventually you will finish a article, short story, poetry collection or your first novel. Writing requires self-discipline regardless of any other demands on your time and finances. Many authors continue to work another job by choice. My advice to any aspiring writer is to forget about the money and concentrate on writing the best that you can in your choice genre. I say a good book can grow legs and do well. A writing teacher told me to consider what might be trendy or popular ten years from the time you start your book as it may take you five years to finish it and five years to get a publisher. If your writing nonfiction or fictional period pieces such as westerns or swashbucklers, you can still incorporate a subtle slant to your work that will operate with the time your book is released. This is one of the reasons I like science fiction or urban fantasy because it leaps way beyond ten years and in some cases challenge the mind with alternate ideals. Since starting this writer’s journey, I’ve met many unknown authors who’ve written from eight to thirteen books and still struggling financially. One author suggested a one-hundred book minimum before seeing any worthwhile royalties. There are those who quietly but consistently pull in a six-figure income every year. There are self-published authors who sold over ten thousand copies of their book and later picked up by a commercial publisher. There are one-time authors whose manuscript found an agent; the agent found a publisher. The book was published and that was that. No hoopla, no real recognition, no real money made. I concluded the interview by saying there are as many writers’ stories as there are manuscripts circulating the industry. Before I left home that evening, Dash said I’d be glad to be around fellow authors, my peers for a change. I hadn’t realized what a breath of fresh air that would truly be. My deflating ego and trampled pride got the stroking it needed tonight. Can you believe I was one of those people standing at the podium in front of a mike? This small crowd of about thirty-five was a good beginning for me. I was active in this organization having offered to do the cover design for the chapbook plus out of so many submissions, my excerpt from the romance was among the few chosen to be in the book. I had to come down off this high and return to my real world. I honestly hadn’t expected reporters to be here even if they were from small publications. My joyful commercial break didn’t last long. From here it was commiserating with Ivy and tears shed for the evacuees and their loss that we truly appreciated our own situation so much more. Seeing the random acts of kindness softened my roaring enraged spirit from what it was. I told my mother, as much as I would like to give some money, all I can afford to do is offer up a prayer only I’m convinced God don’t hear my prayers. “You have to believe.” My mother said. I want to believe that my elderly parents will live long enough to see me as a successful writer or successful at something. I want to believe they will finally be able to pay off all their bills and curious to see what they would do with the extra money. I’d like to believe one day I’ll move forward to that quiet place of contentment where I’ll never have to holler again. I want to believe. My work here with this organization wasn’t done yet as after the break during the business meeting with fewer people, the chairperson suggested I coordinate a seminar addressing in more detail many of the questions hurled at me tonight. I thought about the vow to never put myself in that position again but this time the organization offered to pay me over two hundred dollars. “I’ll do it.” I readily agreed not knowing then what I was getting myself into as I’d never did anything like this in my life. I must laugh at the writing discipline speech knowing how undisciplined with it I really am. An audience member suggested I join Toastmasters International to help me with my public speaking and I did in later years. I like how this organization move you up through all the positions and expect you to speak in front of everyone in attendance. A pleasant hidden gem and good investment. But I couldn’t turn this chairperson gig down for so many reasons. I was supposed to be moving out but no one else except my parents was going to rent to me. If the current second floor tenant was leaving like they say, I could take that three-bedroom apartment removing the noise element from overhead. Maybe then I could concentrate and get my short story collection done. This next project as coordinator was my new lifeline. CHAPTER 13 The seminar was in December of 2005 but I’m ready for spring as that is my favorite time of the year. I’ll flash back and bring you up to speed but right now, it’s the first sunny, 90-degree day with much needed high winds. I started this day by making a therapeutic trip to the mall with my mother and her cousin. While having lunch in the food court we noticed how folks couldn’t wait to jump out their winter clothes and was practically butt naked up in there. We all claim not to have any money, but the trunk still filled up after a trip to Wal-Mart. Some months I have as much as a $60.00 bank deficit, but I just had to get that cute orange rug that was now half off. I didn’t bother to look at the shimmering Cinderella sandals I dreamed of wearing since seeing them last week. As usual I would buy for the apartment before I buy something personal for myself, as I love to decorate. I always tried to squeeze out a bundle of yarn to continue making baby blankets that were not selling off my website. I haven’t been back to Rome’s church. For some reason walking out that day felt like a conclusion to the quest of reconnecting with this family. Just knowing they were there and how little I really did know them brought a form of peaceful comfort to my spirit. If I kept going, I might learn something that would forever change my vision of this highly respected Christian family. Gaylans twenty-year old supervisor job was closing, having been bought out by a larger company. He surprised me, saying for his next job he just wanted to be a regular worker and take problems to his supervisor. I told him if he’s offered a supervisor position, he’ll take it because it pays more. I don’t think he’s seriously considering the fast approaching cut in salary. My older sister and her youngest son Hakeem are in a rehabbed building only a few blocks away. She did send me a birthday card and I’m preparing one for her. My future fiction would include housing communities specifically designed for artists and their creations. I would love to see a few luxury high rises go up in the area bringing in sidewalk cafes, decent laundromat’s and maybe a Starbucks. A Starbucks did recently open not that far from here. I know people who are familiar with this area are laughing but I believe it’s just a matter of time. As a former member of the NAACP the articles I read express community concern that once the neighborhood does change for the better, will any of us poor folk still be around to enjoy it? My brother Vernon asked me to help find an immigration lawyer. Him and Nalda were married in Mexico nearly three years ago and the review board continues to turn her down. I offered to throw them a small reception whenever this drama is cleared up. Dash officially resigned as my editor admitting he’s ready to zone out and relax. I wish it were that simple for me. It’s now been two years since the last time I saw or talked to her, but Ivy finally removed all her things from my apartment. I’m sure the further adventures of Ivy continue; I sincerely wish her the best of luck. Charity and generation next are planning their third annual backyard Hawaiian luau, even though I distinctly recall Dad saying no more nighttime backyard parties. He’s trying to grow the grass back. When I finally get home from the mall, it’s still sunny and warm. I don’t know why he was over this time, but I sat out on the front porch with Dad enjoying the breeze. My parents like sitting out too, but next door to them there was always a group using loud profane language. Pretty much like I described it in the later years of the romance. I don’t think they mind the billion in one little kid’s riding their bikes or noisy big wheels up and down the sidewalks, though that would drive me up a wall. My mom finds it intolerable to have to constantly tell neighbors undisciplined kids to stay off the grass or see the teenage boys walking by with their dirty underwear showing as their pants are practically down to their knees with the new penitentiary look hitting the streets. It’s a completely different generation. I must remind my parents and myself that this is a small percentage of who we are and there are those who dress more conservatively and use their time more productively. Unfortunately, this is what the public is presented with most. Wherever you chose to hang, it was something special about the first warm day after a cold dark winter. The busy rush-hour traffic right in front of our door lasted longer than usual. From the excitement at the mall I knew this week was about prom, luncheons and graduation. School would be out soon, and the neighborhood was about to go buck wild. Oh yeah and haven’t touched base with Aria in months. She’s busy dealing with teenage daughters. Before the official split, just before the chairperson gig, Ivy surprisingly sent me a pep talk email that was awe-inspiring. Her words of encouragement lifted my spirit. In this instance she was in her element. Author friend Kendin agreed to be one of my speakers at the upcoming seminar. I managed to get two other speakers unintentionally making the panel all African American. Each author including Kendin had a more impressive career history then I did. I heard other authors in the union wanted to be paid but this wasn’t a paying gig for the speakers I recruit. But this was an opportunity to market their book. CHAPTER 14 On the night of the seminar, it’s amazing anyone showed up at all considering it was below zero. I was shocked my car started. This project totally drained me as it took place two months after the reading. With the help of the union president Helen, I had to design a six-page seminar flyer, one-page promotional flyers. Write up an e-mail promo. Get all the speakers bio together and provide them with an outline to keep the subject focused. Plus, I was considered one of the author speakers and had to outline separate notes for that segment as well as moderate and introduce each speaker. I did it! There were as many people in the audience as the reading and wasn’t nearly as nervous. I got a little long winded but so did every other speaker. You’re afraid to get up there but once you do your hogging the stage. I even managed to put up some Christmas decorations before the others arrived. As the crowd was leaving, I overheard one man say, “It was more organized then I expected.” Had I been given the time, there would’ve been refreshments and a live band. For sure I would’ve had copies of my own books to sell like all the other authors did. I know that made me look bad. Not having any of my own books to sell made me look poor and amateurish. At the time I just couldn’t afford to buy copies of my own book. I guess it would be worse if I had copies of the books and nobody wanted to buy them. I’m just so glad everything went as well as it did especially when I think about all the things that could’ve gone wrong. As the warm high winds circled the front porch, I was thinking Dad was going to leave any minute because I had a 32oz. of Colt 45 in the freezer. I stalled until I couldn’t take it anymore and got up. “You want some of this beer I got in here?” I asked, really being funny. I knew I could easily polish off a 32oz by myself and might have to walk across the bridge and get another one or stop playing around and get a half a pint of something strong. “Yeah why not, bring me a little cup full.” My Dad said sending shock waves through my system. “Really?” I hesitated to wonder if he was serious or should he be drinking alcohol with any medication. Seem to me I remember him being insulted by the little bit I did bring out, so we basically split that bottle. This was a first, but it never happened again. I guess he was in a good mood that day. Dad is cool. We can get into long conversations going from nutty relatives to politics to bible teachings. I can be as opinionated as he is. Unfortunately, not enough time go by before he hurls you into that twilight zone side of him. He seems to get a kick out of agitating you. Like I’m thinking if he starts one more cross-examination into my life… I mean is there a method to the madness? I’m on the premise that he’s intelligent enough to realize this is inappropriate and offensive to me. When I brought it up to Dash that’s when I find out Dad asked him if he was Gay. Even though he’s married with two kids. Gee was nonchalant about it saying old men do that and I must learn not to let it bother me. This is when he suggested I take up yoga. But it does bother me and like the incredible hulk ready to turn green and pop buttons. When you’re dealing with something as intangible, under the guise of being overly protective, the only solution I see is to get away from it altogether. I was always so worried, so obsessed with becoming a statistic, an unwed mother and as a result of my steadfast moral convictions I am infinitely single. I crave the Thanksgiving, birthday and Christmas I can call my own, one that I idealize. Not the one someone visualize for me. Instead I must wonder if a time will come when someone else’s issues is not made to be my problem. After seeing how the last tenant left the place, I’ve been having concerns about moving to the second floor hoping I catch the lottery before that. I looked everywhere else I could for another decent place. But I couldn’t wait, or the second floor would be rented to goodness knows who else. If I could live in the basement for five years, the second floor should eventually take on a better feel especially after the real-estate rehab it. It was hard to believe my sister and little brother had lived here within that nine-year time span. Now it seemed like a very long time ago. Dad had decided to go all section 8 even when I moved out. Mainly because of the last two non-rent paying tenants we had upstairs. Working folks. My siblings never did anything with that top floor apartment. They were preoccupied with the unscrupulous characters in the neighborhood and the fact that Dad was always lurking around. But I do understand there’s a lot that need to be done to the building and glad he insists on pulling the full garbage cans out into the alley once a week for collection. I needed a sponsor I needed major marketing. A book can’t be bought if no one knows it exist. I’m trying to do this and not draw attention to me, but to my books. Here I was writing Hollywood actors, talk show hosts and anyone else interested but not realizing I was sitting next to my sponsor right now. As peculiar and unnerving as this environment sometimes felt to me. I knew my parents would do just about anything they could for me. My disposition is so bad now I may have completely alienated myself from real world people. I don’t see how they can be surprised I’m not married yet with all the strange, whiny weak-kneed men saturating the planet today. If I’m going to live here in this house the rest of my days, I need a handyman. The first-floor furnace broke down last month and the toilet wouldn’t flush last week. The strong breeze whipped my real hair around, enjoying the peaceful night air like I knew Dad was. I let my random thoughts roll remembering I did have a minor anxiety attack at the mall today convinced my life was over, but realistically it’s probably poor eating habits and trouble sleeping at night catching up with me. With this fourth book there will be what I call special editions floating around out there mainly because it was less expensive for me to put it in book form for manuscript critiquing readers. The content is only slightly different with experimental cover designs on each. I was tripping too hard in some of those early versions. Every time I proofread, which should be a minimum of eight times, I was like ‘you can’t say that!’ I certainly wanted to. So before becoming outraged at what you’re reading or how poorly edited it is, make sure you have the officially released copy. If I said this already, that means the copy editor missed it to. I was sitting there on my grandfather’s front porch thinking the only thing I should do is sit here with Dad and watch the cars go by. But I always feel like I ought to be doing something. Not just anything but something productive. The week before I moved upstairs to the second floor my car was stolen from right in front of the house with a locked club on it. Thirty days prior to that it was vandalized and had to buy a window. My first suspect was Jadarius as he’d recently expressed a strong interest in buying the car. He acts as if he didn’t want to take no for an answer. Him and Charity was acting aggressively odd that day. Based on the shockingly unprincipled conversations I’ve heard around Charity’s crew, it’s difficult to rule them out. I haven’t seen Rimani in nearly a year, but he could set this up from wherever he is. Of course, I couldn’t rule Ivy and her family out as I recall some questionable antics surrounding them. Some people are good at getting other poor idiots to do their dirty work. What do I often hear? You can pay a crack head to do it. Yeah right. That $10 is going on crack and not about to do anything else. Previously evicted tenants are always suspected. Ahh… the calm peaceful environment I exist in. I’m convinced this wasn’t random. The police still haven’t found my car. I find it astonishing when somebody is deliberately hating on me, intentionally trying to wreak havoc in my already chaotic life. In my experiences so far, I don’t have to lift a finger. People like this are their own worst enemy. When you intentionally do wrong it comes back on you in threes. My feet have been set on a path I apparently have to walk, like it or not. I’m coping the best way I know how. They can have that car. After Dad finally left, I made a trip around the corner to the liquor store. It was a line as usual with three 40 ounces, a fifth of Night Train and some Mad Dog already sitting on the counter waiting to be rung up. With the last three books making no financial difference, I knew due to content and my precarious situation it was a good chance I would have to shelve my fourth book or attach a nonnegotiable minimum advance. My sentimental value is between 6.5 million and $999 thousand in memory of my Grandfather creating my Christian foundation, my parent’s tolerance of segregation laws and my own dogged efforts to take it to another level. I’m sure by now you’re thinking this book is inappropriately titled and eligible for any number of other titles like, Dare To Dream, Infinitely Single or I actually favor, Lateral Moves. But the reality is, inside a writer’s life. With this book I’m embracing the popular phrase, remember where you came from. Looking back, I prefer to remember the hopeful little girl sitting in the swing on her grandparents back porch looking out to her grandmothers neat, beautiful flower garden. I recall times when I felt so happy just swinging and enjoying the outdoor breeze. I could’ve never imagined my life going the way it did or have the experiences that took place while living here. Some may wonder how I could openly talk about all the different relationships I’ve had but it comes with having been single much of my life. I don’t realize just how happy I am until I enter a relationship. Men have it in their head that we owe them our bodies when they haven’t done anything to earn that. If we can’t be friends first, we can never be anything else to each other. I know I haven’t had it bad like some people, but I’m still amazed at how I viewed the world then when I was younger opposed to how I see it now. You only get one chance at this. Be mindful of your decision-making. When you’re young there’s this vast emptiness in front of you waiting to be filled with no negative emotions attached, but after a while when you keep hitting a loop you realize that space is not that big after all and become locked into feeling the same way about everything. My choices determined a lot of my experiences, but isn’t life about opening the door to possibilities? No one expect his or her experiences to be negative. When I think about how my mom’s mother lived to be eighty-four, I know if I’m half as lucky, there’s another whole lifetime to go. I love finally being upstairs on the second floor. I can once again sit in my window and enjoy a nice breeze. But I was still conscious of the fact that the bottom could fall out of this existence at any moment and still couldn’t completely relax. I feel I’ve made some enemy’s just by being ambitious, speaking my mind and refusing to be anyone’s puppet on a string. “This is it, you can’t go anywhere else, and you can’t get any higher.” Vernon jokingly state when him and Cool came over to barbeque on the 4th of July. I went from looking at folk’s ankles in the basement to looking out over a busy expressway. Cliché or not, I could always see why people struggle so hard to be on top. It’s a much nicer view. About The Author Sherrie Lynn was born third of four children December 20 th. 1957. The former pharmacy technician worked at a Catholic hospital for many years after having attended Austin high school and W. Wright College in Chicago. She is the author of three series and two novels. Though Lynn’s books are different, they share the same goal, to harmonize humanity. More Books by S. Lynn A Modern Romance SHORT STORY COLLECTION Tyre & The Twins A Social Experiment Shaleah Hart & Eddie Lancing Suspense Series (Novellas) Every Blue Moon Work Ethic In Too Deep Novels BACKSTAGE PASS A FORWARD MOTION An Author’s View Series An Author’s View On Writing An Author’s View On Book Marketing An Author’s View On Happiness An Author’s View On Humanity (essays) Inside A Writer’s Life Limited Series Episode 1 - Keep It Moving Episode 2 – Lifeline Episode 3 – Accolades Episode 4 – Generation Next Episode 5 – Keep It Real Linkedin: www.linkedin.com/in/authorsherrielynn Twitter: http://twitter.com/authorslynn Facebook: www.facebook.com/authorslynn Email:-Website: www.sherrielynn.com “Why do you continue to write if you’re not making any money?” “That’s a good question. Any true writer is going to write, published or not, making money or not. Writing is like taking the next breath or quenching a thirst. It’s going to happen.”