Sharon's Muse

2011-12-14T15:52:00.000-08:00

Privilege and internet trolling...or walking in someone else's boots

If you haven't been on the web for the past 24 hours you might not know about the latest internet uproar. It involves a contributing Forbes tech writer, Gene Marks, who is a white, middle-aged man placing himself in the position of a poor black youth and expounding on how he would basically pull himself up by his bootstraps by utilizing today's tech resources. The posted article is egregious in its short-sighted privilege. The author seemingly doesn't understand that most of the youth who are without his own privilege face overwhelming odds against their ever rising above their parents' station. This fact has been shown in studies and has been related in anedoctal testimonies. The reality is that most bootstraps can't levy against the weight of lifting a person up from crushing circumstances. Some straps may snap altogether. Some boots may have no straps at all. Or the boots may be non-existent

You see, not every house has such technical mainstays as a personal computer or smartphone or the latest Apple product. Even computers offered by public libraries have severe time limitations, not allowing the leisure given to those with personally-owned computers. So for all of the author's theoretical expounding, it simply doesn't work in the real world.

Given that the article was printed in Forbes (which is hardly reading material for most inner-city youth or youth in any neighborhood) you'd have to wonder whom the author's obvious audience is. It doesn't take much rumination to know that the article isn't actually meant for the black youth who are the focus of the write-up but rather is simply a victim-blaming diatribe that allows the mostly mainstream Forbes readers to exempt the system that has produced the inequities and lay the blame squarely on the shoulders of those who find it hard to combat that system.

But that's beside the point of this post. As offensive as some may find the article on its face, there is a particular reason that I refuse to link to that article. That is because I now have reason to believe that much of the controversy generated was a deliberate move by the author to bring "eyeballs" to Forbes and increase his own "marketability."

One Forbes staff writer (which is a different animal from the contributing writer) actually sums up the situation for what it truly is: trolling the internet. Forbes staff writer Kashmir Hill details how contributing writers to Forbes are paid based on the unique visitors as well as returning visitors. Editors at the magazine do not approve these posts in advance so the writer has a lot of carte blanche to drum up those eyeballs by writing something so totally obnoxious that visitors simply go to the article to lambast it. Ms. Hill offers that Gene Marks is especially adept at "trolling the internet" to build his brand, even at risk of diminishing his brand. As for me, I simply refuse to be manipulated by a soulless human being who would use the plight of the truly disadvantaged to build up his bank account.

This is strikingly similar to the controversy that arose earlier this year on the Psychology Today site when the obstensibly racist and incompetent social psychologist, Satoshi Kanazawa, wrote some worthless screed about the unattractiveness of black women. Not only was the post offensive but it was roundly disputed and proved unfounded by Kanazawa's own peers. As with Forbes, Psychology Today also had a set up of no oversight for contributing writers. And I suspect that contributing writers to the site were paid based on the "eyeball" tier. The more controversial a post, the more hits to the site as well as links to the article...and the more money for the offending writer. Of course, the fierce backlash had the site rethinking it's pay scale system...or at least its editorial non-oversight. And just as with Marks, Kanazawa used the plight of someone else (in this case, black women) to increase his branding power.

The problem with branding and increasing one's marketability at the expense of others is that there are consequences. Unfortunately, these consequences tend to fall on the maligned as opposed to the maligner. Marks' irresponsible post to his Forbes article only bolsters some readers' stereotypes about inner-city youth. And Kanazawa's stupid "research" just gave fodder to the outright racists who are always ready to pounce on "proof" of their idiotic beliefs.

But to give Marks a break, let's just argue for argument's sake that he wrote with the belief that he was actually helping black youth with his "advice." Well, let me say Mr. Marks that the problem with giving off-the-cuff advice like that, especially when you have actually walked in the boots (or on the bare feet) of the less privileged, that advice comes off as patronizing, paternalistic and less than helpful. Those who have never had to walk a certain path cannot truly map out that path for others.

I recently had a run-in with a commenter who strikes me as equally dense in her privilege. She commented on one of my earlier posts where I took to task a couple of readers seeking "free" downloads of my books on a pirate site. Someone on the site linked to that post and I've received quite a bit of traffic from that link. Anyway, this particular commenter by the name of Katie came onto my site with the privileged attitude that my financial woes weren't due to the piracy but were basically due to the fact that I needed to get off my ass and get an actual job outside of writing. When I told her that I would hardly take advice from someone pirating my book, she responded that she hadn't downloaded my book but was just on the pirate site to download textbooks. She also managed to slam my works as "trumped up Harlequins" and "overpriced fanfiction" even as she reiterated that she was only trying to help me.

See, I figure someone with the privilege of going to school may be young or may have the privilege of being financed by parents or a partner or someone else to help her tide over. For her to assume that I have not looked for full-time or even part-time work shows how out of touch she is with today's economic reality for those of us approaching 50, who have suffered the loss of a full-time job and are without the sponsorship of parents or loved ones. It was personally insulting to me for this woman to accuse me of sitting on my ass just so she could feel better about herself and at the same time divert blame from those illegally downloading my books (which has cut into my profits).

See that's the problem of the privileged. They tend to bloviate and espouse shit a lot of times because they simply don't know what they are talking about. They don't have the map to the rocky roads many of us are travelling because their paths tend to be a little more paved and therefore easier to traverse. With easier paths tend to come less empathy; this fact I am unfortunately discovering.

And that's the problem with Marks' article; he expresses mock empathy for the underprivileged without actually experiencing actual empathy for the underprivileged. I would suggest to Marks and "Katie" that they take off their privileged shoes and walk without them for a while. They'd be surprised how discomforting being without those privileged shoes can be.

2011-11-30T14:45:00.000-08:00

My Zazzle Store on Facebook

I've created a Facebook page specifically for my Zazzle store Ubiquity. I am constantly creating new prints, business cards, invitations, mugs, shoes, jewelry, apparel and miscellany. Check out my Ubiquity Facebook page.

2011-11-29T17:53:00.000-08:00

My latest print at Zazzle

I enlarged this abstract I made in Adobe for fuller effect on the wall. On sale at Zazzle.

Abstract Boxes Canvas Print

2011-11-15T14:42:00.000-08:00

Author Shiloh's Walker eloquent anti-piracy post

It seems more authors are experiencing their own piracy woes. Author Shiloh Walker breaks it down very nicely. Unfortunately, like me and other authors, she's discontinued a popular series because of the constant piracy and is considering not writing any more books altogether. Again, thanks pirates. One day Karma will come for you and you'll understand.

Shiloh Walker: Readers & Piracy

2011-11-07T18:32:00.000-08:00

The Brothers Grimm - A Bella Online Article

A few years ago I was the short stories editor at Bella Online. I wrote several articles focusing not only on the technical points of short story writing but also on well-known story authors. I recently remembered one that I wrote on the brothers Grimm after viewing the new NBC show Grimm (which is growing on me as is Once Upon a Time; don't ask me which I like better). Below is the article still featured at Bella Online.

"Once upon a time..." are four of the most often-read words in literature. There aren’t many of us who haven’t heard them as a child, preface to tales of distressed damsels, heroic knights, predatory stepmothers, and stalking wolves that have become part of America’s folklore (thanks mostly to Walt Disney). But these tales were not originally meant for children – at least not before Disney candy-coated them in technicolor features. The origins of most of these stories have roots in darker folklore, folklore that was diligently collected by two brothers in the 19th century.

When Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm set about gathering the mostly Germanic narratives, they did so to preserve the oral history being threatened by a Napoleonic invasion that had set about suppressing the local culture. The brothers were in search of something that would unify the German people under this oppression and were indefatigable in their research. Often they would invite storytellers to their home, and the brothers would write down the tales. Interestingly, many of the storytellers were young women from middle-class families who had heard the stories from governesses and servants.

The narratives relayed were barely disguised morality tales and often had undertones of sex and violence to illustrate the downfall of the wicked and immoral. To make them more palatable for the middle-class gentry, the brothers substantially re-wrote and edited most of the stories, but some element of violence remained. Through various translations, punishments meted out to fairy tale villains were softpedalled because of the barbarity of the originals. For example, in the original "Snow White," the evil stepmother is forced to dance in red-hot iron shoes until she falls dead. An early version of "Little Red Riding Hood" had both the girl and her grandmother eaten by the wolf. In some subsequent versions, the wolf even offered Little Red parts of her grandmother to eat. The Grimms provided alternative endings to these tales, with the evil stepmother falling off a mountain instead and a resourceful grandmother finding an escape for herself and her granddaughter. Actually, “Little Red Riding Hood” was lifted and conflated from a French version written in the 17th century by Charles Perrault.

Even though the brothers’ original intent was to be patriotic folklorists, they eventually compiled these stories into a collection of 210 fairy tales and entitled it Children’s and Household Tales, published in 1812. Many of these stories are familiar the world over: "Cinderella," "Hansel and Grethel," "The Six Swans," "Rumpelstiltskin," as well as many more. Despite the title, the original collection was not aimed at children, and the brothers even refused to illustrate it. Also, the book was not well received by many parents and clerypersons who considered the content too raw and uncivilized. Eventually, the book found a steadily growing audience and today, nearly two hundred years later, the collection and its various versions are best sellers worldwide; the only other book that outsells this opus is The Bible. Maybe its sustained popularity is due to the fact that it remains a source of imaginative and effective cautionary tales for young children.

So the next time you sit down to read a bedtime story to your little one, you might ponder two brothers who thought to preserve one culture and ended up changing the literature of children throughout the world.

2011-11-05T17:51:00.001-07:00

More stolen books

I'm letting my fans know right now that even though I'm trying to finish another book, I may just quit out of protest from the constant piracy of my books. For example, someone at Share Term Papers by the name of Dani Elias specifically requested free downloads of GOLD MOUNTAIN and RAINE'S BLUES. This request was met by another member by the name of Certola. (The site's name should give you an idea to their illegal activity since people should write their own damn term papers.) The link has been downloaded a few times and the particular page has been viewed over 60 times. Now, considering the book is over $5, I'm losing out on some change here. Money that could go to groceries or utilities. I don't write as a hobby. My last royalty check was for $37 for ALL OF MY BOOKS. I'm facing possible eviction unless I can come up with December's rent (my last gig has dried up). I don't fucking appreciate the theft. So fucking thank you Certola and Dani Elias for your efforts in stymying my writing efforts.

2011-10-29T20:27:00.000-07:00

The Halloween Visit

Reposting this story. According to my tracker, someone came onsite specifically looking for the tale. Maybe next Halloween I will have written a new story.

Halloween isn't a joke in my house. Not anymore. There are no chocolate candies or cut-out goblins, no taffy apples, no smiling spiders plastered to windows. And there's definitely no laughing. My sisters and I learned a long time ago not to laugh or even talk too loudly. Everything from midnight to midnight on the 31st is spoken softly in this house. It's been this way since we were young, since before I could remember.

Around the time my father went away.

"You took the garbage out, Annie?" my mother asks. The grooves around her eyes are deeper this morning.

"Yeah." Can't help the peeve in my voice and my mom looks up from scrambling the breakfast eggs, spatula paused over a popping skillet.

"So what's your problem today?"

"Don't have a problem."

"Sounds like it. Now go upstairs and wake your sisters. They're sleeping like the dead."

She realizes what she's said, shuts up and goes back to the eggs. And I go upstairs to my sisters' bedrooms.

Jordan is lying face down, her head half hidden under her pillow. It's nearly eight; she went to bed at seven last night. She's trying to escape in her dreams. My own dreams have never provided any safety.

"Get up, already!" I yell, then realize my mistake.

She stirs slowly, mumbling. "Leave me alone," she finally gets out, softly like it should be spoken. Like I should've spoken a second ago.

She moves slowly, almost painfully as she realizes the day is here and she does have to leave the haven of her bed. She sits on the edge of her bed, rubs her eyes and looks at me finally.

"Damn," she says mournfully.

I nod. "Yeah, I know. I gotta go get Taylor up."

But when I go to Taylor's bedroom, she's not there. The bathroom door is open and she's not there, either. So I know where she is.

I head to the north closet, pull the step ladder to the center, push open the door to the attic and climb up. No proverbial spider webs up here; my mom keeps it tidy.

Taylor's sitting on the trunk near the window, her head down. She looks up at me and I can see tears in her eyes.

She's thirteen, but looks ten, small chest, babyfaced. She gets teased about it enough. Girls can be bitches. Today, she looks much older.

"You didn't sleep?"

She shakes her head. "Couldn't? Did you?"

"A little. Not much."

She's silent as she twiddles a finger. "Why is it like this?" she asks. "Why are we so different?"

"Mom says we're special. At least Daddy is."

She looks out the spotless window. Not even a flyspeck. "You ever thought about running away?"

I shake my head and think about Angela. "Not anymore."

"Maybe if we all left?"

"We tried that, remember? Oh, I guess you don't, you were only three."

It had snowed that Halloween, an unexpected October blizzard. Still mom had wrapped us up and bundled us four girls into a car. The car didn't make it very far before it stalled. For some reason, she didn't try to go any farther. As though she knew that she couldn't go any farther, that there was nowhere to run to.

Because we had run before.

And he always found us, despite the moves from state to state, despite name changes.

This house was our fifth in ten years. Before that apartments. Two years in any given house, not enough time to make or leave any memories. The houses were larger in the beginning. But the need for lots of space has gotten smaller. Daddy left us plenty of money for moving. But money could never compensate. Daddy.

I remember my loud words minutes before. I had broken a silent covenant.

Strangely, I wasn't frightened, not like I should've been.

I was tired of the fear.

In the corner, on an old Spinet, lay pictures of all of us, face down. But I remember the faces: Mom, Daddy and seven sisters. Five are gone now. They went to live with Daddy. Lynn, Sada, Donnie, Sienna, and Angie. Angie had run, but like mom, learned she couldn't run far enough. We'd moved afterward; people might ask questions.

Hell, we could leave this planet, and he'd still find us.

"I wish things were different. Maybe this time, he'll…I don't know. Maybe he's not as mad as before."

I didn't say anything. I wished the same thing when I was her age. That was two years ago. We never knew when he would want any one of us to go live with him.

And always, he'd say the same damn thing: "So, the court said I can't have my kids. Fuck the courts! I'm gonna have all my kids. All of 'em."

Mom said he yelled that on the courthouse steps; we were staying at my aunt Sylvia's at the time. Taylor was a baby. I was almost three.

I don't remember Aunt Sylvia. He killed her some years ago when I was still small.

The police chased him down and he got killed. We thought we were safe.

But that first Halloween after Aunt Sylvia's murder, he came to the apartment door, smiling, all of his teeth and a good part of his lower skull showing. His eye was shot out, and the dirt fell from his burial clothes.

Only we heard my mother screamed as he said, "I'm backkkk!"

No one ever heard us scream, like no one cared. He could do what he wanted to us, and no one would call the police. But what could the police do to a dead man?

I talked Taylor down from the attic. It was Saturday, no school. But there were still chores. My mother learned a long time ago it was better to keep us busy, to keep our mind off of things to come.

So, for the rest of the day, floors got swept, rugs vacuumed. Mom cleaned out the refrigerator. We girls cleaned up our rooms – although they were always clean. The way Daddy had always instructed her. Sheets were ironed, toilets brushed white and sinless.

Mom never forgot the punishments for crumbs.

Jordan remembered the broken arm when she had shouted while playing in the living room. She never forgot that Daddy liked quiet.

So, on Halloween, we keep quiet. And we do what females are supposed to do – shut up and do what we're told.

Only three of us left to take. Which one tonight?

That's the thought on all of our minds as the sun drifts away, condemning us to the night. We turn on all the lights, turn on the television, turn the volume down.

I want to run to the Stanleys across the way. But in the years, another lesson learned: you pull other folk in, they get hurt, killed even. At least those who would give you help. We also learned the truth about All Hallows Eve - the dead do walk, seeking vengeance for wrongs done to them.

See, I found out some time ago that it wasn't the police who killed Daddy. After he slit Aunt Sylvia's throat for hiding us away from him, and after the police got after him, Mom found out he hadn't run far; one day while she walked to her car in a dark parking lot, he showed up. He didn't know she kept a gun since the murder. Probably didn't realize when the bullet ripped the top of his face apart.

The police said self-defense, and so did the courts. Everything should've been all right after that.

Sometimes he simply broke open the door. Other times he managed to slip through locked windows. One year, we boarded up windows. Didn't work. A couple of years, it seemed he forgot us. But then he came for Sienna (we called her Sinny; she was always getting into stuff, always laughing), and then Angie last year.

"You're older than both of us," Taylor says to Jordan as Jordan sits staring in front of the television. Survivor is on. Taylor's thrown up about three times and has just come down from cleaning the bathroom.

"Does that make you feel any better, you little turd?" She's angry, but not at her sister. That's how it is when you're maybe about to die. Or something much worse.

"Don't call your sister that, Jo..."

My mother is sitting in the armchair, her face drawn. Watching her, I hate her for not protecting us. I hate her for being stupid enough to marry someone like him. Someone like her own father. Between those two, she simply doesn't have enough fight left. My hate ebbs away. A little.

But I do have some fight left. I will do something. Somehow.

He wasn't going to take me or my sisters. Not this Halloween.

I run upstairs and pull out every aspirin bottle, every prescription bottle (my mother has several) and I run downstairs.

"Here, we can take these. C'mon, we don't have to wait for him anymore."

For a second, my mother's eyes brighten, then just as quickly dim back to lifelessness. "I don't believe in that. You can lose your soul."

"Mom, we don't have any souls left! He took all of our souls a long time ago, even before he died."

"Is that right?" a whisper comes from over my left shoulder. He has snuck in again. How? Jordan jumps up and runs to the kitchen. I hear the rattling of chains, I hear the door open; I hear it quickly slam shut. She didn't make it out.

Taylor draws into a corner, whimpering.

Mom just sits there in the chair, staring away from us.

I turn and look at the decomposed face. Twelve years can ravage a dead man like that. He's smiling, always smiling. Because he knows he owns us. Not that he really wants us. He just doesn't want Mom to have us.

I hear the breaking of glass from the kitchen. Jordan again.

He doesn't even go through his usual spiel: "These are MY kids, bitch! They were never yours!"

Before anyone can blink, he swoops up Taylor and she screams and screams.

Mom doesn't move, but has started crying. Hearing Taylor's screams, Jordan runs in from the kitchen, shaking her head. "No, no!"

In the morning, Mom will tell people that Taylor has gone to live with her father. That's what she tells everybody when one of us is suddenly gone. And then the rest of us moves again.

But not this time.

I thought Jordan had been trapped in the kitchen. But it seems she did make it outside. The glass must have been her breaking in again. Because she has an axe in her hand; where did she get it from? Probably from the Stanley's shed next door.

Seeing the axe, I don't wait. How can no one hear Taylor screaming? Enough to wake the dead - if the dead weren't already awake.

My sister's face is contorted with terror as Daddy lays a kiss on her forehead and says: "My baby; you're going to like the grave. It's so dark down there."

I grieve for all my sisters as I grab the axe and without a thought wham it into Daddy's head. The skull rolls away. And then rolls back.

He drops Taylor to pick it up. And he places it back on his ravaged body, clothes all shredded to hell.

He cackles, then shrugs as if to say, "See...you can't kill me."

I still have the axe in my hand. And suddenly I know what will end all of this. Because it occurred to me seconds before.

He doesn't want us. He never wanted daughters anyway, wished we were boys. All he wants is to hurt Mom.

This is between them. He wants to destroy her. To reduce her to nothing.

He wants what I am about to do.

I look at her, just a second.

She nods then. No suicide for her.

But this is all right.

She understands as I swing the axe. I don't feel the splatter.

But I do see my father suddenly shake and howl. Before he disappears into nothing but dust. Something he should have done a long time ago.

Taylor grabs my other arm. And Jordan cries silently behind me.

And a second time on Halloween, I break the silence as I scream in grief and triumph.

2011-10-28T15:51:00.000-07:00

Jimmy Fallon and Brian Williams Slow Jam Occupy Wall Street

As Jimmy would croon, "Oh yeahhh." Something about that guy does thangs to me, especially when he slow jams the news.

2011-10-27T20:53:00.000-07:00

(No, Gwyneth, you're not African but neither am I)

Saving Africa

Truly, if the West wants to "save Africa" certain Westerners (esp. Hollywood stars) should keep the hell out. Monies raised simply foster corrupt governments. Please read the linked post and comments featured at Abagond to get an even picture of the continent, not the Westernized, paternalistic viewpoint we've all been fed.

The Business of Saving African

2011-10-27T16:28:00.000-07:00

"Someone to Love" by Ruff Endz

This vid first aired in 2001 but it never gets old to me. I love the premise of the story as well as the actress who played Bird in Showtime's Soul Food. The guy is cute, too. But what I really jive to is the harmony of the duo. They know how to bring the notes. Check out "Someone to Love" by Ruff Endz.

2011-10-27T16:03:00.000-07:00

"Goodhands Tonight" by Al Jarreau

Years ago when I was penning my first novel Celia, I finally reached a point where I had to map out my first love scene between the protagonist Cheryl Thompson and her love interest Arthur (yes, Arthur) Blevins. As it was my first love scene ever, I was pretty tame with the details. But the one memorable thing for me about the scene was the music I chose as the backdrop. I wanted to be a little original and not just drop in a Luther or Anita tune. So I did some searching and found a song entitled "Goodhands Tonight" by Al Jarreau. The title itself lent to the idea of a sensual night, so I listened to a snatch of it and decided it fit well enough for the scene. At that point, I hadn't listened to it all the way; that happened a few years later and I just love this tune now. And everytime I hear it, I think about the fun of writing that scene, of writing my first book ever, flaws and all.

Take a listen to "Goodhands Tonight" by Al Jarreau. It really grooves.

2011-10-18T09:43:00.000-07:00

Fandom's Hatred of Black Female Characters

This is something that's bothered me for a while and Racialicious has finally addressed the topic. The venom is almost palpable when it comes to certain characters, especially Tara from True Blood. You can't tell me there's not something going on other than just irritation for a character or storyline. The vitrolic rhetoric sometimes rises to presumed hatred which leads me to suspect racial animosity.

Below is the comment I wrote to the post (as of this posting my comment was still in moderation and had not shown up):

I'm glad to see this topic as the primary focus of a post and not ancillary to other topics. And yes, it's particularly troubling to me. (BTW, you forgot to mention Bonnie of The Vampire Diaries.) I note that one common nexus to the examples offered above is that all of these characters tend to be involved in I/R relationships.

I've seen the venom that is way over the top in the fandom realm and I assume (rightly or not) that many of the fanbase with particularly insignificant pet peeves actually harbor racist sentiments. What's intriguing is that when it's suggested that racism is behind the level of venom, there's a general hue and cry of "I'm not racist." The "fan" will offer that she (and it's often a she) just doesn't like the character or as indicated she doesn't like the way the character is portrayed by the actress. However, when white characters are disliked, it seems to never reach the vitriolic levels as with black characters. I've seen posts by fans (presumably white) who offered to kill Tara themselves for just the smallest infraction. And I mean a heinous death at that. Just read the glee that followed the apparent murder of Tara.

The main issue is that the more progressive assume that only progressives like the same shows. I would offer that probably those who would be comfortable in an aryan nation meeting also watch these same shows and verbalize their sentiments more covertly. After all, it wouldn't do for them to just come out and say "I hate that negress" especially if she's paired with a white male. For the uninformed, just read blogs centered on I/R relationships. The anecdotes alone will give you a clue as to why you see certain sentiments expressed against black characters/actors involved in onscreen I/R relationships.

The main gist (and this is my assumption) is that black women aren't to be shown as viable and sexual competition to mainstream women (esp if the mainstream woman is the main protagonist). I have to be upfront and say that as an author of I/R fiction I've run across sentiments on boards for romance and erotica indicate that they will never purchase a book with a black woman as the heroine b/c "they just can't relate" and it was once suggested on a board that the reader sees these types of pairings as something along the line of a vampire/human or werewolf/human pairing. In other words, not "normal."

So it isn't a stretch to see the same sentiment expressed on fan boards of shows where a black woman is shown as more than just a sassy best friend, a magical Negro or some sort of mammy figure. And lord help her if she's actually sexually attractive.

In other words, we as black women are still seen as the "mules of the world" and if we show our femininity, our attractiveness, our intelligence and our basic humanity, we're lambasted for presuming to be "equal" with other races of women.

2011-10-14T09:06:00.000-07:00

Required reading

...for those who feel that illegally downloading (and uploading) books is without a price.

istealbooksfromhardworkingauthors.blogspot

2011-10-12T16:51:00.000-07:00

If you can afford a Kindle, you can afford my downloads

Over the past day and a half, several authors have taken up arms on our Facebook pages, led by the awesome romance author Lena Matthews, against those readers who egregiously offer up our books for free, robbing us of thousands of dollars in royalties. You may think that you're being generous with fellow readers when you do this but in actuality you are robbing us writers of our hard-earned dollars.

As many of you know from this blog my first book AGAIN was published in 2006. That was the last year of my full employment. Since then I have been either un- or under-employed, struggling to make rent and pay bills after losing my home in 2009. With a sick mother and erratic writing projects, I have often been despondent about my finances. Initially I ignored the illegal downloads of my books at piracy sites such as Astatalk because I wrongly thought that they were just a minimal number. But more sites have arisen in the past year or two, and my books are all over the place.

In an earlier post I indicated that I had taken up the writing mantle again after a respite. I was eager to work on a project that held a lot of promise and that Loose Id has shown interest in publishing. Now, I am not so sure that I will finish because the book will immediately wind up on some piracy site the first day it comes out.

Some of you may wonder how bad the piracy has gotten. Well, in a royalty report I received last year I made a mere ten dollars. This amount represented my share of a month's sales of GOLD MOUNTAIN which I worked damn hard on. As I posted on Lena's wall at Facebook yesterday, aren't I worth more than ten dollars? I would like to think so. Again, those of you with Kindles reading illegal downloads of my books, you're doing better than I am. I can't even afford that damn luxury and you have the nerve to pass my books around like they didn't take any effort at all. Well, to those who pirate my books, here's a good FUCK TO YOU! My mother is in a nursing home because I can't afford a 2-bedroom apartment and home care for her. Again, we're talking about thousands of dollars you are robbing from me, money that might have helped my situation. Some goddamn fans!

2011-10-08T21:56:00.000-07:00

Wild Turkey (or rather angry bird)

So according to Gawker, the female reporter featured in this vid had previously heard about recent turkey attacks on joggers somewhere in Sacramento, California. Said reporter decided to take it upon herself to stake out the area, ignoring her obvious meleagrisphobia (for the uninformed, that is an extreme fear of turkeys). Anyway, havoc ensued, prompting said reporter to scream and run for her life. Thankfully, a knight riding a white steed (or in this case a white postal vehicle) came to her rescue.

My theory (based on nothing more empirical than my gut feeling) is that the turkey here is very intuitive and knows this is the beginning of that time of year where the humans come a-calling and members of its family and/or friends begin to "disappear." So when idiot reporter lady came around - toting a camera no less (something which the turkey may have deemed a weapon) - it did what any self-preserving turkey would do; it launched a preventive or rather an offensive strike to save its own neck (as well as its legs, wings, gizzards, white meat, dark meat, etc.)

So in anticipation of Thanksgiving fun, enjoy the role reversal where predator becomes prey. Or where a wild turkey shows a human what's what.

2011-10-05T18:02:00.000-07:00

RIP Steve Jobs 1955-2011

Silicon Valley has lost one of its princes today. Entrepreneur, visionary and innovator, Steve Jobs saw beyond today into tomorrow. His farsightedness has forever changed the world, and the world will be poorer for his silence. Below is a look at the pivotal years of many of his innovations, inventions that have helped bring the world from a divided mass to a true global village.

Rest in peace, Steve. You will be missed.

2011-10-05T13:32:00.000-07:00

Really?

This pic is an example of what can occur when a populist feminist issue, in this case SlutWalk in New York, intersects with racial insensitivity. Read more about it at Racialicious. Obviously this young woman believes she's being progressive. In reality, she's being a dick, which ironically happens with unaware (or outright racist) feminists. All I have to say as a black woman is check your privilege, child.

BTW, I consider myself more of a womanist than a feminist.

2011-10-05T12:04:00.000-07:00

Interracial Romance Literature is Not a "Fad" Genre

This issue has been weighing on my mind for a few months now. It arises from a blog post at Karen Knows Best Blog regarding rubenesque black heroines. It's not the blog post however but rather one of the comments that raised my hackles. Even though the post was written back in May, my mind keeps going back to this particular comment by a reader:

I'm seeing a lot of white male/with black female genre books out there. Is this the new genre replacing werewolf/MM? I believe in love who you want to love but it worries me when writers jump on a bandwagon and flog it to death

The sentiment of this comment is that I/R romance is somehow an outlier genre, much like fantasy genres featuring werewolves and vampires. This sentiment unfortunately bespeaks the mindset of quite a few (but not all) mainstream romance readers who see such a pairing as outside the norm. Yes, the default pairing in romance is usually white/white, with some exceptions allowed to include Native American and Arab lovers. However, these exceptions are allowed as long as the heroine remains white. And that's the problem. I/R is allowable as long as the heroine is someone the mainstream readership can "relate" to. A heroine of color, whether black or asian or native american, is to some readers someone whose skin they just can't get into. They need to fantasize themselves as the heroine and for some reason (or too obvious reasons) some reasons just can't or won't imagine themselves as a woman of color (whereas women of color have had to do the reverse as long as there have been romance books).

Yes, there are exceptions where the mainstream readers have entertained a black heroine in an I/R relationship with a white hero, particularly Suzanne Brochmann's popular pairing of Alyssa and Sam in her Troubleshooter series. So, maybe this type of pairing is considered "normal" if the author is someone the reader can relate to.

There have been several posts on this issue at various romance sites over the years where commenters offered that they were hesitant to read black-authored romance because of their sometimes erroneous beliefs that the plotline would be burdened with racial issues. In this day and age, I can guarantee that most black writers of I/R relationships aren't providing pedantic, social rhetoric about the woes of being black. They are simply providing normal, romantic, sometimes erotic sometimes simmering, sometimes fantastical, sometimes contemporary, sometimes urban, sometimes historical, sometimes paranormal, sometimes Christian, sometimes not-so-Christian literature that happens to feature a black heroine and a non-black hero. Because guess what, these pairings reflect the normal pairings that are all around us, pairings that have existed forever and were legitimized in the 1967 landmark case of Loving v. Virginia (ironic name isn't it given the focus of the case).

So, to the commenter, you're seeing a reflection of true life. Actually, contrary to your supposition, the genre is hardly an adequate reflection of true life as there should be more books (not fewer)than are out there to reflect the millions of I/R relationships and marriages. Thankfully, e-book publishers like Loose-Id understand that this is a viable market, albeit not as large as other genres (such as werewolves and vampires), but growing nonetheless.

So, yes there are many authors jumping on the bandwagon as you so put it. But don't worry about the genre being "flogged to death." Trust me, this genre isn't going to become saturated anytime soon. As a matter of fact, I suspect it's destined to be around a long, long time - as long as there's a whole lot of loving going on. Because yes, we black women need our loving too.

2011-09-21T08:27:00.000-07:00

Disturbing Trend

In this "post-racial" society, it's amazing how old stereotypes are getting a second life, especially that of the "sassy, black woman." Below are just a few commercials that make me cringe. I wonder who was sitting in the boardroom when these idiotic ads got the OK.

Makes me want to snake my neck, click my teeth and exclaim, "Oh no they 'idn't!"

Thank goodness I do not use Bounce or Tide. Too overpriced for my wallet...and they specially won't be getting my money after this foolishness. And by the way, I know what "ecru" is (idiots).

Although this next one came out sometime early last year, it still makes me scratch my 'fro to think that it made it to production. Even if I needed auto insurance Safe Auto would be low on my list because of this mess.

Then there's the mammyisms of Annie the Popeye Lady (strangely, all of the vids for the various Popeyes commercials have been taken down). Although I have to confess I have eaten Popeyes recently despite these egregious ads. I will do better; KFC from now on.

And let's just do a mock-up on "black culture" why don't we and have Santa groovin' with some jive-talkin' elves.

Pepsico has been doing some racially questionable commercials in the past few years. Let's not forget the infamous Superbowl commercial entitled "Love Hurts" (see below). Because y'all know how vicious and angry we black women are.

Unfortunately, Pepsico has such a monopoly over various brands, it's hard to consciously and conscientiously divest it totally.

I guess my main question is why are previously race-neutral companies so comfortable presenting these offensive stereotypes? I'm guessing because of the rising racial rancor (alliteration deliberate) of the last few years which has led to a certain level of comfortability in presenting insensitive racial portrayals. These companies may believe that the mainstream masses are more sympathetic to the racial posturings of the Tea Party than not. But who knows?

One underlying premise to most of these ads is the misrepresentation of black women. Stirring the stereotypical pot are movies like Precious, The Help and any Tyler Perry fiasco that certainly do not help the perception of black women. It's time black women take back their identities and protest these offensive representations mainly through economic boycotting. En masse, black women can hurt a company's bottom line if we so choose. For the personal record, I haven't bought any Aunt Jemima or Uncle Ben products in years.

2011-09-09T10:23:00.000-07:00

Theresa Harris - Not Your Regular "Help"

I have not seen the movie The Help nor have I read the best-seller on which it is based. However, I have read quite a few blog posts and online articles offering varying opinions in a racial discourse that questions whether the movie provides any illuminating racial insight or whether it is just another cinematic example of black women being used to bolster white women's stories and lives. First off, this is not a slam against black domestics. My grandmother was a domestic who served a white family for many years. Her sacrifice provided food for her family and even provided me hand-me-downs when my mother and I ultimately came to live with her and my grandfather. I particularly remember a favorite red robe which I wore over the years until it became threadbare. It didn't matter that it was a boy's robe; my grandmother had given it to me with much love and it was so comfortable.

It has been suggested in many discussions that the depiction of the maids in the movie does nothing more than perpetuate the lingering "mammy" trope which has been a troubling stereotype foisted upon black women for years. It had been hoped that this trope had died a natural death with the progression of time but seemingly this is not the case. Unfortunately, the overwrought character is one which mainstream audiences never seem to tire of and therefore refuse to let die. To many who see the character as benign, there is something comforting about a black woman who gives so totally of herself that she has nothing left for herself or her family.

For those who think that this sentiment does not carry over into real life, I'm a living testament to how even distracted benevolence shown by a black women can be mistaken for mammyism. Case in point, while in my early 30s I temped at a well-known financial auditing company. While there I befriended a young, socially naive secretary in her 20s. She had a pleasant attitude and I didn't mind talking with her and on a few occasions going out to lunch. We talked about various things, nothing particularly soul-searching or earth-moving. One of the things she shared with me during our talks was her love of R&B music and old movies. Well one day out of the blue she shyly admitted to me that I reminded her of a character from one of her favorite movies. Can you guess which movie? When she said Gone with the Wind, I immediately knew my options were either Butterfly McQueen's character (can't remember the name) or Mammy. As I was overweight, I also immediately knew which role she would typecast me as.

I must have shown my shock when she uttered the "beloved" name. She truly believed I should have been flattered at the comparison. I let it go, biting my bitterness and shock. Still someone must have later clued her in about the insult because the next day she apologized stating that she didn't know she had mistakenly insulted me. She then bolstered the apology by saying she only thought of me that way because I was so nice and so "bosomy" that she felt like I was comforting. Yeah right. OK. 'Cause that's what I was there for.

Going back to the issue at hand, in cinematic history the mammy role was often interchanged with that of the black maid. Actresses Louise Beaver and Hattie McDaniel (the original Mammy) were often typecast as either and I can't really be mad at them because those were the roles that were mostly offered to African-American actresses during that time. Again, there is nothing wrong with being a maid or portraying one. But why did the producers of that time insist that the character be oversolicitous and all sacrificing? And in some cases racially demeaning? Again, it was a matter of audience entertainment and "comfortability." Many white audiences, for various reasons, wanted to believe that black women were truly as depicted. My former co-worker would have fit well in those audiences.

I'm wary whenever I watch movies from the early 20th century because I know many of them are rife with black stereotypes. However, I recall a couple of movies I saw many years ago where a particular black actress caught my attention. In both movies, the actress portrayed a maid; however, in both cases, the maid was depicted as well-spoken, dignified and dare I say it, attractive. It was as though the producers of those films hadn't received the memo that all black maids were supposed to speak in dialect, be overly solicitous, and treat her employers as though they were her own children. It is only recently that I discovered the name of the actress: Theresa Harris. To learn more about her check out her bio at BlackPast.org. and Wikipedia. I found more information about Ms. Harris from an article written by journalist Sherry Howard. The New York Times also wrote a bio on Harris.

I truly can't recall which movies I saw Ms. Harris in, only that she made a lasting impression on me even these years later. From reading her various bios, it seems that she, like Beaver and McDaniel, was often typecast as a domestic. However, Ms. Harris' elegant and dignified portrayal disproved those many years ago (and disproves even today) any mistaken belief that black maids had to be portrayed for laughs or overly servile so as not to upset the audience's comfort level.

Below is footage of one of Ms. Harris' non-domestic roles in which she sings "Daddy Won't You Please Come Home."

Here she is again (this time in "uniform") in Buck Benny Rides Again.

2011-09-04T06:27:00.000-07:00

"African-Americans"

From the time the term African-American was coined decades ago - derived from its predecessor Afro-American - controversy has surrounded its use by those within - and without - the U.S. diaspora. The question that often arises is why do "blacks" have to self-designate, why do we set ourselves apart from other Americans? I consider this a specious question. I suspect that often the underlying concern of the questioner is that African-Americans have the power and determination at all to self-designate and that we refuse to allow others to define or label us, especially those who would prefer we go back to the labels "Negro" and "colored". Although other groups have been asked the question why they designate as say an Italian-American or a Polish-American and so on, those queries do not seem to carry the same "interest" as the question surrounding the hyphenation of African and American.

Supposedly everyone knows the tragic history of how early Africans were brought to these shores against their God-given will, so it doesn't need to be rehashed here in detail. Suffice it to say that many of the original slaves who were torn from their continent, from their respective countries, were beaten, tortured and indoctrinated in an attempt to force them to deny their names, to forget their cultures, to cede their power to self-designate as ethnic groups of people. The loss was far-reaching and seemingly permanent (at least, at that time) as blacks from various countries, countries sometimes at war with one another, melded together not as global citizens but as American slaves in a chattel system that was often more degrading and dehumanizing than the war-originated enforced servitude back in their countries.

Despite the evil they were subjected to, many of those original slaves managed to subvert the American pogrom to destroy their identities, to destroy their very souls. Although slave names were forced on them, although they were treated as animals, inwardly the stronger of the displaced Africans held on to the names of their births, to the memories of their people and their cultures. As they melded together as chattel slaves, they also came together as a "people", a new people with a melded ethnicity that gleaned from the various original cultures and eventually merged into a newer, resilient culture all their own.

By the time slavery was proclaimed "over", ties to the African continent were obstensibly disrupted for many of the newly emancipated blacks. They did not know from whence their ancestors hailed, could not determine their country of origin. This fact set them apart from those immigrants newly arrived who held to to their Irish, British, German, Swedish, Polish and Spanish ties and cultures, cultures comprised of certain foods, music and dress.

However, Africans of the American diaspora had by this time "originated" their own music, adopted their own foods, created their own traditions that not only brought them a sense of self worth, but also protected their physical and psychic selves in a country that still sought to deny them their humanity, and at times deny them their very lives.

In times past, the disapora was not even allowed to label themselves. Any referential designation came from others. During earlier times, the now-passe terms Negro and colored were the more courteous of these designations. However, there were more less humane labels that have survived into this millenium. The derivation nigger was so often used that at times it was stated matter-of-factly, without any underlying venom. But the user always had the intent to put the former slaves in their "place."

As the descendents of slaves entered the 20th century, they fought for their own space, their own lives, their own designation. The term black was offensive to many, who preferred the more "courteous" Negro. At that time black held many negative connotations for those still suffering from the surviving vestiges of past degradations. However, as decades passed, those who wished to distance themselves from that humiliating past also wished to shed those designations forced upon them. A new resistance arose during the 40s and 50s which eventually culminated in the militancy of the 60s and 70s. By this time, the term Afro-American had been introduced into the racial zeitgeist and was the designation of preference by those such as Malcolm X who refused his "slave" name and believed that the Africans of the American diaspora should self-designate.

Years later Afro-American evolved into the current designation African-American. Although many of the diaspora initially resisted, some even preferring the the once-rejected black designation, African-American eventually became the accepted designation by those within and without the diaspora. The term currently is often used interchangeably with black and I believe this has led to some confusion regarding the difference in ethnic references and racial references.

Remember, those of us of the diaspora have lost our original ethnic references. Unlike other ethnicities in America who are still able to trace ties back to a specific country(s), we Africans of the American diaspora can only trace our ties back to a continent as the ties to the countries of our ancestors' origin were effectively severed during the earlier pogrom perpetrated against them. Outside of investing monies in tracing our African ancestry, such as Alex Haley was able to do, many of us will never know from which country our ancestors were violently uprooted. Those of us descended from the original diaspora have created our own roots within this country, roots originating from our specific history and circumstances. As for our designation, I think of African American as our ethnicity, while black is our "race."

To understand how the concepts of race and ethnicity differ, you have to first understand that race is an illusory categorization originated in the States with the purpose to divide those with ties to European countries from those hailing from non-European countries. black "race" in particular comprises those whose ancestors originate from Africa, many of whom were part of diasporas in both North and South America and the Caribbean. The term as used in the States often refers to Africans of the American diaspora as well as to those Americans with ties to the Bahamas, to Haiti, to Jamaica and other countries. Although our cultures vary, we are tied together simply by the melanin in our skin, which makes us "non-whites."

Some who question our designation cynically put forth disingenous queries trying to indict the term. They particularly like to point out that as some whites were born in Africa they can also be termed African-American. I say these questioners are disingenous because if they actually worked out the logic of their questions they would know that the designation could only refer to those of the original American diaspora. Those who currently immigrate from Africa need not claim the continent as they can claim the countries within the continent from which they originate. This fact applies to African immigrants of any color. Many Africans who settle here do not refer to themselves as African-Americans as well they shouldn't. Because they are not African-Americans; they are Nigerians, Ghanians, South Africans, Liberians, and any other African ethnicity. If they choose to hyphenate when they become American citizens, that is their choice. To reiterate, African-American is specifically an evolved ethnicity for those of us who cannot trace our countries of origin and must refer to the continent instead.

Often those who question the African-American designation deride the term as racially divisive. It is not. It simply refers to the ethnicity of those of the American diaspora. It is no more divisive than say, Italian-American, Polish-American or Swedish-American. After all, we are allowed our ethnic designation as is any other group.

In my early tenure on the Web, I once posted an ad requesting an African-American artist on an art message board. I was duly chastised as being "racist" for my request. That is because those indicting me were confusing race with ethnicity. Ethnicity points to those from a culture with intrinsic knowledge of that culture. I would not have been unduly angry had I been an artist who espied an ad for an Italian-American artist. Additionally, I understand why those casting movies and shows may request certain ethnicities for particular roles. If I were an actor, I would not show up for a "cattle call" requiring Polish-Americans and then feel slighted if I did and was rejected, especially if the crux of the role relies on specific cultural knowledge and experience.

Lastly, many who are descendants of the diaspora eschew the term because they want to be seen as Americans only. This is the case with people of other ethnicities as well. They want to consider America the ultimate melting pot. Well, I don't see America as a melting pot, but more as a smorgasbord of various cultures, all of which add to the "American" flavor. In no other country is there the level of diversity that one finds in this country. Every immigrant brings with him and her a lineage from cultures dating back thousands of years. This lineage is to be celebrated not obscured.

And although African-American culture is relatively "new" and is one derived from the remnants of lineages severely disrupted, it is equally laudable in the flavor it has added to that American smorgasbord. From the foods that originate from the mother continent (yams, watermelon, okra, cassava, peanuts, tania, rice, etc.), to the incorporation of African beats that have informed various genres of American music, to the stylings of African-American culture that increases the "flava", we of the disapora have much of which to be proud. Most of all, we should be proud of the resilience that has allowed most of us to survive the slings and arrows of outrageous fortunes to which we have been subject. Yes, we have our setbacks and crises that may bring racial "shame" to some of us; however, we should realize that we are only human and are not a cut above and more importantly not a cut below any other peoples, who, if they had traveled the same course of history, might not have survived or thrived as readily.

So I readily accept that I'm an African-American woman, a person of an ethnic culture which is both rich and dynamic, a culture which is ever changing and morphing hopefully to something even better.

2011-08-29T19:24:00.000-07:00

Il Grande Silenzio (The Great Silence), 1968

I found this clip in a Youtube search and although I've never seen the movie, which is a notable spaghetti western by famed director Sergio Corbucci, the silent chemistry between the actors Vonetta McGee and Jean-Louis Trintignant is smoldering. Unfortunately, the lovers have a star-crossed ending according to Wikipedia. Actually their ending is quite brutal as depicted in another clip I discovered (and won't show here) so I don't particularly want to see the whole film.

What I will note is that the storyline is extraordinary in that the Af-Am actor McGee is featured as the wife of a Mormon and then the lover of the protagonist-gunfighter - and this in 1968. Which begs the question whether 21st cinema has truly progressed since this movie. I really don't think so.

2011-08-19T14:55:00.000-07:00

Really Nivea?

Nivea "Re-civilizing" a Negro

2011-07-30T14:21:00.000-07:00

Debt Ceiling Slow Jam

Jimmy Fallon, anchor Brian Williams and the Roots explain the debt ceiling to a slow jam groove.

2011-07-24T15:36:00.000-07:00

Shameless self-promotion

Posting a slide of just a sample of the thousand of items I've created that are available at my Zazzle store. I've been experiencing more sales but I really need to do more by way of promotion as this is a viable source of a very limited income.

Design a personalized gift at Zazzle.

2011-07-23T09:07:00.000-07:00

Writing challenge

Over at the Absolute Write Sci-Fi Forum there is a monthly challenge to write a scene (around 1,000 words) based on given topics. One of July's topics was "blood spell" so I wrote up the following just to see if I could do it.

__________________________________________________________________________________

Blood spells were rare. So rare in fact that most of the literature was no longer available either in hardcopy or online. Still, Naila remembered the words her M'dear had spoken on nights of moons and harvests, when the will-o-wisp hovered over Hangman's marsh casting a ghoulish pale that lit the darkness. That lit the way for her and M'dear, her grandmother, those nights ago as they walked toward the bog and M'dear told tales of the Meades, Naila's bloodline.

Witch. Sorceress. Nacromancer. These were words seared into her brain, her blood. Words considered archaic now, even somewhat pedestrian in a world where technology had opened paths to other worlds, to other dimensions. What was the need of old-timey religious beliefs when the gods had been proven passé?

Tonight, as Naila rediscovered the old path M'dear walked once upon a time, once upon a way, the bodies of lichens and other grasses crushed beneath her feet, sending up long remembered smells. Familiar odors that comforted. Her destination, her destiny, was only a few feet ahead – if she'd remembered correctly.

The pitch of the night was punctuated by the pinpoint flames of fireflies and her own aura, activated and set at mid-beam. The aura not only projected light but enveloped her with a shield that protected against unseen predators. Snake bites were common to the folk around here. Folk who did not venture to the city where the grown Naila now lived and worked. At least, until several days ago. The convo between her and Madley Humes played out like a holopic in her head. Like a glitch that rewound over and over.

"Naila, your numbers have been extraordinary. Out of this world, in fact. Pun intended."

He'd laughed sheepishly at his lame joke.

"The project has stalled and we just do not have a continued place for a spatial analyst right now. You see where I'm going with this? We overestimated the FEM rates, coming in much lower than anticipated."

FEM was the acronym for Frequency Equivalency Metrics which measured the gamma, alpha and various waves emanating from recently discovered planets, worm holes and universes. This latest universe discovery was believed to contain thousands of planets and billions of stars. Most important, there were signs of life. Or so they'd thought. In the end, the numbers had been wrong. Her numbers in particular. Or so she'd thought.

If she hadn't run into Davis on her last day, after she'd packed up her desk and microboxed her items into the 1x4 capsule, she'd never known the truth. That her numbers had been dead on. That Madley had lied. Had re-diverted credit from her work to his own stats. And stupidly, she'd allowed him to have all of the data so that she had nothing to verify her claim since her contributions were to have been on the hush. She'd allowed this arrangement based on some tacit agreement that she would be allowed full involvement with more important future assignments. But Madley had obviously been less than forthcoming.

The sounds were deep here in the swamp, lyrics in a symphonic composition – hissing toads, chirping crickets, other nocturnal fauna who cried out to one another. Who warned each other that a human was in their midst. Eons ago, and even now, the belief was that animals, insects and other non-humes communicated on a basic level, evincing nothing more important than messages about food, mating and danger. M'dear had long ago taught her that this was not particularly so.

M'dear had also taught her the language of the earth. Something left over from the old ways, now supplanted by technological advances.

"Neeeeee…." a toad yelled out to her. One word. "Human."

She answered with a collection of clicks created by her tongue hitting the roof of her mouth. This was followed by a series of vocal vibratos that told her tale to the animals, the insects, the non-humes.

In the end, an alligator gave up the missing piece of her puzzle. It fit nicely with the words from her M'dear that was filed away into her memories.

M'dear had warned her to never believe that the humans ran this world.

"We're here by their graciousness. Y'see the Bible had it all wrong. Man was not the ultimate creation. He was nothing more than just a thread in the fabric. We've allowed our egos to rewrite history, to push our way up the hierarchy. And now we have the nerve to believe that we are the captains of this universe. Truly, though, if the animals were ever to rise up and reclaim what is theirs, humans would not be long for this earth. Just the numbers alone would put us at a disadvantage."

M'dear had been considered a relic from the past. But in reality, even as she'd held on to the beliefs of the ancients, she'd been efficiently self-taught in the sciences, old and new. M'dear had been smarter than most. Even about death. Especially about death.

M'dear hadn't died per se. She'd merely transitioned into another form. A form that now gave her the missing piece. The alligator smile told much. Maybe certain religious tenets would have her believe that her grandmother had been demoted somehow. But she knew the truth. M'dear was part of the ultimate creation now. Heaven existed only for those who did not know the truth. Who refused to believe.

Blood spells were tricky. The spill of human blood had only so much strength. But when soaked up into the mire, when added with the mucus of…say…a frog…or the sputum of a gator…the droppings of several marsh birds…well that blood had the power of creation.

And creation could always destroy.

And Madley Humes would soon discover that all the technological strides in this universe – and beyond - were no match against the ancient, the old-timey beliefs of this world.

2011-07-19T10:38:00.000-07:00

New Story

Don't know if I've posted this before or not. Anyway, I'm taking this story off the shelf, dusting it, and working to complete it before year end. Loose Id has expressed some interest, so hopefully I can get it published. Plotting it as I write. Am interested in feedback so feel free to comment on these chapters.

CHAPTER 1

He'd been made. All of his senses told him so, including the hairs standing on his flesh. Still he had a job to do. As Dele walked into the bar, he spotted Rez sitting at the back table. The gang leader's eyes casually lifted from the Bowie knife in his hand as they locked in on Dele. Clare, who had been leaning over the table yapping away to a mute Rez, also turned her gaze on Dele and smiled widely. She often smiled like that when some poor creature was about to be clipped. Just the other day, Rez deliberately ran his bike into a baby deer foraging near a clearing, several feet wide of the main road artery. The small body hurtled into the air before smashing into the pavement, its head cracked open, its eyes staring into nothingness. Rez yelped in victory as he pumped his left fist into the air leading the raucous crew behind him. Death was an occasion of celebration for the Demons.

Dele had ignored the roiling bile in his stomach as he averted his eyes from the deer carnage. But now Rez's murderous stare was aimed at him and he couldn't help but remember the wet slime of brain and blood left on the road. Whether a helpless deer or a man, they were both fair game. The rest of the gang sat at tables clustered together in the small bar, their leather or jean clad limbs riding rickety chairs and tables, Budweisers lifted, weed smoking up the place. A kilo stash of blow sat in front of Roach ready to be inhaled. Just a taste of the full inventory. A chorus of smirks and smiles greeted him as Lynyrd Skynyrd's "On the Hunt," blared from the jukebox.

This afternoon as they had trailed their bikes through the mountains, Dele had picked up on some bad vibes that had made his knuckles twitch. The vibes were even stronger here. Still he strolled in as though it were any other afternoon at Jed's Bar & Grill, the Demons' usual turf. Jed was behind the bar, ignoring the scene watching the overhead set whose volume was turned down. The grizzled bar owner knew it was healthier for him not to notice too much.

Dele straddled one of the empty stools and Jed pulled out a beer for him, no charge. Dele opened the cold, sweaty bottle and took a swig, feeling the pairs of eyes drilling into his back.

"Dele!"

The summons came from the back, as expected. He sat for a few seconds before he heeded the call. Keeping Rez waiting had its own consequences.

He headed to Rez's table, pulled up an extra chair and sat down. Clare's smeared lipstick bled onto a couple of upper teeth, giving her a vampirish grin. The grin and eyes were gleeful, sure of Dele's fate. But then she had reason to dislike Dele ever since he'd thrown off her drunken advances. That had been nearly four months ago, when he first joined The Demons.

Or rather, when he'd first gone undercover to link The Demons to a West Coast drug trafficking ring that ran from California to Washington State. He was also investigating the several bodies found buried in the Mojave Desert. He'd racked up enough evidence for the trafficking, but not a stitch on the murders of several rival gang members.

Still, the DEA had been about to pull him in. Obviously not soon enough. Shit.

The Glock in his belt had a full cartridge. But there was no way he could possibly take everyone down. That would take a small miracle. No, make that a damn big miracle with the heavens opening up and Jesus himself descending to whop some ass alongside him.

Otherwise, he was a dead man. He read that much in Rez's eyes. The guitar twang coming through the nearby jukebox rang out the epitaph of a man going down. He didn't like Lynyrd Skynyrd, never had ever since his father used to blast it from the stereo in their two by four shanty. That was a long time ago, before Eric aka Dele had escaped his Georgia prison at seventeen.

"Dele, Dele," Rez shook his head. "Now, man, I can get with the idea of taking sides, you know. In this world, you're either hot or cold, but you got to make a choice."

"Don't know what you're talking about, man." Dele took another swig, his mind on his Glock. He may go down, but he was taking a few of these assholes with him. And at least they'd go down for murder this time.

"I'm talking about loyalty or more specific, disloyalty…to the family."

"And how've I been disloyal…to the family?"

Dele's hand gripped his bottle in a stranglehold that he wanted to put around Rez's neck. The cold glass chilled through his fingers.

Rez's face had been indifferent up until this point. Now anger blazed from his eyes, the irises black as coal. Dele had never seen anyone with jet black eyes until he met the gang leader.

"Don't fuck with me, man! Don't you fuck with me! I got ten bags missing, and Roach says he saw you in the supply house. I wasn't never good with math, but I sure as hell can put two and two together. You're copping my bags and doing some side trading. You rob from me, you rob from all of us."

Goddamn. He hadn't been made after all, but he was sure to die if he didn't convince Rez that he wasn't the thief here. And he didn't have to be good at math either to figure out who was setting him up.

He didn't turn around but his words were directed to Roach sitting near the front, probably already started on his treat.

"So Roach, when exactly did I take the merchandise?"

"Man, you know it was you! I saw you!" Roach yelled back, his words already slurring.

"If anyone took those bags, it definitely wasn't me. After all, I'm not the one with the nasal habit."

The chair scraped back and Dele heard the sound of boots headed in his direction. Then Roach was standing behind him. A click. A knife.

Dele's next motion was quick and smooth from years of police training. One moment Roach had the knife to Dele's throat. It shook, as did Roach's hand. Too much snuff, not enough grit. Dele snatched the knife, at the same time his elbow plowed into the fleshy part of Roach's stomach. Roach doubled over with the sudden pain, and the roles were reversed as Dele held the knife against the man's neck.

"Now, we're going to tell Rez the truth about what happened to the drugs, man, aren't we?"

Roach's high had given him momentary courage, but that was quickly remedied by the feel of the blade. He might fear what Rez would do to him, but he couldn't be sure he wasn't going to die at Dele's hands either.

"Look, maybe I was wrong. I thought it was you, man. Maybe it was someone who looked like you…"

"So, which is it?" This from Rez. "Were you lying to me, Roach?" He stood up, abruptly pushing his chair to the ground as he stepped toward the two men frozen in a death clinch. Rez still had his Bowie knife in his hand, but didn't move to help Roach. If anything, he was holding himself back from taking a slice himself.

"Man, you'd better not be stealing from me. It's one thing if new blood here is sneaking, but you been with me from the beginning."

"Rez, I swear to you, it wasn't me. And if it wasn't Dele, then I don't know who."

Dele thought now was the time to speak his peace, or he might never get a chance before either a knife or bullet settled the matter.

"Rez, just admit you can't be sure who stole that stash. You're going to have blood on your hand, you want to make sure you killed the right one. I know I didn't do it. Roach said he didn't and for all that he's a worthless piece of shit, he could be telling the truth. It could be any one of us --- or more likely someone who happened on the stash. With those odds, you wanna think real hard about putting someone six feet under."

Rez raised his knife slowly, placed it at Dele's throat, just a touch at the artery. One slit, and the wall and surrounding furniture would get a new coat of red.

"Be cool, Rez. You want the truth, you're not going to get it killing me."

Rez lowered his knife. Dele lowered Roach's knife. The three men stood at an impasse.

"I tell you what new blood. You get me proof you didn't do this. Which means you bring me the body of the one who did. I don't care who it is. Just get me my $50,000 stash. I'm giving you 'til the end of the week. That way, we'll be squared."

Roach rubbed his neck, his finger coming away with a spot of blood. The knife had knicked when Rez pushed his own knife along Dele's throat.

The jukebox was blasting another song. Three Dog Night's "Mama Told Me Not to Come." Jed was staring at the television as though the last fifteen minutes never happened. Even if one of them had been lying dead, blood staining the floor, Jed would have looked away. Then later, after the crew had piled out, the owner would have put in an anonymous call to the cops to say a body had mysteriously appeared on the bar's floor, no witnesses.

At least there was no body today. Instead when the crew filed out, they left a collection of empty bottles on the tables as well as numerous cigarette butts, blunts and potato chip bags on the floor. The small bar smelled of liquor, sweat and funk.

After the door slammed shut on a hot Los Angeles night, Jed finally turned off the television and went into the storage room.

"Fucking punks," he said beneath his breath as he came back with a broom to sweep away the garbage.

CHAPTER 2

Nailah cut her eyes at the young bloods checking her out. They had to be no more than fourteen or fifteen, and had the nerve to be browsing her like she was some shorty from the 'hood. She transmitted her message with a glare as though to say: "Who the hell you think you're looking at?" The young boys noted the antagonism and one of them shouted, "Bitch, you should be happy somebody's looking at your old ass!"

Nailah clicked her teeth as she continued past them. A chorus of raucous laughter followed in her wake. She knew she shouldn't let it get to her, but the comment stung. She was thirty-three, hardly old but far past the age when she should have to put up with this shit.

She crossed Manchester Boulevard, where the whiff of barbeque piqued her nose. Ruby's BBQ was a staple of the neighborhood, one that Nailah had firmly placed on her "no good" list last month. Those ribs were simply "no good" for her hips or behind, but they were calling to her now, the spicy smell bringing to mind the memory of tearing into succulent meat basted in a sweet, piquant sauce that had no comparison. She quickened her pace, determined to get her suit from the cleaners before they closed. As she passed Lavelle's Braids, the door opened and a newly coiffed customer stepped out with a little girl in tow. The woman's hair was coiled-locked around a gorgeous, pixie face and Nailah self-consciously touched one of her own sisterlocks. She was due for a tightening soon, but she still looked decent enough to get through her interview tomorrow.

The thought of the interview fluttered the butterflies in her stomach even more. She couldn't help the nerves, even though she had over ten years of financial investment experience. She was stepping back, taking a load off by just going for a financial consultant job, a step down from the direct investment banker position she had worked her way up to from a teller position a decade ago. She had worked her ass off, pursuing two degrees at night. And her reward for all the hard work had been her entry into a snake pit where being a woman marked you as prey while being a black woman made you such an anomaly they didn't even bother to swallow you, just spat you out. Despite that, she'd outperformed many of her male co-workers, bringing in clients, maintaining portfolios, and more importantly, generating revenue. Which only garnered more resentment. Now she just wanted a break, a breather. She wanted to know how it felt to live again. Know what it was like to get up to go to a job she enjoyed and come home at a reasonable hour. For the past ten years her office had become home, while her condo was someplace she made pit stops for a change of clothes. Expensive clothes like the Chanel suit she was picking up to wear to the interview. It was her power suit and hopefully, her good luck suit, as well.

Just as she neared the cleaners at the end of the block, a group of roaring motorcycles rounded the bend. The thunderous decibel levels were earsplitting. She glanced around as a line of about ten to twelve bikes swung into the parking lot of an abandoned building across the street. The three-storied eyesore had been boarded up for a year, but signs outside announced a change of ownership and the coming of a suite of business offices. But decay in any form attracted rats of all kinds. She turned her back as she entered the cleaners.

Beatrice, or Bea as she preferred to be called, was handling a couple of customers, but she still acknowledged Nailah with a nod. After a few minutes, the customers were out of the shop and Nailah walked up to the counter.

"How's it going?" Bea asked with a distracted smile as she placed two tickets into the register drawer then closed it. Two short red curls clung to her sweating forehead. Her meaty bare arms also had sweat beads dotting them. But then, the shop felt about ten degrees warmer than outside where the temperature hovered near ninety.

Nailah pulled her ticket from her purse. "I'm hanging in there. Trying to keep cool, mostly."

Bea took the ticket. "Hold on, got it right here." She turned the carousel of cleaning ready to be picked up, pulled out a plastic-wrapped jacket and skirt combo in a warm sage and handed the cleaning to Nailah.

"I absolutely love this suit, but I guess I tell you that every time you bring it in."

"Yes you do, but I never get tired of hearing it. I'm hoping it'll bring me some luck with my interview tomorrow."

"Really? Well, I'm sure you've got that job all wrapped up with a bow, but I'm crossing my fingers for you anyway."

As Nailah took out her money, a throttle churned, rumbling through the small space.

"Damn bikers," Bea muttered, taking Nailah's twenty bill and counting out change from the register.

Nailah turned to glance out the plate window. The bikers were definitely a sight, something out of a movie. A movie featuring stock, one-dimensional characters that assumed all motorcycle riders should look like long-haired, bearded thugs. The bikers across the street all had leather jackets with some emblem she couldn't make out. And of course, the stereotype wouldn't be complete without a couple of skanks hanging off the back of a couple of the bikes, donned in leather shorts too tight to breathe in.

One of the bikers was talking with a couple of black men, or rather arguing. The animosity seemed to be on both sides.

"I've called the cops again and again, but by the time they get here, the hoodlums are long gone."

Nailah turned back to Bea who was also staring, or rather glaring, out the window.

"They do their business out there in the open because they know no one can touch them. It's sickening the way these criminals are taking over. This used to be a nice place."

"Since when do bikers hang out in Inglewood, anyway? Especially along Crenshaw?" Nailah asked.

"Honey, they don't let a little thing like demographics stop them. Wherever there's dirty money to be had, here come the bikers, the Russians, the Colombians, the Jamaicans…it's a global affair. Especially, when you're talking about drugs. There's more diversity in the drug trade than you'll find in corporate America."

"Ain't that the truth," Nailah said softly as she put away her change.

She smiled her goodbye and turned to the door. But before she opened it, Bea warned, "Be careful out there. You never know what these fools are gonna do. Last week, some idiot capped off a few rounds. Thankfully, no one got hurt."

Nailah nodded as she opened the door, determining that she would definitely be careful. Or rather, walk as fast as she could. Considering she lived just a few blocks east, the thought of open drug dealing was a little too close for comfort. Maybe she ought to consider moving. That depended on how well things went tomorrow.

Quitting her job had been a bold move, but she needed time to re-prioritize. Still her savings would only take her so far. Besides, she missed working, missed interacting with people, some of whom actually acknowledged that she'd gotten where she was by sheer grit and brain power.

She was nearing Ruby's, again regretting her self-imposed moratorium on all that was good, sweet and spicy. She paused at the door, wondering if maybe it would be all right to celebrate her possible new job with a box of rib tips, then re-considered. She might jinx the deal she had with God that she would try to do better so that better things would come her way.

She paused at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change when the roaring bikes started down the street.

As the bikes passed, Nailah caught a closer view of the bodies, most of which seemed unwashed, unkempt. One bulky rider, in the seconds he passed, took time to shoot her a lustful sneer. The garish bottle blond clinging to his waist noticed the look and shot her own daggers over her shoulder.

Closing up ranks was a rider who appeared different from the rest. Maybe because he looked as though he had seen a bar of soap in recent months. And he was clean shaven while the others sported beards of varying lengths. Even in the blur the cyclists became as their bikes raced away, she was left with an impression of humanity among the depraved. Strange how she'd sized up a man just in seconds.

The bikes were long gone when the light finally changed for her to cross. And she had no more time to think on it as she made her way home.

2011-07-19T08:54:00.000-07:00

Alley Reflections (poem) Revised

I've posted before about Absolute Write, a message board for writers I used to frequent. Although I've not hung around the forum for a while, I submitted a poem I wrote a while back and got great feedback. Again, no matter the level of your writing experience, this is the place for good critiques (and they do expect you to reciprocate).

The original poem:
The surface doesn’t tell much,
reflecting up only what the rain gives,
its myriad cracks and fissures
drowning in detritus
delivered by irreverant bodies.
The neon strobe inhales, exhales
ambient light,
bathing her
as she finds solace
against the wet brick,
contemplating
his words.
She knows the smell
of this alley,
its summer haze,
its winter chill,
knows how hard the wall is
when he’s in his throes
and forgets that she is soft.
She’ll remember
this night
when she’s old,
the reeking garbage,
the teasing smell of
moo gai pan
from the restaurant next
door,
the putrifying death
of desire
in a wet alley.

Here is the revision with suggested changes:

She knows this alley -
its smells, cracks, fissures, detritus,
its neon reflections and winter chill.
Knows solace against a brick wall,
how hard the wall is
when he’s in his throes
and forgets she is soft.
She’ll remember
this night,
the reeking garbage,
the waft of
moo gai pan
from the restaurant next door -
the putrid death of desire
in a wet alley.

The thread with even more suggestions.

I also made suggested changes to my short sci-fi fic Death Connection.

2011-07-02T08:35:00.000-07:00

The reality behind writing conferences

This vid speaks truth about writing conferences. Unpubbed writers go there with dreams of easing the path to publication by picking the author's brain and not so much about honing their craft. They feel that if they could just get the name of an established writer's agent, the path will be cleared for them and this is often not the case. You have to know your stuff and then some before even being considered by an agent, let alone a publisher. This reality is why there has been a flux in print-on-demand services in the last decade. Too many wannabe writers attempt to circumvent the hard work of writing a good book and just decide to go for "publishing" glory (which is in fact just a ruse). The result is a lot of badly edited, badly plotted "books" out there in the market which actually harms the industry overall.

I chuckled through some of the verbiage in the vid because it was so on point, especially about the wannabe with the "idea" who wants the established writer to do the ghost work while the "idealist" gets the money and glory.

2011-06-19T16:06:00.000-07:00

Wish my commencement speaker had been this funny...

Listen to Colbert's irreverent speech this past weekend at Northwestern's commencement.

2011-06-16T11:46:00.000-07:00

Traffic was up today

This is the last I'm going to post on this little controversy. A few weeks back, I posted about a tumbler blogger who criticized my R/L stories based on two actors from Being Human (BBC version; still trying to get into the American version). The stories began as a lark on a fan site with no intent to do any harm. I also warned anyone who didn't like R/L stories not to read them. They were just a lark. As I previously noted, the blogger posted passages for the sole purpose of snickering at them. Today I see a surge of visits to my blog (to answer her question, that's how I originally discovered the original posting). She has since come back to this blog and posted another entry to tell me that I'm not a good sport. Well, I don't mind criticism since I've received much worse in the five years I've written. I simply took offense at the assumption that I used a thesaurus and that I shouldn't write under my own name. I will always stand by my writing. And yes I use metaphors and fragments; that's simply my style. Now if I use a run-on, please check me because this is a def no-no.

I do agree with her that I should not have used the term "sweetie"; it is offensive and for that I apologize b/c I don't like it when someone calls me that. I also apologize for taking a dig at her writing; her fanfic is better than the stuff I usually read. As for the Irish invasion metaphor; I like that term. Tongue in cheek or basically dick in *****; again metaphors since there's only so many ways a person can write about an insertion.

As for the poster, feel free to keep posting. At least you didn't call for me to be sued as another tumblr writer did. And I still like the idea of Lenora and Aidan as a couple and this is the only way I can get them together.

2011-05-15T17:42:00.000-07:00

Rufus ft. Chaka Khan

This is real funk the way I remember it! Nothing like the watered down stuff coming out today. I feel bad for today's generation 'cause they just don't know.

2011-05-04T10:24:00.000-07:00

I love Will Ferrell

No one does a Bush send up like Will. Here's his interpretation of Bush's response to Bin Laden's takedown.

President Bush Reacts to Osama Bin Laden's Death with Will Ferrell from Will Ferrell

2011-04-21T13:30:00.001-07:00

Royal party getting their groove on

2011-04-20T14:03:00.000-07:00

Gold Mountain Review

My e-book from last year just received a 5-star Top Pick review at Night Owl Reviews. Just grateful it's still being read.

Read review

2011-04-20T00:44:00.001-07:00

Note to a fanfic reader

It seems there's a particular tumblr blogger who's taken exception to my writing style in my BH fanfic, so much so that she's given me my own tag so that she can visit here and post passages from my writing to snicker at. (I know ending with a preposition; bad form). I think of all the things she's written about my writing the one that gets me the most is the accusation that I abused a thesaurus. Well, sweetie, I don't consult a thesaurus; I tend to know big words, use metaphors and similes, sometimes the occasional gerund. That's just my writing style.

And if you'd be so good as to explain to me the Mill and Boon references; some of us here on this side of the pond really don't know too much about those types of books. Are they like Barbara Cartland (who I admire for her business acumen if not her actual stories)? This is an earnest request; I'd really like to know.

Also, noted your own fanfic. Find it interesting.

I especially like the warning to your readers: "This is why you should never write fanfic under your own name." Well, I tend to write under my own name because I'm not ashamed of what I write.

Take care sweetie.

2011-04-19T13:07:00.000-07:00

Fanfic - Lenora and Aidan...and a Hobbit Being Human

Below is a follow-up story to my Being Human fanfic "Saying Goodbye" (see post below). This fic takes place after hours on the movie set of The Hobbit where Aidan and Lenora get reacquainted hobbit style. Again this is a RL fic (sorta) with cameos by both director Peter Jackson and Bilbo Baggins. Hope you enjoy.

Lenora and Aidan...and a Hobbit

2011-04-17T18:25:00.001-07:00

Too Cute!

I just had to post this before it goes totally viral. This is what happens when a baby penguin is tickled.

2011-04-14T15:19:00.000-07:00

Saying Goodbye - a Lenora/Aidan fanfic from Being Human

As you know from previous posts, I am an avid fan of BBC's Being Human and am still a shipper of Annie and Mitchell despite the last episode of Season 3. I yet have hope of a reunion behind the door (viewers will know what I'm referring to). Anyway, in addition to being an A/M shipper, I also am a RL shipper of the actors Lenora/Aidan. Yes, I hope those crazy two are actually a twosome. Anyway, I have never written fanfic based on RL relationships but I thought it'd be fun to ship the actors together in a story.

The tale takes place one evening after the shooting of a Season 3 ep. Both Aidan and Lenora reveal their true feelings (as well as some other things) after work in her trailer.

Warning: erotic content

Saying Goodbye

2011-04-10T16:10:00.000-07:00

Song of the Moment - You Got to Believe in Something

First heard this song on Second Life and I just started digging it. I love the message because I really need it now. Listen to "You Got to Believe in Something" by Jonathan Butler.

2011-03-26T14:21:00.000-07:00

Reminiscing Today

Going back in time when television had more to offer. Remembering this memorable scene from A Different World. Thank God for Youtube.

2011-03-26T14:04:00.000-07:00

Groovin' on a Saturday Afternoon

Just listening to Raphael Saadiq whom I'm declaring a musical genius going back to his days with Tony Tone Toni. Here he is bringing back the 60s in full glorious form. Missing good ole soul music like it used to be. Here's my Song of the Moment.

2011-03-10T15:03:00.000-08:00

"Here's That Rainy Day" - another Being Human fanfic

Wrote this quick fic just b/c I want Annie and Mitchell to have SEX already! Considering all that they have gone through, is it too much to ask that they have some lovin'? Since I can't have that little bit of loving on the show, I'll just have to write it myself.

Read fanfic

2011-02-18T15:20:00.000-08:00

Being Human Fanfic

I know I've been away for awhile but in my hiatus I've become an avid fan of the show Being Human. No, not the U.S.-Canadian version but the original BBC version. The general premise is the friendship between a werewolf named George and a 117-year-old vampire named Mitchell who seek to live human, normal lives. In this quest they take jobs as orderlies at a local clinic and eventually they move into a Bristol flat. However, it isn't an ordinary flat as it is haunted by a ghost named Annie, the former owner who died in a fall down the stairs. Because George and Mitchell are supes (that is, of the supernatural persuasion) they can see, feel and touch Annie, who is thrilled to be seen.

I caught up with the original online and have now become a serious Mitchell and Annie shipper. I mean so serious that I've resumed writing fanfic, which I haven't done since Poltergeist: the Legacy and Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

For those unfamiliar with the show or its latest season, the scenario may be a bit confusing. For those who've at least seen the last two seasons, they'll recognize the plotline. So here's my attempt to right some of the wrongs I believe the show's writers are doing to my M/A ship.

Reunion in Purgatory

BTW, I'm really loving Mitchell here:

2010-12-17T17:43:00.000-08:00

Anticipating Christmas

Extremely budgeted and haven't even shopped yet. Busy writing legal articles to make rent and am contemplating another book project. In the meantime, dragging an oft-blogged Christmas tale out, dusting off the snowbunnies. Maybe one day I'll write another holiday tale, but it won't be this year.

A Chocolate Christmas Tale

Transference. That’s what Dr. Llewellyn would label my act. A garbage truck splashes slushy water onto my fur coat incurring what is bound to be a hefty cleaning bill, and a few steps later I give the finger to a Santa ringing a bell for donations. The Santa, a grizzled black man with rheumy eyes, promptly replies with his own garbled, "Back at ya ..." as I keep stepping, determined to get past the mass of bodies hoarding the sidewalks on their Christmas shopping treks. A moment later, a little girl, about six or seven, gleefully walks toward me swinging her American Girl bag and manages to catch me a healthy blow on the shin. I blink, but say nothing. It’s not nice to give the finger to a child. Especially in front of her mother, who has several pounds on me.

It’s a quarter to four on a Friday, one week before Christmas and I haven’t even begun to get that warm, fuzzy feeling that seems plastered on everyone else’s face. Either they’re faking it, or I am in the midst of a Bedford Fall nightmare with dreams of Potterville roaming through my head.

‘Tis the Season’ is emblazoned in holly next to an oversized bottle of Cognac on a large bill board. I nod up at it wistfully, agreeing with the premise. Imbibing is a necessity this holiday. It takes the edge off the stress of pulling together a meal for twelve, gifts for thirty, getting my long neglected living and dining rooms in decent enough shape to serve said meal without incurring the down-the-nose look from Aunt Rose, who is bound to notice the sherry stain in the carpeting (left over from my much-needed Thanksgiving imbibing that barely managed to get me through that particular holiday). Somehow, I always seem to be selected hostess (my sister, Brenda, says it's because my Hyde Park home is larger and nicer). Dr. Llewellyn says I need to understand that assertiveness and the word "No" are not bad things. Maybe, next holiday, his words will overcome my thirty-year conditioning to be over-accommodating.

The shopping bags in my hand are pulling at my over-used shoulder tendons and the inappropriate, but stylish Manolo Blahnik boots are kicking the hell out of my corns. But I diligently march on, determined to get the last two gifts on my list: a new Gameboy for Jathan, who broke his last one in a missile-throwing fight with his sister, Jericha; and for Jericha, a new Black Barbie, a replacement for the one who mysteriously lost her locks one night not too long after Jathan inadvertently destroyed his Gameboy. I feel that I’m rewarding bad behavior, but my sister’s kids are dear to me. I plan to talk to Brenda about getting a few sessions with Dr. Llewellyn for Jathan. One can never learn anger management too soon. Might save money on a defense attorney later.

Water Tower Place in Chicago is always jammed, but the seasonal influx from the surrounding suburbs seems more like an invasion of the Stepford folks, all wholesome and sunny even on a day descending into the single digits. And no manners whatsoever. They walk three, four, even more to a line expecting you to skirt around them because somehow you, a single, childless woman, are obliged to give deference to the sacred family. Whatever.

I travel up in one of the octagonal glass elevators that look out onto every floor of the mall. Christmas lights, holly wreaths and bells overwhelm me. I swear I can smell mistletoe even in the crowded elevator. At least there are no piped-in carols sending subliminal impulses to make me overspend. I’m already in debt as of three purchases ago.

Somewhere on the way to the sixth floor I remember that the only toy store in the place closed its doors months ago. I curse quietly, but not quietly enough. I hear a small intake of breath. A rosy-cheeked, red-haired moppet is gaping up at me with her mouth in an "O", then turns to her mother and says, "Mommy, that lady said the "F" word."

Her mother pulls her little one closer, throws me a look, and says, “Just ignore the bad lady, sweetie."

The other denizens also cut me a look, recognizing Scrooge in their merry midst. An older lady shifts in the opposite direction. I’ve been designated a carrier of the "Humbug" plague, probably contagious. No one is taking any chances and I am given as wide a berth as possible in an elevator populated with several bodies. The doors open up on the sixth floor and I escape my judgment.

Immediately, I smell the pungent decadence of rich, deep chocolate. A Godiva boutique window is framed with the requisite Christmas regalia, its offerings wrapped in gold or silver tinsel paper. Open gift boxes of chocolate-trimmed biscotti’s, fudge and truffles at this moment provide the only real meaning to this world. Logic and reason are within their depths and I enter the tabernacle, an adherent seeking the wisdom passed down through the ages since the first cocoa bean was distilled.

A couple of women are already at the counter, lasciviously looking over the selections, while an eager saleswoman prattles on through a menu of chocolate delights. I go to another counter, where a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries beckons. I set down my bags, unglove and pick up one of the offerings, pop it into my mouth, refusing to think of open plates and traveling germs. The experience is just too good to be distracted with worries about unwashed hands.

"Delicious isn’t it?" a smoky voice interrupts my reverie. I open my eyes (yes, I had closed my eyes to focus on nothing but the succulent mélange of chocolate and tart strawberry) and look into the face of a freckled beige woman, her face beaming knowingly. I nod.

"We have several select boxes. Our one pound box is only $11.95, the two pounder $23.90. Oh … wait a minute, here’s something that is equally divine."

The saleswoman pulls a gold and red tinseled box from beneath the counter, opens it up. "Praline almonds," she announces. "Take one."

I delicately pick one, bite into it. There is something about the feel of nuts crunching between your teeth, the light flavor of almond surrounded by the taste of deep chocolate that pushes away the momentary worries. I swallow hard and long, eager to remember this flavor, hoping it can get me through the rest of the afternoon, which promises to be demanding.

"Then there’s the hazelnut chocolate praline," she tempts further.

I’ve only tasted hazelnut a few times in my life, and I’m not sure that I remember the flavor. As soon as I bite down though, I recall that first occasion. My Aunt Rose’s Cocoa Hazelnut Cake that she’s long since stopped making. Served with lemonade on her porch in the Rogers Park home where she still lives. Arthritis of the hand has made it hard for her to sift and stir, so now she only offers store-bought confections. But that summer when I tasted her cake that first time was also the summer of my first car and unfortunately, my first accident. That summer was when my mother’s cancer went into its final remission, and no sooner than we celebrate this miracle, my father is killed crossing a downtown street a month later. The taste of hazelnut is bittersweet in my reflection.

I shake my head. "Don’t really like this one." The woman purses her lips, contemplating my answer, then quickly pulls out another box.

"Here, try the pecan croquant," she offers, holding the box forward. "It’s a mix of pecan and crisp, milk and dark chocolate. It’s one of my personal favorites."

No bad memories with this one. It doesn’t disappoint, and I smile. I receive an answering smile from the saleswoman.

"I often tell my customers that an ounce of chocolate can surmount a pound of sorrow," she says, putting the boxes back beneath the counter. "Well, that may be an exaggeration, but it does a soul good sometime to just stop and taste, to lay down their worries a bit. Don’t you think?"

I crunch through another blissful morsel and make my decision, no matter that the unplanned purchase is going to chip into my tight Christmas shopping budget.

"I’ll take the two pounder of all of them except the hazelnut," I say. Then I think about it. "You know, just…just add the hazelnut, too." I decide then that I do like the flavor, and that since my mother is still here and since I may never taste Aunt Rose’s delicious cake again, I’ll try to remember the good of the flavor, let the pain stay in the past.

"Do you want these wrapped?" she asks as she rings up my purchases. I shake my head; these are gifts for me alone, selflessness be damned.

"Good. You have to treat yourself sometimes. ‘Cause if we don’t appreciate ourselves, who will, huh?"

Dr. Llewellyn would probably say the same thing. We all need to be good to ourselves. Which means not letting people walk over you. At that moment, I determine that next Christmas, the family is definitely spending it somewhere other than my house. Maybe at Brenda’s, who tends to weasel out of these things. I’m tired of being taken for granted. I need to be appreciated.

So, without guilt or buyer’s remorse, I grab the bag of chocolates being handed to me with that ever-present smile. Tonight, instead of liquor, I’ll load up on chocolate to take the edge off. I’ll settle by the fire, a plate in my hand, maybe even a Christmas carol playing on the CD player. Each night I’ll give myself a chocolate fix, and who knows, by Christmas, maybe I’ll be ready to face whatever looms. For now, though, I’m beginning to get that warm, fuzzy feeling. That Bedford Falls feeling.

As I start for the door, the saleswoman calls me back. She’s holding a small gold colored gift bag. I take it; inside is a box.

"It’s a chocolate truffle for the road. On the house." Her eyes tells me that she understands some things that maybe I don’t.

"Thank you so much," and I mean it.

"Merry Christmas," she calls out as I leave. I turn and wish her the same. And, strangely enough, I mean that, too.

Later, walking down the same street I walked earlier, I encounter the graying Santa still ringing his bell, asking for donations. I start to pass him by, my face averted, hoping he won’t remember me. But then I stop in my tracks, remembering the saleswoman’s graciousness, how she made me forget my bah humbug blues for awhile.

I pull my wallet from my purse, retrieve a $20, stuff it into the can. Santa sees the bill, smiles with what turns out to be some very nice teeth. His eyes don’t seem so rheumy anymore.

"Merry Christmas, and God bless you," he says graciously.

I walk on, smiling. The $20 is going to be sorely missed when I finally hit the toy stores. But I’ll just have to make do.

Transference. That’s what Dr. Llewellyn would call what I just did. And he’d be right.

2010-12-14T16:16:00.000-08:00

Is there a worldwide Obama effect going on?

Slovenia elects first black mayor

Poland elects first black MP

2010-11-08T11:32:00.000-08:00

Yes, we can!

I love stories like these below. Being able to compete in the new technology and media fields is awesome. The second story is from 2005, but is still a kicker! And Spelman was my maternal grandmother's alma mater. Yea!

Spelman Students Beat Out Harvard and MIT for Best Mobile App

Spelman Robotics Team Take Part in International Competition

2010-10-06T00:15:00.000-07:00

Old Poem - Palette

No canvas can hold my colors,
my green won't be touched
by jaded hands,
nor the red moving
through my heart's blood
turned blue with tears.
Days sometimes run black as night,
yet my gold is pure....
....and you're still here,
bringing the colors together,
providing the light
that merges them into
rainbow prisms,
fiery diamonds sparkling
their colors
against the dark.

Copyright: August, 1999

2010-09-22T11:06:00.000-07:00

Uhmm, I didn't know they had such schools...

This billboard misspelling isn't an effective way to promote the quality of public schools. If anything, it gives a new twist to the issue of sex education...or at least to the need for better spelling.

'L No'

2010-09-02T14:51:00.000-07:00

Gold Mountain Interview

Author Ankhesen Mié emailed me last week requesting an interview about Gold Mountain, which she said she really liked. She asked some very good questions regarding the novel and Blasian books in general. I was happy to talk about the writing process as well as the book. Below is a link to our exchange.

Interview

2010-08-10T09:52:00.000-07:00

Lisa Riley's Give Yourself to Me

Author Lisa Riley's new book Give Yourself to Me is due out on August 31. It is the third book in the "Off Like a Prom Dress" series that includes Raine's Blues and author Roslyn Holcomb's Let's Do It Again. Lisa's latest offers a very intriguing plot. Set in New Orleans, the story is a melange of romance, danger and more than a bit of the paranormal. Read the blurb below:

If Dr. Hollis Delacroix had known she'd be falling in love with a future vampire/murderer when she was nineteen, she probably...still would've fallen in love. Hilliard had been irresistible then, and he was twice that now. But that's not her only problem. She'd stood the love of her life up on prom night and fourteen years later, he's finally found her, and boy has she got some explaining to do. But so does he! He hadn't told her that he was a vampire! But bigger than that is the fact that he's in town killing vampires and the bodies are landing in her morgue!

Cumberland Hilliard cannot believe that the girl he'd known as Rose when they were nineteen and in love is now the big shot New Orleans medical examiner named Hollis Delacroix. Oh he's glad to see her after years of wondering where in the hell she was, but he is not glad that she's the one looking at him for the murders of four people. Okay, he had killed two of them, but he’d had good reason: they were rogue vampires intent on killing humans.

But he can deal with all of that. What he can't deal with is not having her under him in his bed!

2010-07-26T19:55:00.001-07:00

Teddy Pendergrass - "And If I Had"

Here's a favorite of mine ever since it was featured in the noir indie cine, Choose Me (1984). The song itself was from Teddy's 1977 eponymous album. It is so smooth and soulful, Teddy's voice so deep and smoky. It transports me to a dark night lit by neon lights, car beams and the ambient glow from a line of clubs. A tall silhouette leans against the exterior wall of a jazz club, the red glow of his just lit cigarette burning into the night. The distant wail of a horn trails from inside. Whiffs of smoke and perfume intertwine in the air. Peals of female laughter are answered by a the husk of a male basso. Other souls pass by, seeking an answer to their loneliness. And the night moves along.

Love this song.

2010-07-26T19:35:00.000-07:00

I'm on the cusp of immortality...

...well, if immortality is around five years. Anyway, I started a poetry game thread at AbsoluteWrite in April, 2005 and it's still going strong. That thread is going to outlast me. I found a couple of poems I wrote specifically for the site and had forgotten all about them. The themes are dark and I can barely remember writing them. Read them below.

Like Mommy

The child stares
at the shadow
'round Mommy’s right eye.
Or is it the left?
She's confused,
not sure which
is which;
she's only just learned
the letter Z.
Mommy mumbles,
swipes at a tear
as she clears the table,
then shouts "Go upstairs!"

The child slinks
quietly
from her chair,
drags Sable
'cross a jam stained floor,
stumbles on the headless
Barbie splayed naked
on the stairs.
DJ has knocked
its head off again
and she can't find it.
Upstairs, she
stops at Mommy's
bedroom door,
sees the
treasure chest.

Daddy's singing
in the shower...
the shouting is
over for now.
She sneaks in,
listenin' out for
Mommy, DJ.
She loves these
stolen moments.

She opens the
box of powders…
searches the lipsticks.
finds the blood red,
dots the color
across Sable’s
cheeks, lips,
just below the nose,
Sees
the eye shadow,
black,
cakes it around
Sable’s right…
or is it the left?....
eye.

She smiles
at her handiwork,
adorns herself
with Mommy's
familiar colors…
red, black, blue…
Stands back from the mirror,
smiles wider.

Yes, just like Mommy...

Untitled

Rummaging
through
the hazed
gin-wine-vermouth
bottled years
of his existence,
on occasion
fortified
with
lines of
white,
(anything
to mute the
silences, but
Lethe
is elusive these
days)
his
will to forget
crumbles
beneath
the weight
of damnable
regret,
and in
sorrowful
hindsight
retraces
paths forsaken,
never taken,
and finds
her there
waiting.

2010-07-24T21:49:00.000-07:00

I have a spotlight page at Romance Junkies

Check it out.

2010-07-06T11:00:00.000-07:00

Roslyn Holcomb - Let's Do It Again

The second book of the "Off Like a Prom Dress" series is out at Loose-Id today! Talented author Roslyn Holcomb knows how to write a love story and this story really sounds great. Below is the synopsis:

Can you get a do-over in love?

Teenaged lovers Jack and Dyanne had to get married when an unplanned pregnancy spoiled their fun. After enduring seventeen years in a hollow marriage Dyanne divorced Jack and struck out on her own. Now, five years after their divorce, Dyanne realizes that she still wants him — at least for sex — so she propositions him for a post-marital affair.

Jack's willing to do anything to get Dyanne back. Even though she insists there are no feelings left between them, he knows better. He’s been waiting all this time for an opportunity to show her how good they can be. Together they explore the limits of their sexual desires in a way that was never possible when they were married.

Dyanne's surprised to discover that they're having a great time. Jack doesn't want it to end there. Fun and games are all well and good, but can they really overcome the disaster that was their marriage and try one more time?

Get a copy today at Loose-Id.

2010-07-02T20:15:00.000-07:00

Another song of the moment

In the summer of 76, on the south side of Chicago, this song came on the radio and I've loved it ever since. Check how different the lyrics are from what young people listen to today.

D. J. Rogers "Say You Love Me"

2010-07-02T19:00:00.000-07:00

Corinne Bailey Rae's Closer

I'm really grooving to this.

2010-06-28T22:21:00.000-07:00

Man needs a dictionary

"Obnoxious" is a whole lot worse than "oblivious." Unless you've really pissed off your wife, then the words become interchangeable.

KY Kissable Sensations for the Body - Oblivious / Mr & Mrs Hunter

2010-06-27T17:43:00.000-07:00

New trailer for Raine's Blues

I've created a short trailer for my new novella with Swish Max 3, an alternative to Flash. Unfortunately, not many sites allow you to upload a .swi file, so I had to upload it as an .exe file in my Yahoo host (formerly Geocities).

TRAILER

It may take a few seconds to load, so be patient.

2010-06-25T21:00:00.001-07:00

Big Zazzle Sale

I sold 500 copies of this art show invitation I designed over at Zazzle. Needless to say I'm happy!

2010-06-25T20:33:00.001-07:00

This made me laugh

This has to be one of the funniest Craigslist ads I've seen in a while. I can't tell whether the poster was being facetious or was serious. This encounter supposedly happened on the Red Line near Bryn Mawr. Chicagoans know where I'm talking about.

You were riding north-bound on the redline saturday around noon, you were eating hot cheetos and talking loudly on your cell to your baby daddy. i asked if you could please be quieter and you said "fuck you". did i imagine the sexual tension?
Me: nerd with glasses and button down shirt reading a book.

http://chicago.craigslist.org/chc/mis/1803598249.html

2010-06-22T07:53:00.000-07:00

Raine's Blues Out Today

Get a copy at Loose Id.

2010-06-19T19:38:00.001-07:00

New Cover for Raine's Blues

Here is my new cover for Raine's Blues which comes out next Tuesday at Loose Id. It went through one major revision, but I really like how it turned out. Here is the synopsis I wrote:

Raine Gayle runs a struggling club called Raine's Blues located on the outskirts of Los Angeles. Her world is full of interesting characters and the club offers them shelter from the ugliness of L.A.'s mean streets. Faced with a financial crisis, Raine is desperate to keep her club open and looks for that one act that will draw the crowds. She believes she has found that act in the form of the beautiful and renowned chanteuse, Cintra Wells.

Cintra Wells is more than a little surprised when Raine asks her to be the headliner of the small blues club. Usually she would have rejected the offer of such a low venue, but she decides to take the gig for one reason – Raine. Cintra recognizes Raine immediately; after all Raine turned her down for their high school prom. Back then though, Cintra went by her…or rather, his…real name, Neil Williams. Neil doesn't hold any grudges against Raine. Though, it would be fun to play her a good turn since it was obvious Raine didn't realize that Cintra Wells was actually a man.

Payback didn't particularly have to be a bitch, but in this case, it wouldn't be a lady either.

Cover artist is April Martinez.

2010-06-08T20:46:00.000-07:00

Repost - Taalam Acey

I first posted this vid almost three years ago. The message is as relevant as ever though the language is raw and unforgiving. Still, the truth must be told.

2010-06-05T12:21:00.000-07:00

Virtual Choir

In the Buffy episode entitled "I Robot", a murderous computer demon runs rampant, utilizing the Internet to spread mayhem. In one scene, one of the demon's mesmerized teen acolytes boldly pronounces that the only reality is virtual and that if one isn't "jacked in" one isn't alive. This ep aired in the mid 90s when Internet networking was just gathering steam. Notwithstanding the sheer craziness of the statement, it has proven to be somewhat predictive. With all of the social networking available via the web - Facebook, Twitter, Youtube, and 3D venues such as Second Life - more and more people are "jacked in" for a substantial portion of their day, and a measurable part their reality has become "virtual." With the gaining momentum of newer and newer technology, it is only a matter of time before we derive tactile sensations from our online connections. Can you imagine making love via wires and chips and electrobes, or whatever creates the Internet.

Anyway, we haven't exactly arrived there yet (despite some very graphic interaction on Second Life), but we have come to the point where surfers from around the country, from around the world, can interact in a concerted effort via the Web. Take for example this vid I grabbed from Trashy Books. Composer Eric Whitacre sent out a call for choir members via the Internet and rounded up 185 singers from 12 countries to perform his original and haunting composition Lux Aurumque. He sent out the sheet music with arranged parts for each singer. He then spliced together their Youtube vids to create a virtual visual choir. The result is absolutely amazing and I'm not ashamed to say it moved me to tears. Read more about the project at Mashable.

2010-05-10T09:16:00.000-07:00

Lena Horne 1917-2010

Growing up, whenever I heard Lena Horne's name, I always envisioned a woman of elegance, beauty and grace. It hurt yesterday to hear that she had passed away, but it is a rest well earned. She had to endure a lot of racism and sexism in her day, but her endurance allowed those following to travel just a bit easier for the roadblocks that had been cleared. RIP Ms. Horne.

2010-05-07T10:26:00.001-07:00

Inspiration for a character

Below is a vid of Yellow Dancer, a character from the popular 80's anime series, Robotech. They used to play the show early in the morning and I would watch it faithfully as I prepped for work. Anyway, Yellow Dancer was an undercover spy who posed as a woman rock singer, complete with her own band. The character obviously stayed with me through the years, because Yellow Dancer is the inspiration for my character Neil Williams from Raine's Blues

I find the subject of androgyny and the way, in this case, a very beautiful woman can re-transform into a very handsome man very intriguing. The question of the spatial differences of female and male features and bodies as well as the ambivalence of sexual identity only adds to the intrigue.

Whether readers will be intrigued or put off by my character remains to be seen, but it is a trope rarely used in romance works, so I hope I did it well.

2010-05-02T21:46:00.000-07:00

Thank you

Since my last post, I've received words of encouragement from writers and readers and I just want to thank you all for lifting my spirits. Just to clarify, I do have one more book coming out in the next few weeks with Loose-Id and hopefully this will do better than my last one. Let me tell you, I write because I truly like creating stories, but I do need to generate some income, especially in these financially woeful times. Writing is not a chore, but neither is it my hobby. I put a lot of effort into creating plots and characters and appreciate the feedback from readers. I also appreciate sales.

I like freebies like everyone else, and have provided free stories on my site for my readers. However, for those stories that I create with the expectation of sales, I get discouraged when those sales are frustrated.

Anyway, I've subbed the first draft of my latest, Raine's Blues, for the line item editor and expect to be doing some re-writing in the next few days. The story centers on a blues club owned by an enterprising woman still mourning the loss of her love years before. She concentrates all of her efforts on building up her club and thinks she has found a gem of a singer by the name of Cintra Wells. Little does Raine realize that there's more to Cintra than what she appears to be.

I posted the synopsis some posts back, but have changed the storyline a bit. Hopefully it will pass muster with the editors. There is an underlying prom story that ties in with two other stories by Roslyn Holcomb and Lisa Riley, both talented writers. The overall theme is "Off Like a Prom Dress" and I kept that in mind with a pivotal love scene.

Basically, I took a shelved, unfinished story and simply polished it off and completed it. I posted the first chapter a couple of years ago, but am re-posting the yet unedited first chapter to revisit the story and give you all a taste of what it offers. Let me know if you like.

As always, I found prototypes for my characters. Check the pics.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 1

Raine shifted in her seat as the strobe lamps dimmed, leaving the spotlight the only illumination. A mellow sax moaned and the rest of the quartet moved into a smooth intro, something unfamiliar, jazzy and soft, a come-hither strain that lulled the audience and silenced the specter of voices. A tinkling of glass at the next table was the only intrusion. A few moments passed, and the emcee stepped into the light just off the grand piano. Tall and svelte, the emcee's pomaded dark hair and tuxedo beckoned an era of furs, champagne and diamonds, of Silver Cloud Rolls and a collective innocence unsullied by wars and devastation.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Chanel Club welcomes the fabulous Cintra Wells just returned from a smashing European tour where she dazzled audiences around the continent. And tonight she's here to dazzle us as well, so let's welcome her home with a warm round of applause." The ensuing ovation was interwoven with whistles and exclamations of "Cintra!"

The emcee stepped off the stage as the show's headliner sauntered to the waiting spotlight. Cintra Wells' motion was fluid, her evening dress a thousand sparkles on silver mesh that clung to lithe curves. A deep red outlined a pair of sensuous lips out of synch with the angular lines of her face. Her blond hair flowed past her shoulders while a Veronica Lake wave hung over her left eye. She was a statuesque but feminine declaration of elegance. As was the smoky voice that moved into the melody laid out for her.

Raine had come to the club with a dose of cynicism and more than a measure of curiosity. But her assistant Terri hadn't lied. Here was a voice worth bargaining over. It hovered above a sultry whisper, then rose with a clarity that cried out for a lost love. And it trilled to her soul as though it were calling out only for her. She pushed the thought away as quickly as it had come.

The song died softly, leaving an expectant pause which a wave of enthusiastic ovation filled. In the midst of the clapping, the pianist struck a chord, cueing in another song, signaling the audience to silence again. Cintra's voice took over, was less throaty, lighter, but still rife with a sadness that overwhelmed Raine.

"But I miss you most of all my darling, when autumn leaves start to fall…"

A shiver went through her. No matter the cost, she had to get this singer for her club. She already had a lineup with a couple of jazz singers. They were alright, but she needed something more if was going to save the club. Earlier in the afternoon, she'd sidled up to a band member to try to get more information, and had not been disappointed. Their gig at Chanel's was up in just a few weeks and they had nothing lined up after. Even then, she wasn't sure they would do, but now her uncertainty wailed out on the riff of the ballad. Cintra Wells would pack them in.

Her eyes fixed on the on the songstress, Raine felt plain in her simple black dress, which before tonight she'd thought was her "killer" dress because it hugged her bountiful curves. She sat silently, an elbow on the table next to her wine and whispered beneath her breath, "Beautiful." Entranced by the fantasy, she wondered at its pull. It was almost Sapphic.

She hoped that she would be able to meet with Cintra soon to discuss business. She might be Raine's Blues only hope.

#

Neil sat at the mirror contemplating the lines cutting through the powder covering his five o'clock shadow. They were cracks in the façade, a peek behind the illusion. He wiped off the powder with a tissue doused with aloe cream, removing the last of the mask and stared at the reflection of a twenty-nine-year-old man, all hard lines and dead eyes. He peered at the blue irises; well, not exactly dead, but eyes tired of a world they've been forced to look at for too long.

The wig sat askew a head mannequin sitting on the corner of the small dressing table already overrun with makeup and paraphernalia. The accommodations here were cramped and inconvenient. He reached behind his head to release the rubber band that had been holding his dark hair in a loose ponytail; the hair fanned out over his shoulders.

The door opened and Max stepped in, shutting it behind him. He still had his sax strapped on, even though their last set was nearly forty minutes ago.

"Cin-man, gotta talk to you."

"What about?" Neil swiveled his seat to face the saxophonist. He leaned back in the chair as Max's lanky six-foot-three frame collapsed onto the dingy blue loveseat. Max reached to unstrap the sax and laid his precious "Sexy" on the floor, then sat forward, his expression full of anticipation.

"Another gig, man. Some chick came up to me tonight, said she's got an opening at a blues club called Raine's. Said she's looking for something different, something to spice up her lineup." Max smirked at that.

"Yeah? What else did she say?"

"She asked what it'd take, and I told her. Actually, I padded it a bit, to see if she would bite. She didn't even blink an eye."

"For how long?"

"Said a month to start, then we can talk extension later on if things work out. Look, Europe was fine for wine and song, but that money's gone, man, and Kieran ain't paying up like he promised. I'd like to know if I'm gonna have a roof over my head come November." He reached inside his pocket, pulled out a card. "Here, she left her number. I think we should at least talk to her." He reached over to hand the card to Neil.

Neil took the card, read the name. Raine Gayle, proprietor, Raine's Blues, "where rainy day blues are sung away" Phone: (415) 552-6889.

Raine Gayle? Neil blinked rapidly at the letters and a flurry of memories rushed forth. Could it be?

"I know, the name is really out there but she seems legit," Max interrupted Neil's reverie. "All I'm saying is let's talk with her, feel her out. We got nothing to lose just talking."

Neil sat motionless for a few moments, then suddenly folded the card and tossed it over his shoulder. It landed on top of the wig.

Max stiffened. "So what? You're not going to even consider it?" Neil saw the tell-tale tic above Max's left brow start up, a sure sign his temper had surged.

Neil drew in a deep breath, sat forward. He'd planned to talk with the others after the gig, but Max was forcing his hand with this new offer.

"I know this is a bad time to spring this on you and the guys, but this just isn't working for me anymore. I'm tired of the freak show, man, tired of the wigs, the dresses. Tired of singing like a bitch. It was fun for a while, but that just ain't me anymore."

Max sat immobile a few seconds, but didn't stay stunned for long. That tic was doing double time. "Look, I know the show's getting old. But it's working for us right now. And we gotta work, no matter what. If we go back to the way it was, with just a jazz quartet and nothing more, we're just four more bodies out there doing the club circuit. I know this is a freak gimmick, but it's a good one and it gives us an edge."

"Look, I don't want to shaft you and the guys, so I'll give you time to find someone else. But after that," he shrugged, "I'm gone."

Max's brow knit together, the lines above them deep grooves. "Man, this is so fucked, you know that? You're leaving us ass up, hole wide open. Who the hell is going to take your place? Your name's a brand and the audience expects Cintra Wells - nobody else - to front when we step on stage." He stopped, his expression changing as something began dawning. "You're planning on filling another spot, aren't you?"

He hadn't counted on anyone figuring out his game plan this early on. It put him in the uncomfortable position of having to lie.

"No, there's no other spot. I'm just tired, man. Can't you accept that at face value?"

"Neil, the one thing I've learned working with you these five years is that nothing is just face value with you. There's always something else going on. You know what? I'm done. Fine. You're leaving, leave. But you tell Stevie, Dan and Janyx tonight. You owe them that, at least." A pause, and then, "You're finishing out the contract, right?"

Neil nodded. "Yeah, I wouldn't do you guys like that."

"Like what, man? Oh, you mean stabbing us in the back. Nah, man, you'd never do that to us. You always do us right as rain, man, right as rain."

Max sighed, picked up his sax and stood. "You do what you gotta do. And we'll do what we have to to survive without you. Like you said, you're not the only bitch out there."

The last words were a deliberate kick to the groin. Well-deserved.

Neil swiveled his chair back to the mirror as the door closed and looked into the eyes of someone he barely knew anymore. Then he reached over to retrieve the balled up card still lying on top of the wig. He unrolled it and looked at a name he hadn't seen in years.

2010-04-24T11:31:00.000-07:00

GOLD MOUNTAIN

Despite my best efforts, it seems GOLD MOUNTAIN is washing out. Between low sales and illegal downloads, it's not doing as well as was expected. Which means little money coming my way. Oh well, I tried. After this last book, I'm calling it quits.

As you can probably tell, I'm feel rather discouraged right now.

2010-04-15T08:44:00.000-07:00

The danger of the "single story"

Nigerian writer Chimamanda Adichie sets it straight about the myriad myopic misconceptions (yes, I'm trying to be alliterative here) readers mistakenly believe are truths when they are only exposed to the "single story." The "single story" is the limited perspective authors unwittingly (or maybe very wittingly) relate in their tales, stories that take a single theme, a single piece of the puzzle, and conflate it as the whole. This conflation is why many African stories (usually written by Westerners) only emphasize the poverty and distress of African countries, and not the fullness and richness known by those who live there.

And on these shores, the "single story" is why for so long African American writers were boxed into slave narratives and urban tales of woe, even though many of us had never suffered those indignities. Somehow, we didn't really have stories of love, travel, adventure, and just plain fun. It seemed in the world of literature, only those tales of disadvantage and dysfunction in the "Black community" were lauded because to the mainstream audience only those tales spoke "truth" to them. About us.

It's always interesting when your own story is hijacked and reconstituted and then given back to you all warped and slanted. Same backdrop, but now the heroes and sheroes have changed, and you've been relegated in the tale as a mere observer to the exploits of others. But understand, this is your story. At least, it was originally.

As Ms. Adichie points out, stories are important. They form perspectives and opinions, and when those perspectives are based on a limited, slanted view, those perspectives become skewed. This is a lesson all writers (heck, all people) need to learn.

Below is a clip of Ms. Adichie talking at the TEDGlobal conference in Oxford, UK, July, 2009. It's a wonderful speech.

2010-04-10T21:12:00.000-07:00

Sexual Attraction - Repost

I'm reposting this entry from March, 2006 because I believe it's just as pertinent now as it was when I first posted it.

In the world of romance books, heroes are usually fashioned from the same cookie cutter: tall, thick, muscled, or at least imposing enough to set a woman's heart pacing. As a writer, I'm guilty of the same, only because I write for a market that has already shown its preference and it's my job to give the readers what they want. Still, when it comes to personal preferences, I sometimes go outside the boundaries, lust "outside the box."

Beauty is indeed in the eye of the beholder, and this beholder at times finds herself going for lean instead of muscled, young instead of mature, short instead of tall. I never know what's going to strike me about a man: voice, personality, intelligence. I don't really have a set preference for physical attributes: sometimes it's the eyes, the mouth, or simply the way a man carries himself.

I thought of the peculiarities of attraction this weekend while watching the movie, The Station Agent. The movie stars Peter Dinklage as a loner who meets two other odd loners, and against his initial guardedness, forms a tight bond. Now, the one attribute that is immediately obvious about Dinklage is that he is a dwarf. And I was just as immediately attracted to him. No, it's not some fetish going on; to me the man is just handsome. I first noted the actor in the now-cancelled sci-fi show, Threshold, and later in the movie, Elf. Despite his stature, Dinklage's features are strong and belie any supposed physical abnormality.

This perfection-obsessed society thinks to tell us who and what to admire, yet I don't follow the party line. For example, while women were pining for Fox Mulder in the defunct X-Files, I was taking notice of AD Skinner, Mulder's irascible and gruff-spoken boss. Older, bald and at times paunchy (although in earlier seasons the man was totally buff), Skinner was hardly the romantic archetype. Yet, there is a fanhood of admirers who have penned some very hot, erotic fanfic about Skinner.

Another actor who has piqued my sexual interest despite not having the standard attributes of a "romantic hero" is John Malkovich who, although bald and "quirky-looking," projects a certain sexual malevolence that attracts even as it repels. I would take a Malkovich anytime over some of your standard Madison Avenue mannequins.

Mitch Longley, who starred in an interracial romance with Debbi Morgan on the soap opera, Port Charles, does have the archtypical features: he's tall, dark, classically handsome – and he's a paraplegic (from a 1983 car crash). The audience loved the romance between this persistent doctor bound to a wheelchair and the uptight, resistant hospital director who literally let down her dreads once she succumbed to his undeniable charms. And yes, they even had sex (which had me researching sex among the disabled). Once I posted that his character made me realize that disabled men can be sexy. I remember the reply I received from another poster, who was also wheelchair-bound: "Thank you."

So will we ever see these men populate popular romances? Probably not. But thank goodness that individual preferences are broader than the cookie cutter.

2010-03-29T09:40:00.000-07:00

Gold Mountain Review

Katie Babs of Babbling About Books has written a wonderful review of Gold Mountain at Romance Junkies Reviews.

2010-03-15T19:11:00.000-07:00

Ever wonder what goes into making a book cover?

Here's an entertaining video showing the steps in Photoshop that goes into creating and perfecting a cover. It's not easy.

2010-03-12T14:17:00.000-08:00

Apple Erotic Ebooks?

I need to look into this.

Apple's iPad Getting Erotic E-books?

2010-03-11T13:17:00.000-08:00

Gold Mountain Review

Gold Mountain got a very good review from Rae Lori. Read it at her blog A Writer's Dream.

2010-03-05T10:42:00.000-08:00

Latest at Zazzle

2010-03-01T09:08:00.001-08:00

Latest item

Thought I let some of my poetry work for me at Zazzle. Here's a magnet I created.

2010-02-27T10:53:00.000-08:00

A little late

I've been remiss in keeping myself up to date, so I've finally revamped my old site at sharoncullars.com. I've given it a new theme and think it looks good for something done by a moderate amateur.

Also, I'm late posting on my interview with Save Black Romance about my past and upcoming books. The site is geared towards the state of black and I/R romance and is deftly administered by site owner, Angela.

Oh yeah, I've also updated the sidebar; forgot to put my latest on it. As you can tell, I am a bad marketer. Got to bone up on my skills.

2010-02-25T11:43:00.000-08:00

New Pieces

Butterfly

Blossoms

Blossom

2010-02-23T10:00:00.001-08:00

Administrative Note

Unfortunately my comments provider, Haloscan, has recently changed hands to Echo, which actually charges for its service. I'm not paying a monthly stipend for something I used to get for free. Until I find how to reimplement the blogger comments or find another free provider, the comments for the blog are nonfunctioning. If you want to comment or contact me, just email me at scullars@netzero.net.

2010-02-23T09:18:00.000-08:00

Next project

I've signed up again with Loose Id for a multibook series that will include myself and authors Roslyn Holcomb, Lisa Riley and Crystal Hubbard. The tie-in theme is "Off Like a Prom Dress" with each author doing a story relating to a long ago prom. At first I didn't know how to approach the prom theme, but I came up with the following plotline (as submitted to Loose Id):

Raine Gayle is a 38-year-old African American woman who runs a struggling night club called Raine's Blues located on the outskirts of Los Angeles. Her world is full of interesting characters and regulars, some of whom have seen hard times and lived to tell. Raine's club offers them shelter from the ugliness and grit of LA's mean streets. It's a place where they can drink away some of their despair and appreciate the blues as performed by the retinue of musicians who play regularly at the club. Faced with a sudden financial crisis, Raine is desperate to keep her club open and looks for that one act that will draw the crowds. She believes she has found that act in the form of the beautiful Cintra Wells, a chanteuse who has played at some of the more popular venues around the world. She knows Cintra's contract at the Chanel Club is ending and hopes to lure Cintra anyway she can.

Cintra Wells is more than a little surprised when Raine asks her to be the headliner of the small blues club. Usually she would have rejected the offer of such a low venue, but she decides to take the gig for one reason – Raine. Cintra recognizes Raine immediately; after all Raine turned her down for their high school prom. Back then though, Cintra went by her real name, Neil Williams. During high school, Neil had been a shy, retiring book nerd while Raine had been one of the more popular girls. Over the years and through his many travels, Neil had forgotten the slights of high school and really didn't hold any grudges against Raine. Though, it would be fun to play her a good turn since it was obvious Raine hadn't figured out that he was a cross dresser. It also didn't hurt that Raine wasn't hard on the eyes. Payback didn't particularly have to be a bitch, but in this case, it wouldn't be a lady either.

Cintra/Neil finds he has some competition from the saxophonist who performs regularly at Raine's, upping the ante a bit. Keith Maxx plays a mean sax, which draws the ladies, including Raine, it seems. As Neil gets to be girl buds with Raine, he realizes he has growing feelings for her and is willing to do whatever it takes to finally win her over. But how to do that without revealing his alter ego? He's sure Raine will not like having been duped. Still, if he is going to lose out, he wants one last chance to dance with her, to finally know what it would have been like to kiss her…and more. He pitches an idea that could bring in a whole lot of money for the club – Prom Night. Yes, an elegant dance affair for those who want to relive that glory night of fancy dresses, tuxes and limos. Raine loves the idea and thinks it's going to be a grand money maker and something she might want to do every year. But Neil is determined that this time, he will be her prom date and that he will get to experience all the erotic fun and magic that a prom night usually holds. Like any good chanteuse, he simply needs to hit the right notes, know how to play all of his audience, Keith, Raine and all of the regulars who patronize the out-of-the-way club.

I'm hoping to capture the ambiance that served as backdrop in the cult classic Choose Me, starring Keith Carradine and Leslie Ann Warren. That was a sultry moodiness throughout, punctuated with the timeless songs sung by the late Teddy Pendergrass.

2010-02-23T08:37:00.000-08:00

Gold Mountain out today!

Gold Mountain is finally available at Loose Id. It's in PDF for Acrobat Reader and Palm; LIT for Microsoft Reader; and PRC for Mobi Pocket. Artist Natalie Winters did an extraordinary job on the cover, capturing the sensual mood of the story.

Of course, I'm excited as this is my first promoted work since "The Invitation" featured in Brava's Bad Boys with Red Roses. I'm hoping that my readers enjoy the new work as much as they've enjoyed my previous books. I know I enjoyed writing it.

Go to the order page to get your copy.

As I always love feedback, feel free to contact me with comments at scullars@netzero.net.

2010-02-19T17:11:00.001-08:00

Latest artwork

Ambers

Pearlescence

Study in Light and Shadows

All of my art pieces and products are available at my Zazzle store.

2010-02-15T15:38:00.000-08:00

Sexual Attraction

Desire that is subtle and langorous can stir the blood, surge the juices, and palpitate the heart. Despite the millions of love scenes written or filmed, only a miniscule few truly relay the sensuousness that makes one squirm in one's seat. Too many writers and producers simply go for the obvious, concentrating on the gratuituous grabbing and kissing instead of the actual build up. True sensuousness shouldn't seem like a sudden crashing boulder, but instead should mimic the tossing of a pebble, then another, then another, until the pebbles come raining down with the crescendo of a rock shower.

There is something about simmering desire, necessarily stemmed because of propriety, but threatening to burst through every pore...something about a prolonged look, the pursing or licking of lips, the movement of a shoulder...pebbles, pebbles.

This 2004 clip of John and Evangeline from One Life to Live shows a steady tossing of pebbles. The scene depicts the nascent buildup that was to become the famed Jovan, and was the first sprinkling of the rock shower that was to rain on for over a year. Even now, I miss the love scenes that played out between these two characters.

I read in an online interview somewhere that when these characters were finally allowed to come together in a love scene, it took even the film crew by surprise. The intensity, the pure...sensuousness...was something that these jaded employees were not use to. And we're talking about people who had staged and filmed hundreds, if not thousands, of love scenes. Credit goes to Michael Easton and especially Renee Goldsberry - who had amazing sexual chemistry with all of her OLTL leading men - for depicting how desire can start with smooth subtlety then gradually build to a rock storm, a phenomenon not as abrupt and clumsy as a crashing boulder, but just as strong in its undeniable presence.

2010-02-08T14:13:00.000-08:00

Gold Mountain excerpt

Below is the first chapter for my upcoming novella, Gold Mountain. The book will be available at Loose Id on February 23.

Sacramento, California

1865

The hammers and chisels rang out almost in unison, the sound of metal against granite creating a peal that echoed throughout the mountains, reverberating upward. The crewmen's tools carved away at the rock frantically as the men raced against the sun. In less than an hour it would be too dark to set off the charges, and the boss man would not be happy. And when he was unhappy, he made all of them pay, literally, with a month's wages.

Beads of sweat trailed down Quiang's face as he brought up the hammer against the stone again and again, the small chasm almost wide enough now to hold his last bundle of dynamite. In the hours since the sun had risen, Quiang alone had already embedded fifty bundles. The other men on the crew would have a similar count, more or less. In all, there were over a thousand fire sticks that would blow the southeast ridge into raining pieces of shale that would shower the valley below. Quiang's basket shook violently with his quickened motions, but he couldn't afford to stop. Still, he was too aware that the life of any crewman depended on the virtue of the ropes that held his basket. If the hemp gave way, a man could plummet hundreds of feet. They had lost a man in such a way not more than ten days ago. The scream still echoed in Quiang's head, joining the ringing peals.

The sound of the horn reached across the gorge between mountains, the boss man's signal that they were to stop. It was time to set off the explosives. The red-haired Irishman stood on another ridge, a safe distance from the hub of action, horn in hand.

On cue, the crewmen put matches to the long fuses attached to the dynamite. Men manning the pulleys above began the grueling process of pulling up the crewmen as quickly as possible. It was a precarious maneuver because too often accidents happened. Ropes sometimes sheared against jutting crags or snagged. A sheared rope was death. A stalled pulley was death. A panicked crewman was death. Death took varied forms, all of which Quiang appreciated even as his own basket stalled. The man operating the pulley looked down to determine the problem. He pointed, and Quiang noted where one of the rope cables had snagged. The hemp had pulled and knotted several feet up. Neither the pulley man nor Quiang was within reach of the snag that was now caught on the edge of a rock. If the pulley man tried to force the rope upward, the motion could tear through the hemp, cutting it, sending Quiang to a certain and horrendous death. Neither could the basket be lowered.

Quiang turned to where the boss stood quietly, taking in the situation. Quiang had only been on the crew for three months, but in that time he had come to size up the foreman. As flaming as his hair was the temperament of a man who did not allow anything to stand in his way. And he wanted everything on schedule for the aqueduct that had to be built by the end of the month. All part of a plan that some white men had thought up years ago to connect miles and miles of land with one continuous railroad. The white boss standing across the gulch would not let a Chinaman stand in the way of that plan. He would not order the smothering of the lit fuses to save one life. One life he thought beneath that of a bug. This part of the ridge had to be cleared, and cleared it would be. If they couldn't raise or lower him, then they would sacrifice him in the ensuing blast. No body to bury and no one to send his money home to his parents and younger sister. He could not allow that to happen.

As man after man was pulled up and gained purchase on the cliff several feet above, Quiang stripped off the only shirt he owned. His mother had sewn the tunic especially for his trip to America, the land of Gum San, the Gold Mountain; now he dropped the tunic into the basket. He could not afford the opportunity for any more hitches. Sending silent prayers to his ancestors, Quiang grabbed the rope and pulled himself up until his feet balanced on the basket's edge. Then he used the strength of his arm and thigh muscles to inch his way up the snagged rope, praying with each motion that the rope would not give way. Finding traction with sweaty palms was difficult, so he had to hold on that much tighter, causing the hemp to cut into his flesh. The stinging pain didn't impede his progress. Now he was the sole man down in a race against the last rays of the sun. He heard the crewmen crossing the temporary bridge that traversed the mountaintops, moving away from the point of detonation.

Quiang refused to look up or down, his eyes focused solely on his hands as he moved them one over the other, pulling his weight upward. The smell of sulfur from the burning fuses mixed with the heady odor of his sweaty body, and the miasma made his head swim. The familiar smells often lingered in the air for hours after a cliff had been brought down. He tried not to think of how fast the fire was eating through the lengths of the fuses, tried not to listen to the telltale sizzling. If he did not clear this mountain, the series of blasts would rip through his body. He had to make it to the peak and cross over to safety. The pulley men and crew were long gone. He was the only one on this mountainside. Minutes passed, and finally his eyes were level with the cliff floor. He reached over, felt for a foothold, and pulled himself up.

"Run, you yellar coolie!"

Quiang recognized the slur. It was one the Irishman used often. Quiang ran hard, and the pain in his abused muscles felt as though the dynamite had already torn his body apart. Just as he reached the end of the bridge, the familiar rumbling began, and a shudder ran through the wooden planks. The bridge shook fiercely, and he almost toppled over its side. At the moment his feet touched solid rock, a pair of hands grabbed him and pulled him to safety. Both men fell forward as the full blast shook the world. Quiang lay prone waiting for the world to stop its roaring. Eventually the roaring stopped and was quickly followed by the rain of rocks. Then that too fell silent. The other man lifted up, shifted. Quiang rolled over, breathless, and looked up into Zhaohui's face.

"It must not have been meant for you to die today," the older man said in Taishanese. "But you came close."

He nodded at the place where the bridge had hung just seconds before. Quiang stood and turned to look at the empty space. The bridge had only been a temporary transport between mountains and had not been expected to survive the blast. No one was to have been on it when the dynamite went off. Across the chasm a new ledge was visible. Quiang looked up, thanked his ancestors as well as those of Zhaohui, for without them, Zhaohui would not have been here to save him.

A line of men, all Chinese, stood a distance from the mountain edge, some with faces showing obvious relief. In their midst the Irishman stood, his face without expression. Everyone had reason to be grateful. They had all earned their money today. And the construction of the aqueduct was on schedule. Most of all, no one had died today. A good day overall.

At the foreman's signal, the men headed for the mountain tunnel that would take them down to the south end of the valley where their camp waited.

* * * * *

As she doused the stained shirt into the cauldron of hot, soapy water, Leah thought for the hundredth time that she had made a terrible mistake. This wasn't what she had signed on for when she left New York for Sacramento for what Clara had said would be a "great opportunity for a colored woman." Yes, Clara had told her there would be washing as well as cooking, but she hadn't conceived that there would be so much of it. She dipped the shirt again and again. Even the bleach couldn't whiten these stains. She sighed as she conceded defeat and pulled the shirt from the cauldron. It was as white as it was going to get, which was basically a chalk gray interspersed with black smudges throughout. Well, at least the shirt no longer had that horrible smell.

Through the curtain that separated the front store from the rear area where they handled laundry, she heard Clara's voice.

"Two fried pork chops, one baked potato, and gravy with chicken fat, guaranteed to fill your stomach."

"Smells good. Smells real good, Clara," she heard Zeke say. He was one of their regulars, both for a hot meal and a good laundry cleaning. Most of the miners came in here for one or the other, if not both. Sometimes they just came in to look at a woman, as those were scarce in the mining town. Clara kept a shotgun handy in case someone wanted to do more than look.

The bell rang as the door closed. She heard Clara's steps, and soon the curtains opened as her partner stepped into the back room. Clara may have been a woman small in stature, but she could fill a room with the presence of her will. Her black hair was pulled haphazardly on top of her head in a bun. Even in this heat she wore her dark gray dress with a high lace collar.

"How's it going back here?" Clara asked, taking note of the half-clean shirt in Leah's hand. Leah held it up.

"Not good," Leah said. "Can't get these stains out."

Clara took the shirt from Leah's hand, examined it. "You try lemon juice?"

"I tried bleach," Leah shot back, not bothering to mask her exasperation. "If bleach don't work, nothing else will."

"No need to snap. Patience is more than a virtue; it's a necessity in this town. Now if you can't get out the stains, we'll just charge half price. It's not like anybody needs a Sunday-best shirt around here anyway."

One could always count on Clara's practical sense. It was this quality that had drawn the two women together as friends in New York, and it was Clara's business sense that had lured Leah from her seamstress position to this godforsaken place. The gold rush that began in '49 still filled heads with dreams of riches, and the adventurous still made their way to "Californy," declaring they would find their fortune. Clara figured where there was gold to be found, there was gold to be spent. She and Leah would provide services for the spendthrifts, save enough money to buy some land. Those who had land had insurance for the future.

"If you want, I'll take over here, and you can take the meals for the evening rush. That all right with you?"

Leah nodded.

"Okay, then. That's settled," Clara stated with purpose. Then she walked to the shelves to retrieve the bottle of lemon juice.

Leah bit her tongue, then pushed back the curtain and made a quick left to the adjoining door leading to the kitchen. The building that housed their laundry and restaurant was nothing more than a one-story building made mostly of planks and tar. The furnishings included wooden shelves, wooden tables, and chairs in the main room, and an old sink, an icebox, and a wood-burning stove and oven in the makeshift kitchen. Everything was sparse, secondhand, and threadbare, but she and Clara kept the place clean. The smell of fried chops and potatoes hung in the air. Clara's potato medleys were the main staple around here. She had over fifty ways to pare, fry, bake, even fricassee a potato. The latest additions to their menu were potato flapjacks and white potato pies. The miners worked rough and long and needed starch just for the strength to haul their shovels and pans in temperatures that sometimes hit over a hundred. And a bit of meat took them even further. A stack of chops lay on the counter ready to be fried.

"There's some fresh chicken grease in the tin next to the flour. Use that to fry the chops," Clara called out from the other room. Clara had "capabilities" that sometimes reached beyond the normal. On many an occasion Clara anticipated Leah's thoughts as though she were some Gypsy reader.

Leah pulled down the tin of chicken fat, spooned a wad into the skillet, and put the skillet on the burner. Sizzling, popping grease touched her hands, her blouse and her skirt. Tonight she would have to soak her own clothes to get out the oily stains.

"The door," Clara yelled out before the bell rang.

"Woman's a witch," Leah uttered beneath her breath as she turned down the fire and went to the main room. A young Chinaman waited just inside the door, looking around as though he weren't sure it was safe to enter. Leah walked behind the counter, signaled that he should come closer. He remained at the door, his eyes on her.

"What can I help you with?"

No answer.

Leah often saw Chinamen in the town. They came to get supplies, sometimes food. Most of the time, though, they stayed in their camps on the outskirts of town, where they were putting down rails and building tunnels for the railroad. She frequently heard the thunder of their explosives as they blew their way through the mountains. Her first day here the blasts had nearly stopped her heart. Nowadays she barely paid them any mind. They had become part of the pattern of this place where shots often rang out even in the middle of the day. Other times she heard men screaming from the pain of bullets and knife wounds or yelping their joy as they came running into town searching for the surveyor after finding gold, which was a rarity these days. Most of the mines were dormant after years of excavations.

Many of the railroad workers didn't fully understand English but had learned enough words to ask for what they needed. She hoped that was the case with this one.

"English?" she tried again.

Again the man didn't answer. Just stood stock-still like some store-display mannequin. At least he could try to pantomime or do something. She didn't have time enough in the day to just stand here. Those pork chops and potatoes weren't going to cook themselves. Plus there was gravy to be made.

She looked him over. He was taller than most of the Chinamen she had seen. His shoulder-length hair was pulled back and tied in a ponytail. And his features were more than pleasant to look at, despite the smudges of dirt along his sharp jawline. One of the things she noticed about the Chinese workers was that they rarely smelled. They managed to bathe their bodies and clothes regularly in a place where water and soap were considered luxuries.

"Look, if you want something, you have to tell me. I can't read your mind."

Maybe it was the tone in her voice, but finally he walked to the counter where she stood. He pulled at his shirt. It seemed too small by a couple of sizes and stretched across a chest that was not wide, but with hard musculature that was visible through the taut material. The shirt was smudged as well, but she detected no really rank odor. Just a slight musk. Usually workers waited until their clothes were rank before they sought out laundry services.

"You need your shirt washed?" she offered, pointing to his shirt, then making motions of washing by hand. "Shirt, shirt?"

Unexpectedly he smiled. And then he chuckled. A slight sound, but she heard it well enough.

"Sh-i-rr…" he repeated, again pulling at his clothing. And then he mimicked the washing motions she had pantomimed moments before.

"Okay, then." Despite her earlier frustration, she found herself smiling. "At least we're getting somewhere now."

Before she realized what he was doing, he had unbuttoned his shirt and had it half off his shoulders. The sight of his naked flesh startled her, and she yelled out for him to stop, waving her hands for effect. He paused, looking confused.

Clara burst through the curtains. "What's going on here?" She held a large wooden stick upright in her right hand, her other weapon of choice when the gun was out of reach. She stared at the man and his bare shoulders.

"Okay, Mister! You just keep your clothes on there!" Clara said sternly. "We don't provide that kind of service here!"

Of course he couldn't understand what Clara was saying. But he knew a weapon when he saw one. And an angry woman about to use that weapon on him.

"It's all right, Clara." Leah held up a hand to stave off her friend. "Just a little miscommunication with a customer; that's all. The gentleman needs his shirt washed." Clara still advanced on the man, looking unappeased. Leah was sorry she had yelled out, because once Clara got her dander up, it took a spell to calm her again.

Clara stood in front of the man now, who had by this time pulled his shirt back up on his shoulders, although it was still unbuttoned. Even though he towered over Clara by a foot, he resembled some small animal about to be devoured by a much larger predator. His height didn't daunt Clara any, and she finally lowered the stick just a fraction -- but only a fraction -- as she determined that they weren't in any immediate danger.

"Well, does he expect you to wash his clothes in here? You know, I'll never understand these Chinamen," she said, bewildered, lowering the stick all the way.

"I suspect he probably doesn't understand you either, Clara. It can't be easy being in a strange land and not knowing the language. They must do things a lot different in China."

"Well, if public nudeness is something they do over there, he's come to the wrong country. I guess I'll get back to the washing since there's nothing nefarious going on up here. I'll leave this to you to work out. If you need me" -- she gave the Chinaman another stern look -- "just holler out." And with that Clara strode back to the laundry room, trusty stick dangling in her hand.

If the man had understood any of the transaction between the two women, he gave no indication. He looked at Leah expectantly and more than a little confused. Leah felt bad for the fellow. All he wanted was laundry service, and he had nearly gotten his head clipped by a very large stick. She realized his quandary now. He needed his shirt washed -- obviously his only shirt. How to do this? Then she thought of something.

"Hold on. I think I have a solution."

No answer. Because, of course, he didn't understand. She held up her hand again. It seemed they were going to have to communicate solely through signals.

She strode quickly to the back room, where Clara was now washing an entirely different shirt. The shirt from earlier was hanging on a line -- totally white, totally smudge free. Leah didn't have the time to curse her own ineptitude and Clara's constant rightness. Instead she asked, "Where're Ruben's clothes?"

"Ruben?" Clara asked impatiently. "Now why do you need Ruben's clothes? He's not coming back for them."

That was all too true, as Ruben had been killed in a gunfight last week before he had had a chance to pick up his cleaned clothes. He had been buried in the clothes he wore during the fight, and no one had sought to claim the pair of dungarees and the black shirt.

"He may not need them, but I do. Now where are they?"

"They're in that trunk over there. You're lucky you asked for them today. I'd planned to throw them out tomorrow first thing. We can't be holding on to old clothes. No room."

Leah walked over to the iron trunk where they kept their miscellany. She pulled open the lid, and right on top of a pile of empty bottles and empty boxes were Ruben's shirt and dungarees.

She grabbed the clothes and left a curious Clara in the back room. When she reentered the front room, she saw the man staring at a shelf of chewing-tobacco tins lined up on the shelf behind the counter. Besides laundry and food services, she and Clara sold items that were particularly popular around here. Chewing tobacco sold very well. They were forever stepping over expelled wads littering the sidewalk planks outside.

His shirt was buttoned now. She thrust the castoff clothes into his hands.

"Take these. Then bring back your dirty clothes."

She thought she was going to have to pantomime again, but he seemed to understand.

He nodded and smiled. Whereas his earlier smile had been shy, this one was full, bright with very nice teeth. The smile transformed his face, smoothed out lines that shouldn't be on one so young. She estimated that he was somewhere in his twenties, a little younger than herself. But she imagined he had seen harder times than she could fathom. He pulled a small bag from his pants pocket. The pants were like those the other Chinamen wore, black, flared at the bottom. Not as sturdy looking as the jeans the prospectors wore.

He reached into the bag and pulled out several American dollars, more than was needed for laundry services. She wondered if he knew about denomination. If not, he was in a lot of trouble around here, where con men ruled. He tried to hand her the bills, but she shook her head.

"No, that's too much."

He pointed to the clothes in the crook of his arm. He thought she was selling him the clothes.

"No, those are free. Free. You only have to pay for cleaning. Cleaning."

That confused look again. Frustrated, she grabbed the shirt he had on. She pulled at it.

"Bring this back, and I'll clean it. Then you pay."

He spoke, and now it was her turn to be confused. The voice was smooth, even if the words were not. They were foreign, harsh sounding.

He touched her hand, pulled it off his shirt. At first she thought he was angry. But he settled things once and for all. He took off the shirt he wore, not caring whether she yelled out or not. His naked torso was not a shocking sight, but it disturbed her nonetheless. She'd seen half-naked men before, men she had sewn clothes for. Working men who had taken off shirts in the heat of a brutal sun. She never had the response she was feeling now.

A network of thin scars crisscrossed the front of his torso, ran down to his waist. On someone else they would have been disfiguring. Strangely they only accentuated the muscles that defined his chest. His arms weren't overly large, but there was a strength there, honed no doubt by hauling rocks and hammering rails into the earth.

She didn't realize she'd been staring until he was totally covered with his newly gained shirt. The black cloth brought out the sunburned gold of his skin. When she caught his glance, she knew that he'd seen her staring. And she was embarrassed to have been caught watching him, when any decent woman would have turned away. If he was also embarrassed, she couldn't discern. His expression was guarded, his eyes careful not to give her any trace that he'd thought she'd lost her decorum.

"I'm sorry," she said, even though the words wouldn't mean anything to him. She hoped that he could hear the regret in her voice. She'd not meant to make him feel uncomfortable.

He handed her his soiled shirt, his eyes never leaving her face. She realized that he was deliberately trying to catch her eye, and she was determined that he wouldn't. She took the shirt and only hoped that he wasn't going to try to hand her his pants.

He didn't. Instead he turned and opened the door. It was only after the bell had stopped its clanking that she felt it was safe enough to raise her eyes again.

Her heart stopped its double beating sometime later.

2010-02-04T14:39:00.000-08:00

Final Cover

Here's the final cover for Gold Mountain.

2010-02-02T10:44:00.000-08:00

New pic

From the Chicago Botanic Gardens. Photoshopped for effect.

2010-01-31T21:31:00.000-08:00

Choose Me

With a novella due out later this month, I'm already contemplating my next project. Although I'm still formulating the plot, I already know that I want to set it in the back streets of L.A. I picture dark streets and alleys with a noir ambiance to them. The primary locus will be a small jazz club with a bevy of odd characters coming and going. Noir can be dark, moody, sexy and no where is that seductively depicted than in the Alan Rudolph's 1984 movie Choose Me starring Keith Carradine, Lesley Ann Warren, Genevieve Bujold and Rae Dawn Chong. The movie also featured a jazz club amid the dark back streets of L.A., where prostitutes, lonely wanderers, the lovelorn, and in one case an escaped mental patient, converge in a series of quirky, love-crossed misadventures. The mood was set by a bluesy soundtrack sung by the late, great Teddy Pendergrass. Below is the original trailer that ran back in 1984 that had me eager to get to the nearest theater.

2010-01-25T19:19:00.000-08:00

More photos

I took these pics in Vegas a few years ago and pulled them up to tweak through Photoshop to do something interesting with them.

2010-01-23T14:52:00.001-08:00

Gold Mountain Update

I found out yesterday that my historical novella, Gold Mountain, is due out February 23, exactly a month from today. It's still being proofed and a cover has yet to be chosen. I hope that they find some really attractive models for the cover, but in the interim I thought it'd be fun to pick out some generic photos that could serve as a cover or dramatize some scenes from the book.

Since the title is GOLD MOUNTAIN, this would work nicely.

This pic would serve as a good prototype for the shop run by Wao, a member of the triad and trader in opium. Behind the curtains would be the opium den for his "guests."

Buildings from Old Sacramento have been restored and renovated for tourists. This would have looked like the typical street my protagonists would have walked.

A dismal look at what Sacramento's Chinatown might have looked like in the old West.

2010-01-18T11:24:00.000-08:00

Macy's on Michigan Ave in Chicago

2010-01-17T14:29:00.001-08:00

Does anyone remember The System?

This 80's duo really had a jam with this cut, "Don't Disturb This Groove."

2010-01-17T14:21:00.000-08:00

Another pic

Also from the Botanic Gardens, also photoshopped.

2010-01-17T12:14:00.000-08:00

New pic

I visited Chicago's Botanic Gardens yesterday (yes, they're still open even in winter; they have greenhouses and other indoor flowers). I carried my old digital camera (practically a dinosaur compared to today's models) and took some shots. Here is one of some pretty flowers I came across; I filtered the photo through Photoshop to get a more "artistic" effect.

2010-01-16T14:30:00.000-08:00

Renditions

The thing about a good song is that it is open to many interpretations, sometimes even better than the original. Here are a couple of songs I like in their original arrangements, and really like in their re-interpretations.

Steve Perry's "Foolish Heart" (original)

"Foolish Heart" re-interpreted by Sharon Bryant (formerly of
Atlantic Starr - Note the young Denzel Washington at the end of the vid)

The Eagles "I Can't Tell You Why"

"I Can't Tell You Why" revisited by Brownstone, the phenomenal 90's trio

2010-01-13T20:33:00.000-08:00

Charity Navigator

During this devastating time for the citizens of Haiti, many people want to donate money to help in the rescue and aid efforts. Unfortunately, there are always some who take advantage of the situation to scam money from the well-intended. Luckily, the Charity Navigator helps donors give intelligently. Below is a link to several organizations involved with helping the victims of Haiti's earthquake. No amount is too small, and every little bit adds up to much from many. Please take a moment to click the link and look over the list of fund-raising organizations.

Charity Navigator

Author Shiloh Walker is offering anyone who has donated at least $5 to any charitable organization an opportunity to be mentioned in one of her books. Find out the details of the contest at her Facebook page.

2010-01-13T15:08:00.001-08:00

Stupid, self-righteousness

Pat Robinson obviously doesn't know or believe that self-righteousness is a sin. It never ceases to amaze me what comes out of this fool's mouth.

Pat Robertson: Haiti 'Cursed' by 'Pact to the Devil'

This fool actually believes this shish.

2010-01-10T19:42:00.000-08:00

My latest pics

Wet

~~Stones~~ Floral

2010-01-05T22:09:00.000-08:00

Latest image

I call this one "Color Jungle."

2010-01-03T23:18:00.000-08:00

I've named this latest pic 'Strange'

It started as this:

and I morphed it into this:

I think it looks sci-fiey, like something from a weird graphic novel. Strange creatures doing battle, maybe?