Thursday Night's Writing Exercise (pt.1)

"There's not one man in this world who finds me attractive," Sweety mumbled as she trained with her 5lb weights in the wellness center at her job. This declaration came moments after she realized that the engorged fat cells in her belly had formed a united front of resistance against her attempts to destroy them. Annabelle, a coworker who had lost a significant portion of herself in less than 4 months, finished her ab exercises, yanked out her earphones and told Sweety she was calling it an evening. "Girl, I wish I could work out with weights, my arm strength is crap." Sweety, always the jokester, made a pained expression and pretended to struggle to lift one of the weights to her shoulder. Annabelle shook her head in amusement and left to retrieve her things from a locker. Sweety held onto the weights long enough for her workout buddy to say a final goodbye, then dropped them to the floor in defeat.

As her sweat-drenched frame approached the staff parking garage, her stomach sent a signal that it was in need of food--but this was impossible, as two hours earlier she'd eaten a thick turkey sandwich and two bananas. That's the thing about cravings, in the absence of your mind having anything else to look forward to, those cravings are always there to offer their company. Her slow pace to the car was due in part for cooling down, but mostly in dread of having to join the aggressive rude drivers on 395 N.

To make matters worse for Sweety, it was Valentine's Day. Stubborn belly fat; no emails or calls from a former, current, or aspiring lover (the latter two didn't exist); and a bed that hadn't served a romantic purpose in two years, all conspired to make the sweaty, chubby, and now hungry publications editor feel like ending this night as soon as possible. A glass of wine and a sugary doughnut had proved to be a potent sleep aid, guaranteed to have her nearly comatose within a hour of consumption. Yes, that's what she'd do. No need in torturing herself with her nightmares of dates' past. No need to go over for the hundredth time that week alone, why she'd never heard back from Knowledge the God, a beautiful man with "knowledge of self" who had approached her in a bookstore a month earlier. Because men never made the first move, his appearance in her life was a good sign, she thought. He exposed her to an underground culture she didn't know existed in her city.

And then, he just stopped calling. Sweety left a few messages, sent some emails, even stopped by a few of the hangouts she knew he frequented. Tonight she was supposed to be with him. Tonight was the night he'd reveal some type of feeling for her, something to reignite her fantasies that she'd put away. But, as had been decided by some cruel mystical force, he had joined the many others who had just vanished. No explanation provided, no closure granted. She'd asked one disappearing act if he could please tell her what she'd done--that there would be no hard feelings and that she wouldn't even bother him after that. Given this "hassle-free" opportunity to fill a clueless Sweety in on what, if anything, she was doing to turn off every single man that crossed her path, Disappearing Act replied "um, not sure how to answer that. you're so sensitive, it doesn't matter what i say, your feelings will be still be hurt. move on, i have."

Sweety paid for her bottle of 2006 chardonnay and small box of chocolate doughnuts (they weren't sold separately) and wished the cashier a goodnight even though the teenage girl had not spoken or made any eye contact with her during the transaction. As she passed by the security guard on her way out, he said very softly "Happy Valentine's Day." Sweety smiled. He seemed like a nice guy, young though, probably not even thirty. For a moment, she contemplated inquiring if after his quitting time would he be interested in walking up the street to her home, showering, then slipping into bed beside her to hold her. His kind face told her that he'd possibly agree.

But her mind warned her that it was all an illusion. That the "yes" that would form in his mind, would change to a "no" by the time it made its way to his mouth. It was just something about her that turned men off. What else could she think? It's not like anyone had told her otherwise.

"Thank you, you too," she said quickly, hot tears preparing to erupt. "Have a good evening."

-J.S.

When I Grow Up...

I want to possess the creativity of my mother. She is incredibly gifted in her ability to tell a story. I read a chapter of her soon-to-be-published novel tonight and was stunned at what I'd just read. I'm not just saying this because she's my mother, the lady is truly all that. To respect her privacy I won't discuss her work, but I will say this. Mouths will drop when this hits store shelves. I'm so proud of that woman. Now that's a storyteller.

Two nights ago I had to force myself to stop reading In Search of Satisfaction by J. California Copper. I was so captivated by two of her characters that I went on to dream about them. I was beside them and listening to their voices. Now that's a storyteller.

I don't seek fame or wealth from my writings, but will graciously accept these blessings if presented with them. I'm sure some would call me crazy, why else write books if you don't want to get rich and become a household name. I'll tell you why. Because money and fame, though nice, are not the indicators of a great read.

In my mind, the mark of a great story is someone not wanting to put a book down. Someone thinking about a character's motivations long after a book has been put away. A daughter making a blog post praising the words that her mother writes. I want that.

I want a woman to almost miss her train stop because she's reached the scene where my protagonist is about to reveal the reason why she talks to herself. I want to receive an e-mail from "Anonymous" who says, "Hi Jennifer, read your book and I must say that the stuff you write about, those are the types of stories that my grandmother in Mississippi used to tell me. Thank you for the memories."

That's what I want--what any storyteller wants. Talent and skill and the ability to captivate. I call this the foundation. All else--wealth, advances, making the bestsellers list--is merely the fancy house that rests on it. It can be blow away with the wind, but the foundation remains as it should be.

When I grow up...someone somewhere might have a dream about the people who first existed in mine.


xx

"writer-editor": a sense of validation

I have a new job! That's what my voicemail reported on Friday. I'd been anxiously awaiting word from this employer for quite some time--checking my cell phone for missed calls as if my life depended on it, checking my e-mail for any signs of "yay" or "nay," and calling into my home voicemail every two hours to listen to a smug voice that enjoyed blurting "No new messages."

And this past Friday, a day when I refused to give the voice any satisfaction, they called...twice to be exact. Isn't this how life is? When you least expect it. I was told that I was approved for hire and that I needed to confirm my start date...did I mention they called twice? This began my obsessiveness on Saturday and today about how much notice I should give my current employer and if I'll be able to lose a few more pounds to make the best first impression I can. I'm nervous and excited and in slight disbelief of my fortune. You see, I'll finally have the official title of "writer-editor." My quest for this title has been four long years in the making. I've worked hard to gain the experience and clips needed to qualify for this position. My website http://www.jennifersingleton.net/ hails me as a writer-editor (OK, so I hailed myself) and so do my personal business cards. I know that's what I am...I know it's what I do well; but to have the official title bestowed on me offers a sense of validation of my worth and accomplishments. I've been through a lot to get to this point and I plan on proving to myself and to those who've taught me some tough lessons that I deserve to be here.

And now, I shall do a cheer:

"Stet 'em Jennifer, work that em-dash; stet 'em Jennifer, you format the best bulleted list; stet 'em Jennifer, rewrite for conciseness; stet 'em Jennifer, you know they like your header style!"

Regards,

Jennifer Singleton
Writer-Editor

Rain. Caffeine for the Weary Storyteller's Soul

Because I rarely pay any mind to the weather forecasts, I head out into the world each day with no idea of what weather event is a'coming. This morning, when I greeted the new day I saw that the ground was wet (a courtesy call for me to grab my umbrella). Stubbornly, I continued on without it. Well, yadda yadda yadda, when I got of the train this evening, I was greeting by buckets of rain. I stood around with other unprepared commuters until the rain appeared to be letting up. As I began to walk, it soon occurred that the "letting up" was just a mirage. I had two choices to make: try to make it the two blocks to my place (in heels I must say) or turn back around in defeat. Stubbornly (again), I continued on. Oh boy did nature whip me good because of it. I ended up taking off my heels to walk barefoot for better traction. And the rain fell harder. My eyes began to burn from the excessive amounts of rainwater and my clothes (and bra) were saturated...and this was only halfway through the first block! People passed with their umbrellas, ignoring the pitiful drenched barefoot lady, and not one offered to share their shield with me. Sometimes I forget that not everyone is like me--and that there are often no rewards for being a kind soul. But I'll never stop being one, nor do I want too--*deep sigh*, it's who I am.

So as I'm getting close to my shelter, some mischievous spirit decides that it would be funny to watch me--already blinded by the rainwater--slip and fall. And so I was pushed. And I slipped, but managed to get my bearings before my important work papers and pride landed into the mini-river below. Exciting, huh?

And so, now I sit, listening to the rain that pummeled me not so long ago, but now serves as a soothing soundtrack to aid my ascension to literary ecstasy. I'm plagued by competing thoughts that often chase away my ability to sit still and transcribe my thoughts. Part of it is my fault because I keep opening up the door for these distractions. I'm not perfect and so this remains a continual thing that I struggle with in my journey.

I'm grateful for the rain, for music, for depression, for happiness, for nervousness, for adrenaline rushes, for sadness, for the longing of touch and intimacy, for laughter, for friends, for the day and night, and everything else that comprises my existence. For these things are the various wells from which I drink.

{Post publishing note: Once I published this post, I realized the stark contrast to what was described in my July 21st blog post "Thirst"...Waiting for the Rain. Wow, I'm intrigued.}

"Thirst"...Waiting for the Rain

She hadn’t felt a drop of it in years and the effect from this dehydration was taking its toll. You see, the heart and soul have a hard time giving their all without the encouragement that comes from that one great downpour that’s said to hover over everybody at least once. Even for those who aren't as fortunate to receive such generous portions, the occasional light shower can lend to a sun that seems to shine brighter than it did before.

Those who knew her well watched helplessly as thirst consumed her. Though she made attempts to feign a well-hydrated demeanor, her thirst had a way of telling on her—as the gateway to the soul, her eyes said a lot to those who cared enough to look into them.

Her days were spent going through the motions expected of her, anticipating that the next day would offer something new, but it was a futile wish. It’s up to the individual to shape their day the way they want it, but because she was so weak, all she could do was let the day and night have their way. Sometimes under the cover of one of these nights, she’d ask once again that the creator present her with rain—she needed the water so desperately. And since he rained so mercifully on the selfish and wicked, could he at least spare a drop for someone who always tried to do right?

She would observe others who seemed drenched in the refreshment that continually eluded her with no explanation. In between sips of what she was sure tasted heavenly, the refreshed mouths would offer words of encouragement that her time too was on its way. Her parched lips would smile in agreement, but deep down she knew they too wondered why the rain had no interest in showering her with its offerings—as it did so often for those who ran from it, resented its presence, and sometimes cursed its pestering when they just wanted to be left alone to dry.

All she wanted was to feel it too. To drink from it, bathe in it, adore it, let it fill her completely.

To bide her time, she sometimes stuck her cup into the local water supply in the hopes that the hydration she needed was right under her nose. But the water always tasted bitter; though she was certain of its inferior quality, she noted with frustration how the other drinkers seemed to have little complaints. Even so, when times seemed their bleakest, she endured the stomach cramps that inevitably came from the tainted supply that surrounded her. It was something at least, she'd tell herself--until her conscience and pride would force her to drop her cup.

And so, much like the state of eternity, there appeared to be no end in sight. She often wondered who else understood how she felt. Who else was tormented with a nagging thirst, able to enjoy only the occasional cooling splashes from those shaking themselves dry after torrential storms.

The 31st Anniversary of My Birth

In honor of this special day I will list 31 miscellaneous loves of my life. In my three decades on this earth I have amassed a great deal more, but I figured that my birthday is a good time to try to list at least a few. I've never done this before so I'm about to freestyle for you. disclaimer: these are in no particular order, except for #1. I'm curious to see what my list says about me.

31. Red Hots candies

30. The smell in the air right before it rains

29. Eating baked salmon and tilapia

28. Falafel

27. Summer

26. Winter's first snow

25. The way my feet look

24. My laugh

23. Reading gossip sites

22. Girly movies

21. My car (my baby is 11 years old)

20. The time I spent with Alowishes (my first dog)

19. My US citizenship

18. Peach and cherry season

17. The goofy way I dance

16. The Statue of Liberty

15. Brooklyn, NY

14. My black workout/sleep pants

13. My thriftiness

12. The stories my mother tells me about her pregnancy with me and the first time she saw me

11. Being hugged and tickled

10. My fantasies

9. July 16

8. Watching the ball drop in Times Square on New Year's Eve

7. My creativity

6. Golden Girls reruns

5. Seinfeld reruns

4. YouTube

3. Old school hip hop

2. My personality

1. Anne--the best-est mommy in the whole wild world (I love you!)

Final Assessment: So what does all this say about me?

Answer: That I would like to clone myself so that I could have another me to enjoy all this cool and weird stuff with.

It's my birthday!! Go Me, I'm in my 30's!! Go Me, ain't I purty!!

(clipart courtesy of http://www.webweaver.nu/clipart/)

The Mystery Man

I was walking past the various vendor booths at this year's Afro-Punk Festival in Brooklyn, eyeing the trinkets, jewelry, clothing, vegetarian food items, and body oils and lotions, when I happened on an initially frightening object.

This man----->

This head is an art piece that appears to be composed of aluminum cans, plastic containers, and other miscellaneous items you would find on any busy city street. This picture does not do the head's size any justice. If you look closely, you can see that the height of the head reaches the hood of the car it's propped up against. I saw a woman who appeared to be tending to it, but I don't know if she was the artist or someone equally as struck by its appearance as I was. There was nothing like it around, it stood alone near a table of trinkets.

I'm writing this blog post on "The Mystery Man" because of his facial expression. In it I see sorrow, pain, deep thought, and, if I may be so morbid, human decomposition. I stood before it a few moments, wanting to touch it, but out of respect for its status as "artwork," and because I was a little unnerved, I didn't. I took a picture and walked away.

But I didn't forget him. On the ride back to DC, I imagined what I would write if I were shown his picture in a creative writing class and instructed to "tell me about him." What would I feel inspired to write? Honestly, I couldn't come up with anything.

But as I'm writing this post, "he" just spoke to me. Wanna know who he is?

His name is Jeremiah. He's what's known as a "gymadan." Gymadans are cursed because of actions in a past life and are born in spirit form only. They have to earn a physical body one part at a time by answering complex riddles posed by The Creator. The Creator poses a riddle only once a year. If a gymadan answers wrong, he or she has to wait two years for a retest. Sadly, Jeremiah has earned only his head in the twenty years of his life--his problem is that he overthinks his responses and can't "see the forest for the trees" for lack of a better analogy. In contrast, a gymadan who answers the riddles correctly typically earns a full body in six years.

Jeremiah's chance is coming up again and he's desperate to earn his neck, and, if The Creator takes pity of his plight, a torso. There is rumor that The Creator will ask Jeremiah a very tough one this time: Why does a caged bird sing?

If so, Jeremiah will answer, "because it can do nothing else, for it is caged."

"A group of models just moved into my building..."

Every now and again you overhear the beginning, middle, or end of what seems to be an interesting conversation. If it's only the act of eavesdropping that you enjoy, then the story is nothing more than something that makes you smile and blush, frown in disgust, or roll your eyes in annoyance. But if you've taken a liking to creating characters and scenes, a snippet of such a conversation can lay the foundation for a novel, article, short story, or, in my case---a blog post.

Earlier today, as my friend and I walked on a sidewalk, we passed a man and woman who were walking together in the opposite direction. In the brief moment where my ears were allowed to tune in, I heard the man say to the woman, "A group of models just moved into my building---" . It was very amusing and so random a thing to hear. My friend, assuming they were a romantic couple, said, "That's nothing you tell your girlfriend." I just smiled as my imagination rushed to create a backstory of why this was of significance to either one of them.

As the sun went on with its brutal assault on my exposed skin and the interior of my "cute" shoes rubbed over the sensitive skin of both my pinkie toes, my creative center distracted my discomfort by filling in the gaps of the fascinating exchange about those models. I think it went something like this:

"Well, that damn cat isn't dead after all," the woman said. It came back last night, and meowed and scratched at the door louder than it ever has. Last time I ask my nephew to do me a favor."
"Oh yeh, you think you had a bad night. A group of models just into my building...again. In the unit above me...again. And get this, I met one in the elevator this morning, and she says her and her roomies just moved to the city from Tallahassee."
"Get out! How creepy is that, what the hell?"
"Yeh, I so need to move like right now. I mean, three years ago, three models move into the unit above me, two of them from Tallahassee. Two weeks later, those two are found dead up there. So, do I warn them of the evil ghost on the 4th floor that hates tall, thin chicks from Florida, or do I move? Because the other tenants all moved after that; so if these chicks end up dead too, it looks pretty suspicious that I just so happen to be the only one still there from when the first ones died."
"Wow, yeh, you should move. Hungry? I want some pasta."

Eureka...It's 'Regret'!...

Regret, not weakness, is my story's theme. Why hasn't this occured to me before now. All this time, I was trying to force my characters to feel weak in the face of their desires. But what is actually fueling their actions is regret. Regret from what they feel they've missed out on in the past.

This totally changes things. Not that much, but enough to breath a new sense of urgency.

Where Inspiration Goes to Die

"... I want a legacy. All the suffering and pain that life brings, it should be for something. From this life we should birth a legacy: be it children or a monument, a book or an idea...life seems like a very long incubation period where we should "produce" something. What will I birth?"

This is an excerpt from an e-mail I sent my friend earlier today after being incredibly moved by the Michael Jackson Memorial coverage. This one joined many others that have shown up in my dear sounding board's inbox. She then moves them to a folder labeled "Jennifer"--this folder by now containing enough of my observations, desires and frustrations to publish my biography. Sadly, those words--my best work--live like pennies at the bottom of a piggy bank, to be seen by no one else. This raw passion of mine that I can barely channel for my fiction writing is like a beautiful collage of colors hidden from the view of those who truly appreciate the kinds of colors I create--thereby robbing my collage of its true purpose. I say all this because as a writer, inspiration means everything to me. Michael Jackson's death and today's homegoing celebration roused feelings in me that I haven't felt in a long time. As my three unfinished novels sat on my flash drive, I instead composed an e-mail, instead of a paragraph to bring me closer to the finish line.

My friend suggested that I keep a journal, and when this "inspiration" comes over me, record the words on the journal's pages instead. I've tried this, but I don't stick with it. My question is, how do I transfer my desire to wax poetic in an "e-mail to nowhere" to furthering a character's day, to adding that pivotal scene between my protagonist and his sidekick, all to create work that will reach the eyes of many?

Reality vs. Fiction--my ability to create words effortlessly (as in this blog post) but stare blankly at one of my short stories, processing too many thoughts at a time to extract a single one that would make the story better. These are my musings.

But are they the musings of a storyteller, or of a transciptionist of inner emotions? Are these roles one in the same?

What is a Story? Art and Craft.

A presenter at the writers conference I attended in June defined a story as "something that happens that results in a change." Merriam-Webster Online defines a story as "a chronological record of significant events, often including an explanation of their causes."

A literal interpretation of the presenter's definition can be: The black cocker spaniel was killed by a car many years ago ("something that happens"). His owner, Sam, then just a boy, never allowed himself to love another animal again ("the resulting change").

Now, if I apply a literal interpetation of MW's definition, I could expand those two sentences into a 300-page novel because I'm told that a story is a series of events and often tells why the events happened. It specifies that I can go on and on if I want.

I gave these two examples to illustrate how complex it is to explain what a story is, and how to tell one. I have numerous "how-to" writing guides and have taken a few fiction writing courses. Although helpful overall, I've received conflicting information on what constitutes the "right way" and when I've finished reading, still felt as though my thirst for practical writing strategies remained unquenched. I always have my eye out for a guide that could show me a new technique. I wandered into a bookstore one day recently and stumbled on The Art and Craft of Storytelling by Nancy Lamb, and I'm glad I did.



I'm halfway through it and I've learned more from this book than I've learned in any of my writing classes.

Lamb instructs readers how to disect their writing--how analyze it for its logic, meaning, character development, and transition. I emphasize transition because this is a problem I encounter in my fiction writing. Where does my chapter end? Will my reader want to continue to the next? Lamb provides checklists of questions to ask yourself about your story and your characters as you go along. I've found that answering them allows me to better acquaint myself with the people I've created: what do they want exactly?
Chapter 4-Structural Design, provides a list of questions for writers to answer at a scene's opening:

1. What is the logical sequel to this scene?
2. Have I planted the hook to pull the reader into the next scene?
3. How does this scene contribute to the large context of the book?
4. What has my hero done to move the story along?

This book is just what I needed, and some "roadblocks" have already been cleared because of it. I learned that I don't need a book to show me how to write, but one that makes me look at my writing through a different lens, a higher resolution. Sometimes that's all one needs--to be shown a better path to the same destination.

And so my journey to novel completion continues. Wish me luck.

My First Writer's Conference

(Arriving at the airport)

Two weeks ago, I attended the Black Writers Reunion & Conference (www.blackwriters.org) in Las Vegas. This was a trip of "firsts" for me--my first time in Las Vegas, and my first writers' conference. I came across the conference site while looking for fiction writing groups in my area. The location piqued my interest first (Viva Las Vegas!), then the low $300 registration fee (yay, something I can afford!), and then I read the workshop descriptions--wow, the deal was sealed. The workshops were just what I needed, covering topics such as fundamentals of writing fiction, superior book marketing strategies, and writing for young readers. I booked my flight and secured my room at the host hotel, the Golden Nugget Hotel and Casino, that same day.

(The view from my room at the Golden Nugget--19th floor)

The conference's director/producer, Tia Ross, forwarded the conference attendees the following list of reasons to attend BWRC (compiled by Anita Clay).

To give this list a little twist, I've offered a "true/false" response.

10. Attend an event organized professionally and efficiently by cool black women.
True. I was beyond impressed at the efficiency and organization.

9. Check into a good hotel, at a reasonable rate for an affordable conference that even makes provision for scholarships.
True. The hotel rooms were very spacious, the staff very nice, very reasonable room rates, and a breakfast buffet that I still long for.

8. Meet smart, good-looking women of every age from all over the country (even Australia) who smile when they see you because they feel the bond.
True. But I don't want to leave out the men there too that fit the above description.

7. Laugh, learn and even cry with mentors who make you feel you can write, publish and take the world by storm while reminding you that your gift comes from God.
True. Yes, yes, yes to this. The presenters, most of whom are mentors, gave such boosts of encouragement and inspired us with their success stories. I also learned inside information that I've never run across during my own research.

6. Be in a place where there is no big me and little you. A place where you don’t find out the person sharing, learning and laughing next to you in a workshop is a well-known presenter in the next session. Feel the love. Feel the respect.
True and False. There was definitely no "big me, little you" thing going on; but I must say that I laughed and chatted with a few people during the first night's meet and greet--whom I assumed were attendees like me--that were actually a best-selling novelists (Rashonda Tate-Billingsley), an acclaimed poet and spoken-word artist (Marc Lacy), and an author whose book adaptation was shown at the 2007 Cannes Film Festival(Vincent Alexandria).

5. Hear other women’s (and men’s) stories of survival, success and beyond. Be encouraged by their dreams and yours.
True. See #7.

4. Get honest, straight information about costs, work, agents, legalities, marketing strategies and more stuff you didn’t even know to ask about.
True. I can't stress enough how informative those presentations were.

3. Meet a short, elderly man who reminds you of your father, or the father you wish you had, who cares enough to tell you not to drink out of the dirty (used) water glasses and not to leave your computer in the room and when you do, doesn’t tell you, “I told you so.”
True. I hope he's at the next one.

2. Feel special when you meet Tia, and the other ladies (especially the one who loaned us her dad) at registration and know they care about you even though they don’t know you.
True. I did feel special.

1. Find yourself. Leave believing in yourself and your talent. Leave with your heart burning inside, knowing you can and will write! AND you will come back, anywhere, any time.
True!!! I was extremely inspired by the ambitiousness, passion, talent, and publishing and marketing knowledge of the conference presenters, and the acommplishments of my fellow attendees. I have no excuse not to churn out my debut novel just in time for the next gathering. Can't wait!

(Caesar and Me. Ain't I'm cute?)