Confession: Sometimes I wish my characters were real

Tell me, what are your thoughts of my character Sweety? Papi and his interesting services? I want to apologize for the long break between Pt. 3 and Pt. 4. I took a few days off to visit my mommy and realized with much regret that I'm only human. But fear not, Pt. 5 is coming soon. This is the first time I've done a series like this, and while I'd like to think that people are visiting my blog everyday, this is mostly for me. I love writing. When you love something, truly love doing something, you would do it for free, you would do it the absence of accolades, you would do it even if no one else knew. That's how I feel about my stories. Yeh I want to walk into Borders one night and see my one of my "babies" on display; or to go to Amazon.com to read a comment like this one: "Jennifer Singleton is one of the best writers I've seen in a long time. And that's saying a lot because I'm 62."
But if it turns out that my eyes are the only ones that will ever read my creations, I won't leave this earth regretting one second of the energy I expended to write or type any of the words. That would be like regretting all the hugs and kisses you gave someone you loved. (Yes, it's that serious.)

Wow, there I go again starting out left then a making a sharp turn right; but that's how things happen I guess. Let my friends tell it and I'm always straying off topic. Sue me. Anyway, back to my darling wonderful little Sweety. I'm not sure how many parts there will be, but I know that the end is near. I also know that it's going to be good. Why? Because I love Sweety. Truth be told, I want to know her. In a way I guess I do, but I want to know her for real. Sometimes I wish my characters were real. My characters are the people I wish I knew. Because I've had 31 years with myself, I'm more than comfortable with who I am and how I think. I'm different. It always helps to know that I'm not alone, there are other weirdos out there like me. Writers who create people who they wish were real-life friends, family, lovers, neighbors, coworkers, handsome strangers, mysterious acquaintances. They write about places they'll never visit; personalities they know only through the stories of others; joy that only lucky people get to experience; pain that will never attack their heart; beauty that their mirror doesn't reflect; an abundance of money that they can only spend in their dreams; and love and passion that the universe has not allowed to come into their life.

Ladies and gentleman, this is what exists on the pages of books that have homes ranging from the book-signing table of a popular author to the "free to good home" box left discarded on a street corner.

Saturday Evening's Writing Exercise (pt.4)

One year ago...

The night Papi decided to formally introduce himself started out the same as most of the others.

Sweety came home a little earlier than usual thanks to her supervisor being out on vacation. She ate the leftovers from her lo mein noodle lunch, took a long shower, watched a few Seinfeld episodes, pondered man's purpose on earth over two cups of Sumatra coffee, finished reading an erotic novel that due was back to the library the next day, talked on the phone with her cousin Darrylyn who was due to give birth before week's end, and finally settled into bed before realizing two things: she wasn't sleepy at all and it was only 11:45. An habitual night owl, this time of night was no different than 7 or 8pm. Her loyal companion, a high speed Internet connection, beckoned to be accessed, and so she obliged.

After an hour of the same old sites, she remembered that it had been weeks since she'd perused the Craigslist 'Missed Connections' ads. Sweety was a true romantic, and though she knew that no one would ever make a post about her, she loved to read the M4W and W4M to see if two people were looking for each other. Months before during one of these cross references, she stumbled on a guy who wrote
"Me: the white guy with orange hair wearing dorky glasses and black t-shirt that read Will Hump For Food. You: the gorgeous redhead wearing a pink top and khaki skirt who of all things you could've chosen from asked about my watch. I was an idiot for not getting your number. Will hump for food and a chance to see you again. LOL."

Sweety smiled and moved over to the women's side, where two ads down she saw
"You're probably too cool to read these things, but why not. I saw you today around 2:30 (I think) near Mama's Kitchen and loved your style. I had on a pink top and you liked my tattoo. Have you humped for food yet? (I'll know you're real if you know what this means). Anyway, I think you're hot but was too shy to ask for your number. Lame, I know."

Acting on pure excitement, she emailed the woman the link to the guy's ad, and did the same for the guy. About an hour later, she got two emails, one from each of them, thanking her profusely for butting in. She hadn't been able to create that magic again, but it wasn't from a lack of trying.

Tonight however, she had a selfish motive for reading the M4W. She had been running a lot of errands that week and was wondering if someone out there had noticed her. She had lost a few pounds and was just wondering if the change had beckoned anyone's eyes enough to pull out their laptop or Blackberry and draft something.

No one was looking for her.

But someone was obviously thinking of her, for no sooner had she shut off the computer, determined to fall asleep, she received a call from a blocked number. She knew it was Papi, he'd called once before.

"Well hello there."
"Greetings. What has Sweety desired today?"
"Um, let's see...money, an island vacation, a shot of tequila, and maybe to see you in person." As unpretty as she usually felt, when in the presence of a man, she knew how to flirt.
"I can do something about one of them; that is, if you've thought about what we talked about earlier."
"About my fear and desire colliding? Uh, no, I haven't thought about it. Why do you care anyway?"
"I'm in tuned to what people need. Though some might consider my ideas a bit extreme, when executed correctly, inhibitions are permanently freed. Imagine feeling free, Sweety. Imagine abandoning your frigid ways to embrace the insatiable appetite we both know lives inside you."
Sweety smiled as she fiddled with the phone cord. Raymond "Papi" Carter was a man who spoke a bit of truth.
"Think about hot and cold water--two extremes both intolerable in their own right," he continued. "But when they come together, the result is soothing. That's what I feel about your fear of water and your need to be touched. Sweety, I can see to it that you practically have an out of body experience."

Maybe it was the weeks and weeks of his coaxing, maybe it was her vulnerable state after seeing that no one had posted an ad about her, but there was definitely something that made her utter, "Suppose I was curious. What would I need to do?"
Though some of the stuff Papi talked about seemed out there and even a little creepy, she hadn't experienced this type of curiosity in a long time. The lure of it all was too much to resist. She wanted so very much to see his face.
The long period of silence prompted her to ask if he were still there.
"Yes, I'm here. I'm just waiting on you to giggle and backtrack."
"I'm serious, really. I want to know what you and these so-called wishmasters are all about. And why you're so interested in doing this for free when you said that people actually pay you a lot of money."

"Then here's what I want you to do. In one hour I want you to get dressed, get in your car, drive to Manor Park, park at the entrance gate, leave your keys in the ignition, and walk toward the white teddy bear you'll see tied to the gate."
"Then what?"
"Shhh..."

With that, he hung up. And Sweety walked to her closet to retrieve a pair of jeans.

Character Negotiations: An Everyday Struggle

"To write or not to write?" Oh how cliché. And it isn't my question at all.

What I ponder is how to better strengthen the communication between me and my characters. Our schedules are rarely in sync. When I'm at work trying to concentrate on what I'm being paid to do, my characters tap me on the shoulder to finish their thoughts. Ronald, a sweet tortured soul residing in an exquisitely chiseled frame, feels the need to explain what he does in the bathroom sometimes after losing yet another battle with temptation; Lauren, the “good woman” men claim to want yet can never recognize, confides in me the details of the last straw. The sky is darkening; chicken is frying; depression is growing; betrayal is looming; parents aren’t understanding; hypocrites are judging—all of these scenes, these smells, these sights, and this passion bombard me throughout my workday. The people I’ve created do all they can for my undivided attention. Meanwhile, editing requests are coming in, rush jobs are being left in my inbox, deadlines are closing in. Reality wins in this battle with fantasy; and worse, my characters—whom I ask to understand the reasons why I can't entertain them at the moment—inevitably become offended and leave in a huff.

A short time later, alone in my little cave listening to Ahmad Jamal, the Roots, David Bowe, Stevie Wonder, practically holding a séance for the right words to return to me, they laugh. Or send irrelevant filler text in their place. Oh how they laugh at my inability to remember the right string to form the right sentence to craft the right paragraph.

Curse you devious words, I muse, you only want me when you see that other words crave my attention. When I ditch them and offer myself to only you, you reject me. I suppose if I didn’t love you like I do, then you’d never leave my side. I would have captured you in a book by now. I see your game…I don’t want to play, but I’ll do it. You’ll submit to me one day, you tempestuous plot you. You'll submit to the ravagement of my pen...maybe even my keystroke.

Wednesday Night's Writing Exercise (pt.3)

"Tell me what you desire most."
"Do you have all night? I desire a lot of things."
"As do I. But every list begins with one thing. That thing, or desire, is usually the most important."
Sweety held the phone to her ear the way she would have held his hand to her cheek.
"A man’s touch."
"I see," he said thoughtfully. "That's interesting. Tell me, Sweety, would you say you are suffering from skin hunger?"
"I never thought about it that way, but yes, I would say that."
"What terrifies you the most?"
"Drowning. I can’t swim and almost drowned when I was little."

Raymond, "Papi," took some time before replying. Sweety knew he was contemplating something profound, everything he said seemed like it belonged in a text book.

She had discovered his blog Mind Factor two weeks earlier and was immediately intrigued at his eloquence and intelligence in his latest post in which he described the often taboo relationship between fear and eroticism. She left a comment and the link to her own blog, Loserville, Population: Me. Papi visited her blog and over the course of several days generously left detailed replies to all 75 posts.This was her fourth consecutive night of intense phone communication with him. During that short time, he had managed to coax experiences and personal admissions from Sweety that she dared only repeat to herself.

Finally he said “I know what you need. For the two extremes to collide--can you imagine what that would do to your senses? To fear your surroundings, but to squirm in pleasure beneath the hands that confine you there." And that's when he started to tell her about a special underworld he governed, complete with clients and a collage of "wishmasters" who served those clients' needs.

The incoming laughter that pierced the silence of the ladies room prompted Sweety to flush the toilet she'd been sitting on for the past half hour. She hadn't come in there to relieve herself, only to think; but the intruder didn't know that and would expect to hear a flush after hearing someone lift themselves off of the squeaky toilet lid. Sweety took her time until the person was securely locked into a stall, then emerged, washed her hands and returned to her cubicle.

The work day was nearing its end and though her physical presence had interacted with coworkers, sat through two production meetings, responded to and initiated over twenty-five e-mails, edited a 7500 word newsletter, ate lunch, and refilled her coffee mug several times—her mind had entertained nothing but thoughts of Papi, and the phone call from his "woman." That liar. Perhaps she was a naive fool who he had charmed into believing was his one and only. If the woman knew anything about his Terror and Pleasure network, she'd know better than to fool herself. Her number was still in his phone after all this time, it made no sense. Papi surely knew hundreds of adventurous women, probably thousands. Why would he keep the contact information of an overweight bookworm who as he put it "didn't know how to let herself go"?

As coworkers passed her desk and said their goodnights and see you tomorrows, it occurred to Sweety for the first time that the "Anonymous" commenter who would leave a creepy haiku on her blog at least once a week could actually be Mr. Carter himself. She had blocked out so much that she never connected the two.

She realized now that the reason she hadn't gotten over what happened wasn't because of it slipping her mind because of it insignificance. Her memory had been disrupted. The night a ski-masked Papi and one of his wishmasters made her fear and desire collide was far too frightening...and pleasurable to not have affected something.

And now, the gates had been unlocked. But why?

Humans: the so-called more advanced being

This is not a writing exercise.

We hear of such cruelty in the world that over our lifetime we find ourselves somewhat hardened. We've seen it all. Something that fascinates me is how humans seem to be the only animals that hunt when our stomachs are full--not to store away for a rainy day, but to display for years to come. We torture for pleasure--usually not with death as the intended result. With our so-called advanced brains and abilities we come up with some of the most heart-wrenching things to do other humans, and perhaps even more unimaginable, to the innocent animals who cannot speak, only scream, cannot fight back, only take it.

There is a local news story that has saddened me the past few days; one that took place in Southeast DC. Southeast has two parts--tourists are more familiar with the respectable and highly valued Capitol Hill and Eastern Market areas of Southeast...but there's another Southeast, where if you're new in town, all you're told is to stay away from there if you can and to certainly not live there if you can afford better. It's where DC's poorest residents call home. And, the quadrant that has long been made out as the face of the area's violent crime. Well, a few days ago in Southeast, a call came in to the humane society that a dog had been found, near death, wrapped in a duck-taped trash bag. What the investigators found upon arrival was truly horrifying. They found a pit bull--an animal that too often never has a chance to experience happiness--with half of its face destroyed from dogfighting, and a body so battered that it appeared dead.
The news camera panned out to the bystanders just standing there. I became angry at all of them. They knew who did it, maybe they stood around watching it happen, maybe one of them complained about the amount of blood that had been left. I wanted one of them, someone to say something. But if people are too frightened/cowardly to "snitch" when their fellow man is lying on the ground dead, how can I expect them to come forward to say who facilitated this act upon a dog. It's just a dog. Imagine having so little regard for the suffering of another life form?

Well the pit was rushed to surgery and yesterday evening the news reported that she was recovering. Even after experiencing a trauma that I only hope it can't remember, the dog managed to wag its tail as one of the workers spoke sweetly into its almost nonexistent ear.
Tonight however, there was an update. Her condition is guarded, she's lethargic and not doing too well. I imagine her little body just endured too much. This sweet-natured dog that was summoned into physical being only for the purpose of being tortured for entertainment. Its usefulness over, having lost a fight I imagine, discarded like trash--but not just ordinary trash. They duck-taped the bag to ensure that this life form didn't escape, couldn't breath. And we call ourselves the more advanced species. The species that can tell right from wrong.

Something kept this dog alive. Its face was meant to be broadcast. I doubt that the whoever did this has a heart or even watches the news to know that the trash was discovered. No one will tell because it's just a dog. So what was the reason that it survived long enough for someone of an elevated moral character to find it, then contact authorities? I say it was so we could look into the one good eye it had left. That dog's eye told me that it had a soul. There was a spirit inside of it that endured great pain, but remained "awake" for unknown reasons.

Souls are souls--whether the body they inhabit walks on two legs or four. What bleeds can feel pain at the loss of it; what has a brain processes information; what's "born" grows; what has eyes sees. I know that it's too much to ask that people who don't even care about themselves, somehow find the ability to care and spare another life form unjust agony; but still, I often wonder what this world would be like if people actually treated others the way they would want to be treated. If the people who pull out their cash and wager on a blood sport could, for a moment, imagine themselves being made to fight to their own deaths; imagine how long one minute would seem if their flesh was being ripped away. Would they still be able to lick their lips in anticipation of watching two animals kill or be killed?

Writing is healing for me, it allows me to free myself of burden, hurt, and confusion. This post has helped somewhat. It's not just about that one dog, I know there are thousands of others being brutalized right this minute. I know there are humans being tortured right now, innocent men on death row, hungry children, the horror goes on and on. There's nothing I can do about it, I know. But when I see things like this, I feel both grateful and frightened. Grateful that I was born a human with all the "privileges" of being at the top of the chain; but frightened of the capabilities of those I sit next to on the trains; who I speak to each day. I live amongst people who are capable of inflicting (and enjoying) pure, unabashed evil. That's what a society is I suppose-- you have the good, the bad, and the ugly. I'm good, along with millions of others. But the thing about the bad and the ugly is that they are contagious--whatever they have spreads.

I am thankful that my soul can recognize the importance of what I see when I look into eyes that look just like mine. I see energy, the ability to love, fear, sadness, pain, all things that compose a spirit that is much like my own.

Great literary openings and endings

Writing--fiction writing in particular--should grab a reader's attention right away, usually in the opening lines. Though some readers are generous and give writers a chapter or two to "woe" them, it's usually a wrap for a work if the writer doesn't evoke some type of feeling in a reader on the first page. It was not until I started studying the art of writing that I realized that what made me want to turn to page 2, then to page 3 and 4 and 5, was that the writer had affected me. He or she evoked that "feeling." I've read some amazing literary works through the years and fortunately most are still with me. I want to share a few of the passages that either made me want to begin a journey or left me with a sense of satisfaction at the end of that journey. I hope you enjoy them too.


"Once upon any time, when a person in born, no matter what color of mankind you are, a body with a mind seeks for the truth of life. A way. A chest is opened for you, filled with many truths and things that pass as truths for you to find, pick, choose from, live your life with. Be the things you value ... ."
--prologue, In Search of Satisfaction (J. California Cooper)

"Twelve voices were shouting in anger, and they were all alike. No question, now, what had happened to the faces of the pigs. The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which."
--ending, Animal Farm (George Orwell)

"Imagine the world was created beneath a canopy of silence. Perfect silence. While in my own personal silence I would create the world I dreamed of. A world full of love and absent of life's harsh realities. A world where all dreams would come true. A place called Perfect. But I've come to realize that some dreams you have to give up. I live in a world that promises to protect me but will not catch me when I fall ... ."
--opening, Just As I Am (E. Lynn Harris)

"Black woman, without asking how, just say that we survived our forced march and travail through the Valley of Slavery, Suffering, and Death--there, that Valley there beneath us hidden by that drifting mist...we had thought that our hard climb out of that cruel valley led to some cool, green and peaceful, sunlit place--but it's all jungle here, a wild and savage wilderness that's overrun with ruins. But put on your crown, my Queen, and we will build a New City on these ruins."
--ending, Soul On Ice (Eldridge Cleaver)

"My friend Jade claims that if you're dating a serial killer, he will, however subtly, let you know his intentions from date one. And if you are attracted to said serial killer, you will merely nod and smile at this admission, then promptly forget it."
--opening, Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend (Lynda Curnyn)

"... The morning weighs on my shoulders with the dreadful weight of hope and I take the blue envelope which Jacques has sent me and tear it slowly into many pieces, watching them dance in the wind, watching the wind carry them away. Yet, as I turn and begin walking toward the waiting people, the wind blows some of them back on me."
--ending, Giovanni's Room (James Baldwin)

"God, I wish I were thin. I wish I were thin, gorgeous, and could get any man I want. You probably think I'm crazy, I mean here I am, sitting at work on my own with a massive double-decker club sandwich in front of me, but I'm allowed to dream aren't I?"
--opening, Jemima J (Jane Green)


Do you have any good ones to share?

An Ode to Jennifer

I'm starting this post at 7:11 am. I've washed my unrelaxed hair, detangled the resulting nappy mass, and then sectioned and double-strand twisted it--start time, 5:00. My hair is currently "setting" until 9:00, at which time I'll untwist the twists to "hopefully" see a semi-curly mini fro (with my hair, I never know what to expect; I can spend so much time on it and still manage to leave home looking as though a comb hasn't touched my hair in days).

While I twisted my hair, I watched some videos on YouTube, one in particular I watched a few times. The star of the video is a young guy in Dallas with a colorful fashion sense and apparently quite the local club celebrity because of his interesting "jigging" dance style. Smiling and rocking in my chair along with the music, hands oily from the product in my hair, I realized why I was so drawn to this guy—you see, he's the type of guy that teenage Jennifer fantasized about being with—her total opposite. In high school, I was ridiculously unpopular. In fact, I'm certain I gave other unpopular kids a sense of relief that at least they weren't as low on the totem pole as me. Too bad though because I was and still am quite cool and fun; but in the absence of name brand clothing and accessories, a cute black girl hairstyle, and attention-grabbing "please like me" behavior, I was all but invisible.

Popular guys didn't know me from a tree, but I idolized them anyway, everything about them. I wrote stories using their likeness as the main characters, could barely concentrate in class if one sat near me, would wish that I could talk on the phone with them. I wanted him, the cute guy who wore all the latest fashions and had what people now refer to as "swagger," the one who danced in the talent shows and disrupted the teacher with clownish antics, the guy who walked around without a booksack because he was cool like that. The guy who all the girls wanted. That's what teenage Jennifer desired most. As I've matured, thankfully so have my tastes, but I still remember who I used to be. What I used to want to experience. Isn't it amazing how you don't forget? I remember my motivations as a child, why I did some of the things I did, why I acted out.

I remember how I used to imagine what it was like to have a boyfriend. What I imagined a kiss felt like. You get the picture. I just wanted to pay homage this morning to all the phases I've had to pass through to get to where I am today. Things aren't perfect, I'm still learning a lot about myself, perhaps even too much. I'm happy that I'm continuously evolving, but I'd be lying to say I don't miss the carefree days. I remember telling my mother how I couldn't wait to start paying bills and to get an apartment and car. Only a child, I swear.

Anyway, as I wrap this up to tend to my morning hunger, I want to thank life for sending me little reminders that I'm still inhabited by that curious 5-year old, that shy 12-year old, that adventurous 19-year-old—and that the things current Jennifer has learned couldn't be possible without the notes they left behind. Past phases, I love you all. Special shout-out to 13.

40-year old Jennifer, I still don't know how I feel about you—but when you take over, please keep the tradition and remember to give an ode to Jennifer, especially the one who wrote this post.

Good day to all.

Wednesday Afternoon's Writing Exercise (pt.2)

The sugar and carb overload had proven ineffective as a sleep aid, much to Sweety's disappointment. She sat on her kitchen floor spinning the empty bottle of white wine, the visually soothing rotations trapping her under a light hypnosis. The basement apartment was curiously quiet this evening. There were always strange creaks occuring at night, the agitated rumblings of the previous tenant's ghost she suspected. When she moved in, the landlord, who lived upstairs, figured she had the right to know that the "other guy" had been shot to death in the apartment. He didn't realize his tenant was dead until the smell started coming up through the vents.

The ringing phone beckoned Sweety to rejoin her depression already in progress. She had a feeling of who it was, the only person who ever called this late, her cousin Jocelyn. But why would she be calling on Valentine's night? Joselyn was a part of Atlanta's hip, in-crowd, a beautiful woman who was sought after by many well-established and connected men. She regularly called her cuz in DC to "check in," but Sweety was sure it was to brag on the fabulous life of Jocelyn Jones. Since all her ATL buddies were on the same level or higher, they wouldn't be impressed about her vacationing in Barbados with a Falcons player--but Sweety would.

Unknown caller. "Hello?" Sweety listened for her cuz's usual "Hey sweets, what's happening?"But there was only silence. She repeated the greeting and was met with a hangup. A few minutes later, the same thing. On the third time, Sweety waited a while before answering.
"Yes, hello?"
"Sweety? I'm calling because your name is in my man's phone, and you're the only contact of his I haven't heard about. How do you know Raymond?"
"Excuse me, who? I think you have the wrong number?"
"Then how did I know to ask for you by name? I didn't call for games, just to find out your affiliation with my man."

Sweety was timid by nature, considered shy by most who met her. But everybody has another side to balance out the one that the world sees. When backed into a corner, the chubby editor knew how to come out swinging, in her own little way. But this event was so peculiar, Sweety remained calm as she pondered if this was indeed her aunt playing on the phone.
"Jocelyn?"
"I'll be whoever you need me to be. Just stay the hell away from Raymond and we'll be okay."

Sweety sighed. "Ma'am, if you knew me at all, then you'd realize that you have the wrong person. I'm overweight and lonely, sexually neglected, and keep to myself most of the time. Had Raymond ever dialed this number, I would surely tell you, if only from the lingering disbelief that a man actually called me. I can't do this with you right now, I'm quite depressed and was contemplating suicide before you called. Your man is not interested in me, I assure you."

"Are you serious? I'm so sorry, ma'am, damn. I don't how Papi got your number, I don't even care at this point, 'cause I'm not trying to be the last person you spoke to. Please get some help." The caller hung up.

Sweety didn't feel any kind of way about the unusual discourse, her life seemed to be dictated by bizarre happenings like this. She threw away the wine bottle and empty box and took a few steps toward the bathroom before emitting a loud "Oh my god! I do know Raymond!" Sweety practically flew to turn on the computer, cursing at the excruciatingly long few moments it took to connect to the Internet.

A series of frantic keystrokes later she was reunited with the face of the man she'd successfully blocked out of her memory for the past year--Raymond "Papi" Carter, owner of the online community The Terror and Pleasure Garden.

-J.S.