Now Blow Out The Candles

Salut,

I was a birthday girl last weekend. Yay for me, I made it another year and I'm still standing in good health and in a comfortable existence. I spent my birthday with my mother and we had a wonderful time. "Creating memories" is how she described it. My flight there and back was great as well. By some fluke I happened to get a straight flight, which has been impossible in the past. So used to having ridiculous layovers was I, that when she informed me that the itinerary I sent her appeared to be nonstop, I quickly told her that perhaps they had left my little detour out.

But anyway, I'm sure you're wondering what's the deal with the art in today's post. Striking, isn't she?

My mommy gave her to me as a birthday present. You can't see this detail from my pic, but the entire image is actually a series of numerals. Yes, an amazing configuration of 0s-9s. How intricate. The woman in this art piece is blowing out a candle. The same as I did on my birthday. I received her on that day. I realized the coincidence this evening.

I began to think about the tradition of making a wish before blowing out the candles on a birthday cake. And the superstition that you must keep your wish a secret or it won't come true. What I wished for was *&&$* $*$& &#*#*& $* $&#*$& (()) @@ !@^^$&*#(++)&#$@**((@

Now, you didn't think I'd actually reveal my wish, did you? Nope, this one is far too special and I want it to come true for the special person I wished it for.

When I look at this work, I see her as symbolically blowing away the past, whatever or whomever it may be. I can dig that. This next year of my life I will strive to do the same. Letting go of negative thoughts that have held me back. Working to end being a slave to the temptations that keep me from feeling good about who I see in the mirror. Blowing away the woulda, coulda, shouldas, and affirming that I can and I will.

Time is scary in the speed in which it passes. I was just 23; hell, I was just graduating high school. Such a pity to spend so many years unfulfilled. Not me. Not anymore. I gotta try, right?

Mom always said that when reaching for the moon, if you should fall, at least you'll land amongst the stars. Smart lady.

Wow, all that from an art piece.




Jennifer

OMG!: I found my first website!!

Back in 2001, I had to build a website as a class project for a Technical Writing class. Being a biology major, naturally, my first thought was to create something that relayed information about some interesting aspect of science. For me, it was human sexual attraction. What causes us to desire one another? What chemicals are responsible for the complex reactions that take place in our body when we feel "excited"? And what's the deal with those tingly butterflies in the pit of our stomach when we see someone we're attracted to? I set out to answer these questions and compiled all of my information (and these really cheesy graphics) onto separate web pages using Netscape Composer (is that still around?).

OMG, while "googling" myself this evening, I decided to find out if my old site was still up. And it is!! I'm so excited, I still remember picking out my background and staying in the computer lab late at night with floppy disks full of my stuff for my web pages. I learned so much from this assignment. My goodness, if I'd continued building web pages, I'd be so incredibly awesome right now. Instead of struggling with Yahoo Sitebuilder and relying on my limited knowledge of html.

Oh my god, without further ado...here's my website from 10 years ago. Oh wait, I got an A on this assignment. Yay for me!

http://www.geocities.ws/deydreme78/

The Story of My Online Dating Life

I stumbled across this video and couldn't control my laughter. Oh my god, how can strangers know my life so well? You mean there are others? I know this is a "joke" vid, but I was somewhat relieved to know that there are enough of us out there that it warranted the Onion's attention. I suppose it's sad, but their delivery was spot on and hilarious. I wish we all could gather for a big group hug.

You mean, we aren't as smart as we think?

The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid!

Aoccdrnig to rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn’t mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.

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Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we don't read every letter when we read, our brains are merely recognizing the first and last letter of the word. It doesn't help that brains know what words should be there, thus influencing their "reading" of the correct word whether its missing or not.

This is why editors are needed. As long as our brains take shortcuts, another pair of eyes will have to do a few tricks of their own.

(Though if you don't have a second pair of eyes to review your work, the next best thing is to take a break from your writing for a few minutes to allow your eyes to focus on other things. When you look at your words again, you may find it easier to spot misspellings and missing words. Also, another trick someone taught me is to read a sentence backwards. It forces your brain to actually read each letter.)

I Must Be Out, Or I'd Pick Up the Phone......

I haven't forgotten about my blog. May and June were just very busy for me, and frankly it totally zapped a lot of my zest. But I'm renewing myself as I type this.

At the beginning of the year I wrote out a few goals I wanted to accomplish. I didn't call them "resolutions" as it would tack on extra guilt if I failed to follow through on any of them. One of my goals was to apply to the MA in Communication program at Johns Hopkins University. And I did! However, applying to graduate school takes a bigger emotional toll on me than other typical applicants because I have a low undergraduate GPA. I won't say how low, but it's low and is generally not considered competitive. Applying to graduate school, for me, entails explanation and a convincing argument. My argument is simple--consider my undergraduate performance of 10 years ago if you must, but look at all I've accomplished since then to advance myself in this field. This is what I asked the JHU committee to do. After careful consideration, they decided that I simply wouldn't be successful in their program. With so many applicants with higher GPAs, I understand that some sort of ranking and filtering was needed. It doesn't make me feel any better though. To know that once again, my present means nothing, only the past, which I've spent years trying to overcome. I was very disappointed and felt so exposed. I'd opened myself up to these strangers, presented painful records for their judgment, and asked two of my supervisors to complete lengthy recommendation forms. I told one supervisor the news, but I've been too embarrassed to tell the other. I will though.

During these past few weeks since getting rejected, I've done a lot of pondering about whether it was a sign that I don't need that type of validation to be successful in my career; or whether I'll be forever cursed to carry the albatross of my academic failure, forever judged by the poor choices of 19-year-old me when the present-day me has kicked ass in her professional life. I still don't know. But I do know that I have to move on.

I've scheduled an informational interview with a manager in the communications specialty I'm considering moving toward--public affairs. This is my first step to moving on. Learning which skills I currently possess that are valued, what experiences I'm lacking, things of that nature. Perhaps I have all I need right now. The key is to take the first step.

I'll let you know how it all goes.

Self Publishing "Keep in Minds"

Greetings, readers, I hope all is well.

While updating a few links on my website, I found my way to an article on things self publishers should know. David Carnoy, self published author of Knife Music, shared these 25 self publishing tips, or "keep in minds," and I've decided to serve as a messenger. I think many of his points are very valuable. I know a few self publishers and have considered this avenue myself. A lot has changed in the self publishing industry--good things--that have caused traditional, mainstream publishers to cast wider nets in terms of accepting talented authors. Self-published authors have more freedoms in terms of marketing and creative expression than traditionally published authors; however, the journey to success can be laborious and unfulfilling without proper guidance.

I won't list all of Carnoy's thoughts, just the ones that stand out to me. Read his full article here.

In addition to his lessons learned, readers have provided great feedback and their own experiences and words of wisdom to create a more unbiased discussion.


Creating a "professional" book is really hard.

Barrier to entry may be low, but creating a book that looks professional and is indistinguishable from a book published by a "real" publishing house is very difficult and requires a minimum investment of a few thousand dollars (when all was said and done, I'd put in around $7500, which included about $2,500 in marketing costs). You wonder why "real" books take 9 months to produce--and usually significantly longer. Well, I now know why. It's hard to get everything just right (if you're a novice at book formatting, Microsoft Word will become your worst enemy). And once you've finally received that final proof, you feel it could be slightly better.

Have a clear goal for your book.

This will help dictate what service you go with. For instance, if your objective is to create a book for posterity's sake (so your friends and family can read it for all eternity), you won't have to invest a lot of time or money to produce something that's quite acceptable. Lulu is probably your best bet. However, if yours is a commercial venture with big aspirations, things get pretty tricky

Even if it's great, there's a good chance your book won't sell.

If your book is really mediocre, don't expect it to take off. But even if it's a masterpiece, there's a good chance it won't fly off the shelves (and by shelves, I mean virtual shelves, because most self-published books don't make it into brick and mortar stores). In other words, quality isn't a guarantee of success. You'll be lucky to make your investment back, let alone have a "hit" that brings in some real income. Don't quit your day job yet.


Self-publishing is a contact sport.

The biggest mistake people make when it comes to self-publishing is that they expect to just put out a book and have it magically sell. They might even hire a publicist and expect something to happen. It's just not so. You have to be a relentless self-promoter. Unfortunately, a lot people just don't have the stomach or time for it.

What's the secret to marketing your book successfully? Well, the first thing I advise--and I'm not alone here--is to come up with a marketing plan well before you publish your book. The plan should have at least five avenues for you to pursue because chances are you're going to strike out on a couple of lines of attack. It's easy to get discouraged, so you have to be ready to move on to plan c, d, and e (and the rest of the alphabet) pretty quickly.

Negotiate everything.

CreateSpace and other self-publishing companies are always offering special deals on their various services. There isn't whole lot of leeway, but it doesn't hurt to ask for deal sweeteners--like more free copies of your book (they often throw in free copies of your book). It also doesn't hurt to ask about deals that have technically expired. In sales, everything is negotiable. Remember, these people have quotas and bonuses at stake. (For their sake, I hope they do anyway).

Niche books do best.

This seems to be the mantra of self-publishing. Nonfiction books with a well-defined topic and a nice hook to them can do well, especially if they have a target audience that you can focus on. Religious books are a perfect case in point. And fiction? Well, it's next to impossible. But then again, the majority of fiction books--even ones from "real" publishers--struggle in the marketplace. That's why traditional publishers stick with tried-and-true authors with loyal followings.


Buy your own ISBN - and create your own publishing house.

If you have market aspirations for your book, buy your own ISBN (International Standard Book Number) and create your own publishing company. Even if you go with one of the subsidy presses for convenience sake, there's no reason to have Lulu, BookSurge, CreateSpace, iUniverse, Xlibris, Author House, Outskirts, or whomever listed as your publisher. For $99 (what a single ISBN costs) and a little added paperwork, you can go toe-to-toe with any small publisher.

Create a unique title.

Your book should be easy to find in a search on Amazon and Google. It should come up in the first couple of search results. Unfortunately, many authors make the mistake of using a title that has too many other products associated it with it--and it gets buried in search results. Not good. Basically, you want to get the maximum SEO (search engine optimization) for your title, so if and when somebody's actually looking to buy it they'll find the link for your book--not an older one with an identical title.

If you're selling online, make the most out of your Amazon page.

I'm a little bit surprised by how neglectful some self-published authors are when it comes to their Amazon product pages. I've talked to self-published authors who spend a few thousand dollars on a publicist and their Amazon product page looks woeful--and they've barely even looked at it. I ask, "Where are people going to buy your book?" They don't seem to realize how important Amazon is. True, some people market through a Web site or buy Google keywords to drive traffic there. But you need to have your Amazon page look as good as possible and take advantage of the "tools" Amazon has to help you surface your book ("Tags," Listmania, reader reviews, etc.). It may not have a major impact, but it's better than doing nothing.

Getting your book in bookstores sounds good, but that shouldn't be a real concern.

You may have always wanted to see your book in a bookstore but bookstores aren't keen on carrying self-published books and it's extremely difficult to get good placement in the store for your book so chances are no one will see the three copies the store has on hand anyway. Furthermore, your royalty drops to 10% on in-store sales. Some of the self-publishing outfits offer distribution through Ingram. BookSurge/CreateSpace offers it through Baker & Taylor. BookSurge/CreateSpace says: "Your trade paperback book will be available for order through Baker & Taylor on a non-returnable basis. For an additional yearly fee, your book can be made available through Baker & Taylor on a returnable basis with our Baker & Taylor Returnable Program. You'll receive a 10% royalty on all wholesale book orders purchased through Baker & Taylor."

Again, read his full article here. (repeating it to ensure I give Mr. Carnoy his due credit.)

Good luck to all my self publishers out there!

Midnight: A Gangster Love Story

I am not who you think I am. If you love me, you love me for the wrong reasons.
Females tell me they love me because I'm tall. They love when I stand over them and look down. They love when I lay them down and my height and body weight dominates them.
Females tell me they love me because I'm pure black. They say they never seen a black man so masculine, so pretty, so beautiful before.
Females say they love my eyes. They're jet black too. Women claim they find a passion in them so forceful that they'll do anything I say.
Females tell me they love my body. They beg me for a hug even when there's nothing between me and them. They want to be captured in my embrace, and press their breasts again my chest.


These are the opening words that drew me in to Sister Souljah's novel Midnight, the 2008 prequel to her first book Coldest Winter Ever, a classic, lauded street life tale that ushered in a new era of "street lit" books, also known as "urban literature," for my generation. I specify my generation because urban fiction is certainly not new. I still remember the first time I skimmed through my mother's copy of Iceberg Slim's Pimp: The Story of My Life written in 1969; and many feel the genre goes back even further with Richard Wright's Native Son written in 1940. After Coldest Winter Ever became hugely popular, other authors found an eager underground market hungry to devour their tales of high rolling drug dealers; young girls caught up in the fast life of sex and the pursuit of material things; thugs seeking redemption; players winning and losing in the dope game; pimping not being easy; and just surviving on the inner city streets any way possible. I think I had just passed the phase where I would have become fascinated by these books enough to line my bookshelves with them. While I appreciated (and still do) how people who previously hadn't found anything in the literary world that moved them were now whipping out their library cards every other week, these offerings just didn't interest me. I found them predictable and way too vulgar and violent, more so providing shock value than the crucial pieces to a gripping and believable storyline.

After Coldest Winter Ever, I never looked back. So moved by Sister Souljah's writing style and storytelling that I simply refused to taint my memory with what I saw had become an overly saturated market. The other day, however, while in the bookstore on my lunch break, I perused a fiction display and saw the striking, glossy blue cover of a paperback. A book written by Sister Soulja.

Midnight? That's the guy from Coldest Winter Ever.

When I saw that Midnight was a prequel, I thumbed to the first page and became charmed by the words I used to introduce this post. Excited at my find, I marched myself to the register and made him mine.

I didn't notice the book's length until I was on the train headed home. 496 pages. Whew. Right now I'm on page 17. I figure by this time next year I'll be finished. Just kidding. I'm very excited about reading this. I thoroughly enjoyed her first work and want to see what she's done with this one. Unfortunately, I have heard a few reviews about the book that give me pause. But I shall proceed. Sometimes readers don't want to grow with an author. Sometimes they don't have an open mind. Sometimes they forget an author is merely telling a character's story, and not necessarily confessing a personal belief.

Knowing this, I think my journey with Midnight will be fine. It's going to be a long ride though.

Peace,

Jennifer

One Event: Two Stories

I found another writing exercise from the fiction writing techniques course. This time I remember what the instructor asked of us. She wanted us to recall an event from our early childhood and write down what we remembered and how we felt about it, all from our perspective as children. We were asked to then write about that same event from our adult perspective. I chose to write about a man I remember seeing at the bottom of a flight of stairs one night when I couldn't have been any older than four years old. Years later, I asked my mother about that night and the gaps she filled in for me blew my mind.
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According to a child:

There was loud knocking on the door one night. Mama got up from the table where she read her books and opened up the door. A nice lady that came by the house all the time started laughing and pulled on Mama’s arm to come outside with her. Mama told me to stay there in the living room and then she left with the lady. I was so scared because I heard noise outside, people were opening up their doors and coming outside like Mama had done. I waited a little while then opened the door anyway and went outside too. Our apartment was right next to the stairs that went down to where the big tree was. People stood at the top of the stairs and looked down. There was a dead man laying down there. He looked like the dead people that were on tv and had some leaves in his hair. He had on some jeans and was laying on his back. There was a man standing over the dead man pushing him but he wouldn’t move. The lights on the side of the building were shining down on him and I saw that his eyes were closed and his mouth was open. He had a lot of hair on his face. More people came up behind me to look. People just stood around looking at him. Mama and the woman were still talking like nothing was wrong. I was so scared. Mama saw me and started yelling at me to go back into the apartment. Mama stayed gone for a long time and I sat on the couch watching the flashing lights on the curtain. I was so scared because Mama was still out there with the dead man. When she finally came back in she told me to go to bed, but I kept asking her what had happened. But she just kept saying that I was too young to know. I had a nightmare about that man because he was so close to our front door and he was dead.

According to an adult:

My mother was up late studying at her desk in the living room of our off-campus apartment. I was sitting on the couch doing whatever it is that only children do to occupy themselves. I heard a commotion outside and then a frantic knock at the front door. My mother rushed to open it and there stood her friend and neighbor who always came by to visit us. She was laughing and practically pulled my mother outside; it made my mother laugh too. My mother told me to stay put, and I really did try, but I was such an anxious child and rarely listened to her warnings. I stood at the closed door for a few moments while listening to the hurried footsteps and excited verbal exchanges on the other side. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore and opened the door, peeked my head outside, and looked to my left where the stairway and the people were. We were on the top level of the two-level building. Being such a small child, everyone seemed like giants. I didn’t spot my mother right away. I made my way between the denim clad legs until I made it to the top of the stairs and was able to look down to see what held everyone’s gaze. It was a man in a contorted pose, mouth agape, with leaves and debris in his hair. I remember being very frightened at the sight of this man. At my young age, I thought that he was dead, what child wouldn’t think it, he was lying there motionless with someone standing over him poking him. It took years for the memory of this night to return to me and for me to ask my mother if I was finally old enough to know what happened that night, and for her to tell me exactly who that man was. She laughed and told me that she couldn’t believe that I remembered that, I couldn’t have been any older than two and a half years old she said. My mother said his name was Smitty, a university police officer that had actually just left our apartment along with her friend and neighbor. I’m amazed that I didn’t remember my mother having company, only she and I having a quiet evening at home. Smitty, who had a tendency to drink in excess, and the neighbor left leaving my mother to continue her studies. Some time later, as he walked down the stairs, he tripped and fell to the ground below, and during the tumbling, picked up some debris. It wasn’t a dead man that I remembered, just a man who had passed out from an over indulgence in alcohol.

A Little Respect in a Big World

Hello all, I know it's been a minute, I'm sorry. That thing called life sidetracked me. Tonight while searching for a document on my hard drive, I came across one of my writing exercises for a fiction writing techniques course I took in 2007. I don't remember what the instructor asked us to write about, but whatever it is, this is what I came up with. A story about a petty boss. What do you think?
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A Little Respect in a Big World

I learned too late of the harsh upbringing of our new boss. Had I known before he arrived, I could have warned the others so that things could have turned out differently. If we had known, perhaps now we’d be able to endure the day without periodically excusing ourselves to go outside to contemplate whether or not to return to our desks to resume the tiring, thankless, dreary, confidence shattering hours that define our workday under Mr. Boss’s reign.

But how could we have known that his father, a well respected and tough as nails state prosecutor, upon hearing of his son’s desire to one day follow in his dad’s footsteps, told him that due to his height he would never be effective in the courtroom, that jurors and judges would side with authority figures, men they could respect. That people didn’t respect short men and that law school was not an investment he’d be willing to make for his son who’d be better suited for business and sales. And how was this cruel father to know that those words would drive his son to despise himself and to develop superior intimidation skills to mask his inner turmoil. And that this negativity, like a foul and persistent odor, would remain with all he encountered.

Kevin Richard Boss strode into our 6^th floor editorial office one morning last May with a bloated chest and an expressionless boyish face. He stood there and surveyed us, his new underlings, with the same intimidating glare as an established prison yard bully. We knew the new boss was starting that day, but were caught off guard by this dramatic entrance. Since we’d never spoken a word to this man, his assertion seemed uncalled for and looked absurdly animated. I initially thought that this could be his way of breaking the ice and making us laugh. I wanted to and almost did, but then realized as I studied the coldness in his eyes, that this man, our new leader, was not there to entertain us but had drifted in from the outside to forever change the atmosphere of our cozy little home away from home. The others, Patricia, Tamela, Mike, Judy and Nesim didn’t seem to pick up the vibe that I had. I saw in their eyes, and so did he, a slight amusement at a harmless sourpuss, a tiny man standing not an inch over 5’2 and weighing not a pound over 135; the snug fit of his pinstriped slacks and the rolled up sleeves of his dress shirt only drawing attention to his diminutive stature. He didn’t bother to introduce himself, not that day anyway, continuing on to his office and quietly closing the door so that only a slice of light from his office shone onto the dark hallway carpet.

“I wonder who he’s riding at the Preakness this year?” Pat, our resident comedian, blurted inappropriately. Oh how I wished she’d exercised restraint, all of us really. We laughed and howled and stomped our feet, I perhaps the loudest of them all, at my mental image of him hunched over on top of a speeding streak of brown and black. No one but me seemed to hear fists suddenly slam down on the desk in the boss’ office or notice that the slice of light had vanished from the carpet.

He’d heard our mockery, and if I recall correctly, a collective laugh hasn’t been shared amongst us about anything since.

One year later, here we sit on a Tuesday afternoon, tired from the long hours of the previous two weeks and hungry for food that we were promised but will not receive. Kevin liked to play tricks on us, well that’s how Tamela, the editorial assistant described it. Like today for instance, we smell him eating pizza. Yesterday he told us that today lunch would be on him if his favorite team, the Cavaliers lost a game to the Suns. I blame myself for us not eating pizza today, as I got a little too comfortable with the ‘good natured’ ribbing that ensued and laughed that Cleveland sucked. I and a few others joked that the Phoenix Suns would kick the Cavaliers’ butts. And they did. Like a fool, I believed Kevin would own up to what he promised. I opened the two liter orange soda I’d bought to drink with our pizza, while Mike, our graphics guy, walked down to Hooters to pick up the wings and fries that we agreed to share. But all we could do was rub our bellies to contain the hunger as the delivery guy walked past us with only one medium pizza and headed straight to Kevin’s office.

The End

I'm In Love Again....Yes, This is About Music

I want to introduce you to Stalley. I'm "feeling him" right now. I first heard him on a track with Curren$y called "Address" and was very intrigued by his beard, his smooth flow, and calm delivery. His rhymes made sense. And so I listened. Tonight, I found myself in need of something to mellow me out. I have a project I'm working on and needed something to put in the mood. Not for love or romance, but to help me interpret the written word. I went looking for Stalley and to my surprise found some good tracks to share. He seems to be a conscious thinker, which I love, and his producer has found the right beats to accompany his style.
[Editor's note: Stalley, are you single? If not, will you consider becoming my husband? Let's talk offline. Thanks in advance.]

Here's "Wet Dreams," in which he asks his love interest what she can do for him besides turn him on physically. Wow, not just taking what's offered, but asking, "what else can you do?"





And here's "Babblin," where he visits New Orleans to commemorate the 5th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. He's accompanied by Jay Electronica and Curren$y, who both rep the Crescent City and are two of my faves.




Don't worry, I'll be back with some more musings of an editor, writer, and storyteller. I'm tied up this week with something though, but I will deliver to you.

Thanks for visiting, and if you're a lover of hip-hop, show my man Stalley some love.