Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Everything your family never, ever wants to know as an Xmas gift
Fellow (Sister?) Literary Ladies Janis Jaquith and Bella Stander often send announcements about freelance writing opportunities. This one takes the cake.
Monday, September 29, 2008
The African American Literary Awards Show
Here's G. Garvin, chef & cookbook author, either presenting or accepting an award (he did both).
Deborah Gregory, author of the Cheetah Girls series, dressed in...cheetah fabric, presenting an award to Finesse Mitchell, formerly of SNL and winner for his book Your Girlfriends Only Know So Much.Finesse presenting an award with Abiola Abrams of TVOne and BETJ and author of Dare: The Novel.
Me with the lovely Yvette Hayward, creator of the event, and the lovely Melody Guy (my amazing editor).
Me with the lovely Yvette Hayward, creator of the event, and the lovely Melody Guy (my amazing editor).Tracey Smith, media & author relations person for the Go On Girl! Book Club, me, and model and reality show contestant Sharon Quinn.
I'm sad to say I didn't get pictures of my tablemates, nominees, Pat G'Orge-Walker, author of Cruising on Desperation, Henri Edmonds, author of The Georgia Avenue Bus, and Valerie Washington, nominated for her book of 
poems, Soul Passion. Nor do I have a pic of my friend Maryann who went with me from Denver. Um...how did that happen?!
poems, Soul Passion. Nor do I have a pic of my friend Maryann who went with me from Denver. Um...how did that happen?!And this is what the award looks like. It's heavy crystal, and I did get stopped going through security at LaGuardia!
Friday, September 26, 2008
I won!
You're reading the blog of the Breakout Author of the Year, at least according to the voters for the African American Literary Awards Show. And that means many of you--so THANK YOU!!!!
It was truly a remarkable night. I'm in NYC and will write more and post photos when I get home. Off to the Met today and to see Spring Awakening (thanks to my fabulous agent!) this eve.
If the debate goes forward tonight, be sure to watch and let me know how it goes!
It was truly a remarkable night. I'm in NYC and will write more and post photos when I get home. Off to the Met today and to see Spring Awakening (thanks to my fabulous agent!) this eve.
If the debate goes forward tonight, be sure to watch and let me know how it goes!
Monday, September 22, 2008
Have a heart
Back in June I mentioned that my new friend Jihan (who invited me to her lovely book club in L.A.) needs a new heart (my guess is the girl wore out the old one with much use) and was waiting to get on the transplant list. As of Sept. 12, she made it on the list! A heart transplant is something no person can undergo alone. She needs your prayers and good wishes. And also your financial support. The National Kidney Foundation estimated (back in 1998) that the first-year costs for a heart transplant are $311,000.
Please go to the National Transplant Assistant Fund and donate whatever you can afford. I can guarantee you it will go to help a good, kind person. Please give and please feel free to spread the word and shoot the URL (http://www.transplantfund.org/) around the Internets.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Prologues, pro or con?
I've read lots of debates about prologues on different literary sites. I don't have strong feelings either way, and have never been bummed out or felt led astray by a prologue. Children of the Waters is only my 2nd novel, so I'm no expert, but for this book it felt right to me to have a prologue. This prologue hints at what the story is about and is from the POV of someone we only hear from again once later in the book when the letter she writes in the prologue is read. I think it works because the prologue, even though from her POV, isn't really so much about her. And the first main character we hear from after the prologue is the granddaughter, Trish, she writes to in the prologue.
What do you all think? Prologues, for them or against them? What do you think makes a good one?
And as a little taste, here's my uncorrected, unedited prologue:
Time was short. Maxine Kuepper was starting to say things she didn’t mean. Yesterday, she told her granddaughter to Move my dish, when she wanted to ask her to bend her leg. Trish stared, stumped and afraid, yet all Maxine could do was yell the word “dish” over and over knowing that she wasn’t making any sense.
Cell by cell, bone by bone, Maxine was floating away. She didn’t know if it was the cancer or the medication that made her say such things. She was wearing a patch that released heavy doses of relief into her bloodstream, and still the littlest weight on her, like a sheet or the cotton nightgowns they dressed her in, hurt. The nurse promised that when the time came Maxine wouldn’t have any pain. “We’ll snow you out,” the nurse assured her. “Don’t worry.”
Maxine would die the way her daughter did: like a mermaid swimming at the bottom of an ocean of drugs. It was small comfort after all these years to believe that Jocelyn hadn’t been in any pain when she died. Jocelyn. Such a cultivated name for a daughter who would not be tamed.
They were coming for her, Jocelyn and John, her husband, both dead. She dreamed of them so much now that sometimes she could swear they were really here in this room, whispering their secrets to her. They were coming for her. If they weren’t already here, she knew they were just over the other side waiting. And even though she was only sixty years old and her granddaughter Trish was only seventeen, she was ready to join them. But she had one last thing she had to do. She had secrets of her own to tell.
She looked at the Polaroid picture she’d kept hidden for thirteen years. Not even John knew she had proof of this moment. There was Jocelyn, blond and movie-star gorgeous even after just giving birth, holding the baby, only hours old with a cap of thick dark hair. And Trish, smiling wide, skin, teeth and hair white as cream, on the hospital bed next to them. Both girls marked with a stain that couldn’t be washed away.
Maxine wished she had done things differently. But wishes are for the living. She sighed and pain rippled through her as her lungs pushed up against the battlefield of her ribs and the space where her left breast used to be. She raised the pen with the same amount of exertion that it used to take to lift a gallon of milk and began to write.
The nurse said don’t worry. But how could she not? What would they think of her? Would they hate her or would they be glad to know the truth? Probably both. But she would do this one last thing for them. She would make things right. As soon as Trish came home, Maxine would give her the letter.
I should have told you this a long time ago, she wrote to her granddaughter, putting everything that was in her battered heart onto the page so that when the time came cowardice wouldn’t seal her lips. Each word, a lifetime.
Just as she finished, she heard the front door open and close. Or she thought she did. Lately it was hard to tell what sounds were real and what sounds were memories sweeping over her like ocean waves. But if it was Trish coming in, Maxine knew she did not have the strength to see the look on her granddaughter’s face after she read this letter. She didn’t have the strength to answer the question she knew would come no matter how hard she tried to explain: How could you?
She opened the box, put the letter and photo inside, and replaced the lid. After she was gone, Trish would find everything she needed to know. When Maxine was buried, her lies would be unearthed. It wouldn’t be long now. She was sipping life from a glass that was neither half empty, nor half full, a glass emptying so rapidly she could see it in the eyes of the hospice nurses and the few friends who came to visit her at home.
The bedroom door opened, and Trish poked her head in. “Nana, you awake?”
Maxine nodded, thinking For now, and, Please God let them forgive me.
What do you all think? Prologues, for them or against them? What do you think makes a good one?
And as a little taste, here's my uncorrected, unedited prologue:
Time was short. Maxine Kuepper was starting to say things she didn’t mean. Yesterday, she told her granddaughter to Move my dish, when she wanted to ask her to bend her leg. Trish stared, stumped and afraid, yet all Maxine could do was yell the word “dish” over and over knowing that she wasn’t making any sense.
Cell by cell, bone by bone, Maxine was floating away. She didn’t know if it was the cancer or the medication that made her say such things. She was wearing a patch that released heavy doses of relief into her bloodstream, and still the littlest weight on her, like a sheet or the cotton nightgowns they dressed her in, hurt. The nurse promised that when the time came Maxine wouldn’t have any pain. “We’ll snow you out,” the nurse assured her. “Don’t worry.”
Maxine would die the way her daughter did: like a mermaid swimming at the bottom of an ocean of drugs. It was small comfort after all these years to believe that Jocelyn hadn’t been in any pain when she died. Jocelyn. Such a cultivated name for a daughter who would not be tamed.
They were coming for her, Jocelyn and John, her husband, both dead. She dreamed of them so much now that sometimes she could swear they were really here in this room, whispering their secrets to her. They were coming for her. If they weren’t already here, she knew they were just over the other side waiting. And even though she was only sixty years old and her granddaughter Trish was only seventeen, she was ready to join them. But she had one last thing she had to do. She had secrets of her own to tell.
She looked at the Polaroid picture she’d kept hidden for thirteen years. Not even John knew she had proof of this moment. There was Jocelyn, blond and movie-star gorgeous even after just giving birth, holding the baby, only hours old with a cap of thick dark hair. And Trish, smiling wide, skin, teeth and hair white as cream, on the hospital bed next to them. Both girls marked with a stain that couldn’t be washed away.
Maxine wished she had done things differently. But wishes are for the living. She sighed and pain rippled through her as her lungs pushed up against the battlefield of her ribs and the space where her left breast used to be. She raised the pen with the same amount of exertion that it used to take to lift a gallon of milk and began to write.
The nurse said don’t worry. But how could she not? What would they think of her? Would they hate her or would they be glad to know the truth? Probably both. But she would do this one last thing for them. She would make things right. As soon as Trish came home, Maxine would give her the letter.
I should have told you this a long time ago, she wrote to her granddaughter, putting everything that was in her battered heart onto the page so that when the time came cowardice wouldn’t seal her lips. Each word, a lifetime.
Just as she finished, she heard the front door open and close. Or she thought she did. Lately it was hard to tell what sounds were real and what sounds were memories sweeping over her like ocean waves. But if it was Trish coming in, Maxine knew she did not have the strength to see the look on her granddaughter’s face after she read this letter. She didn’t have the strength to answer the question she knew would come no matter how hard she tried to explain: How could you?
She opened the box, put the letter and photo inside, and replaced the lid. After she was gone, Trish would find everything she needed to know. When Maxine was buried, her lies would be unearthed. It wouldn’t be long now. She was sipping life from a glass that was neither half empty, nor half full, a glass emptying so rapidly she could see it in the eyes of the hospice nurses and the few friends who came to visit her at home.
The bedroom door opened, and Trish poked her head in. “Nana, you awake?”
Maxine nodded, thinking For now, and, Please God let them forgive me.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Chrisette or Estelle?
Is it me or do these women sound a little alike? I'm digging them both and I guess there's a reason for that.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Stickking it to the man
I just signed up at stickk.com, a new website designed to help you meet your goals. My goal is walking 4 days a week. Should be easy, right? Well, but then I sit at the computer or I have to do the dishes or blah, blah, blah and the day goes by. So, I signed up for some help.
How does it work? You have a designated "referee" (or you can use the honor system) and you must report weekly about your progress. If you don't meet your goal you can pick a charity to give money to OR, and this is really genius, an anti-charity. A group you'd hate to give money to. So if I don't meet my goal, money will go to the George W. Bush Presidential Library. Think I'm going to let that happen? (There are lefty and righty anti-charities, for equal opportunity revulsion.)
You can use stickk.com for any goal: paying off debt, losing weight, writing a book. Check it out. And if you sign up, friend me! We can stickk it to the man together! Now, I have to go walk!
What goals are you reaching for and what do you do to make sure you get there?
How does it work? You have a designated "referee" (or you can use the honor system) and you must report weekly about your progress. If you don't meet your goal you can pick a charity to give money to OR, and this is really genius, an anti-charity. A group you'd hate to give money to. So if I don't meet my goal, money will go to the George W. Bush Presidential Library. Think I'm going to let that happen? (There are lefty and righty anti-charities, for equal opportunity revulsion.)
You can use stickk.com for any goal: paying off debt, losing weight, writing a book. Check it out. And if you sign up, friend me! We can stickk it to the man together! Now, I have to go walk!
What goals are you reaching for and what do you do to make sure you get there?
Sunday, September 07, 2008
Nikki Giovanni coming to Denver!
Save the date: Nikki Giovanni will be at the Tattered Cover Historic Lodo (16th & Wynkoop) at 7 p.m. Wednesday, October 8th. Watch here for more news on her visit.
Friday, September 05, 2008
Omaha
My panel discussion, Taking Notes: Music and Writing, will be at Noon September 20th, at the Bemis Center for Contemporary Arts. Book-signings with the authors happen at 9:30 a.m. and 5 p.m. at Aromas Coffee House, 1033 Jones St.
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
News
The Go On Girl! Book Club is reading Orange Mint and Honey this month! The nationwide club has 300+ members in about 30 chapters. It is the largest African American women's book club in the country. I'm very honored they chose my book for one of their 12 for 2008.
If you're in or near Omaha, join me September 19-20 at the Downtown Omaha Litfest. On the 20th, I'll be on a panel about music and literature with Dana (D.E.) Rasso, Nik Fackler and Charles Bock (Beautiful Children).
Lifetime is just about to hire a screenwriter for Orange Mint. Stay tuned for an announcement.
And, in other news, IT'S DONE!! That is I'm done with Children of the Waters until copyedits. Yipee skipee! Should be hearing news about the cover soon.
Happy September! Have any news you want to share?
If you're in or near Omaha, join me September 19-20 at the Downtown Omaha Litfest. On the 20th, I'll be on a panel about music and literature with Dana (D.E.) Rasso, Nik Fackler and Charles Bock (Beautiful Children).
Lifetime is just about to hire a screenwriter for Orange Mint. Stay tuned for an announcement.
And, in other news, IT'S DONE!! That is I'm done with Children of the Waters until copyedits. Yipee skipee! Should be hearing news about the cover soon.
Happy September! Have any news you want to share?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)