…On getting it done.
Enjoy your weekend people.
I know, I said I was resting. I also said I was a workaholic. I am resting but before I dig in deep and disconnect from the internet, I thought I’d give you something to ponder over the weekend.
What kind of woman was Sandra Bland? Can anyone tell me? Did she pray often? Did she love those around her? Who was she? Personally, I don’t know.
I’m always saddened by the deaths of anyone and the things I see taking place within the black community. However, what annoys me is when black people allow themselves to be driven by emotion and disregard common sense. It has been said that she was dead in her mugshot, for instance. Have any of you ever seen a dead body or a rotting corpse? Have you examined lifeless bodies or studied the difference between someone living or dead? How then do you know what kind of state the woman was in when she was photographed? Must we ignore the marijuana they found in her system or is she automatically granted immunity for being black? We have turned Sandra Bland into a hero, even though no one can tell me what kind of woman she was.
How do we know for certain that she didn’t kill herself? Is this conclusion a result of a personal study or are we making decisions off pure emotion? Maybe she was murdered or maybe she committed suicide but what does it mean?
It’s sad, of course. How can it not be? But the question black people should be asking themselves is why? Why do these things continue to happen to you of all people?
Why is there a greater outcry against the killing of Cecil the lion than the death of one of yours? We are killed in the streets every day. Why are you continually treated like less than a human being?
These are the kinds of questions we should be asking ourselves, not whether or not Sandra Bland killed herself. The question is not if she did it or not, the question is….why?
I am not without compassion, but I cannot allow my emotions to surpass the truth. It’s hard to sit back and watch your people die but this woman did nothing to be considered a heroine of mine. I don’t know what her life was like to be granted that title or to make that kind of a decision.
You see the truth of the matter is that a lot of people are unconscious, especially within the black community. We have no idea of what’s going on around us or in front of us. We have no understanding of who we are, who we are not, and why as a result it has led to our position or lack thereof in this land. We continue to be slaughtered in the streets under the rule of a black skinned president but you’ll hear nothing about that. Funny how dark skin can deceive dark skinned people. Blinded by the hypocrisy we cannot see the truth for what it is. Many of you, because you wear the title of African American, completely disregard any wickedness that comes from your blood line and the consequences that happens as a result of that disobedience. This woman is filled to the brim with weed but this is your Queen. I am not Sandra Bland’s judge and her death is sad, but she has done nothing for me to admire. Oppression is real but many of you are blind to the part that you play in that same oppression. This too is futility and it is hypocrisy.
Deu 28:20 “YAH sends on you the curse, the confusion, and the rebuke in all that you set your hand to do, until you are destroyed and until you perish quickly, because of the evil of your doings by which you have forsaken Me.
I am exhausted! My husband and I just got back from a Conference in Houston and I have not stopped running sense. Between getting my blog back up to date and getting the book ready to release I have been up as late as 1 and 2 am practically sense July started! (I’m something like a workaholic.) I wanted to post more but I had a radio show to do early yesterday so I couldn’t add any of my quotes and notes or draft my posts for today until late. I’ve also just discovered that my in laws are visiting from Memphis Tennessee (and you married folk know how that is. The parents must be entertained. They are royalty you know 🙂 ) next week and I still have to get ready for a business trip to Monroe LA the week after that (after they leave). In addition, the book release is at the end of this month (a flyer with the official date is forthcoming).
Needless to say this is my last post for today. I am going to take the weekend off. I love being busy when it comes to handling business so I’m not complaining about any of it. I need some sleep though!
See you all next week. I’m still going to try to work on a sample Family Tree for the character building I spoke about in yesterdays post over the weekend so I can present this method of character development to you all next week. It really is a lot of fun and makes the process of creating people with human qualities really easy.
OK I’m out, yall be great. See you next Monday, time permitting. 🙂
I know yall were hoping I forgot about Movie Night Friday, nope! lol. So, today’s pick is Harlem Nights.
Whenever I am in the mood for some real laughter I have to put this in, by far one of Eddie Murphy’s best to date, which is kind of ironic sense I think it won the worst directors award or something. I want to watch it just thinking about it.
Harlem Nights (’89) was written, executive produced, and directed by Eddie Murphy, who also starred in the movie alongside Richard Pryor. After a young Quick (Murphy) shoots a man trying to play Sugar Ray (Pryor) in a dice game, Ray decides to raise Quick as his own son when he discovers both his parents are dead.
Having discovered just how much money the men are bringing in, Ray comes home to find a stranger in his home looking for the owner of the club. Calhoun has sent a corrupt detective, Phil Cantone, to threaten Ray with shutting the club down unless Calhoun gets a cut. Ray uses the wisdom of his old age to decide it may be best to shut down and move to a different location. But the young and fiery Quick on the other hand is not to be ran away by anyone. Nonetheless, Father and Son must make a decision and time is running out.
The film also features Michael Lerner, Danny Aiello, Redd Foxx, Della Reese, and Murphy’s brother Charlie Murphy.
Funny Movie Mistakes:
In the opening scene when the guys are shooting craps, Little Quick shoots the large man squarely between the eyes. The man wasn’t looking downward and it would have been impossible for a 4 foot tall kid to shoot a 6 foot tall man at that angle squarely in the forehead.
In what other movie did this kid act in that I featured in another Movie Night Friday post? Comment below if you know!
So yall know every now and again I check to see who stopped by the PBS Blog from across the water. I say every now and again because I try not to get too caught up in the stats every single time I post. I just don’t want to get distracted. I prefer to be lead naturally toward post ideas without the influence of how little or how great the views are. So I’ve organized my thoughts to take a look at them only enough to stay in tuned, to stay aware but not to depend on. So anyway, when I noticed more views from outside countries I did a blog series where I gave them a shout out. Only because other countries don’t get the same representation as America does. I decided then to shine some light on my viewers from across the water, those outside of the U.S. Make a long story short, I’m sitting here in the late hours drafting tomorrow morning’s post and decided to stroll on over to my stats. This is when I noticed I’ve received a total of 65 views from yesterday (7 / 30) from South Africa alone. Now yall know they deserve a shout out! I know some of you veterans out there are used to this but I’m really excited to have so many people from one place to support this blog and from Africa of all places is icing on the cake! I guess you can call it a milestone. I didn’t set out for this specifically, but I am always excited to reach as many people as I can. Even if their eyeballs slightly brushed upon the page its really cool to see just how many people viewed your blog and I want South Africa to know that I appreciate your support. I also appreciate everyone who supports this blog by sharing my posts, participating, commenting, and reading in silence.
I strive to implement levels of professionalism in everything that I do whether it includes monetary compensation or not. In which case people who know me are already familiar with my level of organization and from that end, professionalism. However, I do not consider myself a professional author in the traditional sense of the word. Here’s why:
I’ve heard my share of advice from author blogs, books, tweets, Facebook, Twitter, articles, the list goes on and on (and on). I’ve taken valuable advice under my wing and even incorporated some into my day to day schedule and strategic writing techniques since it is, after all, wise to consider the advice of others. But the truth is that I will never be a professional author because my writing process is not the same as what is perpetuated in the mainstream.
The professional says:
Makes sense, but I totally transgressed this rule! My blog, author website, and social media sites, for the most part, all have different names which I heard is bad. To balance this, I have taken to using one picture to represent every account. This photo you see associated with this blog will probably never change because it’s attached to all of my accounts: My personal Facebook Page, Twitter, Blog, IG, You Tube, LinkedIn, etc. I believe images are a strong form of communication and that many people have already become used to seeing this picture and associating it with Yecheilyah Ysrayl. I have also taken to using the same email address to represent these accounts across the board (with a few exceptions).
The professional says:
Umm, I think I’ll just go ahead and skip this step. I do not write outlines before each book. I just write and organize as I go along. Once I start to build on a story idea and start to write and develop some kind of form to the story, then I know what it is I need to research or the books I need to read for better clarity of this particular genre. It only makes sense to me that you write something down first and get an idea of how the story will develop, only then will you be able to clearly see what kind of information you will need for this story and can thus move on from there. For instance, its not until I start writing the story that I am able to create a Family Tree of my characters.
I know, I just said something else different didn’t I? Yes, a family tree. I found it easiest to organize my characters (after I’ve written about them) using a Family Tree. I’ll speak more about this in a separate post, but after I’ve written the characters into the story to some extent, I sit back and think about how to better develop them as real people. Not just by way of physical attributes (ethnicity, hair, eyes, relationships, persona, etc.), but also lineage. Where did this person come from? I do this by using a Family Tree, which can be created easily using Microsoft Word. The reason I choose this method is because the one rotating around blogs and professional websites is boring to me. (You know, that long list of questions you ask yourself about the people in your story: Hair:__________ Eyes:_________ Nose Shape________ …just kill me now). Not to mention I’m a visual learner. I have to see it to better understand it and laying out the family in this way helps me to accomplish this. Far as outlines go for the entire story, the first draft is the outline.
The professional says:
I write in whatever genre the story that just popped into my head falls in. I heard this is a no no. According to the rules, in order to brand yourself it’s important to stay within a certain genre because it’s easy to become known for it. But in my opinion, brains don’t work like that. Well, at least mine doesn’t. What am I gonna say, “Sorry totally awesome story idea, I can’t use you right now because your Sci-Fi and I only write Romance”. That’s like telling me to write one kind of poem. Yea, that’s probably never going to happen. I mean sure, every idea is not meant to be built on. Some of them should just stay ideas until it is time for that idea to be brought forward. However, because the creative mind is not one dimensional, I find it hard to believe that I can force my thoughts to only create stories that appeal to one category.
The truth is that I will probably never do exactly as the professionals say do. If the world says this is how it is to be done, you can rest assured that chances are Yecheilyah’s over here doing something completely different…and maybe even a little weird. 🙂
“She shouldn’t have been running across the street!” said a familiar voice in the crowd.
It was Cousin Rachel and if I had the energy to throw a scowl her way I would have. I still had not felt any pain and only prayed now that I would live. I scanned the crowd, it appeared the entire neighborhood had come to see the event. Heads popped outside of windows, neighbors stopped in their places and strangers huddled together alongside family, shoulder to shoulder, as if shielding me from the outside and encasing me inside the core of the sidewalk.
Meanwhile, my fingers tingled with blood that raced toward the tips because someone was squeezing the life out of my left hand, and their tears kissed their apologies on top my skin. She was the woman who hit me and was knee deep in apologies and instant compassion consumed me. I forgave the woman over and over again while simultaneously praying I wasn’t going to die. But I was talking in my head again. The lady had not heard me, my mouth still had not moved, and my memory only went as far back as rolling off the hood of someone’s car, down the window and onto the ground. (For some reason I remember sliding down the window). Prior to this I was on a quest for ice cream and decided a quick dash across the street would grant me this prized possession. Needless to say I was wrong.
It wasn’t until I looked down at my right thigh that the full realization of what happened came to me: my right thigh was twice the size of my left one. Still, I felt no pain. I felt nothing in fact. I just lay there consumed by thought and words that had no sound. It wasn’t until the Ambulance arrived and I made the transition from the ground to the vehicle that the shock wore off and the excruciating discomfort started.
The arrival to the hospital itself is a blur. I was in so much pain that everything seemed surreal. It turns out that I’d broken my leg, or more precisely, my femur bone (the longest bone in your body, located near the thigh). I remember staring into the ceiling, my little brown body highlighted against the white sheets. My mom was to my left as we waited for the doctors to return. My whole right leg had been wrapped in some kind of casing and the feel of it was that it was getting heavier and heavier as time passed. As I cried out in agony, I could not understand what was taking them so long to come back. I also wondered who had done this cruel thing as to wrap my broken leg in a cast, which made my leg so unbelievably heavy that I could not lift it and supposed then that it was not only paralyzed, but by the time the doctors felt like getting started I would have no leg left, for it was diving deeper into the bed and the mattress began to fold over.
Of course, none of this really happened. My leg was not wrapped in a cast and was not sinking into the bed.
When the doctors and nurses finally did return, in what seemed hours later, they started to cut my clothes off which added to my rising dislike of these people. I was wearing something really cute that now sat in shredded pieces of nothing. Meanwhile, in my head, I was explaining to no one in particular about the evil doctor who commanded his men to try and make my leg disappear and cut up my nice clothes. I’m sure he wanted to do away with me and I was being taken to a secret laboratory in which this would happen. I was just about to imagine what he was going to do when someone put a pill in my mouth. When I woke up I was laying in recovery with a steel plate replacing my leg, twenty-four surgical staples piecing me back together and surrounded by family.
I still remember when mama took me to my first check-up. I assumed the clever doctors had found me and sought to continue their plan. In my head, I’d been rescued by family who found a way to piece me back together and store me away in recovery. Now however, we were on our way to the doctor’s office and had to cross a big street that I’m sure came out of nowhere. On my journey to get across, I wondered what kind of technology they were using. I’d better be careful not to step on the yellow lines; it may activate some special gadget and suck me deep into the ground. Because my enemies had decided it was better that I use a walker instead of crutches, which I’d hoped to experience, it took me what seemed forever to get across the street. The evil doctors had done it this time, they were back and I was sure that they had somehow stretched the already wide road so that with each step I was not getting closer, I was only getting further and further away. I thought about telling mama about these corrupt men but I didn’t want to blow my cover. If she was protecting me they couldn’t know about it.
When we got to the office and they removed the staples, I was instructed by the doctor to move my leg back and forth but I couldn’t do it. My body had not all the way adjusted to the steel plate and told me this wasn’t a very good idea. Instantly, I stopped and threw a scowl the doctor’s way, “Way to go genius that hurts.” But I knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to kill me. I better not say anything, they may try to kidnap mom and throw me in that laboratory again.
I would like to publish a memoir one day. While I am still undecided as to publish an entire manuscript, I have taken to writing down bits and pieces of my life story and publishing excerpts to this blog for practice. What you have read is the true story of when I was hit by a car at ten years old. Names of real persons have been changed to protect their identities.