When the right poem is born it is all feeling. Taste and touch and nourishment. All heart and aching and lifting. Poetry is a revolution with a profound sense of strength. When the right poem arrives I notice it instantly. It is all moving like earthquakes so powerful that it breaks down mental barriers and knocks ignorance off Richer Scales. The right poem is not merely the ability to paint pictures with words. The right poem is a full manifestation of the heart. A complete contextualizing of the soul. The right poem is my entire body into words. Every piece of flesh, every tingling nerve. A spiritual essence poured out on the page.
Category: creative writing
What Really Grinds My Gears
You wanna know what really grinds my gears?
- When you see someone doing something you perceive to be wrong, or maybe it is wrong, and instead of pulling them to the side (a personal message or email) you create a whole blog post about it or social media post, that you know the person will see in the next 3 minutes. A lot of confusion and assumption would be eliminated if people just talked to each other. If you see someone doing something wrong, don’t talk about them. Help them. Pull them aside privately, “Hey sista”, or “Hey brother, you’re doing this wrong.” Wars are built on a misunderstanding. (And, for the record people, everyone’s not hating on you. Sometimes you’re just wrong.)
- Goodreads Reviews. Goodreads reviews really grinds my gears. Of course, this doesn’t apply to everyone but I’ve noticed that reviews left on Goodreads are a lot less tactful and professional. An honest review does not mean you have to humiliate people. If an author is going to be on Goodreads then they should have thick skin because people are mean there, sometimes bringing up valid points but with no filter. And yes, I did grow up in the projects so I am used to this behavior (laughing but serious), but not everyone is. We seem to forget that people (even adults) have feelings.
- Non-Creative Author Interview Questions. Seriously people, stop asking the same questions over and over again. Be creative. The more wild and crazy the questions, the more wild and crazy the answers! “So, who is that cross-eyed guy I saw on your Facebook? Is that your man? Are you into cockeyed guys? You can tell us, we won’t judge you.” Readers eat this stuff up.
- People who keep their air conditioning at 65 degrees or lower.
- When people think everything is supposed to be free. Everything you have to pay for is not a scam. If you buy into the notion that you are somehow taking advantage of or scamming people just because you are charging for your hard work and time, then you will not make it as an entrepreneur (because you won’t make enough money for it to work. Rent/Mortgage and bills are not imaginary.) As long as you are building trust and adding value (know what you’re talking about), there’s nothing wrong with charging for your service and your time. Some of you can afford to do everything free. Maybe you got a little change stored away or you just have the time but that’s not everyone’s life. Everybody ain’t got it like that.
- When people use “Freedom” as an excuse not to believe the truth or justify their wrong. Everyone wants the truth, but no one wants to be honest. There is no freedom without responsibility.
- When Bloggers create private blogs and really think they’re private.
- When people like all your social media posts but don’t reach out to you in real life.
- Potato chip bags with a handful of chips in them.
- When relatives spend 364 days not supporting your writing and on the day, you release a book ask, “Where can I buy yo book?” and you never hear from them again.
- Religious debates from people who hate to hear the truth about their God/Gods. Here’s the thing: Your beliefs don’t make you a better person, your behavior does.
- Photo-shopped pictures of fast food that looks nothing like the picture in real life.
- People who walk all over you and then get mad at you for establishing boundaries. Order is not abuse.
- Racists whites who don’t know that they’re racists and get mad at you for pointing it out.
- Telling fast food places not to put mayonnaise on your burger (I hate mayonnaise) and they do it anyway.
- When people think saying, “I’m not religious, I’m spiritual” makes them deep. Saying, “I’m spiritual” doesn’t make you better than anyone else. What’s better is to just explain exactly what it is you believe in and why (because demons are spiritual too.)
- People asking, “So what you eat then?” because you said you didn’t eat pork as if no other food exist. (Though I don’t consider pork food)
- People who compare you to others. Stop saying, “so and so is doing it like this.” I don’t care what so and so is doing. That has nothing to do with me or how I do things.
- Religious people who act like they never lied, stole, cheated, or whored before. The more relatable you are, the easier it is to reach people. Just saying.
- and Indie/Trad. Publishing debates about which is better. Seriously people, just pick one that best suits you and move on. (Hint: Both require work)
Yecheilyah is an Independent Author, Blogger, and Poet. Her latest release
Renaissance: The Nora White Story (Book One) is available now on Amazon.
“The characters all sound real. I really really liked all the dialogues, it seems like hearing true people speaking. Even the crowd scenes (and there are a few in the ‘southern’ thread) are involving and easy to follow.” – Amazon Customer Review
We Feel
We think and we feel and leak emotion in black ink in hopes to build bridges of commonality with others. Those who aren’t afraid to feel. To admit that last night had us hungover in our own feelings and that we sought to heal on paper. So, we sat there. Knee deep in tears from thoughts that marinated too long. The liquid-shaped hurt that rose from someplace we vowed to keep hidden for fear feeling wasn’t allowed. And still, we slipped up and let our thoughts hit the page where readers are left now to sit and mourn thoughts accidentally left on WordPress readers because someone left us a cracked smile. A “LOL” that came out just as twisted and crooked as reciting letters instead of coughing up a belly of laughter. You see, we don’t expect you to understand. You text in a language only your computer understands. For us? We cry out loud, dripping puddles of emotions we miracle into coherent sentences. For those of us who aren’t afraid to bleed real on the page. We feel.
Her
I’ve grown an extra set of eyes just to catch the shadow in her walk. Micro-managed every detail of her smile, every light in her footsteps, and every scar in her heart. I stalk her intentions and pick out pieces of glass that may have found themselves in her thoughts when the levees poured over when the skies darkened and there was no light; when the glass broke. I scan her body with the intrigue of a man caught lusting for the first time. You see I need to make sure that her back is not bent, that her shoulders are sharp, and her head held high. I am intrigued with tasting her words before they exit her mouth, and I refuse to release my stare from the interior of her mind. I understand that my ways can be likened to that of a stalker but tell me, is it too much to zoom into her soul every morning to make sure that she smiles? Is it too much to hover over her sleeping eyes and find my way into her dreams? You see I have to make sure that she’s not distracted by destruction. I can never stop watching this woman’s ways and monitoring her heart. If I am to be of assistance to anyone it starts with her because she is me.
Inciting Moment: What It Is and Why You Should Care
What is an inciting moment? Andrea breaks it down.
by Andrea Lundgren
Recently, I was explaining the concept of an inciting moment to my five-year-old (he’s a bit young, but one might as well start early, right?), and it got me thinking about how critical the concept is.
Some writers may call it an inciting incident, and others have probably never heard of it, including the idea without any formal title or understanding of how it works, but the inciting moment is what happens to make the world of the story change. One of the many rocks dropped in the story-pond that set off a series of ripples. It’s the spark that jolts the story to life.
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Writer’s Wednesday – Beyond the Colored Line
Sooo. Yea. One reason I don’t like saying what I am going to do is because I end up not doing it (don’t ever say what you will do. Bad idea.) So, when I said Chapter 3 of The Men with Blue Eyes was coming this week I did not anticipate not finishing it. But yea, it’s not finished. So, this week I am sharing a Chapter from my novella “Beyond the Colored Line” (2015) instead. Enjoy.
September 4, 1923
“You’s white.”
Margaret and Josephine had their hands on their hips again, Josephine taking the lead role as always. The wind felt soft against their skin and swayed the handmade dresses in all directions, hovering well below her long, skinny legs.
Her pony tails were twists that never really wanted to stay together. Stella got lost for a minute. Slightly envious. She wished her hair was as thick as Josephine’s. But instead hers could never keep a braid. School had just started at Crestwood Elementary of Belvedere City, just south of Boone County Illinois and already Stella could see this would not be a good year. Same as always.
“I’m not white; I’m Negro, same as you.”
Josephine rolled her eyes, “You look white. You sound white. I thinks you white.”
The girls laughed. Meanwhile, Stella’s blood boiled. Her hazel eyes darkened, blonde hair glistened in the sun, and the blush of anger showed quickly in the space of her cheeks and around her ears.
“You’s white ‘cause we say you’s white,” said Margaret.
“That’s right”, co-signed Josephine, “what kind of name is Stella anyway? What, you some kind of slave?”
“Naw, said Margaret, “she ain’t no slave, she massa.”
Josephine turned her head toward Margaret and laughed in her ear but Margaret saw it coming from her peripheral.
“Josephine!” she yelled. But it was too late. Stella was already on top of Josephine pulling her neatly pressed hair and slamming her face into the dirt. She could hear the screams of the teachers nearby calling her name but she just couldn’t stop.
“I’m not white! I’m not white! I’m the same as you!” she yelled, hot tears streaking down her face.
Josephine was crying now as Margaret tried to peel Stella off her.
“I’m Negro the same as you!” she yelled, slamming Josephine’s face into the ground, the screams from the teachers nearing, inaudible to the anger that consumed her.
Later that Day
Judith stood by the door, tapping her foot impatiently against the hardwood floor as she burned a hole in the back of Stella’s head who sat silently on the sofa, her head down.
“You’re going to have to learn to control yourself Stella.”
“But Mom—”
“Did I ask you to say a word?” Scolded Judith, opening the door at the same time. She expected her guest and opened before she could knock. Mrs. Velma Connor, Stella’s teacher, walked in.
“Good Afternoon, I’d like to apologize again for what happened today. May I offer you some coffee?”
“Never mind that”, said Velma, “I don’t specs to be here long.”
“Well”, said Judith, “let me offer you to a seat then.”
The women walked over to the sofa. Judith sat beside Stella as Velma took the sofa across from them and cleared her throat.
“Stella seems to be having a difficult time adjusting. Her temper is far too easily tickled, if you catch my meaning.”
I do”, said Judith.
“We think perhaps she would be better off in a more comfortable environment. Somewhere more of her liking, if you catch my meaning.”
Judith straightened and looked Velma in her sparkling blue eyes, “Not exactly.”
“Well, Ms. May, the accusations from some of the children are hard to ignore.”
“What accusations?”
“Well, you know. Children will be children,” Velma laughed, “It’s just that they don’t take very well with our kind. Surely you ‘d prefer for Stella— “
“Our kind?” interrupted Judith.
“Why, yes.”
“You don’t have to say anything more Mrs. Conner”, said Judith standing. The fair-skinned woman smoothed the apron hanging from her waist and walked to the door. Opening it, she turned to Stella.
“Stella Mae?”
“Yes mama?”
“Go on upstairs so me and your teacher can talk.”
“Yes ma’am”, said Stella, hurrying up the stairs.
Velma remained seated, “Is there a problem?”
Judith smiled, “No. There’s no problem but I do want you to leave my house.”
Velma’s cheeks turned red as she stood, pointing her nose in the air and strolling toward the door. Her face cringing a scowl.
“By the way, the school has placed Stella under suspension, you understand why.”
“Oh, I do”, said Judith, “you see, defending ourselves, is what we’re taught.”
Confusion washed over Velma’s face as she stared into the green eyes of the white woman in front of her, disgusted that she would stoop so low as to lay with one of them.
“What we’re taught? I’m not sure I follow.”
“Oh yes,” said Judith, “It’s one of the first things my Negro father taught me. You know, our kind I guess.”
The pink rushed to the woman’s nose as she hurried out the door.
And that’s how things had been for us growing up. I couldn’t understand what made Mama so strong. She loved Daddy with every bone in her body but society would never have of it. Mama was Negro sure enough as she was white but Papa didn’t trust it. Being with the love of his life was just too costly for him I guess. I thought about Papa that day and all the days afterward as I stood at the top of the stairs, and watched as my mother waved goodbye to my racist teacher with a smile on her face.
– Stella
This book is available now on Amazon.
Get it free in exchange for an honest review. Email me HERE
“Stella: Beyond the Colored Line is a fascinating walk through the ages–from slavery, to segregation, to the black power movement, to modern times. Through the eyes of one mixed race woman, the author touches on major events in African American history, allowing the reader to experience them in real time. The story deepens when Stella decides to live as a white woman and raise her children as whites. As her family grows and develops within a changing society, Stella and her children reveal complex perspectives and attitudes that make it clear that it doesn’t matter who your ancestors were. Nothing is just simply black or white.”
– Christa Wojo.,
Amazon Customer Review
Moments Become Memories
Don’t waste it today. Don’t waste your time or hold back your goodness. Do not withdraw your kindness or take for granted the gratitude you can gift to someone else. Gift someone today. Crown them with hope and courtesy. Who knows which of us will be called back to the dirt. Whose breath will leave their lungs to be stored away in the chamber where breaths are. Whose body will melt back into the dirt? Whose bones will become the home of carcasses that roam the cemeteries? We are told to live every day like it is our last. But how? How do we take what is cliché and make it real? Think of moments. How they live for only seconds at a time. Think of pictures. How they capture those moments when they become memories. Don’t gamble with your life today. Enjoy the warm weather, accept the truth for what it is, and apologize. Apologize and forgive like a well of “I’m Sorry’s” that won’t run dry anytime soon. Be not held captive by anything or anyone. Do not enslave yourself to pain and emotion and sorrow. Always be forgiving. If only because it makes no sense to give us flowers when we’re gone. Do not weep for me, or throw arms around caskets that could have hugged my flesh when breath stopped the skin from melting back into the earth. Don’t waste it today. Don’t waste your time or hold back your goodness from those who need it. You don’t know if today is their day or if it is yours. Because moments only live for seconds at a time and soon they become memories.
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