Tag: blogging

To Be, Or Not to Be, a Historian

As I read the latest review of my new book, I stumbled across the word historian and paused. “Historian? Me? Nah.”

“Yecheilyah Ysrayl is a renowned author and historian known for her commitment to uncovering and sharing the untold stories of Black history. Her expertise and passion for the subject matter are evident throughout the book, making it a credible and authoritative source of information.”

-Vigil Honor, Amazon Review

“Wow,” I thought, an eyebrow raised. Really? Me? He can’t be talking about me. I am no one’s historian.”

When I think of a historian, I think of a person with a wall crammed with degrees from every university on the planet and a vocabulary that would terrify the most seasoned thesaurus. I see an elderly person who is wise and perceptive about how the world came to be. They sit down to write 500-page books and devour scholarly articles for breakfast.

And let’s not talk about memory.

Neil deGrasse Tyson, aka the smartest man in the world, lol.

Historians, I suppose, have perfect recall and spiritual compasses that allow them to travel from portal to portal and retrieve relics from the past. These folks recite information like a machine. When I think of a historian, I think Neil deGrasse Tyson.

But me?

I can’t even remember where I left the remote half of the time.

While I did well in history class, I wasn’t too interested in it. It was just a class to get through, but nothing I thirsted for outside school. I didn’t seek it out like I did books. I didn’t eat it up like I did poetry. I didn’t love it like I did literature.

Ahh. There it is. Books. It always comes back to books.

My love for reading, particularly about my people’s history, has led me to write about it. Writing about it has led me to research it. Researching it has led me to document it. Documenting it has created in me a fascination to share it.

I got a revelation while watching a podcast episode with Donni Wiggins and Jessica Dupart, and I found myself laughing at Dupart’s candor. She dropped a few F-Bombs and talked about her life growing up as if she and Wiggins were sitting in their own living room. She doesn’t speak corporate or exhibit the characteristics that someone might consider appropriate to be a CEO, yet she runs an 80 million-dollar business.

While I didn’t finish the entire episode, watching it made me think about how dope it is that in today’s world, people are redefining what success looks like just by being themselves. I realized I never considered myself a historian because I didn’t think I knew enough. (I also dislike titles)

I was also clinging to an aged stereotype.

I learned I don’t have to look like that old-school, white male version of what a historian was once thought to be to qualify as such.

It didn’t occur to me that writers are historians, too, documenting history and archiving them into books that live forever.

According to Google, “a historian is a person who studies and writes about the past and is regarded as an authority on it.”

“Her expertise and passion for the subject matter are evident throughout the book, making it a credible and authoritative source of information…”

Well now. I suppose historian doesn’t sound too bad after all.

“The book’s storytelling approach brings history to life, making it accessible and engaging for readers of all ages. Ysrayl’s narrative style ensures that the experiences and contributions of Black Americans are not just facts to be remembered but stories to be felt and understood.”

-Vigil Honor, on Black History Facts You Didn’t Learn in School by Yecheilyah Ysrayl


Don’t Give Up on Your Book Too Soon

Sneaking out of the house to ship books during Covid 2020.

Time is one of the numerous advantages of self-publishing. Self-publishers set their own schedules, in contrast to traditional publishing, which enables them to release books fast and often.

And the better an author gets at publishing high-quality books, the more they publish in a shorter time. 

However, I caution authors not to rush their current book on the way to the next one.

Some authors only have one book out, but what they’ve been able to do with that book is more than some authors with ten or twenty.

From consulting and coaching to classes and workshops, these authors have turned that one book into a powerhouse of expertise and services, multiplying their income.

But they would not have been able to do this if they had given up too quickly.

They would not have been able to do this if they published the book on Amazon and then forgot about it on the road to the next one.

They would not have been able to do this if they worried about making the best sellers list. (Some authors are making good money selling their books consistently and have never been a Best Seller.)

They would not have been able to do this if they focused on what’s next instead of what already exists.

When we give in to shiny object syndrome, the continual distraction brought on by an ongoing belief that something new is worth pursuing, we miss the blessing right in front of us. 

The grass is not greener on the other side. It is greener where you water it. It is greener where you cut it. It is greener where you pluck out the weeds.

It is greener when you give it the time and attention it needs to thrive.

Sometimes, new ideas are not intended for us to act on immediately. Some thoughts need to be written and executed later. 

Give that book you worked so hard to produce the time and attention it deserves to grow and develop before moving on to the next best thing.

We believe publishing success is about quantity and hustle. That might work short-term, but the long-term victory is about quality and strategy.

You can spend a lot of time and energy hustling to break the Guinness World Record for the most published books, or you can be more strategic about turning that one book into a full-blown brand. This may require a long-term plan where you might not immediately see results.

Click here for more Indie Author Basics aimed at encouraging you through the Self-Publishing / Indie Author Process!

Black History Fun Fact Friday – Lonnie Johnson and the Super Soaker Water Gun

Black History Fun Fact Friday is back!

May has always been an exciting month. As a kid, I looked forward to the school year ending and the warm weather welcoming me just in time for my birthday at the end of the month. Summer also means swimming and dancing in the water from the fire hydrant and water guns!

Introducing Lonnie Johnson, the inventor of the super soaker!

LJ

Lonnie Johnson was born in Mobile, Alabama, on October 6, 1949. Signs of Lonnie’s brilliance could be seen when he was a child reverse-engineering his sister’s baby doll to understand how the eyes closed. He also built his own go-cart from a lawnmower engine he attached to scraps he found in the junkyard. 

Before enlisting in the Air Force, he worked as a research engineer at Oak Ridge National Laboratory. He also worked at the Air Force Weapons Laboratory in Albuquerque, New Mexico, as the acting chief of the Space Nuclear Power Safety Section.

Johnson holds a B.S. degree in Mechanical Engineering, an M.S. degree in Nuclear Engineering, and an honorary Ph.D. in Science from Tuskegee University.

In 1989, Johnson formed his own engineering firm and licensed his most famous invention, the super soaker. It generated over $200 million in retail sales and became the number-one-selling toy in America.

Today, Johnson is president and founder of Johnson Research and Development Co., Inc., a technology development company, and its spin-off companies, Excellatron Solid State, LLC; Johnson Electro-Mechanical Systems, LLC; and Johnson Real Estate Investments, LLC.

As of 2023, Lonnie Johnson’s net worth was an estimated $160 million. This substantial fortune is primarily the result of the royalties he received for the Super Soaker, which generated billions of dollars.

So the next time your child plays with a super soaker, be sure they know about its amazing inventor!

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For More Black History Facts You Didn’t Learn in School, Be Sure to Get Your Copy of the Book Here!

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Help People Understand WHY They Should Buy Your Book

Supporting a fellow poetess at the Atlanta African American Book Festival, 2019.

In my years of consulting with authors and working with them on their books, I’ve discovered that the most difficult challenge for many is not writing the book (many of them have been writing their entire lives) but finding innovative ways to market and promote it.

With so many hats to wear, the last thing an Indie Author wants to do is strategize about how to promote their book day in and day out.

And you know what? We don’t have to!

Everything does not have to be part of some grand strategy that only a rocket scientist could understand. The secret to wisdom is often in its simplicity.

Considering it as relationship-building and connection-making rather than marketing and promotion could help you focus on the reasons behind your book. It involves thinking up creative ways to draw in and hold the interest of those who are already searching for solutions to the problems your books address. 

Not only can these connections help you meet new people who buy books, but you might also find a business partner or lifelong friend.

Since your identity as an author is heavily influenced by who you are personally, it might be beneficial to present your individuality and draw on real-world experiences to engage readers on a deeper level.

Dr. Jackie Walters does this well. 

Award-winning OB/GYN and star of the hit TV show Married to Medicine on Bravo, I reviewed her book a few years ago. The Queen V: Everything You Need to Know About Sex, Intimacy, and Down There Health Care goes into detail about our precious lady parts and all the ways to stay healthy. She has these videos where she reveals something informative about the vulva, sex, and intimacy. 

Here’s the important part: She only sometimes mentions her book in these videos! Sometimes, she’ll just have it sitting to the side, or it won’t be in the shot at all.

Dr. Jackie understands her expertise, and by educating her people and entertaining them with her props (she uses fruits and everything, chile), people are increasingly interested in her topic and her book without her mentioning it in every post.

She just shows up as herself.

In the end, we must show people why they should buy our book, not just that they should. This builds genuine connections and strong relationships that help our books to sell without stressing us out.

Click here for more Indie Author Basics aimed at encouraging you through the Self-Publishing / Indie Author Process!

Concrete Rose Episode Two: The White Lady

“I give a holler to my sisters on welfare
Tupac cares, if don’t nobody else care”

You know, it’s funny when it rains it pours
They got money for wars, but can’t feed the poor.”

-Tupac, Keep Ya Head Up

Even though life tried to take me out in a toilet, I got here healthy, drug-free, and a head full of hair.

After two weeks in the hospital, Mama was allowed to take me home, if that’s what you wanna call it. Our building had been built in the 60s, but it wasn’t much of a building by the late 80s and into the early 90s.

Rats and roaches plagued our apartments, and the housing authorities couldn’t care less. Brand-new babies like me were brought home to nothing but drug dealers and addicts, children sprawled about like clothes somebody left on the floor and forgot to wash, so it wasn’t no surprise when The White Lady came.

That’s what people said when the social workers came to inspect the low-income apartments, “The White Lady.” They ain’t never have a name.

The woman stood in the kitchen, talking to Mama, and looking around our place with distaste. She gazed at the Crisco on top of the stove, as well as the dish rack, which was piled high with plates, bowls, cups, and cutlery. It wasn’t cute, but it was clean.

Her gaze moved to my brother and me, who were playing on the thick blanket on the floor we called a pallet. Well, he was playing, and I was doing whatever it was babies do.

My Uncle Rome hid in the closet next to the bathroom cause he wasn’t on the lease. Black women weren’t allowed to have a man in the house in those days if they wanted to get the Welfare. We also had to hide the new toaster, dish rack, and telephone so they wouldn’t take away any money.

“Mrs. House, your son is developing slowly for his age…”

The short, green-eyed blonde balanced a clipboard in her arms and scratched her nose with the tip of her writing pen. The hoop ring in her right nostril and the sunflower tattoo on her exposed arm caught my Uncle Jerome’s eye.

My favorite uncle and unofficial babysitter, we called my mother’s little brother Rome for short. He thought he was Romeo to every woman’s Juliet. His dark chocolate skin tone and thick lips drove them crazy. Mama said if he took the time to read Romeo and Juliet’s story, he might want to be somebody else.

“Ain’t nothing romantic about no Romeo and Juliet,” she’d lecture him when he bragged about his latest escapades.

“Why is that?”

“They both died fool.”

Uncle Rome said he wasn’t into white women like that, but this one was “sho-nuff fine.” Unk was lying. He loved him some white women. He just wanted to know why she was so young and how long she’d been working with social services to where she could take his sister’s kids.

“…and your 2-month-old is malnourished,” said the White Lady.

“It’s Miss House,” said Mama, taking a drag of her cigarette, inhaling smoke, and blowing it out of her nose. “Since you know so damn much.”

Uncle Rome did one of those fake coughs you do to cover up a laugh.

The lady ignored my mother. “Miss House, have you been using the Food Stamps?”

Unk said Mama frowned, “Yes, I use my stamps. Fuck I look like not to use Food Stamps?”

“I just wanna make sure you didn’t sell them, is all,” said the white lady.

“Oh, so you my judge now? I look incompetent to you?”

See, that’s what I loved about Mama. Yeah, she was a heroin addict, but she wasn’t no fool. A wordsmith with a mouth like a two-edged sword, she’ll curse you out every which way but loose and diversify her vocabulary while at it so you can know she’s cursing because she wants to, not because she doesn’t have the words to say what’s on her mind.

Mama used to write poems and stories before she got pregnant with Aaron. She also went to school to do hair. There wasn’t nothing my Mama couldn’t do. I wished she would get back to her art. Maybe that would help keep her away from the drugs.

“Look, are you done? Cause, as you can see, I have kids to look after.”

The woman scanned the apartment once more, frowning at a roach crawling on the wall. “Let’s just hope you are taking care of these children. This is your final warning, Miss House. If I have to come back here again…”

“Yeah, I know,” interrupted Mama, blowing out more smoke. “Are we done?”

The woman nodded, “We are.”

As she walked toward the door, she stopped to look once more at us and then back at my mother. “Probably not a good idea for you to smoke in front of the children.”

Mama rolled her eyes, dropped the cigarette on the floor, stomped it with her foot, and waved the woman off.

According to my uncle’s story, the woman left us alone after that. But, in my fifth month, someone new came to visit, and I was taken away from Mama and placed in foster care, where I would stay for the next five years.

Did you miss episode one? Check it out here!

Again, I am sharing based on interest! If you like this episode and want to move on to episode 3 (“Miss Sophia,”) let me know! 😃

Concrete Rose: Episode One

“Did you hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete? It learned to walk without having feet. Funny, it seems, but by keeping its dreams, it learned to breathe fresh air. Long live the rose that grew from concrete when no one else cared.”

– Tupac Amaru Shakur

I was almost born in the toilet.

My brother, Aaron, had just turned two, and Mama was only five months pregnant when Theresa (we call her Reese) caught her shooting up in the bathroom. That’s when she felt my head. “I think I feel my baby,” she slurred.

People around my way love to quote Tupac’s Rose That Grew from Concrete, but they don’t really know what it means. They don’t know nothing about coming up from the hardest part of the earth, snuggled between nothing but weeds, dirt, and the butts of cigarettes.

Then, the sun is so hot sometimes, the poor flowers (that are not really flowers cause they ain’t get the nutrients they need) just wither up and die. That’s what we really fight against here in these slums, in this place they want us to call home, but it ain’t never feel like it. Never felt like a hug or Big Mama’s greens.

That’s how the bathroom was almost my birthplace. Right there at 4840 South State Street, apartment 602. I feel sorry for Reese having to see her auntie slumped over like that and her own mother high as a kite in the other room. How is somebody supposed to get ready for school in this mess?

Reese was strong, though. She banged her fist against the door real hard like the police when they raided the sniper apartments. What is a sniper apartment? It’s just what it says: Empty flats on the top floors drug dealers used to shoot their enemies down below, like snipers on the battlefield.

Photo Cred: Williams Humbles

“Aunt Helen! Auntie, I gotta get ready for school!”

Frustrated, my mother, belly hanging over blue jeans now too small to zip up all the way and a dingy white t-shirt, finally opened the door.

“Come on, girl, shit,” she said, pointing to the tub. “Hurry up,” she rushed as Reese undressed and ran the water.

Mama sat back on the toilet and wrapped the belt tight around her forearm, a burned spoon dangling on the edge of the sink like it was supposed to be there. Like it was a toothbrush waiting to be used. Reese said she remembers praying Aunt Helen wouldn’t ask her to help tie her off like the other times.

“Close that curtain. Hurry up!”

After Mama said she could feel my head, Reese ran out of the bathroom, butt naked, and into her mother’s room. Dazed from her own high, Auntie Lorraine jumped up nevertheless. She knew her sister was pregnant and hurried to the bathroom, except she didn’t use her fist like her daughter. Auntie Lorraine, big-boned and shaped like Sara Baartman, used the back of her foot, slamming it against the door.

“Helen!” she screamed, but Mama wasn’t opening the door, so Auntie Lorraine had to kick it in, the needle falling from my mother’s long, skinny fingers like a witness eager to expose her secrets.

And as they say, the rest is history.

My name is Rosalind House, but everybody calls me Rose for short. I was born two months later, on June 21, 1987, premature and weighing a whopping 3 lbs and screaming at the top of my lungs. They say that’s why my voice is so high-pitched and sweet. They say it’s like something the Lord made. Say, I’m gone use it to shout my way out of this place.

And I did.

Let me tell you how it happened.

I missed writing fiction, so I started a new story!

I am calling it Concrete Rose (for now). I’ll be sharing the first few chapters based on response, so if you wanna read more, let me know! 🙂

Up Next: “The White Lady.”