I have to giggle, because what I'm about to say makes me feel old as dirt. Last week I read the best book I have read this century: They Tell Me of a Home by Daniel Black. The storyline wasn't what made this book great. Of course it was interesting, but there was so much more to this book than just a story. This book was a piece of LITERATURE. It was what Sojourner Truth died for us to be able to do. It was what Alice Walker was paving the way for. I'm sure Ralph Ellison smiled down on this book once it was published. The plot and setting created a movie in the mind of the reader. A person was able to feel, think, smell, and see exactly what was going on in this little town. Rather than making the reader think his or her friend was just telling one long story, They Tell Me of a Home engaged the reader in a series of events. The book sparked the desire to change. It made the question "Why?" be asked over and over again. This is what real literature is made of. It saddens me that more books written in modern times don't possess this quality.
Having only one book published, I'm still learning, still growing, and still developing myself as a writer. However, I've been reading since the '80's. I know what makes a book good and what makes a book excellent. I'm not trying to be mean or slander the reputations of anyone who has published a book. I just want us to put more effort into our quality. Daniel Black did just that. There are other authors, however, who don't, and it's disheartening. The English language has been butchered. The books read like the transcript of a "Girllll, lemme tell you..." telephone conversation between two girlfriends. Getting lost in them doesn't happen as often as the need to the end of them. It's sad. Their subject matter sounds like something we can relate to. Then in the midst of all the label dropping, bad spelling, misuse of homophones, and inconsistency in story, the audience loses interest. Once upon a time, those who were gifted in writing wrote. In present time, anyone who seeks a quick come-up puts a book out. No matter how mediocre the quality, they put it out. If the person is popular enough the book sells. Those whose hearts and souls are in this, who are doing this for the love and not the fortune and fame, are left sitting on the proverbial shelves collecting dust.
What's really sad is when a person possesses talent but won't take the time to develop it. Paying for editing isn't even given a second thought. They have a good story but aren't grammatically gifted. The good story is ruined by events that are inconsistent with the time period in which their books are set. They don't know the difference between "want" and "won't." At the beginning of the sentence, Veronica is speaking, but somehow the tagline is marked with Dana's name. We authors love burning the midnight oil. Some of our best ideas come to us after one a.m. That doesn't mean we can send it to be published first thing in the morning. At the very least, we can get a second set of eyes to look at it and make sure all of our ducks are in a row.
They Tell Me of a Home really made me feel bad about not majoring in English in college. I felt like the main character's craft was so polished. Formal training seemed to take his talent and turn it into something brilliant. I was left wondering if my writing was lacking something because it was never sharpened with an English degree. My professors in college always read my writing and told me I was in the wrong field. Even though I held a 4.0 GPA, they could tell by the way my papers were written that my heart was in Language Arts. They were 100% correct, but writing doesn't pay the bills. Now I do it on the side, but I wonder what level my writing would be on today if I took it to a university and let them mold it. I guess it's too late for "what if's" now, but when I look at work I'm disappointed in I can't help but wonder what flaws are in mine.
As African-American writers, we are the descendants of excellence. Booker T. Washington, Mildred D. Taylor, Sojourner Truth, Ralph Ellison, and the like did not pave the way for us to produce mediocrity. I know we say, "It's just a word; stop being so anal," but there's more to it than that. We want to get our people back into reading. By writing about things that our people see in everyday life we are doing just that. Then we speak of things our people dream of seeing. But we spend so much time promoting the names of designers who could care less about us, not paying attention to detail, and trying to make every character a superstar that we forget what writing is supposed to do: change lives. We need to go back to memorable characters like Miss Celie, Cassie Logan, T.L., etc., who were able to make an impact on our hearts and minds. We put out poorly formatted books, and it's insulting to the readers who have spent their hard-earned money on supporting our efforts. We say, "Who cares if I used the wrong form of 'their'? It's urban fiction, not a college essay." What we're really saying is we don't give a crap about those who fought for us to be educated and those who fought for us to be able to legally know how to read and write. Forget all of those who are learning from us. All they need is a book. They don't need it to be great. None of this is true. We are the descendants of excellence. We should be standing on the foundation that was given to us and building toward the next level. Let's do better.
Showing posts with label Literature. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Literature. Show all posts
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Friday, December 9, 2011
On LITerature
Reading and writing have been almost as essential to my existence as breathing. A pen and paper have always been my best - and at times only - friends in the world. When I was young my works were rejected. Critics of my children's story "Black Brown" said the tale of an accident-prone young man was too dark and unhappy. Still I continued to write. People seemed more interested in what I had to say on paper than when words came from my mouth. All of my thoughts and feelings went unfiltered onto the paper. Even if nobody else understood me, through writing I was able to understand myself better. That understanding brought acceptance.
In the fourth grade I heard another student read Sojourner Truth's "Ain't I a Woman?" Poetry and I connected that day. At nine years old I went home and penned my first poem titled "Oh, and I Wonder Why?" Sojourner Truth's poem sparked a certain curiosity in me. All this black pride was instilled in me. However, I wasn't sure why I was so proud of my skin color. This poem reflected upon it and then drew the conclusion that being black was a part of who I was and I had to make it matter since people like Sojourner Truth fought for it to matter. This was the first of my works to receive a warm response. It was applauded and praised throughout the remainder of my elementary school career. That gave me the push to keep writing and to write as often as possible.
Books have been as present in my life as rain drops and snowfall, but there is one author to whom my love of reading, writing, and words in general can be solely accredited. Her name is Mildred D. Taylor. She is the author of "Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry." I was eight or nine when I read that book. That was my first time getting high. Her words took me to another world. My breathing changed when I became engrossed in her paragraphs. All of her books educated me, entertained me, evoked emotion, made me think, and caused me to want a change. I still read her books whenever writer's block tries to bully me into taking a break. Ever since my tear dropped on the final page of her book I had to do for the rest of the world what Ms. Taylor did for me.
For three years after reading that book and hearing that poem countless marble notebooks were filled with song lyrics, poetry, plays, and ultimately novels. Had it not been for writing I think I would have died of boredom. Summers were spent at my grandmother's house with my brothers and my cousins. I was the only girl. We weren't allowed to go outside and play. (My grandmother feared a car would run off the road and hit us). So I wrote to escape the monotony of The Price Is Right, The Young and the Restless, Days of Our Lives, and crocheting. Through novels I was able to create a world where life was entertaining. Novel writing was my saving grace.
I'll never forget the inspiration for the first novel I penned, "Yours, Til the End of Time" and the prequel, "Falling Hard." This day stood out because my oldest cousin, Michael, and I were allowed to walk to Mountainview Park for arts and crafts. At the age of eleven and a half we thought ourselves much too sophisticated for making people out of popsicles, so we went over to the basketball court. Michael went to play with this new set of older friends. They were upward of fifteen years old, and they were delicious. I knew they'd never give my eleven and a half years the time of day, but that didn't stop me from looking at the brothers Keith and Ken.
The world seemed to stop for every boy on that basketball court when a certain teenage girl walked by. She was beautiful. Even in my jealousy of the attention they gave her I had to admit she was a stunning chocolate girl. I mentioned her complexion because boys my age said dark girls were ugly. They claimed only "high yellow" girls got boyfriends. The way this young lady grabbed the attention of every boy on the court made me wish I had a video camera for that moment. She had such a ladylike pose about herself. The attention didn't seem to phase her.
"You go, girl!" one of the brothers, either Keith or Ken, shouted.
Jealousy gripped my heart, but I was too interested in what was going to happen next to let it consume me. Was she going to die from someone so fine speaking to her? Was she going to melt? He was by then running up to her. Was she going to drool? I would have.
Her response rocked my entire world. She gripped the books she was holding, stopped, looked at him as though he should contemplate his existence, and said, "You need to talk to me the way I deserve to be talked to. I'm walking down the street like a lady, not a girl. And my name is Iaysha." Then she stepped around him and continued where she was going like she never stopped walking. I was amazed.
That day I sat at the desk in the back room of my grandparents' house and gave birth to my first baby, Iaysha. To this day she carries just as much class and is just as sassy as the girl who inspired her was. "Yours, Til the End of Time" was penned in a marble composition notebook in a matter of weeks, two months at the most. "Falling Hard," the prequel, was written after that. Since then people watching has played a strong role in my writing.
My uncle came to visit for Christmas that year. He'd been a little disappointed in me that my dreams of what I wanted to be when I grew up went from fashion designer to singer, so when he found my writing project he was elated. He took the notebook back to New York City with him. In a matter of weeks I received a package. My first book was published, copy-written, and had an ISBN!
My mother was very pleased with the content. She said it was "too grown." One of the final lines in the story was, "Boyz II Men put it best when they said we went to the end of the road." She said I wrote too much about love. That wasn't the last time she made that comment either. But what was I supposed to do? I wanted love. Writing about it just came natural.
Years later I won a gold medal in the poetry category of ACT-SO and was interviewed by the Syracuse newspaper. When the reporter reviewed my poetry she asked for a poem that wasn't about love. This catapulted a campaign launched by my mother. She even talked my therapist into convincing me that I needed to write science fiction. I had no interest in science or science fiction. My writing was either a reflection of what I was going through or what I desired to have/experience. Star Trek didn't have that. I ignored the critics and continued to write.
Fast-forward to today I still write. The critics have prepared me for what lies ahead. Now I'm ready to share with the world what God has given me. It seems like I've been working on these books forever. Now I truly feel like it's my time to shine. Thank you for sharing my journey.
In the fourth grade I heard another student read Sojourner Truth's "Ain't I a Woman?" Poetry and I connected that day. At nine years old I went home and penned my first poem titled "Oh, and I Wonder Why?" Sojourner Truth's poem sparked a certain curiosity in me. All this black pride was instilled in me. However, I wasn't sure why I was so proud of my skin color. This poem reflected upon it and then drew the conclusion that being black was a part of who I was and I had to make it matter since people like Sojourner Truth fought for it to matter. This was the first of my works to receive a warm response. It was applauded and praised throughout the remainder of my elementary school career. That gave me the push to keep writing and to write as often as possible.
Books have been as present in my life as rain drops and snowfall, but there is one author to whom my love of reading, writing, and words in general can be solely accredited. Her name is Mildred D. Taylor. She is the author of "Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry." I was eight or nine when I read that book. That was my first time getting high. Her words took me to another world. My breathing changed when I became engrossed in her paragraphs. All of her books educated me, entertained me, evoked emotion, made me think, and caused me to want a change. I still read her books whenever writer's block tries to bully me into taking a break. Ever since my tear dropped on the final page of her book I had to do for the rest of the world what Ms. Taylor did for me.
For three years after reading that book and hearing that poem countless marble notebooks were filled with song lyrics, poetry, plays, and ultimately novels. Had it not been for writing I think I would have died of boredom. Summers were spent at my grandmother's house with my brothers and my cousins. I was the only girl. We weren't allowed to go outside and play. (My grandmother feared a car would run off the road and hit us). So I wrote to escape the monotony of The Price Is Right, The Young and the Restless, Days of Our Lives, and crocheting. Through novels I was able to create a world where life was entertaining. Novel writing was my saving grace.
I'll never forget the inspiration for the first novel I penned, "Yours, Til the End of Time" and the prequel, "Falling Hard." This day stood out because my oldest cousin, Michael, and I were allowed to walk to Mountainview Park for arts and crafts. At the age of eleven and a half we thought ourselves much too sophisticated for making people out of popsicles, so we went over to the basketball court. Michael went to play with this new set of older friends. They were upward of fifteen years old, and they were delicious. I knew they'd never give my eleven and a half years the time of day, but that didn't stop me from looking at the brothers Keith and Ken.
The world seemed to stop for every boy on that basketball court when a certain teenage girl walked by. She was beautiful. Even in my jealousy of the attention they gave her I had to admit she was a stunning chocolate girl. I mentioned her complexion because boys my age said dark girls were ugly. They claimed only "high yellow" girls got boyfriends. The way this young lady grabbed the attention of every boy on the court made me wish I had a video camera for that moment. She had such a ladylike pose about herself. The attention didn't seem to phase her.
"You go, girl!" one of the brothers, either Keith or Ken, shouted.
Jealousy gripped my heart, but I was too interested in what was going to happen next to let it consume me. Was she going to die from someone so fine speaking to her? Was she going to melt? He was by then running up to her. Was she going to drool? I would have.
Her response rocked my entire world. She gripped the books she was holding, stopped, looked at him as though he should contemplate his existence, and said, "You need to talk to me the way I deserve to be talked to. I'm walking down the street like a lady, not a girl. And my name is Iaysha." Then she stepped around him and continued where she was going like she never stopped walking. I was amazed.
That day I sat at the desk in the back room of my grandparents' house and gave birth to my first baby, Iaysha. To this day she carries just as much class and is just as sassy as the girl who inspired her was. "Yours, Til the End of Time" was penned in a marble composition notebook in a matter of weeks, two months at the most. "Falling Hard," the prequel, was written after that. Since then people watching has played a strong role in my writing.
My uncle came to visit for Christmas that year. He'd been a little disappointed in me that my dreams of what I wanted to be when I grew up went from fashion designer to singer, so when he found my writing project he was elated. He took the notebook back to New York City with him. In a matter of weeks I received a package. My first book was published, copy-written, and had an ISBN!
My mother was very pleased with the content. She said it was "too grown." One of the final lines in the story was, "Boyz II Men put it best when they said we went to the end of the road." She said I wrote too much about love. That wasn't the last time she made that comment either. But what was I supposed to do? I wanted love. Writing about it just came natural.
Years later I won a gold medal in the poetry category of ACT-SO and was interviewed by the Syracuse newspaper. When the reporter reviewed my poetry she asked for a poem that wasn't about love. This catapulted a campaign launched by my mother. She even talked my therapist into convincing me that I needed to write science fiction. I had no interest in science or science fiction. My writing was either a reflection of what I was going through or what I desired to have/experience. Star Trek didn't have that. I ignored the critics and continued to write.
Fast-forward to today I still write. The critics have prepared me for what lies ahead. Now I'm ready to share with the world what God has given me. It seems like I've been working on these books forever. Now I truly feel like it's my time to shine. Thank you for sharing my journey.
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