A lot of people wonder what the process is to come up with a good story. For me, it involves a lot of seclusion. I can't focus on writing AND the world around me. I almost have to step outside myself and venture onto a journey of self discovery. If I leave room for distraction, I get lost on that journey and ultimately produce below average material. Writing is such an in-depth process that it's impossible to go in haphazardly. I have a love/hate relationship with writing. I love to write but the darkness that I have to yank into light every single time I write can be mentally draining. Still, I'd go insane without its nourishment.
I read this quote and felt,"Wow, this is it." This quote explains my writing process:
Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself. ~ Franz Kafka
So now when my fiancé feels abandoned when I go on my writing excursion, he can have a better understanding of why I must do what I do.
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Saturday, August 13, 2011
Friday, August 12, 2011
Black Caesar
Khalil said I had a job to do. Nothing out of the ordinary. Get to the spot. Get the dope. Bring it back home. Cut it then sell it. Simple and plain. Up until that point, all my responsibilities added up to driving people around, selling reefa, and from time to time shelling out a couple bags of ye-yo. So, to Khalil, this was just another day in the neighborhood; for me, it was a test of my character.
I went over the pick up in my head over and over. Drive to the spot, ask for Big Steve. Remember, there is no Big Steve. Steve is but a metaphor for five kilos of crack cocaine. Stand your ground. At first, they may deny Steve exists. He does. Don't play their game. Get the product, give 'em the manila envelope from your back left pocket. Don't smile, don't make small talk. Just get the job done and leave. Drive the speed limit. Don't give the police any reason to stop you, 'cause if they do, you're on your own.
The drive there was long. I wasn't nervous, just anxious. This was the first job that stood between me and my first big payoff. No more dead end jobs, no more living under my mama's shitty ass roof, and damn sho no more being broke. I sat outside the spot for eight minutes going over everything in my head. Big Steve, I'm looking for Big Steve. I looked around. The night was quiet and the air was thick. If I smacked my lips, I could taste the dewy essence of coldness and drugs. I took a deep breath and made slow steps toward the door. Be cool, was the last thing Khalil told me. Make these niggas play yo game.
I ain't have no game to play. I was just another nigga trynna get a cut. I knocked on the door three times. Not loud knocks, not short knocks; just three steady knocks. I stood there, waiting. Two seconds later, the door swung open and a big shadow walked through the doorway. He stood there staring at me, breathing in my smell, reading my face. He didn't say anything.
"I'm lookin' fo Big Steve." I said.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
I went over the pick up in my head over and over. Drive to the spot, ask for Big Steve. Remember, there is no Big Steve. Steve is but a metaphor for five kilos of crack cocaine. Stand your ground. At first, they may deny Steve exists. He does. Don't play their game. Get the product, give 'em the manila envelope from your back left pocket. Don't smile, don't make small talk. Just get the job done and leave. Drive the speed limit. Don't give the police any reason to stop you, 'cause if they do, you're on your own.
The drive there was long. I wasn't nervous, just anxious. This was the first job that stood between me and my first big payoff. No more dead end jobs, no more living under my mama's shitty ass roof, and damn sho no more being broke. I sat outside the spot for eight minutes going over everything in my head. Big Steve, I'm looking for Big Steve. I looked around. The night was quiet and the air was thick. If I smacked my lips, I could taste the dewy essence of coldness and drugs. I took a deep breath and made slow steps toward the door. Be cool, was the last thing Khalil told me. Make these niggas play yo game.
I ain't have no game to play. I was just another nigga trynna get a cut. I knocked on the door three times. Not loud knocks, not short knocks; just three steady knocks. I stood there, waiting. Two seconds later, the door swung open and a big shadow walked through the doorway. He stood there staring at me, breathing in my smell, reading my face. He didn't say anything.
"I'm lookin' fo Big Steve." I said.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Black Caesar
This is my introduction. I've been wording and re-wording this intro for the past few months. But this is what I finally decided on, for now...
“The streets can have you for all I care.”
Imagine yo mama shouting that to you while her boyfriend throws out yo clothes, yo shoes, everything out on the middle of the driveway. She doesn’t shout it out to yo face; nah, she ain’t got the balls for that. Instead, she yells it out from the kitchen sink as she washes the last bit of collard greens for her man’s nightly collard green fixin’. Yea, it seemed like my mama must have skipped out on the “how-to-be-a-good-mama-in-the hood” lesson every other hood-mama musta went to.
The streets can have me huh? Well, it has coddled me like a newborn some nights, shivering in its arms as the darkness tried to swallow me whole. You’d think people would show more love to a veteran. I fought for this country for damn near four years and not even my mama can show me some respect. All I ever had was the streets. Lately, the streets been asking me to come home every time I stepped to it; enviously watching me as I stepped back into my mama’s cold embrace night after night. I finally gave in. Streets, I’m coming. I sho have missed you.
“The streets can have you for all I care.”
Imagine yo mama shouting that to you while her boyfriend throws out yo clothes, yo shoes, everything out on the middle of the driveway. She doesn’t shout it out to yo face; nah, she ain’t got the balls for that. Instead, she yells it out from the kitchen sink as she washes the last bit of collard greens for her man’s nightly collard green fixin’. Yea, it seemed like my mama must have skipped out on the “how-to-be-a-good-mama-in-the hood” lesson every other hood-mama musta went to.
The streets can have me huh? Well, it has coddled me like a newborn some nights, shivering in its arms as the darkness tried to swallow me whole. You’d think people would show more love to a veteran. I fought for this country for damn near four years and not even my mama can show me some respect. All I ever had was the streets. Lately, the streets been asking me to come home every time I stepped to it; enviously watching me as I stepped back into my mama’s cold embrace night after night. I finally gave in. Streets, I’m coming. I sho have missed you.
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