The Writing Process

I’m still toiling away at coming up with new story ideas and excerpts worthy enough for the world to see. However, in my writing process, which I have detailed for you before, I decided to look up other authors whose work I enjoy reading to learn about what they go through when they’re in their writing processes. Hence, here’s Eric Jerome Dickey’s writing process. I came across this while reading fellow blogger Dottie's from California's blog. I found the way he approached his literary works to be quite intriguing.

Dottie asked:

What does your writing process involve (i.e. do you get up early and write, write at night, use a computer or write long-hand) (yes, believe it or not, some writers still do write long-hand)? Do you set limits on yourself (I will write 50 pages today)?

And he answered:

No limits. It’s about quality over quantity. I’d rather have four tight pages over two days than 20 sloppy ones. I work a scene at a time, a chapter at a time. Writing a book is not a race. It’s a journey.

There it is, simple and plain. When I wrote my novel, “As I Wait,” I gave myself assignments. I’d write at least ten pages a day, no exceptions. I wrote the book in a month (it was almost 200,000 words); it was good but certainly not great. In the end, I was actually quite disappointed with it. I wasn’t trying to meet a deadline, I just wanted to get it done so people could read it. Although the reviews were pretty good (from my friends and family), I knew my quality of work spanned much farther than that. Therefore, I made no real attempts to get it out there. Same thing with my novel “Edge of Sanity.” They are both well-written novels however, they are both not accurate representations of my level of writing. Hence, I may tell people I’ve written them but I do it in  a way to put it out there so I don’t have to talk about it later. When people ask, “Really? You wrote a book?” I tend to speed through the explanations and sort of roll my eyes at the enthusiastic compliments.

I appreciate the flattery but I’d rather be complimented on work that I actually put the time in; work that I spent a journey on and not a half-hearted race.  

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I had planned to submit this short story to a writing contest but allowed my procrastination to get the best of me. So, here you go!

She stared out the foggy window expecting time to reverse. He was gone. He left her there to collect the imploded remains of what was left. I sat across from her wondering what I did as her friend. Do I go over there and hug her? It’s not like she was sulking; although her sullen demeanor did suggest a broken inner Sheila, I didn’t find a reason to hug.

“What do I do now?” she asked. Why was she asking me? She continued to peer out the window as the rain began. My mind wandered as I watched each droplet cascade down the window pane in a wicked tango.

I raised my shoulders and smacked my lips. I clasped my fingers together over my knee while I scrambled through my brain attempting to determine the “right” things to say. I responded, “You’re better off without him.” I rolled my eyes up to the ceiling and squinted. “Now you can live a normal life.”

“How do you define normal?” she questioned. There she goes, asking me those odd questions that weren’t meant for me to answer. Her head now followed the dance of the rain droplets, her eyes glazed over as if entranced by its wild movement.

She was waiting on my answer. I opened my mouth to say something but I didn’t have the answer. “Do you wanna talk about your feelings?” I leaned forward in my seat, “I’m all ears.”

She snapped out of her trance. She finally turned to face me. The light peeked in through the dark clouds illuminating the purple bruise beneath her left eye.  She sat back into the pale darkness and pushed her right foot under her thigh. I assumed she was attempting to hide the swollen gash down her shin. She smirked, “Should I be crying right now?” She gazed into the wall behind me. Finally, a rhetorical question. “I mean, he left me. What’s a wife to do?”

“We can break into the liquor cabinet. I remember seeing a nice and slender whiskey bottle sitting on the top shelf.”

Her smirk faded. “I remember the night he cracked a bottle whiskey across my skull.” She closed her eyes tightly as she squeezed her fists. I could hear her heart beating through her chest almost. “I hate whiskey,” she whispered.

“We don’t have to drink whisky…”

“No…”she paused, “That’s what I said right before he did it. We were just about to sit down for dinner and he wanted a glass. “I hate whiskey,” I said. His pleasant expression melted from his face like hot wax.” Her body slightly trembled as a few strands of hair fell from her scalp. She shed more strands in an hour then a shaggy dog sheds in a week.

“We don’t have to talk about—

“Next thing you know, I woke up in a puddle of dried blood. I looked up at the empty dinner table. At least he finished his dinner, I thought. “

“He’s not coming back y’know. You buried him.”

She shrugged her shoulders. I could tell she half expected him to walk through her front door. Even death couldn’t stop him from prying into her brain clinging onto her thoughts like a desperate lover. Although I saw with my own eyes her as she emptied his Smith and Wesson in his chest,  he never left.

“Wanna hear a dirty joke?” I didn’t wait for her to answer. I sat up and smiled with my hands gripping the chair arms. “A white horse fell in the mud.”  The silence that leapt after was deafening.

She looked up at me and smiled. She placed both feet on the ground and took a deep breath. That’s when the tears fell.

Delay

Sorry for the delay! I've been busy editing my newest novel and beginning work on my next. I'm stuck on a plot thrust for my novel about the intimate relationships between men and women but amidst my block I found insight on one of my previous novel ideas that I abandoned. Now, I'm torn between sticking with developing my new idea or continuing to write my old one. The concept has not been explored (I'm referring to my novel I, Immortal) in the way I want to explore it so the story would be new for the writing world and me. However, the same could be said about how I plan to approach my newest novel idea.

Ugh, I wish I had more time to write all the pages in the world. I'll be posting a new excerpt soon. Hopefully it'll be something new or rather something exciting to keep you coming back. Like a carrot on a stick I want to lure you into my thoughts until you no choice but to stick around.

Check back soon, you will not be disappointed.

Jesi
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Black Caesar

“I’m a street nigga.” That’s my motto in life. I’m the nigga you wanna be and the same nigga yo bitch wanna be with. I’m the all American reject who goes after mine. I knew I was ready to be ‘bout that life when I had to turn to street corners and petty theft to feed me and my brothers. The only times my mama spoke to me and my brothers was when she was getting’ ready to drop us off at our grandmamma house. She’d come home late smellin’ like whiskey, sweat, and misery. Then she’d take one look at us and get our clothes ready.
“I’m taking y’all to y’alls mama house.” In her mind, my grandmamma was our real mama. She was just placed in our custody fa the time being. Our grandmamma didn’t see it that way tho. When our mama’s car pulled up in front of grandmamma house, she’d sit on her porch puffing a loosey while she rolled her eyes to the back of her head. Mama neva ain’t even get out her car either. “I’ll be back,” she’d say then drove off. That ho never came back.
When my brother Khalil came back from the army talkin’ bout gettin’ in the dope game, I was wit’ it. The petty shit I was doing, slingin’ nickel bags of weed wasn’t cutting it no mo. And wit’ all our connects, we was fixin’ to get paid.
I was cool being his foot soldier for a few years at first. He took over things when Rondo, the boss we was first rollin’ wit’, went into the witness protection program afta snitching on like twenty of his homeboys. As far as everyone else knew though, Rondo was dead. Wit’ Khalil running things, he always made sure I had money in my pocket. Bitches to suck my dick when I needed it. Roof over my head. Shit was nice. But then, Khalil started keepin’ secrets. Mo money was rollin’ in but my cut stayed the same. I was doing most of the work. I can understand not cutting Blue in, that nigga ain’t do shit. But, as many times I took the rap for his shit. As many times as I got this nigga outta trouble when he coulda been facing 20 to life. Then the dude wanna bring in some new nigga and make his ass a lieutenant. I’m blood. He got Vladimir’s bitch ass making drops, having private meetings wit’ em and shit. What the fuck. I see how it is. Khalil gotta do for him, well best believe Ima do for me.

New Title

Since "Black Caesar" sounds done to death (Black Friday, Black Christmas, Black Scarface, there's even another Black Caesar), I've decided to come up with a new book title. As I mulled it over, the title "Dealin' Broken Promises" came to mind. Then at the same time, the title "Dealin' Broken Dreams" came to mind as well. So, now I'm torn. Either way, "Black Caesar" is no more. It's hard though. I've grown attached to the original title. I'm sad to see it go but in my quest to stay original, I must let it go.
Which leads me to my favorite saying, "Let go, let God." So long "Black Caesar."
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Writing Process

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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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.
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