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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More book excerpts to come. Stay tuned! ::Mobile Blogging test::
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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.

Edge of Sanity

Postcard…

Sometimes, my friends, the ones that exist in the tiny breaths of my thought beats, like to call me Cleo. I tell them to stop. I rarely find myself frolicking in the midst of laziness. I never liked nicknames. I am sure this ‘Nick’ gentleman cares not for his name being used in such dormancy either. A name like Cleo belongs to a person with no dreams. Certainly not to a woman with stature like mine. Although my dreams can scare the hardest of patrons, I do dream. Cleo is an individual who lacks the basic potency of life. Yes, a soul like Cleo faintly passes through life, courteously moving out of the way for Caesar’s and Antony’s all the while hiding amongst thick shadows of the ignored aspirations that dry up and swell down in the dim lighting of her being. I am no Cleo. No,

never a woman like me…