The Peak Experience

Important Announcement (www.pantheoncollective.com)

2010-02-08T05:48:00.000-08:00

Friends and Family,

Today I'm happy to make a very exciting announcement. In November of last year I joined forces with kindred writing spirits Stephanie Casher and James Lewis to create The Pantheon Collective! TPC is a independent publishing incubator that will be putting out my novel One Blood as well as novels from my two partners over the next twelve months. And you will get a front row seat to watch the whole process on our new website www.pantheoncollective.com -which is live NOW! I want to personally thank you very much for all your support over the years and ask for your continued support. Tune in daily to see how we will overcome the odds to launch our books and keep checking in for updates on our novels and other future projects.

Thanks!

Qwantu

Tents for Haiti

2010-01-26T11:43:00.000-08:00

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/35078701/ns/..world_news-haiti_earthquake/

Loyal readers: Haiti desperately needs tents. I would like to encourage all of you to join me in texting SUPPORT SHELTER to 20222 to donate $5 or donating directly to ShelterBox at www.shelterboxusa.org which will help send Haiti boxes w/ 10-person tents, cooking utensils, and water purifiers. ShelterBox is already mobilized and on the ground and could use our unified support. Please see the attached videos:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1uNrWyFmS..NU&NR=1 and http://youtu.be/2HYKvPmIVDE.

There are nearly 1 million homeless people in the wake of this tragedy and these shelter boxes will make a huge difference. Repost and engage your friend base as well. We can do this. We can help.

Thanks, Qwantu.

Rejection # 16...You're a Good Writer

2009-06-11T07:45:00.000-07:00

Allow me to re-introduce myself.

My life has completely transformed since I last blogged. In August of last year I was living in Sao Paulo, Brazil. I have since moved back to the US after receiving the biggest promotion of my young career. Any time you move, it puts your life into upheaval, and I had to put One Blood down for a while to reaclimate myself to the US after 2 years living overseas. It's amazing how far this book has traveled with me.

I began writing One Blood in January 2000. At the time I was living in Tallahassee, Fl. Since then I have moved overseas twice and all over the eastern seaboard from Philly to NJ. My professional career has blossomed. I've married and divorced.

Now it's nine and a half years later. I'm a far cry from the 23 year old idealist who decided to write a book out of thin air. I'm more educated about the writing process, the editing process, and the publication process. I've poured countless hours into this project, honing my voice, ramping up the suspense, rounding out my characters. I can honestly say this book is as good as I can make it.

Now my fate lies in the hands of the agents, editors, publishers, sales and marketing folks, and booksellers. The best decision I made was not to self-publish. Self-publishing is an attractive option to many people, but I know I wouldn't have put nearly as much into the story as I have if I could just pay someone to put my words in print.

So here we go again. I recently attended the Book Expo America conference in New York at then end of May. I pitched 6 agents and for the first time felt genuine excitment about my book. I attach for your reading pleasure, rejection # 16. I'm getting closer!!!

Dear Mr. Amaru:

Thank you for following up on our conversation at the Writer's Digest Books Writers Conference. I recall that you categorized your manuscript as a supernatural thriller, and I wonder whether it could also be termed urban fiction. Without a brief bio, I can't assume this is your first effort to find a publisher for your work. However, if that does happen to be the case, you might be well served by a reputable small publisher whom you can approach directly with a query or submission. Most independent publishers accept direct (unagented) queries, and while some might not have the cachet of a major adult trade publisher, they're a good place to launch a writing career. With a book contract from a publisher, you can join the Authors Guild and obtain free legal advice, and of course you'd have no trouble getting an agent to negotiate your contract at that point.

Although your work is not quite what I'm seeking, I'd be happy to send you a list of a few small publishers that you might research further for exact submission guidelines and then contact directly. I can do that if you let me know which handful of categories might fit your novel, such as paranormal, thriller (you've mentioned), urban fiction, etc. I won't be able to give you an exhaustive list of publishers to consider, but perhaps it would be a start. I should point out that if you're determined to sell this book through an agent, you should not contact publishers on your own.

If I don't hear back from you, I'll assume you have an offer from another agent. I sincerely hope that will be the case. You're a good writer.

"A positive attitude may not solve all your problems, but it will annoy enough people to make it worth the effort."

~Herm Albright

Rejections 13, 14, and 15

2008-08-09T10:37:00.000-07:00

The last two months since the Book Expo have really gone by in a blur. The writing/ publishing process continues to amaze and educate me. I have commented in previous blogs that seeking out and being rejected by agents forces a writer to truly evaluate the readiness of their project. I have believed my book to be "finished" at least five times over the past two years only to learn that this could not be farther from the truth.

A few people have read my book during it's various phases of completion. The last two were Anita Diggs, a manuscript editor, and my good friend - fellow scribe Stephanie Casher. Anita reviewed the book in May and Stephanie reviewed it in June. I have already commented on Anita's review in a prior blog. In this blog I wanted to comment on Stephanie's review and how much each review in their own ways have opened my eyes to the issues in my story and the possibilities that have opened.

Stephanie, in addition to reading the book, also took it upon herself to edit as well (she's the best!). She really went above and beyond the call of duty and I am forever in her debt. What Stephanie's and Anita's reviews have in common is regarding the antagonist of my story. Both of them mention the fact that his actions throughout the story were difficult to believe.

As the writer, I really had a hard time hearing this critique because I felt my villain was perfectly crafted, 3 dimensional, and despicable. Then I realized that they agreed with me. The problem was motivational. The reader didn't buy his motivations.

During the writer's conference, I had the opportunity to attend three workshops that have helped me understand this issue much better - Fire in Fiction, Plotting a Novel They Can't Put Down, and Revising a Novel They Can't Put Down.

In Fire in Fiction, superagent Donald Maas discussed overcoming reader barriers in science-based or supernatural thrillers. He mentioned the need for the writer to overcome reader resistance in a slow, sure, patient manner. He also described strategies to make settings "live" through the characters who inhabit them. Then he discussed "voice". Writer's hear this all the time, how an author has a unique voice. Voice is nothing more than how you speak through your characters. Do you use short punchy sentences, long compound sentences, or a combination of the two. Does this voice work with the type of story you are telling?

Donald Maas was one of my early rejections and he rejected the novel at that time because he didn't get into my characters and he thought my sentences were too long. My voice didn't match the tone of a page-turning thriller.

In PNTCPD, writer James Scott Bell described the LOCK system for plotting a novel.

L - LEAD
O - Objective
C - Confrontation
K - Knock-Out

He had a lot of useful advice such as, "A plot is two dogs and one bone." I love that! He described the three types of lead characters: The positive lead (hero), the negative lead (attractive through power), and the anti-hero (has his own moral code). His number 1 rule for lead characters is NO WIMPS!

In terms of OBJECTIVE, the lead must want something badly, something that is essential to his/her well being. There are 2 kinds of objectives - to get something or to get away from something.

Confrontation drives the plot and here is where we get into what I needed to learn. The opposition character has to be stronger than the lead and three dimensional, meaning, justified in their actions and sympathetic (at least to themselves). He also speaks of confrontation as the adhesive of the story which explains why these two opponents must fight until the end.

The knock-out is the big finish and there are 5 types: The lead wins, the lead loses, the lead wins but loses, the lead loses but wins, or an ambiguous ending.

My takeaway from James linked to Anita and Stephanie's critiques. I needed to amp up my confrontation!

In RNTCPD, James described the types of problems writers encounter as they revise their stories. You've got the slow opening, flat lead, or weak opposition. Here I encountered that my novel suffered from slow opening.

With each rejection, my novel gets stronger and better. I will leave you with my very first query letter for my novel written back in 2006 and my current query letter. You tell me which book you want to read!

Query 2006:

“You're not to be so blind with patriotism that you can't face reality. Wrong is wrong, no matter who does it or says it.” Malcolm X once said this about America and this insight forms the backbone of my novel One Blood. This novel was written in the tradition of such seminal polarizing works as Native Son, Invisible Man, and Beloved. Although we have progressed as a society since Malcolm X spoke and Wright, Ellison, and Morrison wrote their master works; racism, lies, greed, and murder still persist in this country. America is a broken home, disrupted by division and paralyzed by ignorance. America needs to wake up and move from denial to acceptance to solutions. Publishing my novel One Blood is a definite part of that solution. But the proof of the pudding is in the tasting. One Blood (163,000 words) tastes like a well paced supernatural suspense novel that will appeal to fans of contemporary bestselling authors like Dan Brown, Michael Connelly, Stephen King, and Tananarive Due because it contains the best elements of suspense, mystery, horror, and drama.

With its rich tapestry, complex history, and natural vulnerability (as evidenced by Hurricanes Katrina and Rita), the tragically beautiful state of Louisiana forms the perfect backdrop for this suspenseful tale of Revenge, Revelation and Revolution. It has been said that life often presents us with a choice of evils, rather than of goods. One Blood presents the reader with two men who are products of two very different environments. The first man is an impoverished African-American orphan turned gang banger (Lincoln Baker) sent to prison for life without parole at the age of seventeen after a brutal gang war dubbed The Simmons Park Massacre in which his best friend Kristopher, son of a racist Louisiana Senator, is killed in the crossfire. Over the course of the next ten years locked up inside the Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola, Lincoln discovers a family he never knew existed and learns that one man is responsible for his father’s death, his mother’s exile, and all of his life’s suffering—the ex-Senator and now current Governor of Louisiana (Randy Richard). Randy Richard has yet to overcome two significant tragedies. In addition to his only son’s murder at the hands of gangs, his father, a Grand Wizard of Louisiana’s most violent chapter of the Klu Klux Klan, was brutally murdered by a group of black militants. Ten years after his son’s violent demise, his teenage daughter is kidnapped and the ransom calls for the immediate release of Lincoln Baker. On the morning of Lincoln’s release, an explosive cocktail of racism, vengeance, serendipity, fate, and truth detonates throughout Louisiana. The tremors are devastating for a diverse cast of characters all linked by the Simmons Park Massacre. When the dust settles, the ending is as unexpected as it is illuminating.

Growing up in Lake Charles, LA, I had the opportunity to witness former KKK Grand Wizard, David Duke’s meteoric rise to political power and observe how he almost became Governor. I always wondered what would have happened had he won the office, and Bad Blood is in large part a result of my curiosity. It allowed me to examine and combine American/Louisiana history, politics, prison, and psychology into a blender and produce a novel that is sure to provoke controversy, discussion, and even a bit of fear. I certainly appreciate your time and eagerly welcome your expert opinion, or a request to submit my entire manuscript.

Sincerely yours,

Qwantu Amaru

Updated Query:

Dear Agent Name:

In my first novel of supernatural suspense, ONE BLOOD (90,000 words), the Governor of Louisiana must confront his belief in a two hundred year old curse after his daughter is kidnapped on her eighteenth birthday. And a lifer at the Louisiana State Penitentiary becomes an unlikely protagonist while confronting his belief in his reasons for kidnapping the Governor’s daughter.

Growing up in Louisiana during the nineties, I witnessed former KKK Grand Wizard, David Duke’s meteoric rise to political power. I always wondered what would have happened had he been elected Governor. ONE BLOOD is in large part a result of that curiosity.

ONE BLOOD can be described as the book Stephen King and Richard Wright might have written had they collaborated. It examines the power of suggestion and how belief has the power to destroy as well as empower. I appreciate your time and eagerly welcome your expert opinion, or a request to submit my entire manuscript.
Sincerely yours,

Qwantu Amaru

"Oh, great reviews are the worst. They mislead you more than the bad ones, because they only fuel your ego. Then you only want another one, like potato chips or something, and the best thing you get is fat and bloated. I'd rather just refuse, thanks."

-Chazz Palminteri

Back in the Game - Part 3 of 3

2008-07-11T11:03:00.000-07:00

After the Writer`s conference it was time for me to relax. So I went to the Lakers game six playoff game versus the Spurs (they won). I took a trip to Malibu and ate a bucket of seafood on the beach. I partied with my best friend Steve. Good times were had by all.

I learned by reading her blog that Tananarive Due (author of the African Immortals Series: My Soul to Keep, The Living Blood, and Blood Colony) would be speaking at a black book fair in L.A. She and her husband Steve Barnes were speaking in tribute to the late Octavia Butler. I arrived a little late, but I thought that Tananarive had noticed me. My hands immediately starting sweating and my anxiety tripled. I knew this moment would be intense, but my reaction surprised me.

I discovered Tananarive back in 2005 while in Barnes & Nobles working on my own novel One Blood. Her novel The Between was in one of those special paperback racks and I was immediatley drawn to the cover. Upon reading the back cover, I knew I had to read the book. I read it in one sitting and immediately headed to Barnes and Nobles to buy everything else she had written. Tananarive writes in the same genre as myself and I knew I had found a kindred spirit in writing. Over the last three years we had even been in contact over e-mail. She has always been exceptionally encouraging, even offering to provide me with a blurb for my book once it is published!

After their emotional dialogue on Octavia Butler's significance and legacy, Tananarive and Steve headed across the street for a book signing. I was one of the first people in line and got to take this beautiful photo with my writing hero! If you are a fan of supernatural suspense, you have to pick up her books, she is the best in the business.

The following morning I boarded a plane to Charlotte, NC. My parents live in South Carolina and I had planned a surprise visit. Needless to say my folks were thrilled. My Mom made my favorite foods - cabbage and sausage, cornbread, and potato salad. We went to the movies to see Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (great movie!). The best part of my visit happened on Tuesday night, June 3rd, 2008.

As my parents and I watched, Barack Obama effectively clinched the democratic presidential nomination. It was an emotional moment. My parents had lived through the civil rights movement, the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Malcolm X, the beginnings of affirmative action, and the ascension of Barack Obama. As I watched Obama's acceptance speech, I was filled with pride and a bit of fear as well. Any body who has seen the zeitgeist (http://zeitgestmovie.com) knows why I might be scared for Barack. But we focused on the positive. The amazing. The inprobable. The inevitable. Change.

I shared a poem I had written on the subject of Barack with my folks:

Change:

The restless are resting less
Because there is less assurance
Yet increased uncertainty
Certainly
These are dark days
But sun rays travel light years to illuminate the way
So who are we to lie idling by
Letting time pass us by
What will it take to make us try
Harder tomorrow than we did today
Will it take more calamities
More Darfur's
More slain Iraqui's and Afghani's
Higher death counts of our troops
Higher amounts of toxins in our food
In our air
Why don't we care about any of these things?
Why do we put so much value on diamond rings
While everyday we divorce from nature
Is it our basic nature to destroy
Or can we employ our strengths to create
What are we waiting for
We don't have to be restless anymore
Just like we don't need wings to soar
We just need to sweat
We need to get behind a common cause
If we can applaud our sports teams
Can we also collectively dream
Of a world community
United
Where only necessary resources are divided
Can we decide it's time to stop laying blame
Shouldn't we be so ashamed of the state of our home
That we hone in on each problem
And then take the necessary actions to solve them
This moment is not about the them's and they's
Nor is it about the concerns that mask our way
It's about making history
And to make history we have to create a new majority
A new society built on the solid bricks of change
A new golden age where people are no longer afraid
A world where games are not played with people's lives
A place where survival does not rival education
A nation of people chasing self actualization
Now is not the time for patience
Now is the time of freedom
Now is the time to get the job done
Now is the time for one nation
Illuminated
Now is the moment we've waited for a lifetime
But we can't allow anymore time to slip away
We must embrace positive change for our children's sake
Let us take on this new challenge
Let us all join hands
We must change the world
And together, yes we can

The next morning I boarded a plane from Charlotte to Tallahassee, FL. Tallahassee holds a very special place in my heart. I spent five wonderful years there during college and grad school. There I became a man. There I developed into an accomplished spoken word artist. There I gained the confidence to pursue my dreams of becoming a writer.

I was back in town after a four year hiatus to attend the 16th Annual Southern Fried Poetry Slam being hosted by my very own Black on Black Rhyme family. Black on black rhyme is a poetry collective that has been going strong since 1998.

Black On Black Rhyme consists of over 35 dynamic poets, lyricists, songwriters, DJs and artists. Much like a large family, members maintain an ever open line of communication with one another which is essential to the maintenance of their creative essence and constant exchange of energies. Being in a room full of these poet artists has been described as "electric", as each one is as diverse as the many origins they hail from. From as far away as Nigeria, West Africa, to exotic Trinidad on the Caribbean Islands, to the busy streets of Washinton DC, New York City, Minneapolis, Minnesota and of course, “the Dirty South”, Florida. Each and every one of these poet artists bring their own unique style and flavor, and while some members hold down Federal Government positions, others are full-time college students, one is even a college professor, but all are Family.

The Southern Fried Poetry Slam is the premier showcase for poets from all over looking for their entry pass to the National Poetry slam. More than 200 poets and 40teams embarked to Tallahassee looking for fellowship and a shot at glory.
In both the early rounds and the final competition, individual poets and teams squared off to compete. The audience acted as judge. I was participating in the slam as a volunteer although I did get to spit one poem.

A slam is part spoken-word performance, part storytelling session, part improvisational theater and part motivational speech. Poets competing in the Southern Fried Poetry Slam brought their best. There were other exciting events going on as well: a youth slam, a haiku slam, a beauty vs. brawn competition, an erotica open mic, among many.

I was very proud of my poetry troupe for the organization of the event. Everything went off without a hitch and the poetry was off the chain. In the end the team competition was won by The Minoriteam from Tampa. The indie champ was Big Mike (he was original and hilarious!)

On Saturday afternoon, I boarded yet another plane and headed back to Sao Paulo. I was juiced like I had been pumped full of Growth Hormone. And in a way I had been. My mind had grown in different directions on this trip. I had been surrounded by passionate artists, some of whom live off of spoken word. I had been reinfected by their spirit!

As I closed my eyes for some well-deserved shut-eye, I knew that this trip had changed me for the better! I had traveled from coast to coast and had seen some of the best people that America has to offer. God, I miss home...

Back in the Game - Part 2 of 3

2008-07-07T19:57:00.000-07:00

It was deja vu, all over again...

I woke up in my Westin Heavenly Bed™ at around quarter of 8 am. I usually take at least four or five snooze buttons to emerge from slumber, but not on this day. On this day I bound from the bed, ran through the shower, and was dressed in minutes - the euphoria never leaving me.

See I was headed to the Book Expo America writer's conference and I was ready to face the fifty or so agents who had "volunteered" to participate in the annual pitch slam.

A pitch slam is where the author has exactly three minutes to convey the key elements of their story, tell a bit about themselves and answer any questions the agent may have - all in the hopes of getting the green light to contact them post event. Why is this so important? Well in previous blogs I have detailed just how difficult the business of publishing can be. Being a literary agent is like being bombarded by junkmail - loads and loads of junk mail that you are obligated to sift through - all in the hopes that you may have won the Publisher's Clearinghouse.

Participating in a pitch slam is like the junk mailer (writer) getting face to face time with you (agent). The likelyhood of you (agent) throwing said piece of mail out diminishes once you have seen the living breathing organism (writer) that put their blood sweat and tears into said mailing. Or so you might think.

The one thing I have learned so far throughout this whole process, is that literary agents are tough. They don't really give a damn about throwing away junk mail - be it in person - through e-mail - or snail mail. They are ancient gunslingers whose bullets are NO's, blowing holes through the hopes and dreams of writers like myself.

So obviously as a writer you have to really prepare for this once a year opportunity to get shot down to your face.

How did I prepare, you ask? Well, having already participated in the 2007 pitch slam in NY gave me a heads up on the competition, plus I had great support from fellow writer-in-arms Stephanie Casher (www.stephaniecasher.com - read her blog!). It's really all about putting your mind in a positive space and being open to hearing criticsm.

In 2007 I pitched 5 agents and 4 of the 5 requested pages from me (The DREAM). Then those 4 proceeded to summarily reject my work for every reason from my sentences being too long, to lack of identification with the characters, to no explanation whatsoever. And I was excited about the opportunity to relive this, you ask? Am I mad?

No. Yes. Maybe.

Look, I would rather take the chance at being shot down to my face, once a year, than to suffer through mailing query after query to agents who don't know me from Adam. At least live I could make the agent feel my energy and zeal and attempt to make some sort of connection. But I still felt like Will Smith in The Pursuit of Happiness - working up my client list.

So after drinking my grande chai latte from Starbucks in the convention center atrium, I ascended the escalator into WRITER WORLD.

Let me be the first to tell you - writer's are some interesting folks. Most of us stick out like a porcupine's thorns. The caffeine induced lively eyes and jitters. The fashion sense of a color blind private eye. Computer screen induced ocular corrective devices. The disturbing habit of conversing with the people in your head. You've seen us. We are the fiction writers.

Then there are those perfectly coifed, gym toned, well-dressed (and even more well spoken), confidence oozing individuals who are of the non-fiction sect - of the self help variety.

Throw us into a giant conference room together with six hours and counting until the pitch slam and you could tranquilize North Korea with all the anxiety medication working that room.

I had the opporunity to participate in a number of interesting workshops during the day as well with titles like: Fire in Fiction, Plotting a Novel They Can't Put Down, Revising Said Novel, and the keynote speech on the elements of all great stories. It can't be said enough that writer's must do two things to be successful. They must read incessantly and they must have a relentless dedication to improving their craft. I will provide some of the tips I learned in another blog, but I definitely got something out of the workshops.

So after a morning workshops, an excellent plated lunch (with cheescake for dessert!), and one workshop in the afternoon, it was finally time for the pitch slam.

Here's how it works. Each writer received a conference booklet upon registration. Within this booklet, amongst other useful information, was a list of each agent, their background, and their respective interests - fiction, non-fiction, and/or screenplays. With more than 50 agents in attendance, it was up to the writer to sift through the list and prioritize the 5 or 6 agents who represented the writer's respective genres. Hopefully the writer also did some research prior to the conference - googled each agent, read their blogs, tried to find out their track record - in order to be even more precise in agent selection.

I cannot stress this point enough. As a writer, choosing your agent is like choosing a midwife. Would you trust just anyone to shepherd your baby into the world?

So after providing the ground rules, the meeting organizer provided a list of room numbers and names of each agent. Up until this point, none of the writers had any idea where their respective agent choices would be located, so imagine 400 so coffee crazed scribes trying to get their hands on that list.

To make a long story just a little bit longer, I managed to pitch 7 agents during the 2 hours alotted for the pitch slam. All 7 agents requested pages (The DREAM!). I was exhausted and elated. Stephanie did very well also.

We went to this place to celebrate. I drank a cayenne pepper laced martini that nearly burnt my mouth off. The Celtics beat the Pistons. All was right with the world.

Little did I know that a month later I would be re-writing my entire novel...

Back in the Game - Part 1 of 3

2008-06-15T07:14:00.001-07:00

In the words of Kanye West, "Feels good to be home, Baby!"

I recently embarked on a whirlwind two week trip back to the US. It's amazing how your life can gain perspective in such a short window of time, but when you surround yourself with people who love and challenge you, growth can only come as a result of your interactions. The trip began with a 16 hour flight from Sao Paulo to L.A. by way of Houston.

I landed around 10 a.m. at LAX and proceeded to Avis where I learned I would be receiving an upgrade to a Cadillac CTS.

So here's how I was rolling in the city of angels, looking like a big dog, feeling like I had already arrived!

I used Starwood points to reserve a room for two days at the Westin Pasadena - nice place.

Upon checking in, I immediately began running through my volumes of poetry, trying to decide which poem I would rip later that evening at Da Poetri Lounge in Hollywood. I have been performing spoken word poetry since 2001 when I joined the black on black rhyme family in Tallahassee, FL, while in college. After deciding on an older piece of mine, entitled Workshit, I headed to lunch with one of my best friends in the world. He worked right down the street from my hotel, so I dropped by his job and scooped him up.

After reconnecting and making plans to attend the Lakers vs. Spurs game six matchup later in the week, I finally was able to get some z's.

I awoke some four hours later feeling refreshed and rejuvenated. I got in the CTS and put my location into the GPS (I love those by the way!) and headed out.

My good friend and fellow Kindred spirit in writing, Stephanie Casher met me at the venue and we headed in.

Here's how it works: if you are a poet and want to get your chance to shine, you have to get your name on the list - usually a wrinkled ripped out notebook page. I was the last person in line, so it was not looking good. The last time I was in L.A., a few months ago, I missed the list, but luckily got to perform anyway. This time I got my name down and then the waiting began.

The poets brought their A-game that night. I thoroughly enjoyed most of what I heard, especially Marc Marcel's piece about whether Jesus would even be a Christian were he alive today. Just brilliant stuff.

I went up after the intermission and did my thing. Here's the poem for the curious:

work shit

my brains fried
tired of this computer screen
this working waking dream makes me want to scream
i need a new screen saver
better yet a screen savior
white collar labor is my excuse for bad behavior
can’t see the forest for the trees
i have no clue why the caged bird sings
maybe he just likes his job
but i don’t like mine
will this day ever end
i can’t even fake a grin when these silly ass corporate cretins
come knocking on my office door
they probably think i’m a bore
but to me there’s just so much more to live for
than working forty or ninety hours a week
putting money down some white man’s jeans
i sometimes daydream that one day
i’ll be like that white man
driving a white luxury sedan
to a beach with white sands
demanding to speak to the white manager of the resort
because i need extra white towels
to wipe my ass with
i need to lay down on a great white king size bed
and wear white satin sheets on my head
while drinking white star champagne
i forget about my black pain and my black name
cuz i’m sinking my white fangs
into this white american pie
every day we got people tryin and dyin to live like this
because where i come from
my people live in slum-like conditions
and some like the conditions they live in
because a concrete jungle is still better than living in prison
isn’t it
interesting what people will put up with
things like racism and stereotypes
they gripe and complain but remain relatively calm
you’d probably need a bomb to light a fire under their asses
but then you’d just blow them off
like we do everyday
inconveniences
such as weather or gunshots or war
war?
good god what are we fighting for
blacks don’t even fight for our own rights anymore
i thought we gave that up in the sixties like meat for lent
what is the relevance of my last statement
to the whole of this master work
well
we used to do our massas work
and now i’ve got my masters and i still work for the massa
ain’t shit changed
but now there’s more of it down the drain
clogging up the pipes
and ain’t enough drano in the world to break through it
bit by bit sanity’s slipping away
like sand in the ocean’s hand getting dragged out to sea
finally seeing that there’s nothing more to see
nothing more to believe in anymore
the poor are gonna die poor
and the rich are gonna choke to death on bits of caviar
because ain’t no heimleck for the homeless
and economic desperation got us all hopeless
pressed to make a dollar wherever and however we can
that’s why i’m stuck in this damn dead end job
that’s why niggas grab the gat and try to rob somebody
all for the love of money
and because i love makin money
and i got bills and shit
i shut up smile and take it
until it’s time to hit the showers and wash off the grime and dirt
from another miserable day at work
can’t wait to take off this soiled white collar shirt and monkey suit
in my pursuit of this white american fantasy
that’s giving me ulcers and hemorrhoids
but still not filling the void
that
there’s got to be more than this
just got to be something better than this
work
shit

The audience was very receptive and I left the stage with the boyant feeling I always get after performing. Public speakig for me is torture before I speak and heaven while I'm doing it. A very interesting confluence of emotions.

So I finished up and we rolled out. I headed back to Pasadena to get some Z's because the next day was the Book Expo America wiriter's conference starting bright and early at 8:30 am...

Execution Can Always Improve

2008-05-11T16:50:00.000-07:00

In the last entry, I mentioned that I was having a professional manuscript editor take a crack at my novel. After researching the editor in question and even having an interesting online run-in with her on her blog, I decided that she had the appropriate level of frankness to give it to me straight. What is that old addage, be careful what you wish for? I'm updating it to be careful what you pay for. So after paying her $2 per page and waiting five weeks, I finally have my feedback.

Needless to say, I am not overjoyed. I respect most of her comments regarding story flow and flashbacks (she is not a fan of these devices). What I strongly disagree with was the fact that she just didn't get it. But I think the fault may lie in the execution of the story.

She constantly referred to my story as a crime novel, when it is most definitely a supernatural suspense novel. I think the confusion began there and carried through. She kept wanting the book to be one thing that it refuses to be. I can understand that. But calling One Blood a crime novel is like calling Beloved a historical fiction novel. The genre cannot possibly encompass the size of this idea. Which is why I take pains to make the supernatural elements quite obvious in the context of the story. Which she takes pains to tell me to cut out from the fabric of the story.

So I am at an empass. She is the industry insider, and here I am, on the outside. Should I aquiesce, take her feedback to heart, and re-write the story? Or should I stick to my guns, take her more mechanistic comments, and leave the soul of the story intact?

One thing is clear, the whole Quentin Tarantino flashback/flashforward thing only works in movies. It just kills me that I have to dress up like everyone else to get into the party. But, such is life.

In any event, I am pleased with my decision to have a professional look over my work. It reaffirms the journey I still have ahead. But I'm not as far off as this individual may think. The elements of a great story are all there (maybe not in the ideal chronology), but there. I just need the right brave individual to give One Blood a real shot.

"I wrote for twelve years and collected 250 rejection slips before getting any fiction published, so I guess outside reinforcement isn't all that important to me."

- Lisa Alther

Rejections #11 and 12

2008-05-07T18:24:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling quite hopeful although I received rejection number 12 today. The agent in question mentioned that I had a deft hand and that my story definitely had publishable potential. Her issue was having the time to dedicate to a new client. In the future though, I still expect to work with this agent, if not on this project, there are so many others.

Moments like these I turn to my booklist. I currently have 17 novels I need to complete, 6 screenplays, 1 poetry book, and 7 or so non-fiction books. This ever expanding list reminds me that I am meant to do this. I'm just waiting for someone to crack open that door an inch, then I'm going to throw it open. The publishing industry isn't ready for Qwantu Amaru yet, but ready or not, here I come!

I made a decision recently to have my manuscript evaluated by Anita Diggs (www.themanuscripteditor.blogspot.com). Anita has worked as a book editor for Random House, Time Warner Trade Publishing and Thunder’s Mouth Press. This was a major step for me as my entire manuscript has only been reviewed in its entirety by one other industry professional in 2006. I eagerly await her feedback on how I can sharpen the story even more.

For the time being, I'm focused on completing my second novel. It feels good to be writing again, not worried about the fate of One Blood. I will be attending the Book Expo America conference at the end of this month. Once there, I will soak up tips, network, and pitch agents. My time is coming and I am hungrier than ever.

"Dear to us are those who love us. . . but dearer are those who reject us as unworthy, for they add another life; they build a heaven before us whereof we had not dreamed, and thereby supply to us new powers out of the recesses of the spirit . . ."

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Reviews - April 2008

2008-04-25T07:40:00.000-07:00

So, it's been a minute since we did this. I wanted to keep you all abreast of what I'm reading, watching, and listening to. Next week I should have more updates about the publishing journey. Without further ado, here goes:

Books:

Anyone who picked up the Kite Runner, knows that Khaled Hosseini can flat out write. His tragic characters and stories from halfway across the globe captivate the imagination. In his second novel, he has the unenviable task of one-uping his own classic, but he does so admirably. From Amazon.com - The story covers three decades of anti-Soviet jihad, civil war and Taliban tyranny through the lives of two women, Mariam and Laila, who couldn't be more different, but who are destined to be thrown together.

This story broke my heart and put it back together again. I look forward to more of Hosseini's work. A must read!

I was first introduced to Wilbur Smith back in 2003 by a great friend. The first book of his I picked up was River God, a novel set in ancient Egypt about a beautiful princess, Lostris, destined to become queen, her warrior lover, Tanus, destined to become a general, and a eunuch slave, Taita, destined to become the saviour of all Egypt. It was and still is one of the best novels I have ever read in my life. The Quest is the culmination of the series that begins with River God and continues with The Seventh Scroll and Warlock.

From Amazon.com - The Quest continues the story of the Warlock, Taita wise in the lore of the ancient Gods and a master of magic and the supernatural. Egypt is struck by a series of terrible plagues that cripple the Kingdom, and then the ultimate disaster follows: the Nile fails. The waters that nourish and sustain the land dry up. Something catastrophic is taking place in the distant and totally unexplored depths of Africa from where the mighty river springs. In desperation, Pharaoh sends for Taita, the only man who might be able to get through to the source of the Nile and discover the cause of all their woes. None of them can have any idea of what a terrible enemy lies in ambush for the Warlock in those mysterious lands at the end of their world.

After reading the book you feel like you've gone on quite a journey. Still I was satisfied with the ending and think this was an excellent conclusion to one of my favorite series. I wouldn't start with this one, start with River God and work your way forward.

I picked up this book in support of another author favorite - Tananarive Due, the brilliant mind behind My Soul to Keep, The Living Blood, The Good House, and Joplin's Ghost, to name a few. She writes this book in collaboration with actor Blair Underwood and her husband Steve Barnes. I must admit to a bit of hesitation, because I'm not really into the whole erotic novel thing, but this book surprised me.

From Amazon.com - Tennyson Hardwick—semisuccessful actor, ex-gigolo and incipient sleuth—has the mixed fortune to reconnect with rap superstar Afrodite, a former client, for a night of more than just sex. The next day, she's found dead in a plastic bag with a split skull, and he's a suspect. To clear his name, Hardwick draws on all of his considerable assets: good looks and charm, a $2.5 million house inherited from a devoted client, martial arts skills (Barnes's stock in trade) and connections on both sides of the law. The authors have mixed up a cocktail of exotic elements—the sex for pay industry, the grind and glitz of Hollywood and the rap biz, a smart leavening of black film history—and topped it with a double shot of brutal murder. Handsome Ten Hardwick has not only a great backstory but a very promising future.

Like I said, I really enjoyed the book, it's a great summer read. I can't wait for Tananarive's next book The Blood Colony, coming out in a few months.

Music:

After listening to this album, you will be seeing all the colors of the rainbow. This album is a sonic soundscape, so rich and lush you can almost see the sounds. This album was my introduction to Radiohead, but I'm eager to get my hands on all their work after this.

From Amazon.com - On the deliriously satisfying In Rainbows, Radiohead returns to a more straight-ahead (though subdued) rock sound. This is not a record that hits you over the head with how far this group is pushing the envelope; it's simply a phenomenal, well-crafted, and exciting album. As soon as it's done, you're playing it again.

I couldn't have said it better myself!

So I know you're probably sick of Love Song, her big ubiquitous pop hit of the moment, but the rest of the album is just as good.

From Amazon.com - Like the portrait on the back of the CD--Bareilles in strappy black dress and lace-free high-tops--the piano-playing chanteuse combines the sweet with the scruffy. While her jazzy pop melodies are radio-ready, her relationship-oriented lyrics can be unexpectedly salty ("Bottle Up" and "Come Round Soon" wouldn't pass FCC muster). A little profanity here and there, however, doesn't indicate tough-girl attitude--Amy Winehouse can rest easy--so much as a desire to express herself freely. As Bareilles explains in "Love Song," "I'm trying to let you hear me as I am." (Not surprisingly, her degree is in communications.) Fans of Sarah McLachlan and Alicia Keyes will find much to like here.

My favorite tracks are Love Song, In Between the Lines, City, and Gravity.

I picked up this album last week on a whim and I can't stop listening to it. This guy is like prince and r.kelly combined.

From Amazon.com - The only positive byproduct of an industry asleep at the wheel is a dream. With over a decade of hit-making experience and a certified smash in Rihanna's #1 single, "Umbrella" Terius "The Dream" Nash is stepping from behind the scenes with a wake-up call. The Dream was born in the Bankhead section of Atlanta and his debut CD, Love Hate, is a sonic gauntlet thrown down against complacent, cookie cutter music. Propelled by the first single "Shawty is a Ten" the mastermind behind the Britney Spears and Madonna collab, "Me Against The Music" will do nothing short of redefine RnB for 2007 and beyond. The Dream has combined all of his hit-making talents for his debut, Love Me All Summer, Hate Me All Winter. Throughout his career Terius has seen people change like the weather, but in the coming months he is forecasting a 100% chance of reign. The Dream says, "It's more of what I'm giving other people. It's like the 80s, it's musical. I'm doing the `Umbrella' routine to this whole album. All of my records are singles. I don't think a record has been done this good since Thriller." Songs like the soulful "She Needs My Love" will solidify Terius' status as a triple threat, singer, writer and producer.

R&B is back!

DVD's

I had been looking forward to watching this movie for some time and just got around to it earlier this week. Needless to say, I was not dissapointed. Both Brad Pitt and Casey Affleck should have won Oscars for their strong protrayals of Jesse James and Robert Ford respectively. The thing that struck me as strange before watching, was the title. In my conception it should have read, The Murder of Jesse James. But after watching the movie, you understand why Assassination was the correct word choice.

From Amazon.com - Of all the movies made about or glancingly involving the 19th-century outlaw Jesse Woodson James, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford is the most reflective, most ambitious, most intricately fascinating, and indisputably most beautiful. Based on the novel of the same name by Ron Hansen, it picks up James late in his career, a few hours before his final train robbery, then covers the slow catastrophe of the gang's breakup over the next seven months even as the boss himself settles into an approximation of genteel retirement. But in another sense all of the movie is later than that. The very title assumes the audience's familiarity with James as a figure out of history and legend, and our awareness that he was--will be--murdered in his parlor one quiet afternoon by a backshooting crony.

Well, that's all for now. Check this out if you haven't yet had the chance. You won't be sorry!

Rejections 8, 9, and 10

2008-03-21T10:17:00.000-07:00

Well, I have finally hit the double digit rejection mark for One Blood, but I remain undeterred. This week I am going to post some advice from fellow writer, Sandra Lee Gould Ford,(pick up her book Faraday`s Popcorn Factory). She has been an inspiration and constant source of encouragement over the last few years.

There are some shady literary agents out there. Agents who are looking to take advantage of authors desperate to get published. Agents who will take your money, sell you a dream, and then hang you out to dry. I queried one such agent this week and received the following reply:

Dear Writer

Thank you for your email submission to BigScore Productions.

Due to the thousands of submissions we receive each year, your submission (a complete proposal) will now only be reviewed if you pay a small $50 Processing Fee. Otherwise your email will be unread and deleted.

Just as with almost all editors and agents today, BigScore does not have time to give careful consideration to unsolicited manuscripts. These have increased dramatically with the advent of the internet, the tightening of publishers’ lists, and the necessity of having to have an agent. Even many published writers are now faced with having to find representation to get their work seen.

We actively consider manuscripts that are referred to us by our own authors and editors we work with. This always leaves us wondering what potential bestsellers we may be missing in the many unsolicited manuscripts we receive. So we decided the best option would be to give you the writer the chance to know your work is being looked at.

The BigScore submission review “will not” be a manuscript critique. We will only respond with a short paragraph on why we want to further consider your work, at no additional cost to you, or why we are passing on your work. If we do accept you for representation, your work will be submitted to the best publishers. Please go to www.bigscoreproductions.com and learn about our successes if you have not done so already.

BigScore is not interested in looking at poetry, erotica, children’s books, or movie scripts.

To continue on with the $50 Processing Fee:

Put “$50 Processing Fee” in the in the subject line of a new email, your “email address” and “name of your work” in the body of the email, and send to bigscore@bigscoreproductions.com.
You will then receive an invoice from PayPal requesting payment with a major credit card.
Once payment is received we will ask you to resend your work (your complete proposal, not just an email query).

David A. Robie, Agent

BigScore Productions

So I sent this to Aunt Sandra and here was her reply:

Qwantu,

I had some dealings with BigScore several years ago. Beyond the fact that quality agents never charge reading fees, my experience with BS leads me to advise absolute avoidance. There are web sites that assess agents for integrity and professionalism. When I checked, BS was not listed favorably. While not predatory, I found BS under handed and manipulative.

In your search for an agent, start with those who represent books like yours that were written by successful and respected authors. Take your time. Conduct a quality search. Check the web site for the American Association of Authors Representatives. Even their membership can do unethical things, but at least you can report member agent mis-behavior. BS, as I knew them, could not hope to join.

I'm surprised BS is still in business...

"Every rejection is incremental payment on your dues that in some way will be translated back into your work."
-James Lee Burke

Rejections # 6 and 7

2008-03-16T15:31:00.000-07:00

E-mail queries are the best. Seriously. Under normal circumstances it might have taken me 3 times as long to collect as many NO's. But even well established writers like Jodi Piccoult and Stephen King were rejected numerous times before getting the call up into the big leagues. Not that I'm comparing myself to writers of their caliber, just using them for inspiration. Like how in high school, my friends and me of the end of the bench posse on the high school basketball team took solace in the fact that even Michael Jordan had been cut. I'm not sweating it.

This post is really all about passing on some good writerly advice passed on to me blog hand from super agent Anita Diggs. It's about story and character building and I'm passing it on because it is a good solid gut check.

Reposted from www.thebookagent.blogspot.com (2/16/08 post)

Here is a very simple formula that may help you in the future. Plan your novel before you start writng it. The plan should include the following:

1. Who is your main character?

2. What does your main character want? (World peace? Romance with a special coworker? A three bedroom duplex in a brownstone?)

3. Why can't your main character have it? (Not enough power? Too timid to ask for a date? Not enough money for the duplex?)

4. List eight things that your main character will do in the novel to get what he wants.

5. List seven ways that your main character gets knocked down while attempting to get what he wants.

6. The eighth attempt is the resolution of the novel. He either gets it or he doesn't but the journey has changed him along the way. He is not the same person as described in Step # 1.

Numbers four and five are what makes for great reading. It is STORY. Number six is the climax. If you've done a good job with numbers four and five, the reader is still anxiously turning the pages. Otherwise, don't worry about number six because the reader closed the book a long time ago.

As an agent, I should know the answers to Numbers 1-3 by the time I've finished your 25 page sample. I should know the answers to Numbers 1-6 by the time I've read your synopsis.

Pick up Gone With The Wind, The Lovely Bones, The Devil Wears Prada, The Godfather or Waiting to Exhale and read the first 25 pages. Then look at this formula again.

Thanks Anita...

“There are countless ways of attaining greatness, but any road to reaching one's maximum potential must be built on a bedrock of respect for the individual, a commitment to excellence, and a rejection of mediocrity.”

-Buck Rodgers

Rejections # 4 and 5

2008-03-09T13:39:00.000-07:00

When I started writing my novel One Blood nearly 8 years ago, I had no idea how harrowing the process of publishing could be. But you will never hear me criticize this process because it really does force you to become a better writer.

Here's how this publishing business works. You write your novel and you want the world to read it, right? Well, first off you have to make sure it is as polished as absolutely possible. By polished, I mean that you have to clear up all the spelling, grammatical and syntax errors in your text and get rid of all the elements that take away from the action of the story. Your first revision should focus on these unnecessary elements and your second should focus on the grammatical, spelling, and syntax. I would also recommend a 3rd revision after you have let your group of insiders read over your text and throw stones at you.

So you've edited and revised until your product is ready for prime time? Now it's time to craft your query letter. The query letter is basically a 1 to 2 page "pitch" for your novel that includes a brief description of the story and characters, a description of you the author, and any publshing history you may have. Why is this letter important? Because in order to obtain representation in the form of a literary agent, you have to first convince them that your project is worth investigating. Literary agents are the brokers between you and your potential editor/publishing house. Most publishers do not accept unagented manuscripts, so either you self-publish, or you go through this process.

The literary agent receives anywhere from 150-200 queries per week from authors all of all genres. That's why it is important to revise your query letter for maximum impact. The idea is to hook the agent with your first paragraph. If they are interested, they will request a synopsis, pages of your manuscript, or even the whole thing. The synopsis is usually no more than 5 pages long and is basically an outline of your story, including the ending. What they will be looking for as they read your synopsis and novel is a fresh voice, pacing, polish, and payoff. They want to know that your book will sell because they don't get paid until you do.

So you wrote the novel, completed the query and synopsis, and convinced a literary agent to represent you. What now? Well now comes the really fun part. Your agent must find and convince an editor that your book is THE BOOK to buy and you are the next coming of Stephen King. And what are you doing during this process? Well hopefully you are writing your next novel and not bugging your agent as to when he or she will be hearing back from the editors. Editors are looking for the same things that the agents are, but they are more focused on the saleabilty factor of your novel. Why should an editor be concerned with saleability? Because they are going to have to sell your novel to the marketing and sales department, before your novel ever sees the light of day.

So your agent convinced an editor to read the manuscript and the editor loved it! That's great. Now, the editor will have to defend your novel in a meeting with other editors defending their projects and marketing and sales leaders challenging them every step of the way. All the editors have to agree on the projects for your novel to get pushed forward. And sales and marketing can reject the book at any time after that.

If sales and marketing are with you, then your book is put in the publishing rotation. The publishing industry is usually a year and a half ahead of you, so if for instance, the publisher purchases your book in March of 2008, your book probably won't see a Barnes and Nobles shelf until September of 2009, if that soon.

So now you understand that the key to this whole process is you having the most complete package possible to present to your prospective literary agent. If they don't think it is polished enough, or sellable, or original enough, they won't represent you. Publishers are looking for sure things. There still exists some risk taking (The Kite Runner for example) but more often than not, they are looking for guarantees.

And why is that, you ask? Because in the publishing model there is a certain level of shared risk between the publishing house and book sellers. Publishers accept 100% of all unsold books. So if Random House (publisher) produces 10,000 copies of your book, and after 4 months, only 1,000 have sold, Random House will accept back 9,000 copies. And you only get 4 months to move units, because the publishing business operates in seasons (spring, summer, fall, winter). They've got to make room for the next installment of new books. You have got to ensure that your book sells.

Hence the rejection notices.

"We keep going back, stronger, not weaker, because we will not allow rejection to beat us down. It will only strengthen our resolve. To be successful there is no other way."
-Earl G. Graves

Happy Anniversary

2008-01-26T15:28:00.000-08:00

Wednesday January 26, 2000

1:42 pm:

Inside the liberal arts building (Tucker Hall) on the Florida A&M University campus in an auditorium style classroom that held approximately 40 students, something magical was about to happen.

The class was creative writing, and the teacher, Ms. Azevedo, had just laid down her latest challenge: she wanted each student to write based on sensory memory of an experience in church or at a funeral. The students fidgeted with nervous energy as she explained this assignment was designed to tap into the subconscious brain center which is the womb where golden literary eggs are molded. This would not be a take home assignment. She wanted the students to use the remaining hour of class to write, stream of consciousness style.

I was seated on the fourth row, just behind the pretty brown skinned girl with the hazel eyes and cinnamon-sweet perfume I was crushing on, but my mind was far from her at that moment. I was focused on that seemingly endless stretch of white page before me. She wanted us to write prose? I didn't write prose. I was a poet for god's sake. The only reason I had even enrolled in the class was to find out if my newly discovered poetry talent was any good or not.

Besides that, I didn't really have any church memories to report on, being that I had been raised in an Islamic household, and didn't necessarily want the entire class in my business. So that meant, either make something up, or write of another sensory based experience. The white page mocked me. I looked around.

Most everyone else was writing or trying to write. I saw thirty-nine hunched over, mostly right handed, young men and women pouring their thoughts out onto paper. I caught Ms Azevedo's eye. She looked at me as if to say, don't look at me, I can't help you get what's in your head out onto that paper. I nodded. I know, I know.

An image began forming in my head of something that had happened to me a couple of year's earlier back home in Lake Charles, Lousiana. But I couldn't write about that, could I? That was completely off the reservation. No. Better to make something up.

I started to write a story about a kid who falls asleep at a wake, and awakens hours later, forgotten only to find himself alone with his belated uncle. It was crap. Only twenty minutes until pencils down. Time to start over. Screw it, I would write the damn Lake City story.

My hand shook just at the thought of going back to that moment. But I dove back in.

I remembered how my homeboy Jay had shown up at my house that morning. How nervous he'd been acting. He was a known hoodlum in the hood and could not be trusted, but we were cool. He just wanted to go to the park and shoot some hoops. Everyone in our area knew that I would wake up at 3:00 am to play b-ball.

I remembered the heat. It was only 9:00 am but the sun was blazing something fierce. We took off down my street to the park. Jay was a lot shorter than I was, but he more than made up for it in bravado. We were complete opposites, he was the habitual summer school attendee due to poor grades while I was the honors student. But we had grown up together.

We're at the park about twenty minutes when Jay suddenly stops his jump shot, mid-jump. His eyes widened with fear and I looked over his shoulder to see a silver Nissan Maxima turn the corner.

"What's up, Jay?" I asked.

He didn't reply. Just took off running in the opposite direction from where the car was coming from. Tires screeched. And I turned from watching Jay's back to look at the car. The driver's side back window rolled down smoothly and a twin barrel shotgun poked its nose out. The basketball Jay had been holding bounced into my arms and I stood there frozen as the car approached at a rapid rate.

The shotgun breathed fire and I heard an enormously loud blast. There was an explosion of air on my right side and I collapsed to the hardtop. The smell of gunpowder mixed with burnt tires and engine exhaust was sharp and acrid in the air. The pavement was hot and burnt my face, but I wasn't raising my head for anything. For all I knew, I was dead. That's why I wasn't feeling any pain.

It was over so fast. I heard the Maxima turn the corner and speed off. Then the regular neighborhood sounds returned, but I could barely hear them over my own hoarse breathing. I rolled over onto my back, basketball still clutched in the crook of my right arm. Something was wrong.

I looked down at what was left of the basketball. It has been obliterated by the speeding bullet's impact only inches from my abdomen.

It took me a long while to stand again.

Pencils down. I looked up from the pages in a daze. What the hell just happened?

"Wow," Brown-skinned girl said, nodding with approval. I followed her gaze and saw her looking at the nearly six full pages of my scribbled handwriting. "I only got like two."

At home, later, I re-read over what I had written again and again. It felt like magic, but it was completely different from the poems. It felt like I had awakened something old and wise and a bit dangerous in myself. But that wasn't the only thing. There was an idea so big growing in my head, that I could hardly contain it.

That incident growing up had been completely atypical for my all black middle-class neighborhood. There were no gangs where I lived. None of my friends were into drugs, and yet I was nearly gunned down in a drive-by just the same. Because sometimes trouble finds you whether you're looking for it or not.

This story would later be incorporated into my novel One Blood, that began that afternoon in Ms. Azevedo's creative writing class. As of this writing, I'm nearly complete with my final edits. We'll talk about the editing process in another blog I'm sure.

For those of you that read my posting about the origins of my poetry, my novels have come to me the same way. Like they were always there, just waiting for me to dig a hole deep enough to find the treasure chest below. I did not choose to become a writer, I was chosen, and God am I grateful.

“I seldom end up where I wanted to go, but almost always end up where I need to be.”
-Douglas Adams

Awakenings - My 2007

2008-01-07T07:39:00.000-08:00

First of all, Happy New Year to all. New Years has to be by far my favorite holiday. I collect New Years memories and this year was particularly memorable. And God, did I need it.

2007 was a year of awakening for me. The entire year was a challenge. My marriage and health crumbled. Professionally I was faced with what turned out to be unsurmountable odds. I received two book rejections and didn't even hear back from three other agents. I began to lose myself somewhere in the middle of all this change to self destructive tenencies. I didn't finish editing my first novel. I got 50 pages into my second novel and then got stuck. I ended the year leaving my beautiful home behind and moving back into the flat I lived in seven years ago when I was an intern.

But there are always glimmers of hope. I saw more of my family living 3000 miles away then when I lived in the states. I tangoed in Buenos Aires, visited Paris twice, witnessed the birth of my nephew. I lost 15 pounds. I learned that I will be coming back to the states permanently in 2008. I received a glimmer of the brilliant future awaiting me. I developed my leadership capabilities.

I think that this is what people mean when they say that God doesn't give you more than you can handle. He gives us doses of the good and the less good. There is no bad, because hopefully all of this serves to better prepare us for the journey ahead.

And everday I thank God for everything I have and everything that I am. I pray that he will continue to make me a better man, with each passing day. I wish the same for you all as well.

"Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come."
~Anne Lamott

The Illusion of Choice

2007-12-08T18:49:00.000-08:00

March 1995

It was senior year. Two months before graduation. I still hadn't decided which college I would be attending in the fall. One one hand there was Louisiana Tech, biomedical engineering, my best friend, and little scholarship money. On the other hand was Florida A&M University, business school, no friends, and a full five year ride. The weight of this choice pinned me in place like an anchor. Which way to go?

* * *

We've all experienced potentially life-altering choices like the one above. It is part of the experience of living and learning. We are each tested in unique ways. But the more I think about it, the more I realize how little choosing I've actually done in my life. I know it sounds wild. We make choices everyday don't we? What clothes to wear, what to eat, how fast to drive to work, whether or not to work out, whether or not to smoke, drink, take drugs, go to church, believe in God. The list of choices is endless.

What if I told you that the word we use to describe the paths we choose in the rat maze is nothing more than an illusion? What if I told you that what we call choice is actually instinct on steroids?

Dictionary.com defines choice as follows:

1. an act or instance of choosing; selection: Her choice of a computer was made after months of research. His parents were not happy with his choice of friends.
2. the right, power, or opportunity to choose; option: The child had no choice about going to school.
3. an alternative: There is another choice.

Choice has a ton of synonyms: alternative, appraisal, cull, decision, determination, discretion, discrimination, distinction, druthers*, election, evaluation, extract, favorite, finding, free will, judgment, opportunity, option, pick, preference, rating, say, substitute, variety, verdict, volition, vote, weakness.

Interestingly but not surprising, instinct is not mentioned as a synonym. Dictionary.com defines instinct as follows:

1. an inborn pattern of activity or tendency to action common to a given biological species.
2. a natural or innate impulse, inclination, or tendency.
3. a natural aptitude or gift: an instinct for making money.
4. natural intuitive power.

It's surprising to me that choice and instinct are not mentioned together more often, because don't our natural and innate impulses precede any sort of decision making capacity? Don't our actions have alot more to do with our inborn patterns and tendencies than intense cognitive activity. Do the smartest people make the best choices? Do the dumbest make the worst? Or is what separates us in reality who has truly honed their instincts or not?

* * *

Everything in me was telling me to take the scholarship money and run. But I didn't want to let down my best friend. LA TECH had been my idea in the first place. How could I change the plan in the 9th inning? Besides, I had never attended an all black school. The idea was so foreign, I couldn't even conceive of how it would be.

One Saturday afternoon, I was in my bedroom reading, when my mother told me someone was on the phone wanting to speak with me. She described this person as my Godmother. Very strange, because up until that moment, I wasn't even aware that I had one...

* * *

What's the first thing that happens to you when you have a major decision to make. Does a little voice speak to you, nudging this way or that? Do you listen to this voice, or have you learned to ignore it?

I have to interview people frequently for my work and I have learned to listen to this sense. I get feelings off of people. Some good, some bad, some blah, but there's always something. Some signal as to the inner nature of the creature before me.

* * *

My Godmother introduced herself, and mentioned that the last time she'd seen me was when I was an infant. I responded accordingly, and then she preceded to explain why she wanted to speak with me. Apparently she was a close personal friend of the university president. She spoke eloquently of all the reasons going to a historically black university would be beneficial for me. I was sceptical. This woman didn't know anything about me, but was trying to give me advice about the most important decision of my young life...

* * *

I googled frontal cortex and choice and got an interesting website (http://www.actualfreedom.com.au/library/topics/instincts.htm). The site talks about the amygdala or thoughtless instinctual braincenter and the cortex or thoughtful instinctual braincenter. Interesting how instinct prevails in both settings. Which leads me to wonder, if we are wired to make all choices, either thoughtless or thoughtful, based on instincts, than there really isn't any choice, is there? We are either reacting emotionally or logically to some stimulus. And if we can only react, then we really are more like puppets than we may like to think.

From the womb to the tomb, all we do is react. We come out of the womb and react to the cold and light. We grow up and react to inner biological changes as well as our ever evolving external environment. We learn more about ourselves and react to that inner guidance that some call conscience. I'm sitting here racking my brain, and can't remember a time when I acted of my own accord. Can you?

* * *

I decided to go to Florida A&M shortly after hanging up the phone. My Godmother's arguments were persuasive true, but that's not what swayed me. There are signs out there that help us make the right choices and I was keenly aware that this strange woman calling me out of the blue was one such example. And if there are signs guiding us right when we need them, then doesn't it stand to reason that we really have less control over this whole scenario than we'd like to believe?

I like playing this game. I take a moment in my life and go back trying to connect the dots that have lead me to the current situation. Try it out. I think you'll find that what you thought were choices were actually subtle or not so subtle nudges in one direction or another.

Many people reject the idea that our lives are not our own to live. I understand that notion. No one wants to believe that they have no control over their own destiny. But I think it's more productive surrending myself to my destiny. My hands are on the wheel and it doesn't matter much to me who's actually driving.

I recently read a book called the God Delusion where the author painstakingly goes about proving that God does not exist. But the illusion of choice proves to me that we are not alone in this.

To finalize, here's a poem I wrote on the subject. Food for thought. Grab a plate.

The Feather and the Rainbow

Once upon a time...
There was a feather flowing with the breeze,
Going with the winds and doing as it pleased.
From each day to the next, it did not know what would occur,
Until the day the wind died and the feather could not stir.
The feather in this moment began to question its existence,
And it decided that against the wind it would gather a resistance.
It was tired of never knowing what was next to come,
And the feather could no longer recall where it had come from.
In the aimless existence that it had known for so long,
Suddenly the feather realized that everything with its life was wrong.
Because to live a life without a purpose or a plan,
Was as foolish as traveling to the desert in search of a tan...
Still, the feather had no notion of how to reclaim its control,
And all the days of recklessness had taken their toll.
Just then, the winds current once again began to rise,
The feather screamed out Why? The wind drowned out its cries.
Now for the first time it could recall, the feather no longer wished to live,
For it had only taken from life and did not understand how to give.
It had struggled, it had fought, but to no avail,
Because in its life it had only learned how it felt to fail.
At one with the wind in the sky once again,
The feather vowed to take control of its life right then.
By learning from the mistakes it had made in its time,
The feather could rotate its life from pitiful towards the sublime...
The feather now realized that it had little choice in where it went,
But it still hoped to make an impact, and promised good intent.
For it had finally began to grasp with understanding,
What really took place during that fateful landing.
By catching a glimpse of its own mortality,
The feather had to adjust its perception of reality.
For the wind was not the enemy that the feather had to fear,
Its enemy was the ignorance that it deemed so dear.
Faced with these truths the feather was humbled,
And as if in agreement with this action the skies began to rumble.
The feather, now lost in the elation of its epiphany,
Thought the sounds from thunderclouds a beautiful symphony...
Unaware that there was trouble on the way,
The feather for the first time tried to pray.
It wanted to give thanks to its creator,
For sending the powerful message sooner and not later.
The feather nearly bursting with its hope for tomorrow,
Did not see the clouds growing dark with sorrow.
As the skies started to cry and pummel the earth,
The feather realized just how much its life was worth.
Its joy turner to disdain with the first jolt of pain,
Still the feather prayed harder trying to speak through the rain.
With no place to go and no place to hide,
Soaked with cold the feather shivered, withered, and slowly died...
The feather now realized that life was rarely fair,
Life did not coddle and life did not care.
It was the ultimate test full of strife and stress,
So the feather was grateful to finally receive rest.
Interrupting these final thoughts then a voice began to speak,
It answered the feathers questions and gave it a peek.
A peek that showed the feather its own soul,
A warm place full of light part of a greater whole.
The voice then showed the feather a new vision,
And conveyed to the feather the reason for life's mission.
Overcome with love the feathers soul began to overflow,
Just as the rain subsided revealing a glorious rainbow...

Reviews - November 2007

2007-11-11T15:33:00.000-08:00

What's up world? I thought that I would give you all some reviews of good books I've read lately and good music I've listened to.

Book list:

The Life of Pi by Yann Martel: One of the wildest tales I've ever read. This one has the power to change your life. Martel tells the story of Pi, a young Indian boy and zookeeper's son who finds himself fighting for his life in the Pacific Ocean in a life raft with an adult female orangutan, a zebra with a broken leg, a hyena, and a 450 poun bengal tiger. Nuff said...

The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini: Besides being an out of nowhere first time novelist success story and global phenomenon, this is one of the most heartwrenching novels I've read in years. The story of Amir and his best friend Hussein, two boys growing up in Afghanistan before the Russian invasion, this one has it all: action, betrayal, love, friendship, heartbreak, and loss. Like my man Elliot Yamin sings in his song One Word: Amazing.

The Side Effect by Bob Reiss : This one is a fast paced political thriller about ex-FBI agent Mike Acela, and his fight against time to understand the mysterious circumstances surrounding the apparent suicide of his boss a CEO of a major pharma company. Although the beginning was a bit slow, the story picked up and then galloped along at a break-neck pace. Great holiday read or airplane read.

Nineteen Minutes by Jodi Picoult : First of all, I must commend Ms. Picoult for her courage in taking on a subject of this magnitude. The story deals with the nineteen minutes it takes for high school shooter Peter Houghton to kill ten classmates and injure nineteen others before he is caught. But it's much bigger than that. This is a tale of revenge, hurt, friendship, parent-child relations, guilt, love, hate, and justice. She wrote this one so well that other writers better think twice before they even think about writing on this topic.

Music Box:

I am by Chrissette Michele: Yes. She's the owner of that VOICE on Jay-Z's Lost One's, and yes. Chrissette Michele is a voice to be reckoned with. Clearly a throwback to more soulful times, throughout 13 tracks she spins a beautiful web tinged with up tempo songs and beautiful ballads like Your Joy. A very different sound but welcome all the same.

Finding Forever by Common: Common made me a fan with his last album Be. Before then, I had always thought of him as this abstract rapper who was more spoken word poet than hard core lyricist. But with The Corner, he slapped some sense into me and the slapping continues with this latest disc. I've already listened to this album at least twenty times straight through because sonically it is the album of the year. Kanye West and the other producers like Will.I.Am. from the Black Eyed Peas are blacking out with the beats and Common has never sounded hungrier, his metaphors never clearer.

Graduation by Kanye West: There's a reason why the college dropout beat the shit out of 50 Cent. He just outsmarts, outslicks, and out produces the world's biggest rapper. What he lacks in lyrical content, he more than makes up for with crazy beats, great hooks, and honesty. Album of the year material for sure.

Get Back by Little Brother: The underdogs of rap are back with an incredibly cohesive 3rd album. Big Pooh and Fonte are still trying to bring hip hop back from the dead even without the help of superproducer 9th Wonder. All in all, I think they succeed. This is another superb album sonically.

That's it for now folks. Check these joints out, you will thank me later.

Rejection #3

2007-10-03T07:08:00.000-07:00

Have you ever felt like you're living a double life? Like you're Atlas balancing not one but two worlds on your shoulders? (Geminis need not comment) Well, one of my world's came crashing down on Tuesday as I returned home to find my third official rejection letter for my novel One Blood. The agent in question was gracious enough to give me some real feedback, which is invaluable to the editing process. But you still have to find the strength to pick yourself back up.

Since completing my first novel last year and embarking on the perilous journey to becoming a published author, I feel a lot like Neo in the Matrix. Like I'm spending my days at work and nights at home searching for something. It's like a part of me is completely unsatisfied with my life.

You know the quote "be careful what you wish for"? Well this is the war going on inside me right now.

A part of me is looking forward to ditching my corporate life and venturing into the nomadic life of the successful novelist. Never knowing what city I'll be in next, meeting and greeting thousands of strangers, discussing the merits of mine and other literature. But this is not the real life of a writer. The life of a successful writer is a life of solitude broken up by months of living on the road. The life of an up and coming writer is about solitude and rejection.

Imagine this scenario: You wake up in the morning, whenever you want. Shower, eat breakfast, and get dressed (or not). Grab your coffee or tea or cigarettes or Jim Beam (whatever gets your mind in the right mode) and settle in front of the old laptop, or desktop, or legal pads, or typewriter (if you're old school like that), and you begin to write. And you do that for the next five or six hours. Eat. Write some more. Sleep. Wake up in the middle of the night and jot down new ideas in your idea book on your nightstand. And you repeat this process for as long as it takes until your first draft is completed. In my case 7 years.

But that's the problem. I have no idea how to live the life of a writer. The above described scenario does not apply to me. I began my first novel in January of 2000 while living in Tallahassee, FL. At the time I was a full time student pursuing my MBA, so you can imagine how much writing I got done. The novel traveled with my from residences in Sao Paulo, Brazil back to Tallahassee, to Philadelphia, PA to Yardley, PA , to Woodbridge, NJ and went with me on vacations to Louisiana, North Carolina, Pittsburgh, Baraceçaba, Recife, Salvador (in Brazil). I think I have an issue with consistency and definite issues with discipline. Does that mean that I'm doomed to failure? Could be.

I understand the value of writer discipline completely. My most productive periods as a writer have been those where I have dedicated myself to a daily routine of writing. Doing this makes me feel like a real writer. But put me in a circle of real writer's and you will quickly see the odd man out. Because writing for me has always bee the other thing that I do. The other side of the slash e.g. student/writer or business unit director/writer. I sometimes wonder if to be published, will I have to eradicate the left side of the slash...

But you can be the judge. I've posted some two chapters of my novel on Urbis (http://www.urbis.com/), just search under my name. Tell me if I've got what it takes to be a real writer or not.

"There's nothing like rejection to make you do an inventory of yourself."
-James Lee Burke-

The Peak Experience...Reloaded

2007-09-25T11:33:00.000-07:00

First of all, I apologize for my absence in the blogosphere. I must fall back on my college alma mater's very appropriate motto here: No excuse is acceptable, no amount of effort is adequate until it is effective.

I will do better starting now.

Well, since we last chatted I have been hospitalized, traveled to two different continents, and still heard no word from any of the agents currently in possession of my novel. As I'm writing this blog, I'm listening to my very good friend Samantha Raheem Thornhill's second spoken word CD Merror Mirror (http://cdbaby.com/cd/raheem2). I seem to always turn to poetry when looking for inspiration in the world of prose. Poetry opened up a new world to me nine years ago and has probably saved my life over the years. Let me tell you about my origins as a poet.

1998

I'm a junior at Florida A&M University, in my third year of business school, when I learn that I will be moving off to Detroit, MI for an internship with a major pharmaceutical company in the sales division. I'm leaving the sleepy confines of Tallahassee, FL for the hustle of the Motor City, and it can't have happened at a better moment. I've been dating a woman seven years my senior for the previous eight months and this internship is my get out of jail free card.

I'm 20 years old and have recently experienced a flurry of failed relationships. Five girlfriends in five months. Serial monogamy at its finest. I sure know how to pick them too. Leave the well adjusted girls to the losers, give me the fixer uppers. I believe that I'm some sort of Prince Charming that can heal any woman's heart. I don't understand why I need to do this or even what makes me think that I'm capable, but this has become an emerging pattern.

I'm also a hopeless romantic. I only just recently lost my virginity (not that virginity and romance are mutually exclusive), not necessarily in the way I had imagined it. I really believed that I would hold out until I was in love, but it was not to be. In the end I succumbed to pressure from an ex-girlfriend who I had learned some of the sexual ropes from my freshman year. Years later I would write the following poem about the experience (from the chapbook lightbringer, http://www.lulu.com/):

the first time

body and mind are not aligned
body ready, prepared, waiting, anticipating
mind only hesitating
from the soft cave of the couch
into the open mouth kiss of the bedroom
the players
enter the sanctum of his quarters
clothing strewn from wall-to-wall
the green room of a teenager
the clothes of a man
the girl wants it
the body of this man
the mind of this boy fights a futile battle
screams
but i'm not ready
drowned out by the girl screaming her readiness
apparent by the hardening of aereola
the sugar in her kiss
the bulge in his crotch
becomes impossible to ignore
the mind and body continue this dance of indecision
the boy has envisioned this moment but not like this
she is not even his
anymore
like a memory
his heart looks on her sprawling body
skeptically
the body yells if not now
then when (will i win)
the boy hears her inner sanctum calling him
he bathes in her waterfall for the first time
climbing a mountain of ecstasy
the mind now a horrified spectator
then the girl tells him to stop
but he hasn't reached the top yet
she cuts the cord saying
no it hurts
mind translates
she's not ready yet
body doesn't understand
boy climbs back down the mountain and out of her sauna
he is ashamed
girl unsympathetic but kind
and now it's too late
is he a man now?
mind and body debate
body thinks, he ate the apple
the taste will haunt him
boy asks if he can try again
he's not a virgin anymore

Two months later I'm dating a girl I never believed I'd gave a chance with and because of this fact, and because of the fact that I'm working 40 hours a week, going to classes, and having bunny rabbit sex (but where's the love?), I haven't noticed that she has basically moved out of her dorm and into my apartment. This fact dawns on me one morning as I tug furiously at lost strands of her curly black hair stuck in the drain of the shower that I share with my roommate. How did this happen, I wonder? Less than a week later we've broken up. This decision was influenced by my need for a break from her possessiveness and the fact that I had a passionate interlude with my downstairs neighbor and best female friend.

Me and the best friend consummate the relationship shortly thereafter, a choice that will doom our friendship for the next sixteen months or so. This is best summed up by the following poem from my chapbook poetic fables.

Two Friends

Two friends became lovers,
One fateful Saturday night.
As the thunderstorm raged outside,
They held each other tight...

Two friends who often spent time together,
But always kept their distance.
Found inside each others eyes that night,
A force from which they could offer no resistance...

Two friends began to touch each other,
In ways they never had before.
All other thoughts were forgotten,
As they kissed and stroked on the floor...

Two friends separately taken,
Whose hearts were already claimed.
With better judgement clouded by passion,
Could not extinguish the torrid flames...

Two friends tried to calm the storm,
Before it washed them away.
But their lust was an enemy much too strong,
And no was too difficult to say...

Two friends promised not to regret,
The lovemaking that day they made.
With uneasy smiles and guilty hearts,
They hoped their friendship would not fade...

Two friends renewed their passionate affair,
As again and again they tried.
To heal the wounds between them,
To dry the tears that had been cried...

Two friends stopped communicating,
As tension settled between them.
There was nothing that could be said,
To keep their loves light from growing dim...

Two friends began to find other things,
Other people to occupy their time.
Allowing the value of their friendship to slip away,
They never paid penance for their crimes...

Two friends never spoke again,
Until one friend received the call.
Cancer had claimed yet another victim,
One friend felt the phone slip and fall...

One friend died that day,
Leaving the other friend to mourn.
Lost time, lost days,
And dead vows that had been sworn.

In the midst of my short and problem plagued relationship with my best friend, I meet the woman who will come to define suffering for me. It is love at first site, and this emotion is best expressed through the following piece from my chapbook lovelost:

Dejá Vu

I sit quietly in the corner table of a coffee shop absorbed in reading
sipping French vanilla cappuccino to amplify my senses

Page after page I flip, as the mystery unfolds
our hero is fast on the trail of the villain who has captured a damsel in distress

Suddenly I get a feeling
a feeling that someone is stealing glances and taking chances to look my way

I stop reading to look up and around to open my ears to sounds
and my third eye blinks back from the force of the energy she’s sending me

"Can you feel that?"
she whispers on the wisp of an exhaled puff of breath and cigar smoke

I become hypnotized by the rings of smoke floating like lazy dragons out of the antique pipe
protruding from the left corner of cherry red lips

They pucker and pout as she stops staring to inhale
and I read the sensual story of luxurious eyelashes

The tale of two delicate fingers
that hold the pipe with an air of subtle elegance

The relevance of the book in my slightly shaking hands eludes me
and I start the conversation with, "Excuse me..."

Hours pass and the early morning sunshine grows in intensity
as noon approaches I barely notice

We are finishing each others sentences and drinking in each other
like the coffee other people consume as they enter and exit talk and read meet and greet live and love

I realize after a long silence in which a million unspoken wishes become granted
that I am seeing myself from inside her warm pools of chocolate sensual mystery

"Do I know you?"
...those were the first sweet words she said when I sat down and now I believe she does

We spend our lunch engaged in oral intercourse
as we walk mind in mind through the park

Day becomes night spring becomes summer months become years
all in the course of one conversation

I now know that I will never tire of my pipe dream my pipe queen
that I always knew was waiting in the shadows for her curtain call

I start to fall head over heels for her sex appeal
when I jerk awake slightly embarrassed that I had fallen asleep so easily

And then I see a dream of pouting cherry red lips
puckering and beckoning me into action

Or reaction
to the vision that came of a love that was true.

Or maybe
it’s just déjà vu

Like a good film adaptation, this poem is not exactly how this meeting happened, but it does clearly express what it felt like to meet this woman that fateful day. I was sprung. She was a goddess: sexy, worldly, experienced, and crazy as a lune. We started dating officially during Spring Break of 1997 and after two suicide attempts (hers not mine), a major betrayal (hers not mine), a faked pregnancy, and one fight too many, all in the space of eight months, I've had enough. The internship got me out of the city just in the nick of time. But the whirlwind of the previous 16 months is still weighing heavily.

This becomes very clear to me one night in January of 1998. I'm in the hotel room of a fellow representative in training in the companies regional office near Chicago, and I'm basically telling this very attractive woman who I really like, my life story. We talk all night, from 8 pm to 8 pm. A night like this had never happened to me before and will never happen again. This is the night that my life changed in a fundamental way that I will only come to terms with much later.

My bleeding heart interprets this event as a sign. She must be THE ONE. Training ends and we go back to our respective cities for a month before returning to the training center. Attempts at connecting with my special friend are rebuked, and I'm left feeling grossly unsatisfied with the situation. I return to the training class, eager to see her, but she spends the week ignoring me. On a flight to New York for the culmination of the training, I can't sleep, so I pull out my agenda and write the first real poem I've ever written (from my chapbook lovelost)

The Look

At first glance I was hooked
Hooked
As if I were reading the climactic moment of a great book
From my head to my toes then I shook
Daring to venture a second look

And there you were
Simple
Yet extraordinary at the same time
And there I was
Just as speechless as a mime
You just stood out from the rest definitely a dime
Then you spoke
And your voice was the music the wind makes through a chime

Immediately I felt an urgency to know your name
Though I had no idea where you had come from
I was very glad you came
Thinking to myself she’s someone’s wife or girlfriend
Oh what a shame
Still my heart was raging like a wild beast
Impossible to tame

What was the next step I had no current plan
I was as clueless as Columbus in search of new land
I recall thinking whomever she’s with is the man
Because he gets to be close to her
And what I wouldn’t do to be down with her clan

These thoughts were broken up by one return glance from you
I looked down as fast as I could
Like there was something on my shoes
You probably just turned your head for a second
But I hoped it had been for a few
Because I had become lost in your eyes
Now what was I to do

As it turns out you were just as single as I
Still I told myself to play it cool
And not let my hopes fly
It was taking a chance to get to know you
To actually stare into your eyes
Because inhaling your essence
Made me feel high

So in my mind in day and night dreams
We would meet
These were the moments when I felt most complete
I imagined caressing your skin as we shared the same sheets
And how every time our eyes did meet
My heart skipped a beat

Going insane from electric moments when my way your lips smiled
Feeling bloated and sick
My longings withheld for this long while
Only able to punch in six of your digits
On the telephone dial
Made me delirious and dizzy
From my love’s denial

This is why I wrote this I had to let you know
But I don’t want to offend you
By letting my feelings show
I pray that it will be closer together not farther apart
That we will grow
And there’s no rush
We can take it slow

With these words said I am at ease in my mind
Because I am so blessed
To have met a woman of your kind
Take some time and search your heart
For it’s me there that you’ll find
Then together we’ll move forward
And leave loneliness behind

I type up the poem as soon as I get to the hotel and send it to her via e-mail. I check my e-mail religiously in the coming days, eagerly awaiting her response. Nothing. I'm chocked full of nervous energy without an appropriate escape valve. Then, suddenly a few days later, in the midst of the training meeting, I begin to write. Poem after poem flows out of me. In the beginning, the words are directed squarely in her direction (with titles like: Dazed and Confused), but soon, I'm writing about any and everything. I leave the training meeting without closure, but having gained this precious ability of self-expression that has been missing my whole life.

And to my even greater surprise, the poems don't suck. When I begin the most healing relationship of my twenties by reconnecting with my high school sweetheart, my words become the tapestry of our two year love affair. Beginning with one of my favorite pieces, My Rose from lovelost, to Withering Rose, winter in the garden, the story is poetically revealed, and the circle is closed.

My Rose

Roses in the garden wilderness
Bloom during all four seasons
As I wander through this garden viewing nature’s beauty
I am enticed even further into the colorful depths

Each flower I pass beckons to me
Reaching out to touch me with soft rouge fingers
Calling to me with pheremonal aromas
That only roses possess

I find that resistance is my only chance for survival
From an eternity of floral bliss
Among a sea of thorns
For beneath the surface of all beauty lies the potential for pain

These thoughts help me keep my distance
But distance is the only relative of closeness
And this relativity keeps me searching towards my desires
For the pollination of my pure feelings and emotions by the flower of my affection

So I choose a delicate beauty
Hoping to cultivate a love
That will grow to be more beautiful than any other natural phenomenon
But alas, hopes last only a small while longer than dreams themselves

And I am awakened from this dream
By my life force bursting forth from the bite of the wild flower
As I prick the bitter sweet thorn from my hand and taste my own pain
I experience my first taste of love

And this memory of my first experience in the wild
Has haunted my dreams
Until in another when
I found my rose again...

Over the next nine years, I will go on to write hundreds of poems in a hundred different forms about hundreds of subjects, join the world's largest poetry troupe Black on Black Rhyme (http://www.blackonblackrhyme.com/), and perform on stages from Tallahassee, FL to Brooklyn, NY.

For those interested in reading more of my poetry, please click the link to my myspace page.

"There is only one journey. Going inside yourself."
- Rainer Maria Rilke -

The Sky is Falling

2007-07-22T16:07:00.001-07:00

I moved to Sao Paulo, Brazil in August of last year for a temporary assignment. It was a great promotion for me, making me the youngest director in my company at 29. I work as a business unit director responsible for marketing and sales for a global pharmaceutical company, and the company was launching a new subsidiary in South America's largest city.

Seven years ago at the age of 23, I had my first experience in Brazil when I won an internship with another large pharmaceutical company. I lived, worked, and played in the world's 3rd largest city for 16 life changing months where among other things I became fluent in Portuguese and met the woman who would become my wife four years later.

I don't believe in coincidences.

In around April of 2005, my bosses boss strode into my office buried inside the corporate headquarters in New Jersey, and asked me if I would be interested in taking a challenging assignment in Brazil. Now, when I joined the company in 2002, I joined with the understanding that I would never have a chance to return to Brazil, at least not with this company, because we did not have a subsidiary in this market. I asked my bosses boss, why me, and he replied that they were looking for someone in the company that had US launch experience in the cardiovascular market, was fluent in Portuguese, and had a working knowledge of the Brazilian market. And I was the only person in the whole company who fit the bill. Where do I sign up, I remarked.

My return to Brazil has been exceptionally chaotic. Moving 3000 miles, finding an apartment, launching a company, while struggling to find some kind of balance in my life. Coming back here represents the closing of a cipher of some kind for me. Seven years ago, this was where I began my first novel, (working title: One Blood). Seven years and five cities later I have finished the novel but now my dilemma is, how to get published in America from another continent. But this will be a recurring topic in my blogs, just not for today.

So last week, I'm sitting in my office at work when suddenly I hear the screams of sirens in unison. I look out my 15th floor window and in addition to the rain, I see all of this smoke coming from the local airport, Congonhas, which handles all domestic flights. People on my floor are panicked and no one really knows what's going on. My wife calls me to tell me that a plane that was trying to land there, skidded off the runway, crossed a busy highway, and crashed into a warehouse owned by the same airline. As I watched on CNN.com with bated breath, the totals began coming in, 191 dead. This marked Bazil's deadliest air disaster and the third major calamity within the past 12 months.

Last November, a passenger airline crashed into a private jet and crashed in the Amazon forest killing 154. Then in January, a subway station collapsed killing 45. And here I am, worried more about my daily sales numbers than these tragedies, numb to anything that does not affect me directly. Ignorant of the fact that these mass tragedies are slowly reshaping our world. For those of us left, we need to heed these warnings, but instead we ignore them, until we are the next one's who have to die for someone else to wake up.

Like the story of the man who desperately needed to get back to Sao Paulo last week for the birth of his daughter. He was booked on a later flight, but switched with a physician (who works very closely with me), also on the plane. The physician told me that his stomach had been hurting all day and he took advantage of getting off the plane to get some medicine for his belly. 45 minutes later, his plane had been reduced to flames. He expressed to me that it was like he got to experience everything in his life for the first time again. Holding and kissing his wife and children. Eating his dinner. Taking a shower. Everything had gained meaning to him. He had gotten a second chance at life and he was not about to waste it.

I admire him. He is certainly one of the lucky ones. But why do we have to avoid death to start living and appreciating life?

I think I've finally gotten the point. I hope that you do too.

Until we speak again...

"Life is not the opposite of death; birth is, because life has no opposite."

-Anonymous

American Psycho

2007-07-17T03:41:00.000-07:00

Now that I've got your attention. Welcome to the ramblings and ruminations of Qwantu Amaru (kwan-too - a-mar-oo).

This blog begins like a good novel is supposed to, in the middle of the action. I won't bore you with my back story or anything like that, we'll get to know each other over time.

I'm currently reading American Psycho, an excellent novel by Bret Easton Ellis (Less Than Zero, The Laws of Attraction) which marks the second week in a row that I'm reading something related to a homicidal psychopath (last weekend was Hannibal Rising by Thomas Harris). I didn't do this on purpose mind you, I was just looking on my bookshelves for books I hadn't read yet and these two books happened to leap out at me in sequence.

But one shouldn't confuse Ellis's psycho, Patrick Bateman, a successful WallStreet executive, with Hannibal Lecter. They couldn't be more different on the outside. Bateman is a yuppie living the high-life during the Reagan era, Lecter is a World War II survivor. But there are similarities. Each has given up their respective humanity for what they call the hunger or blood lust that overtakes them. And both are products of their respective environments, on the nurture side of the vs. nature debate.

But hold on Qwantu. Products of their environments? What sort of upbringing or environment would make a successful, good-looking, powerful Wall Street executive, start randomly torturing and killing first women (colleagues and prostitutes), then homeless people, then animals, then anyone who crosses his path?

I'm glad you asked.

The concept is that the elite of society live by different rules then you and I do. They basically "get away with murder" everyday, meaning that they can do whatever, whenever, and however they wish. This leads to a numb, bland existence where life no longer holds any meaning. Bateman's homicidal rampage is actually a cry for help, but the world is oblivious to him. Either no one in his upper crust circle believes that he could be capable of such atrocities, or they all have demons on the same scale.

Now make the migration to a young black kid, well bred, time spent abroad and here in the states, tremendous basketball talent. This kid is raised to believe that the rules that apply to the rest of the world do not apply to him. How? because the first time he gets involved in a criminal altercation, nothing happens. Maybe he date rapes a girl while in high school and everybody is in on the cover up. And this kid makes it to the NBA and one year during the off season, sodomizes some poor receptionist at the hotel where he's rehabbing for a knee injury. And two years later still has the most popular jersey in the NBA store. But I digress.

Are we creating a class of American Psycho's. Are there a bunch of Patrick Bateman's, walking among us? Scary thought.

Much scarier to me than Hannibal Lecter, a character who, up until this point, was one of the most terrifying characters I'd ever read. But Thomas Harris has humanized his monster to the point that he is no longer scary. Like when Freddy Krueger started telling jokes. I never wanted to, or needed to, feel sorry for Hannibal the Cannibal. But I think Harris's relationship to Lecter is not unlike Truman Capote's relationship to Richard "Dick" Hickock and Perry Smith.

And not unlike American society's relationship and fascination with homicidal maniacs.

Like a mirror from hell, they show us the true depths of depravity and madness that exist within us all. And we can't look away.

"The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change"

Carl Rogers