Ashley, Creator and Contributor of Brown Girl Love, talks about making to time to write her novel

Becca, Featured Artist Manager for Brown Girl Love, talks about her experience finishing a novel.

Though my fiction remains unpublished, I cannot count how many times I’ve been told “But you’ve written a book! That’s amazing!” My immediate response is, “No, it’s not”. But I understand, writing the novel is the first step in getting the novel published and–from personal experience–many writers spend too much time speaking about writing, blogging about writing (*snicker*) and talking about writing that they don’t ever actually write. Writing a novel is HARD WORK. Honestly, depending on the person, writing anything is hard work and for someone who “can’t write”, what writers accomplish–even those of us unpublished–is impressive.

When I wrote my first novel length work, I was sixteen. (It was High Fantasy atrocity) I was impressed with myself then, even after I found out Christopher Paolini was fifteen when he wrote his book and sixteen when he was published. I wrote six more books after that. Back then, I may have been proud. But now, at 23, a degree in writing under my belt, and a job–albeit fun–I only have to support myself, simply writing the book is no longer impressive. Drafts, rewrites, QUERY LETTERS, hook lines, pitches–those are impressive. (Writing a book is work; summarizing your 100k word story in 2-3 sentences? That’s WERK, honey!) I refuse to be impressed until I’ve reached my actual goal; publication.

I don’t find myself remarkable because of my prolificacy and I am not tooting my horn by mentioning the several projects I’ve completed. But I do acknowledge that just because I’m not impressed doesn’t mean other people aren’t or shouldn’t be. So this is mostly to anyone who has ever wanted to write a book, spoken to me and then wondered how I managed to get through hell and on to the other side.

1. Don’t read any further, go write.

I actually gave away my biggest and probably most helpful tip in the beginning of the post. Many writers spend way too much time not writing. How you write is up to you, start from the middle, a scene, with a character; plan the whole thing out; don’t plan at all. No one can tell you what strategy works for you and therefore advice on that becomes irrelevant. When I finished most projects it was before I discovered forums and blogs on the art of writing. I abandoned so many other things; friends, school work (not advised), play time, television (advised) just to write. But now, here I am reading articles on “The dreaded exclamation marks!”, “Is my protagonist too young?”, “Avoid these cliches!”, “Outline or no Outline”. I over did it. I wanted so hard to find a textbook that would give me the answers to what makes good fiction, what sells fastest and what makes people buy your books. I got distracted. I’m most productive when I channel sixteen year old me and just keep the pen to the paper or in this case, the fingertips on the keyboard. I technically should never stop writing. Unless I’m reading.

2. If you’re still reading this, read a book instead

This really is my only other piece of advice. When athletes are not playing their sports they are taking care of their bodies and when a writer is not working on her project(s) she should be reading, feeding her mind with excellent examples of the genre. (or any other genre). It’s important to read EVERYTHING; fiction, non-fiction, poetry, creative non-fiction, articles, blog posts (on things other than writing), candy wrappers, milk cartons, cereal boxes, seriously. School isn’t for everyone, and a degree doesn’t make you a better writer so I can’t necessarily push college down anyone’s throat with a good conscience. I think a formal education in art sounds almost oxymoronic and, at the very least, counterintuitive.

Practice makes perfect, thus writing every day will undoubtedly improve your skill and of course the more you write and the more often you write the faster you get the job done!

Still Reading?

Below is my query letter. I update a draft as a I write, along with a list of relevant agents. This keeps my goals in mind without being distracting but it also means I’ll have a polished draft and an extensive list of agents to send it to by the time the book is written.

I used Kasey Mackenzie’s examples as well as instructions found on agentquery.comas references for structure and strategy. But many agents and authors post their “letters that work” all around the web. Don’t bother reading them, though, refer to rules 1 and 2 “

Dear ____________,

With a Demonic Civil Rights movement promising war for mankind, Camille Valentine is one of the Demon Hunting Association’s biggest hopes. Too bad she doesn’t recall ever being a member.

Memories are overrated.

A car accident has left Camille Valentine with two scars on her back and amnesia. Even though her memory of the first fifteen years of her life are hazy, she manages loving friends, a close relationship with her father and a job as a tabloid columnist. But lately Camille has been getting frustrated; her NYU degree should’ve gotten her a sweet job as a biographer by now, her girlfriend is acting batshit crazy, and the medicine she has been taking for years to suppress her night terrors is suddenly not working. What’s stranger, eerie incidents have been happening all over the country; weather, shootings, etc. But mysteriously foggy skies over NYC has nothing do with Camille’s problems…so she thinks.

A run-in with Father Richards, a priest who knows more about her than he should, leads Camille’s father to reveal a huge secret; for the 15 years Camille can’t remember, she was a Demon Hunter for the Vatican. As those around her succumb to mental and physical illness, docile pets become vicious and suicidal, her newest friend reveals she’s a psychic and several attempts are made on her life, Camille joins the DHA. She becomes trapped in a love triangle between Lamir–an old friend who wants more–and Luisa–a femme fatale who would rather kill than kiss. Camille struggles to regain her memory and her lost skill but one by one those closest to her are dying and Camille knows she’s the next and dearest target.

Unholy is complete at _,000 words. It should appeal to both teen and adult readers, from fans of Kim Harrison to Toni Morrison. I’m looking for a hands-on agent who is passionate about my project and its mission; putting a queer character of color in the forefront of a story that isn’t centered around her sexuality. Unholy is the first part of larger story but I don’t consider it a series so much as a project presented in arcs. Therefore, it can be a stand-alone book. Nonetheless, the second arc Godless, is in the works. I have a BA in creative writing, I work in real estate and currently reside in BK. I hope to hear from you soon.

Thank you for your time,

Rebecca Dickerson

Belinda is a born and bred “Sucka Free City” (San Francisco Bay Area) native, fourteen-year veteran community organizer, and soon-to-be Sarah Lawrence College alum that has been writing since she was four. She first tried her hand at performance poetry with her high school crew, Sable Vitality. She then began writing, producing, and performing spoken word theater with the Bay Area-based group, Colored Ink. She has been blessed to share the stage with Piri Thomas, Devorah Major, Ise Lyfe, Sonia Sanchez and many other gifted spirits. She was recently awarded a Citation of Excellence for her winning poem “Cherry & Blanton” in the “Roads to Equality” Poetry Prizes as part of Sarah Lawrence College’s Commemoration of the 50th Anniversary of the Freedom Rides of 1961. She is an Aries-Taurus cuspian whose personal interests includes anything that builds transformative justice. When she’s not shining light on the world with her laughter, you can find her trying to spread the fierce essence of the hippie.thug.chic.nerd that she is lyrically through her poems.

Middle Set Seed

I can’t think of the last time I called for my mother. Told her I love her. Asked for her guidance. These things seem mundane to yolk still perfectly placed in shell. Though I feel as if I am grasping for a dream, lost to me by awake. Yet, my tongue tastes the onion and salt pork in her pinto beans as I place red onions and garlic in black beans on the stove. Wonder what it felt like to protect the only person who loved her more than herself. Or so they say. Their love, formed by Baptist monogamy, ransacked by glass pipe and black cherry Cisco. Glued by nine seeds. Nine seeds in sets of three. Middle seed of the middle set would be the riff in nucleus. Or so he said. Or so we believed. Some of us. The rest of us chipped at our own insecurity to reveal the security we provided for them. The lived psychedelic fantasy of a united unit. The others told her he couldn’t be there. Authorities told her lover couldn’t be in the house. Couldn’t be near. She hid him in closets while hiding us from ourselves with lies about their use. Little did she know their abuse would catch up to one of us, one night, when they figured they’d teach us a lesson. The kind of lesson that leaves scars on the veins and nude in light. He left scars on the middle set seed. Asked her to touch. Wonder what my mother imagined when she heard these scars leave my sister’s lips – her beloved man instructing her beloved child to touch her beloved man’s limp.

Little Sally

For Douglas Kearney

Little Sally

watch her

shifting in

sauce her

East moan

connects her

West niggle

rove Sally

rise wipe

those sweepin’

eyes put

hands on

their hips

make back

bones thick

shake that

load off

weep and

rise Sally

shake that

load off

rise and

cling Sally

burn it

to the

one that

you loath

the best.

Why we be, How we be.

We are lonely because you refuse to succumb to the ridiculousness that is sand friendships. It takes to much effort to build them up to be something solid and then have nature destroy what wasn’t real in the first place.
We are lonely because, ever since you were a child, you hated to conform and conforming is the best seat in the social theater. You are short in stature and would’ve loved your position.
The people that you want to spend endless giggles with are either far away or haven’t realized how amazing you are until you are far away. By then you could careless.
You are lonely because you don’t have the energy to promote how cool you are.
We are extra lonely because we are sill figuring out who you are. That takes time and solitude.
Did I mention that you are an only child and loneliness is kinda your thing?
The older you get, the more loneliness starts to smell weird.
Scented candles, a nice shower, loud music and some writing should do the trick.
………Shut the fuck up. I don’t need you to tell me why we are lonely. I’m well aware.

photo by rachel eliza griffith

The Cave Canem Fellow is the author of several books including Swag & Dear Twitter: Love Letters Hashed Out On-line, recommended by Small Press Distribution & listed as About.com Best Poetry Books of 2010. She has released five LPs including the live album Sheroshima. As co-founder of the Off Broadway poetry production, Jam On It, and co-producer of NYC’s 1^st Performance Poetry Festival: SoundBites Poetry Festival, Mahogany bridges the gap between lyrical poets and literary emcee. Browne has toured Germany, Amsterdam, England, Canada and recently Australia as 1/3 of the cultural arts exchange project Global Poetics. Her journalism work has been published in magazines Uptown, KING, XXL, The Source, Canada’s The Word and UK’s MOBO. She is an Urban Word NYC mentor, as seen on HBO’s Brave New Voices and facilitates performance poetry and writing workshops throughout the country. She is the publisher of Penmanship Books, a small press for performance artists and owns PoetCD.Com, an on-line marketing and distribution company for poets. Mahogany is currently host and curator of the Friday Night Slam at the famous Nuyorican Poets Cafe. 

JP Howard aka Juliet P. Howard is a poet, lawyer, Cave Canem fellow and native New Yorker. She was selected as a Lambda Literary Foundation 2011 Emerging LGBT Voices Fellow, as well as a 2011 Cave Canem Fellow-in-Residence at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts (VCCA). JP was a finalist in the Astraea Lesbian Writer’s Fund 2009-2010 poetry category and recipient of a Soul Mountain Retreat writing residency in 2010. Her poems are published or forthcoming in Talking Writing, Muzzle Magazine, Connotation Press, TORCH, Queer Convention: A Chapbook of Fierce, Cave Canem Anthology XII: Poems 2008-2009, Cave Canem XI 2007 Anthology, The Portable Lower East Side (Queer City), Promethean Literary Journal and Poetry in Performance. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from The City College of New York, as well as a BA from Barnard College and a JD from Brooklyn Law School. She co-founded Women Writers in Bloom Poetry Salon and Blog, a forum offering women writers at all levels a venue to come together in a positive and critically supportive space. http://womenwritersinbloompoetrysalon.blogspot.com/

Phantom Lover

Sexy Self-Portrait

Twenty-four year old Pearl Quick was born and raised in New York City. A spoken word poet, she co-teaches poetry all over the tri-state area and in many states around the nation. She hopes to start small, self-sustainable programs in the Bronx for young women of color and to complete the first draft of her memoir speaking about her weight in 2014, when she graduates. She is currently attending Sarah Lawrence College where she studies Language, race and poetry and carries around the documentary To Be Heard in which she stars. It documents her life and the lives of two of her friends as young slam poets, finding their voices and speaking out against inequalities close to their hearts. She considers the film a great accomplishment and hopes to use it as a platform to teach high school students all over the world to find their voices through performance poetry.

POEMS BY PEARL QUICK:

Warm Drums

Play our war drums.

Allow the beats of this body,

these bones

to cover bruises held like a second skin from wars that lay out blue prints imprinted in between our hips.

Brown skin hold black and blues like lost identities and society says

“I wanted it”

Stigmas are injected into flesh,

leaving us paralyzed and sensitive

steady tracing our roots on a rotting family tree

and while licking our wounds find security in words crumbled in fists,

under feet

and on the backs of hands

Which one of us planned to hide from the Big Bad Wolf.

Sheep’s clothing holds signs of a militia that wages wars in missionary on the bodies of Congolese women

and after they have taken turns

her husband turns away ashamed

because a woman of “decency” wouldn’t have allowed this to happen.

Our vaginas no longer birth babies but taboos.

Take a good look!

This is what it looks like when a woman “Asked for it”

her soul being ripped from tendons left heavy and hanging from a virus that rivered her wrists like lead.

Savagely discarding mothers, daughters and sisters

leaving us bitches,

whores,

paramours?

Isolated and marginalized

We women hide, blame ourselves for what is taken, accept the beatings for refusing to have sex without a condom

Left used by men who have gotten what they came for,

being called a whore must be some kind of position

possessions don’t have voices!

Property weren’t given choices

and rape in a marriage doesn’t exist.

You can’t sweep a generation under your rug; the bodies are beginning to smell

Her beauty left dribbling from swollen lips

her intelligence left on white pages

with red ink [POSITIVE],

we are tested,

placed in a box labeled double standard and told to

“Act like a lady”

So for your sake, I hope I remind you of your mother,

and your daughter watches as her skin begins to bruise

cause see we are your greatest resource.

I may have been made from your rib

but We are the backbones of this foundation,

slowly tracing your vertebrates like crumbing bricks!

so be careful…

You wouldn’t want all of this to crumble down around you… would you?

Imaginary Friends

He is a afraid of the dark.

The dark exposes something inside him he isn’t ready to explore.

He used to speak through inebriated words of success and fears and now all that is left are hopes and wishes.

His smile leaks of misery like molasses the color of his skin made up of rough housing and mistakes.

He waited so long to be heard now he stays silent afraid uninteresting phrases or ignorant thoughts would expose his secret insecurities.

He is afraid of the dark.

They expose the diagnosed inferiority that slides between his conscious as if he were slipping into a transfixed state of remembering.

Childhood wasn’t toys and naps; they were midnight movements, abuse and seeds. Dirty floors piled high with forgets and now his turmoil is exposed.

Misery begins to attach itself upon his spirit and pull him into directions he is unable to name.

He sits in his room afraid to move, or to stay so songs on repeat replace movement for melodic and I sit by the door hoping he will see the worry in my eyes and begin to remember that his sister loves him.

My brother is lost.

Can you help me find him?

My brother is searching, are there any words that can retrieve him?

He is afraid of the dark.

The dark exposes something that is too sensitive to explore so I write this for him for his words have since been lost under lashing out and dreams.

I want to penetrate his.

Plant seeds that will grow into ideas.

He is so afraid to fail he refuses to wonder anymore.

My brother is waiting

Will someone come?

I am too afraid to ask “when”? Too afraid to have him answer… ” I am not sure ”

Time is but a lover that gives us brief moments of pleasure followed by less and less time to stay in moments worth keeping.

He is stagnate. Promised to a world that never claimed him he wanders aimless around hidden agendas and want.

My brother isn’t safe here, will you take him?

Catching him when he falls only gives resentment a home.

I am weak.

Overshadowed by a deep sense of dread.

After all Why can’t I save him? Why do I think I can? Why do I feel guilty that I no longer have the strength to even elaborate on this circumstance?

He is afraid of the dark and last night I heard his thoughts. Silently they slipped through his window and into mine.

Held me close like a lover, swept my thick curly hair behind my ear and whispered ” Allow us to speak through you ” How do you mediate between a man and his emotions?

My brother lives inside himself and I’m afraid I can not reach him.

He is afraid of the dark.

He embraces his fears.

They are much easier than dealing with greatness.

I want more for the guy who speaks of futures like Fairytales.

My brother is tortured.

My brother is talented.

My brother isn’t afraid of the dark… He is afraid of the light.

Ciara  Darnise  Miller was born and raised on the West Side of Chicago. After becoming a  Louder than a Bomb poetry slam champion, she performed at various high schools and colleges throughout the United States, including: Lane Tech, North Side Prep, Berkeley High, Chicago Academy of the Arts, MaryMount Manhattan College, Milliken University, and Sarah Lawrence College. She has also been a featured performer at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe. Her work is published in numerous Young Chicago Authors anthologies, and it has appeared in StarWall Paper, What I Know Is Me—Black Girls Write about Their World, The SLC Review, as well as her self-published a chapbook Black Dorothy.  She is a Cave Canem Fellow, a graduate from Sarah Lawrence College, a lyricist/rapper, playwright, and winner of the Graduate Scholars Fellowship at Indiana University where she will be attending school to receive her MFA in poetry. She approaches writing by taking influences from any speck of truth she can find.