Writing What you love

My manuscript is ready for publishing. So I decided to write a how to book on my adventure In writing. This lesson in writing my novel has been a way to educate myself. This book documents some of the techniques I used to write my novel. It was a great adventure learning to do something I love to do. So if you love writing here are some ideas for your experience. Coming 2020.


Memories This is just a small design of a memoir. History in its design, drama, and comedy. It reveals who you are while dealing with life’s ironies.  Think, how would you write a book. This book has so many memories of my life. I needed to tell someone about the things I experience as an African American child Born in Washington, DC  and ended up in North Philadelphia.  How the influences in my life define who I am as a person.  This book is a promise to God that I would write and publish my book. What would I write. I was already writing poetry.  Purging my inner thoughts. 1800 Indigo House  Excerpt from a life.  A history in poetry, self-published on LULU.com. If you are “writer” you must ask yourself, what is my book about and what is it I want to say. Sit quietly and listen. Memories of events were rising to the top, and I started writing in lyrical poetry that stream close to my heart.


Continue reading “Memories”


My husbands Sister and my sister in-law, our closest supporter Claretha passed away. She was seventy years young. She was bold, courageous, most of all beautiful. At times a comedian telling me that she was afraid of nothing. She said that she had locked her dog in the bathroom so he could not roam around the house as she had did so many times. This one night a burglar broke in, waking Claretha, jumping from her bed retrieving her weapon of choice.  her 38 reasons why you should not disturb. Fully dressed in her night gown without shoes. Thank god it was a summer night and the streets were empty. Chasing the assailant six blocks all the while the dog was still in the bathroom. She stopped to discover her dress code, a night gown. no shoes would get her arrested along with her 38 reasons.

Although she never caught the assailant, she still pursued him, nevertheless. I admired her courage. She loved her grandchildren with out a doubt, always in the mix of them, correcting where needed. She would always have one of them with her. Claretha express that she wanted to go to the upcoming flower show. She brought Simone who she micromanaged. Simone took it all in stride. We had the best time. It was the first time I got to know her as a woman, mother as a grand mother. What really was interesting is she was a daddy’s girl and expressed it so many times. She was his protector and felt he just belong to her exclusively.  A nurse for the better part of her life. Claretha’s big brother Ed was a constant phone exchange of just to call. Ed would look at his phone and say, “my sister.” with great affection.

No matter what, she would call to make sure he was alright. She would phone him on his birthday reminding him that he was getting older. When he called her he could not get her on the phone because of her ministry on her answering machine about the power of god.  Claretha was a traveler of the world.  Places that we could only dream. She bought a ranch style home with three bedrooms in Brown Mills New Jersey.A house I wish I could afford to buy. This ranch style 3 bedrooms, large kitchen, bathroom. Outside-was acres of land for miles. At least 20 50-foot-tall trees, a pool and a plant nursery. Claretha lived rich and on her own terms. She lived life no matter what anyone thought or cared. On this day her birthday I choose to say thank you for being a presence in our  life.

One Writer’s Journey

At the sensitive age of nine I lost the two main characters in my life, my grandame and the illustrious rajah who created me. I had never felt that kind of love until I had my progeny. As a undeveloped child, I inscribe my name in cursive it completed me.  I designed letters so artistically beautiful. Connecting shapes and angles as I practice to perfection.  Writing words just to see how they would turn out. I began writing sentences to express my feelings and tell stories.  It was the first stage of learning of self. I yearned for my grandmother and my father and as I sobbed through the pain. My trusty sword, a well sharpened #2 pencil and a great pen were my weapons against tribulations.

As the spirit would have it many of my feeling were cursively written without punctuation, organization or editing and lyrically sounding, leading me to write sometimes on paper, and then in a composition book help me to put my tragedy in perspective. I knew nothing about being a writer but I was writing.    This happen in 1959 during a time when racial issues were not something, I was aware of as a child.  Writing about my feelings help me to express all the emotions that came from missing a grandmother who through religion read to me a bedtime story. The holy bible from genesis to revelation.  Helping form pictures in my immature mind. Many of the words written were designed and put in poetry form. My poetry was crafted from the poetry written in psalms and proverbs; I learn lyrical poetry. Hidden in the words that she read to me is a lesson on how to act. Hidden in my subconscious was everything that I needed to know.

Time went on I learn to put my feeling into poetry being my psychoanalysis. A journal of all my pain. After moving several times, I lost the rare book of poem.  I hope that if anyone read my words it would help them to solve their issues. My mind would play out these stories, mostly science fiction and romance genres I always loved in movies. All this happen before the desktop computer came into the home. When I received my first computer in the 1990’s. I was learning this amazing machine and the software was a magical entity. A writer that assist me to put my words into action.  I started on my first book, science fiction and I created short stories.  I was privy to its amazing talents. I lived for using this instrument to write.

Writing requires that you look at other writings and find what you are trying to convey. Have written and re-written at least a hundred times to get that sentence right. You go through an emotional roller coaster of queries that at times make you ask, “Who told you that you can write?” Then I read a paragraph of my writing and recognize that you can compose with practice. You see your talents, then research some of the things that will help you write deeper. Bookstores are bliss and every Friday I would visit my preferred. Borders taught me to how to search the shelves of this store to find the information you seek. As you go through floors and shelves you find this character called the writers corner. This area houses books on character, plot and dictionaries and the human trait. Great magazines of writing build the story for me so perfectly, writers who were dispensing words to help other with specifics. My imagination of seeing a writer’s hand reaching for another lost writer. Inside saying she had so much fear, show them how fear affects you and who. I would go back into my work and realize that it needed better wording, design and greater clarity. Fast forward to my future and I find that all my writing is in the future and it has given me great courage.


Getting Better

   At the tender age of sixty seven I find myself forgiving me for my life and existence. I have lost so much , mainly my children. For almost a year I think about my son who would come and get me just because.  Never thought every time I passed the building he passed away in I could feel him. That passing his name in the contacts would make me cry because the empty movement would produce his voice. We talked about his children that made his world. That their mothers made him think deeper about their motives. He loved them……. I know that from our conversations. Yes, I had my opinion “pick one” but he could not his children made that impossible. I believe in my son, even when his opinion was wrong. His friends made his life worth while he told me about each one. Only one was his best, looking out for him as brother since they were young.  Yet he took another brother under his wing who considered him family.

His name is constant in his life. “Hey mom, going to make you laugh.” and he did. I hear his voice calling my name. I see the mist of his spirit right in my face and I cry like right now. It took me until now to be able to write these few words. We would ride pointing out the car he aims to possess. This would be a gift to himself. He wanted to have a house built in South Carolina, I would rent a room for vacation, “you don’t have to rent.” he said. What he did not understand is if I could pay a hotel to stay there I could pay him. Besides his accommondations would have been luxury compared. He had kids and they needed things. I admired him as a father who surprise me. He brought me his first born, she a newborn, with a then nylon blanket wrapped in the bitter cold. He  seeks me out to get advice on what she would need.  A large blanket, snow suit, sox shoes, lots of heavy blankets and without a doubt a hat to cover that soft spot at the top her head. I gave words of wisdom. “Son,  look at her. She looks to you to give her what she needs.”  Don’t wait for anyone to get or do for her, you come with what she needs. When she cries is because something is wrong. She cried every time she saw me.  Advice that he used amazingly with all his children.

I think that I am drifting through life like on a ship to nowhere. I wish that when you leave the planet that you should be able to call just to hear what’s happening with them.  That is all I have to say for right now. Stay tuned, there is more.