“You’re living at a time of extremism, a time of revolution, a time when there’s got to be a change. People in power have misused it, and now there has to be a change and a better world has to be built and the only way it’s going to be built is with extreme methods. And I for one will join in with anyone, I don’t care what color you are, as long as you want to change this miserable condition that exists on this earth. Thank you.” Bookmark and Share Bookmark and Share


On Writing

In an essay, Joyce Carol Oates mentions how she feels about her life as a writer. The immensely successful author expressed that she never claimed herself as a writer in a “pretentious” sense of the craft. I, on the other hand, find a struggle not to shout from the rooftops of my innate art. I don’t feel this way out of pride, but for the sheer excitement of living out a dream of my youth. Through my subjective lens being a writer is one of the most fabulous things to be.

I grew up reading the classics: Moby Dick, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Poe, and the like. I wasn’t as much so concerned with the author’s lifestyle or plight, but the stories they had to tell. I recall being drawn into Poe’s morbid depictions with “The Raven.” Particularly, with Edgar Allen, I thought as if I were reading an extension of myself. That the text was a part of my experience. Something I would inevitably lay hold of. I remember being force feed novels, and then seeking them on my own. I traveled thousands of miles away while sitting in my house in Jamaica Queens. What I experienced as a young reader was the author’s ability to draw in a person; allowing them to fall in love with the characters and their lives.

At the age of nine, my grandfather, who raised me, passed away. My grandmother knew I would have a difficult time dealing with it, so she bought me a journal. She thought it could assist me in getting my thoughts down. When I first saw, it I immediately compared it to a diary, something I imagined a young white girl would write in. Seeing its wide, dark shape I knew it was nothing of that sort. I opened it, and observed its thick lined pages. I thought of the possibilities. As my grandmother left my corner room, I picked up a pencil and began to write. It was there that my love affair with writing was birthed.

Throughout the years writing as taken me into places I would have never imagined. I found myself in ciphers, whereby hip hop lyrics came alive off the pad I scribbled them on. After applying to college with a weak HS grade point average, I wrote my way into an undergraduate program. And while there, I wrote feverishly in and out of relationships. I have written the heart of God, so that others may hear it, and by hearing, believe.

An element of writing that deeply woos me is its’ internal quality. Being an introvert, I find it natural to live in my head and stay there, until something or someone draws me out. With writing, I don’t have to leave. If I did, my work wouldn’t be the same. It’d be detached, forced. People would know it. In a sense, my design/personality lends to my life as a writer. My agent/editor always says, the writers who are extremely extroverted don’t write much and the contrary have trouble promoting their work. I don’t particularly foresee that as an issue, as I love being to myself and “in my cave.” Yet simultaneously, enjoy and require interaction with others. Balance, in any lifestyle is crucial: it is that, which I seek.

As a writer I have faced some interesting experiences. Specifically, in my contact with the opposite sex; the writer and the lover have met at a “shady” intersection. When in love, or in crush for that matter, one often does impulsive, spur-of-the moment things. In my case, I may be walking to a destination, and become inspired to share my thoughts with the pad. After doing so, I feel it my duty to express this, new inspiration, with the source thereof. Mmmph. Always not a good idea. Especially, when this inspiration has occurred once, or twice or thrice before with other muses. Even worse, with other muses in nearby proximity. The young writer learns to write and store, as I’ve had to.

Speaking of the idea of a muse. I find some of my favorite work has come as a result of it. The thought is, find someone (usually), or something that leaves its imprint on you and create from there. Poetry flows naturally from my bosom when its Spring and I’m in love. Not just in love with being in love, but truly experiencing something unique with someone who is or isn’t transcendent.

Some of my most heartfelt work was stemmed from my interaction with a female. Whether it be because of my design or for the fact that she is the pinnacle of creation, I know not. For example, “A Thousand Poems:”


I want to write you a thousand poems that bellow deep from who I have become.

I want to write you 1000 poems that take writers their entire lifetime to write. Only to complete them on their death beds; finishing their last sentences with closed eyes and open hearts.

I would like to see you as you are, again and again and again until I understand ----- -------- --------- (someone’s full name you don’t want to see) comprehensively without varying weights of equivocation.

I would like to write you a thousand poems that sat tattooed on the backs of a thousand cattle on hills of bliss.

I would like to show you, while in my white long johns and have you tell me to “put some clothes on,” smiling with an affection that emanated your true being.

I want to you see what’s subject to a thousand closings of the shutter of my mind.

It is my plausible regret that these desires have become subject to time and experience, however real they may be.

Looking back over this expression, I am overwhelmed by the moments I see with such clarity. Inwardly, I regret that the majority of times my muse as been a woman and not a man. I’m speaking of that man who loves me without end, a place of which I’ve pushed. It is by him that I have love, existence and holy matrimony with the trinity I’ve yet to fully comprehend. I think I’ve come to one of the realest reasons why I do this; because I’ve sought for him through women. As this has changed (and changes) my work has become a reflection of that.

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