Mentors/Reflection

It is important to have them whatever you do in life, and I've been blessed to almost stumble upon them. My first one in the writing biz was a fellow writer named Mirevas (it's her pen name). She's not published, but she should be. She's one of the people who helped me shape the first draft of Being Plumville. I had a different ending, and she flat-out asked me "this is not the ending you really want, is it?" The fact she knew that blew my mind, and it was because of her I got the courage to write the ending that was truly inside, and I think it does the novel much more justice than the first ending could've.

Then I joined various message boards to learn about the industry. I got to IMRR and RICH, and the ladies there have been exceedingly helpful and encouraging. I "met" Aliyah Burke there, and my fangirling self sent her an e-mail I never thought would be answered because she's this amazing published author and I'm still trying to get my life together. Turns out she's been one of my biggest rocks and actually the first person to buy Being Plumville (she got the e-book). She's been such an invaluable mentor and friend to me, and one day I hope we can meet face to face (sans paper bag :-P).

Then I joined Jayha Leigh's group. I'm not very active because I'm shy; don't really have much to contribute to many of the topics; and they are some of the most outrageous (in a good way) group of people I've ever seen! From there I got hooked up with Jayha (obvs), her daughter Jeannie, Rolonda, and Shara Azod (just to name a few). Apparently, some of my stories have been "claimed"; some heroes have been "bookmarked" lol; and now I'm doing some editing for them. I was surprised because they write Erotica (random: yeah . . . don't think I will. I know I made a blog post saying I would, but at the moment, nothing erotic in nature has floated through mah brainz yet). But, heck, if I don't write erotica and enjoy their work, I'm sure the vice-versa could happen too. And it did.

And then I finally got the courage to go to my local RWA chapter . . . and its conference. Just about everyone is published there at some of the biggest houses in the romance industry. I was concerned because I was the youngest and, based on my attendance so far, the only person of color and the only person writing IR/MC. I thought I wouldn't fit in. The ladies in my chapter have been nothing but helpful and supportive. The conference really sealed it, because they were so eager to help my lost, newbie self, and now I feel like part of the group. I sat and talked to Ashlyn Chase for over and hour and she gave me such great advice; and I actually drummed up the courage to talk to Suzanne Brockmann (and if you know how shy I am, you know how huge of a thing that was for me!). That's how comfortable and supported I felt, and that was so appreciated.

And then RSJ. Man, what a conference. All these people whose books I bought now have a face to a name. People I thought had never heard of me came up to me and said I was a great writer. People gave me contact info, check in on me . . . are there when I have questions/concerns/fears/good news. I need that. I don't really have that. A lot of times I think I'm talking to the ethers, that no one is really reading this blog or reading what's on my group, and then I get an e-mail from someone encouraging me. I think for so long I've been used to me, myself, and I, that I'm still shocked and amazed that there are others, others who just solely based on what I've written, are behind me and rooting for me. It's overwhelming and humbling and I'm so grateful. Beverly Jenkins, Lisa G. Riley, Marcia Colette, Monique Lamont, Kimberly Kaye Terry, Celeste O. Norfleet, Alice Wootson, Kayla Perrin, Leslie Thompson, Sean Young, Simone Harlow, Farrah Rochon . . . just yo, man. I was in the presence of greatness for real. And then people would sit and talk to me for lengths of time because they were interested in what I had to say? Blew me away. Isis, a member of IMRR/RICH who was in our groups said "people just need to ask you the right questions, and you open up." I guess she was right, because I talked more about my writing then than I ever had. I didn't feel . . . ashamed about it, that I'd care much more than the listener would. I didn't have to be uncomfortable about my love for my craft, and it felt good. There was one moment I found myself as the mentor to someone else . . . a little Twilight Zone moment for me, but I also felt extremely honored she wanted my advice and was taking it to heart.

And speaking of IMRR, Crystal Hubbard wrote me one of the most jaw-droppingly fantastic e-mails ever. She is published many times over, and when I first saw her on the board, I was intimidated by her (but I'm intimidated by published authors in general . . . I'm working on getting over that; RSJ definitely helped me on that front!). I had no idea she'd read my book, but she wrote me back about it. Yeah. Yeah. I tell you when I first started writing that book, I had no idea about the reception I would get--let alone it would be this positive. But for this published author, an author very beloved given her reception on the IMRR board, to take time out to write me back about it . . . just wow.

She wrote me a birthday ode too!

And then other mentors are not even writers at all, nor are they older. They are the people who have the faith and confidence in me . . . sometimes FOR me . . . and I'm glad they're there. Too many to name, but they know who they are.

I'm home for Memorial Day weekend. Last year this time I had my very first book signing. A lot of wonderful things have happened over the course of the year. I'm very grateful.

ETA: I keep adding onto this post! I also want to shout out Karyn Langhorne and Wendy Coakley-Thompson, too, and their on-hiatus show The Book Squad. It was a fantastic show and an honor to be on there! They've also been very encouraging and I appreciate it.

A Quarter-Century Later . . .

Today is my birthday. I can rent a car without the extra underage fees. Yes, that is the highlight of my birthday, the thing I've been most looking forward to in the past year (other than, you know, possible agent/book contracts . . . baby steps . . .). Also, Red Rose Publishing has released Designing Berlin by Shara Azod, which is also the second edited book I've done for them. Go out and buy it! It's a great story by a very talented author about meeting your love/destiny and whether or not you have the courage to accept it or not. So, in order to celebrate these auspicious occasions, I will be posting the unedited first chapter of an WiP called Trolling Nights. Just to show you fine people I am working on some things. Hopefully, you will enjoy!

Savannah

One

© 2008 by Savannah J. Frierson

Bevin Moore hated Trolling Nights. It was the night the group of them from the coffeehouse went out to the bars near base so they could find men who would provide a good time. There was a ritual and everything—the trip to the pharmacy to buy condoms; the alcoholic pregaming at her apartment; the check to make sure everyone had charged cell phones and valid IDs; the dropping of a set of keys into her palm because she was always, always, the designated driver. They would only hit three stops on any given Trolling Night, because the one and only time they’d decided to make a night of it, Bevin had ended up sleeping on some guy’s random futon. He’d driven her and one member of the crew to his apartment so they could have a little fun, and Bevin had been too exhausted to fight—but she was damned if she weren’t going to stay with her car. That meant the ladies had three chances to find prospects. If not, they all went home in her car, because, damnit, Bevin wasn’t ever sleeping on a stranger’s futon again.

“Designated driver, I designate the rules,” Bevin had decreed when the others had tried to fight her on it. “Otherwise, y’all better bring extra money for a taxi, because I’ll be gotdamned if any of you heffas drive drunk or go home with men who y’all ain’t no gotdamn business being with—I don’t wanna see y’all on the morning or evening news the next day!”

She was also the unofficial official gatekeeper of the Femme Crew, as dubbed by the owner of The Barrel, the bar where they always make their first stop.

Every man knew this too. In fact, most men went directly to her before they even approached their chosen girl for the night. If a man were new in town, he’d be schooled quickly so he could avoid being “read his rights” in a most public manner. Some men tried to be rude with Bevin, but she would smile and tell them she’d heard better insults from a mute dog, then watch their intended lambaste them for daring to speak ill about “her Bevin.”

Rarely did she or any in the Femme Crew pay for their drinks, either. Bevin would try to leave a nice overall tip before they left any establishment because she would usually get a water or a sweet tea or a lemonade. Since the other women made it a mission to get plastered and laid, Bevin had to be in full control of her faculties to make sure the others remained as safe as possible—

Or at least prevent them from having a case of regrets almost as large and painful as their headaches would be the next morning.

Nevertheless, it was a successful night if she drove home alone. Everyone found someone with whom she’d have a good time, and Bevin felt reasonable safe she hadn’t allowed a lunatic to take a member of the Femme Crew home.

And if she did, at least she had a working cell phone of theirs. No one was to leave without her getting the man’s cell phone number, and she always called it back with the man present. If a phone didn’t ring or vibrate, the girl wasn’t going home with him.

Ever.

Bevin wished Trolling Nights would end soon, though. They were getting too old, and the pickings weren’t getting any better. Right now, they were at The Barrel, a roadhouse-type bar with peanut shells and other things she couldn’t recognize decorating the faux-wooden floor. She was sitting in their designated booth watching the some of the others in the Femme Crew dance. Any moment, Bevin thought, they’ll be doing it in the middle of the dance floor—or at least trying to! She didn’t particularly relish having to get up to tell them to take it to the bathrooms should it reach that point.

“Won’t be the first time,” Bevin snickered to herself. It was a wonder how she even got on with these women. They were hedonistic creatures who worked at the coffeehouse near the NEX with her. During those hours, they rarely had nothing to talk about, and they got along just fine. But at night, they turned into people Bevin didn’t recognize, and probably wouldn’t associate with if she hadn’t known about their daytime personalities. In fact, she hadn’t even known about Trolling Night until they’d invited her to come along, saying she needed to “get out more.”

Bevin should’ve realized that was actually code for “keep us out of trouble.”

She was damn good at her job, though, if Bevin said so herself, and she wore her badge of “Cock Blocker” proudly. Besides, it was only the unworthy who were denied, and Bevin would never apologize for that.

Tim Capshaw dangled the bottleneck between the index and middle fingers of his right hand, staring intently at the booth where the singular young woman with a curly bob stared sentry-like onto the dance floor. Tim wasn’t exactly sure why his eyes had stopped on her during his slow casing of the joint, but they had. Maybe it was because she looked so out of place—and it wasn’t because she was one of the few black bodies in the building. It was her rigid posture; the fact she wore a black top that covered more than exposed; and the fact there was a three-foot empty radius around her that was rarely broken by anything other that women or servers who would chat her up for a few seconds then leave her alone again. She didn’t seem sad or depressed, either, which further intrigued him. She looked comfortable in her skin, and to Tim, that was sexy as hell.

There was a continuous hum of sound in his left ear, and Tim realized it was of a slim brunette who had one of the most stunning pairs of blue eyes he’d ever seen, but a body with more angles than a stop sign. Tim gritted his teeth and took another swig of his beer. Her interest wasn’t reciprocated, unfortunately, but he would give her a B+ for effort.

“Ah, you found her,” the brunette said, pointing toward the black woman he’d been watching earlier. “If you go over there with a drink or something, chat her up, then I’m sure she’ll give you permission to take me home tonight.” The brunette ran her tongue over her bottom lip in what he assumed was supposed to be a provocative gesture. Tim took another sip from his beer so he wouldn’t laugh in her face.

“Is she your mother or something?” he asked dryly, his Alabama drawl almost sprawling as the alcohol started taking effect. He looked at the brunette with a raised eyebrow. “Your sponsor?”

Her eyes fluttered and her cheeks turned red. He grinned. The woman was much cuter when she blushed.

“Nothing like that,” she assured him, resting her fingers on his muscular forearm. He watched her painted-red nails catch some of the dim amber light in the bar as she flexed her fingers. He switched his bottle from his right to left hand, the muscles underneath her fingers cording when he gripped the bottle. This time he didn’t hide his smile when she unsuccessfully stifled her whimper.

“Who is she, then?” Tim asked, staring at the brunette when he really wanted to look back at the booth.

“Our gatekeeper.”

“Gatekeeper?”

“She keeps the losers away from us.”

He raised his eyebrows. “And what makes you think I’m not a loser?”

“Other than the fact I know you wear a trident?” she asked, her blue-eyed gaze roving slowly over his form while her fingers caressed his forearm. “You don’t have the look of a loser.”

A corner of Tim’s full-lipped mouth curved. “Looks can deceive.”

“I’m nothing if not adventurous.”

The brunette smirked and leaned against the bar. Tim drank the final few drops in his bottle and set it on the bar in front of him. “What’s her poison?”

“Who, Bevin?”

“Is that her name?” Tim asked, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“Yeah, and um, nonalcoholic, I know—she’s our DD.”

He nodded and tapped on the bar. When the bartender approached, Tim ordered. “Can I get a Diet Coke and another one of these?” he asked, pointing to the empty beer bottle. A few moments later, both orders appeared before him, and Tim slapped down a ten. “Keep the change,” he drawled, and the bartender nodded thanks.

“Come back and let me know what she says, yeah?” the brunette commanded when Tim slid off the barstool.

Tim didn’t answer her, already stalking toward his quarry.

Bevin immediately went on alert when she spotted the jolly white giant of a man, except his expression was anything but jolly. Though his stonewashed jeans were loose, they didn’t hide the muscles in his legs and thighs, and his white Polo shirt strained against his broad chest. His hair, the color of sun-burnished wheat, was wavy and cut economically yet stylishly about his head. He was clean-shaven, highlighting his chiseled cheeks and jaw, and a mouth that had Bevin licking her lips wanting to sample a taste. Whichever one in the group who had managed to reel him in was a lucky bitch indeed. She just hoped he weren’t an asshole.

“Bevin?”

She almost creamed her pants. His voice was smooth, deep, and decadent; and his Southern drawl made her bite her lip so she wouldn’t ask him to say her name again, which was notable since Charleston was full of men with Southern dialects. She nodded instead.

“I’m Tim Capshaw. Your friend said you didn’t drink alcohol, so I got you a Diet Coke. That all right?”

Bevin looked over at the bar where she saw Courtney with her hands underneath her chin as if in prayer. Bevin nodded again and got her equilibrium back.

“Coke’s fine, thanks,” Bevin said, and pointed to the bench across from her. “Have a seat.”

Tim raised his eyebrows, yet did as told, his mouth widening slightly. She tried not to stare.

“You make this seem like a job interview.”

Bevin shrugged. “If that’s the way you feel, I won’t stop you.”

Tim cradled his beer bottle between his hands and stared at it. “I’m not sure how to proceed here.”

“What would you like to know?” Bevin asked, endeared by the fact he didn’t immediately start spouting lines or empty promises.

Tim licked his lips and looked at her. His sea-green eyes seemed to sear into her soul, and Bevin dropped her eyes immediately. She took a sip of her Coke and winced as the bubbles burned her nostrils.

“All right? Flat?” Tim asked, frowning at her.

“Fine, sorry,” she said with a small cough, scrunching up her nose. “It’s been a while since I had a soda.”

His frown deepened. “Shit, well, I’m sorry—what do you really want? Let me get you something you’d like.”

Bevin couldn’t stop her shiver and she cleared her throat, licking her lips. “Uh, a sweet tea or a lemonade—but you don’t have to.”

He grinned at her, and the fact his upper two front teeth were crooked did little to make her breathless from his smile. “I don’t mind. I aim to please.”

With a parting wink, he left the booth to slink back to the bar. Her eyes followed his progress, her body still quivering from his voice, her skin still burning from the heat of his gaze. This was the first time she’d ever wished she could be as free as the others in the Femme Crew, for she wouldn’t mind taking home that corn-fed redneck boy home for a night at all.

“What did she say?”

Tim blinked at the brunette from earlier, then ignored her question. “May I have a lemonade? No alcohol.”

“Is that for Bevin?” the brunette asked, confusion and impatience in her voice.

“She doesn’t drink sodas,” Tim said, barely sparing her a glance.

“Oh, sorry,” the brunette said with a shrug. “Did she hand down a verdict yet?”

“All we’ve done is exchange names,” Tim replied, staring at the bottles and glasses behind the bar instead of the woman beside him. Even if Bevin deemed him fit for this woman, this woman wasn’t fit for him. The fact she didn’t know her “friend” didn’t drink sodas said a lot about their relationship.

“Here you are,” the bartender said, setting the lemonade in front of Tim.

“Thanks a lot.” Tim put a five on the bar and waved away the change the bartender tried to return.

“Aren’t you a generous soul?” the brunette commented.

“I try to be,” Tim said. “I believe in karma.”

The brunette gave him a sultry smile that he returned, and she twiddled her fingers in goodbye. As soon as he looked away from her, Tim rolled his eyes and sighed. It didn’t matter this was his first night out in months; he wasn’t that hard up for a screw that he’d bed the first willing woman he met.

No, he thought, smiling when Bevin’s eyes brightened at the sight of her lemonade. I do have standards.

“How is it?” he asked, watching her take a long drink. She closed her eyes and licked her lips. His cock hardened in his jeans.

“Glorious, thank you,” she murmured and took another sip.

“You’re very welcome.” He saw her glance toward the bar and she snorted. The sound made him smile. “What?”

“I’ve never seen Courtney so anxious for my opinion in my life!”

Tim didn’t bother turning his gaze. “That’s her name?”

Bevin didn’t seem surprised or offended that he’d been ignorant of that particular information. “Yes. She’s a barista at the coffeehouse near base along with the rest of us.”

“I’ll bet you’re the manager.”

Bevin ducked her head, and if there’d been better lighting, he would’ve seen her blush. “How could you tell?”

“They listen to you. Defer to you. I doubt they’d do that so willingly off-hours if they didn’t have to do it on hours.”

“Courtney’s the assistant manager. Very helpful. She likes to have a good time.”

“And what about you, Bevin?” he asked, leaning forward and resting his arms on the table. “What do you like to do for fun?

She blinked at him, confusion clear on her face. “Me?”

“Yeah, you,” he said with a nod. “When does Courtney become the designated driver?”

Bevin frowned and shook her head. “I’m always the designated driver. The Gatekeeper.”

“I got that spiel earlier,” Tim said and jerked his head toward the bar. “Courtney let me in on that detail.”

Bevin’s shoulders sagged with obvious relief. “Well, you don’t have to worry. I think you’re a cool guy. You can let Courtney know I approve—but you have to give me your cell number.”

A corner of Tim’s mouth lifted. “Why?”

“Don’t you worry about that. Just give me your number,” Bevin said, already whipping out her cell and preparing to dial. Tim was impressed her cell phone was an actual phone, and not one of those mini computers with a keyboard, camera, camcorder, and remote to access control of orbiting satellites that seem to be all the rage nowadays. He recited his number to her, and she punched in the digits accordingly.

“Thank you very much,” Bevin said and put her phone back in her purse.

“What about you?”

“What about me?” Bevin asked, sipping more of her lemonade.

“Don’t I need your number?”

The confusion was back. “For what?”

“If I need to get in touch with you.”

“Courtney has it.”

“But I want it for myself.”

Bevin narrowed her eyes at him. “This is new.”

“What?”

“A man wanting my number. Are you new around here?”

“I’ve been away for a few months,” Tim admitted. “Why?”

“Men rarely ask for my number,” Bevin said. “I mean, I’m actually still surprised you’re here. After I give ‘my blessing’, men usually high-tail it away from me just in case they say something stupid and I revoke my permission.”

Tim laughed and Bevin’s eyes narrowed even more. “I can’t believe you’re serious!”

“As a heart attack—there’s a reason they call me the Cock Blocker.”

Well, his certainly pulsed at that. “Because you keep the losers away.”

“Damn straight I do,” Bevin said with a nod.

“And who cock-blocks for you?” Tim asked softly.

Bevin’s laugh was too loud to be genuine. “Boy, please! Ain’t no cocks interested in me!”

Tim let his eyes roam over Bevin. Her black top had an enticing V collar that exposed her cleavage. Her skin was the color of nutrient-bearing topsoil, and the gardener in him approved very much. She was a thick woman, a woman with an abundance of curves in all the right places; a woman he didn’t think he’d ever break during a night of passionate loving.

“You’ll forgive me if I find that hard to believe,” Tim said.

Bevin shrugged. “That’s just because you haven’t seen the rest of the Femme Crew yet.”

“I really don’t think my opinion will change,” Tim said seriously.

Bevin squirmed in her seat and took another drink of lemonade. “Well, ah,” she began and pointed to a pretty petite Asian woman who was dancing with a very happy black man. “That’s Patrice. She works in the coffeehouse—all of us do, actually—and she’s usually the first one to get a suitor. She’s a really sweet girl, too, so I’m extra careful about who I allow to be with her.” Bevin scanned the dance floor and then pointed again. “See the blonde? Tall as hell with a sick body? That’s Tamara, and she leaves a trail of broken hearts and blueballs wherever she goes.”

Tim crossed his legs at that even as he stared at the blonde woman who was dancing with three men at once.

“You’ve met Courtney. She’s my roommate, so I’m also extra careful with whom she chooses.”

“And I passed,” Tim reminded Bevin.

She rolled her eyes but grinned. “Yeah, you don’t suck.”

“And finally . . . there she is! Rosita,” she said and pointed to a cinnamon-skinned woman with thick curly black hair. “She’s Cuban, and when she gets really mad she speaks in rapid Spanish.”

“Do you speak Spanish?” Tim asked.

Bevin shook her head and laughed. “Not enough for me to figure out what the hell she’s saying!”

He would’ve laughed, too, had he enough breath for it. The way her eyes sparkled with her mirth sucked all the air from his lungs. The contrast of her golden eyes to her dark skin was astoundingly beautiful, especially when she had a smile that matched.

“Anyway,” Bevin said sheepishly and coughed. “That’s the Crew.”

“So I see,” Tim replied. “And I’ll ask again—who cock-blocks for you?”

Bevin sat back and looked at him weirdly. “I show you everyone and you still—?”

“Hey, Bevin! Thought I’d come over and see how things are going!”

Bevin snapped her attention to Courtney who was busy staring at Tim. The red tube top pressed tight against her chest, and Bevin wondered how it felt not having to worry about bras like she did.

“Everything’s fine,” Bevin promised, giving her friend and roommate a small smile.

Courtney slid into the booth next to Tim, who seemed surprised and a little annoyed that he had to scoot over to accommodate her.

“The girls are having fun,” Courtney commented, looking on the dance floor. Patrice waved at them as she ground against her dance partner. Tamara was twirling two men underneath her arms and Rosita was in a heavy lip lock.

“There she goes!” Courtney laughed and Bevin smiled. “No one is going to catch up to her tally.”

“Tally?” Tim asked.

Bevin blushed and Courtney grinned. “You know, the notches on her bedpost? She’s definitely in the lead!”

“But I thought Patrice got the most men,” Tim said.

“She gets the most suitors, but many of them think she’s easy. You know, the whole Asian women stereotype. I nip that with a quickness,” Bevin said.

“Rosita gets the most leeway because Rosita and Bevin have known each other the longest and Rosita knows capoeira. She can kick some ass,” Courtney said. “She’s started teaching us a few moves just in case . . . you know.”

“Are you any good?” Tim asked, looking at Courtney with interest for the first time since she’d sat down.

“I’m not bad at it,” Courtney said. “But surprisingly, Bevin’s the best at it so far.”

“Why is that a surprise?” Tim asked, looking at Bevin with a look Bevin thought was more appropriate for Courtney. “She looks more than capable to me.”

Bevin and Courtney gaped at him, but Courtney recovered first and slid her hand to Tim’s. “Dance with me.”

Tim still looked at her and Bevin shrugged. “I already told you, you passed my test.”

“Only if I get to dance with you later,” Tim said, ignoring the way Courtney was tugging on his hand.

“I don’t generally dance—”

“Just tell him yes, Bev,” Courtney pleaded.

Those sea-green eyes stared intently at her and Bevin found herself nodding. “Okay.”

He smiled, and both Bevin and Courtney sighed at the sight. “Thank you, Bev, you’re the best!” Courtney cheered, and she pulled the tall man onto the dance floor.

The DJ was on point tonight. The bass thumped and shook the furniture, and even Bevin couldn’t stop from bouncing in her seat to the beat. A few of the others from the Crew and their partners came up and spoke to her. The man with Patrice seemed completely enamored, which had Bevin thinking they would make an adorable couple.

“Ulrich said he’d drop me home,” Patrice told her.

“Ulrich?” Bevin asked, and the black man grinned at her. He really was handsome—well built with closely shorn hair and a mustache, his skin the color of a Werther’s Original.

“My old man was in the Army; named me after one of the men in his squad,” Ulrich explained.

“And you’re Navy?” Bevin asked.

“Part of the Teams,” Ulrich said.

I love him! Patrice mouthed dreamily, and Bevin bit her lip to keep from laughing.

“Congratulations,” Bevin said instead.

“Thank you,” Ulrich said. “Want to dance?”

This time Bevin did let out a chuckle. “Trying to butter me up?”

“Naw, girl, nothin’ like that,” Ulrich said, but he winked. “I see you jammin’ over here and my girl wants to take a break.” He rubbed Patrice’s shoulders. “So how ’bout it?”

“You okay with this?” Bevin asked Patrice.

“It was my idea!” she said, grabbing Bevin’s hand and tugging. “Have some fun. I think it’s ridiculous you always make sure we have fun but don’t have any yourself!”

Bevin scowled at that, but couldn’t respond because Ulrich was leading her to the dance floor and twirling her around in time with the music. He spun her so her back was to his front and he settled his hands on her hips. He certainly shook what his mama gave him, and it made it easy for Bevin to do the same. She heard Patrice whistle and catcall, and Bevin shook her head at her friend’s antics.

“Go ’head, girl, dancin’ like this Soul Train!” Ulrich encouraged.

“Boy, please!” Bevin scoffed.

“I’m serious,” Ulrich said, and Bevin sensed his sincerity. “Best dancer here!”

Bevin snorted. “We’re also two of the four black people in here!”

Ulrich laughed loudly at that and popped her hip. “You said it, not I! Wrong for that!”

“You were thinking it,” Bevin challenged.

Ulrich laughed again. “Not gonna lie; not gonna lie . . .”

It was the most fun she’d had in a long while thanks to Ulrich, and when the song ended and a slower one began, Bevin gave Ulrich a hug and started off the dance floor. She didn’t get very far, however, for a warm, damp hand curled around hers, and a shiver better served for a wintry evening than a hot, sweaty bar overcame her.

“You owe me a dance,” came the drawl in her ear.

“I’m kind of tired,” Bevin mumbled and started forward, but the hand around hers tightened.

“It’s a slow one, little energy required.” The hand pulled her gently until she faced Tim Capshaw. He was smiling at her, and Bevin squelched down the urge to hide her face in that broad, muscular, sexy chest of his.

“Where’s Courtney?” Bevin asked, looking everywhere but at him.

“Back at the booth,” he replied. One hand settled on her hip, and she noted his touch felt very different from Ulrich’s. More potent. His other hand grasped hers and he rested both against his chest. He was so tall. She had to crane her neck to look into his eyes, which she did fleetingly.

“Something wrong?” he asked after the third time they locked eyes before she darted hers away.

“No.”

He brought her closer, and she trembled.

“I’m making you nervous?” Bevin didn’t answer him. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” she asked.

“You’re so stiff and you won’t look at me.”

“Isn’t this just a pity dance?” Bevin asked before she could tell herself to shut up.

His brows furrowed. “Why would you assume this is a pity dance? Did you think Ulrich’s dance was a pity dance too?”

This time she had no problem pulling back and meeting Tim’s eyes. “Y’all know each other?”

“We’re on the same Team.”

“You’re Navy?” Bevin asked, then she gave him a quick once over and sucked her teeth. “’Course you are, with a body like that!”

She did not just say that aloud! Bevin stole a peek at him, and he was blushing and grinning down at her. Her embarrassment overrode her wariness over being so close to him and she hid her face in his chest.

“Such an idiot,” she muttered.

“You are not,” he disagreed and patted her back. “You’re really sweet. Thank you.”

Bevin just moaned.

“And for the record, this is not a pity dance. This is just a man wanting to dance with a nice, sweet woman, okay?” She nodded and started to pull back, but his hand pressed against her. “Where are you going?”

“I’m all up on you,” Bevin explained, then blushed at how it sounded.

She felt his chest rumble with his chuckle. “I happen to like just where you are, Miss Bevin.”

She shivered again, but decided to relax. The song would be over soon, anyway.

And it was, but Tim wouldn’t let go of her. Bevin laughed cautiously and tapped his hard bicep.

“You can let go of me now,” she said.

“And what if I don’t want to?”

This man was throwing too many curves at her this evening. “Courtney will get upset.”

Tim clenched his jaw, then he slowly dropped his arms from her form. Bevin immediately felt bereft, but she’d rather deal with that than with Courtney mad at her.

“Thank you for the dance,” Bevin said quietly, and she left Tim standing on the dance floor. She felt numerous sets of eyes on her, but it was the set behind her that affected her the most.

Vietnam Story Update

Um, yes . . . there is one . . . on the SYG.

Enjoy! :)

1st Red Rose Publishing Release

Bound by Magic is the first manuscript I edited for Red Rose Publishing. The story is an erotic paranormal/fantasy romance about Amber and Travis who are from two different worlds, yet they are, as the title says, bound by magic. I don't really read paranormal, but I did enjoy reading this story. I'm glad Amanda Cummings gave me the opportunity to work with her, my guinea pig, and she was very patient understanding. Check it out!

Crashing from the High

Maybe you feel like you are able to convey more through writing, giving yourself the excuse, that what you're feeling is being protrayed through someone else, so you don't have to "face" it yourself.

--As said to me by a fellow author


I've been found out. Somewhat. Why each rejection just chips away at me. It's bad enough that, apparently, I'm not writing what anyone wants to read (based on various articles and message boards and loops and even at the conference, etc); but it's that coupled with whatever concerns me/speaks to me is singular only to me and no one else. I guess because it's always been like that for me on a personal scale; to see it on a more public scale really chafes. I talk and few listen; I write and few read. I feel like the mythological Cassandra sometimes, I swear lol. There's no way I can write for the market, even if I do read and enjoy much of what the market provides. On the other hand, my writing teachers in college would say the most specific is the most universal. It seems like it isn't.

It's funny; one author at the conference told me to calm down when I was discussing some of my fears. I know I should. I should calm down and gather patience and all the things successful writers say because they have the benefit of hindsight and the rewards of what they'd sown for years. But this is the first time I've done something for me, and I'm terrified of falling flat on my face.

People are proud of me; I know this. I think why I was so glad to be at RSJ is because I was surrounded by people who understood what I was going through. I rarely have that. When I first started this writing thing, all I was told was how hard it would be; how unlikely success would be; how impractical it would be. I'm doing it anyway, but I'm scared to death I won't prove those sentiments wrong. And because these things were told by the people who know and love me the most, I took it close to my heart. I've gotten good reception, but . . . I don't know what I need to do or write so that people won't think this is just a hobby to me. I don't know what else I can do if I don't write, and that's scary. And I don't really have anyone with whom to talk to about my fears. I have folks I talk to online, but they have their own lives. It's just I.

And I know this is delayed reaction to Mother's Day too. My dad called on Sunday and asked how I was. I told him I was fine. I knew I wasn't, but I didn't want to talk about it. My mother was heavy on my mind during RSJ too. She was a reader; she would've loved the conference. She was just about everything I wish I were. If I'd told her I was going to be a writer, I don't think she would've said all the reasons why it wasn't a good idea first; or be borderline condescending about it. My sister says I idealize her, which is funny, because I'm older than she is. How would I know how the woman would be or do when I only knew her for nine years?

This is one of my more personal posts, but I'm going to put it up anyway. This journey isn't always smooth, and I think a post like this will help me stay righteous should I be blessed enough to have success.

Happy Mother's Day!

Happy Mother's Day! I hope today is enjoyable!

Finally Updated the Web Site

I spent the better part of the morning updating SJF Books. I'm tired. I'm going to continue reading Jewel by Beverly Jenkins now.

RWA, Reviews, and Accolades

1.) I totally had a RWA Chapter conference 2 weeks before my RSJ experience. I TOTALLY had a worthwhile time there too. I met Suzanne Brockmann, and she's amazing. In fact, my chapter is pretty darn amazin (holla, New England). I had a great pitch with an agent there, and the other authors there were more than willing to chat with me and give me advice. I felt a little fish out of water because, unlike RSJ, I was practically integrating the place racially, and I was among the youngest as well. Not only that, outside of Ms. Brockmann, I was pretty much the only person there writing multicultural romance, emphasis on interracial. I'm glad I had that conference before RSJ, though. It forced me to say and claim what I wrote; to not be ashamed or timid about it. It also helped me not be intimidated, because my chapter is fully of Harlequin/Kensington/Dorchester/Avon/St. Martin's Press/Ellora's Cave, etc writers. And here I am--iUniverse and Lulu Press. But you know what? For many of them it took YEARS to get to those houses and they started later in life. I'm not in bad shape at all.

2.) So here's the thing. What I'm about to blog about are weeks old--some even months old. However, if you know (of) me, I have a tendency to hoard good news. I'm working on it. But I think if I put it in the universe, it'll be stripped away from me somehow. Don't ask me why, I think it's a self-defense mechanism. But the RSJ has helped me realize it's okay to share good news. Good people will genuinely be happy for you. It's not conceit, or selfishness, or bravado. If you're good, don't dim your light for anyone else.

3.) Ergo, without further ado . . .

Romance Junkies gives Being Plumville 4.5/5 stars:

The characters and plotline are fully developed and feel like the real world with real people. I made an emotional connection to Ben and Coralee and felt their love and pain in equal measure. The obstacles these two admirable individuals must overcome are realistically presented, making me feel like I was right there beside them all the way. Author Savannah Frierson captures the essence of Southern rules and bigotry with flair; she made me recall what it was like as a child growing up in the South. Full of tension and tenderness, racial tension and romance, author Savannah J. Frierson captures the essence of a turbulent time in our nation’s history. BEING PLUMVILLE is a novel I plan to purchase for several friends.

By Romance Junkies Reviewer: Scarlet

And thank you to everyone who voted in the 2007 SORMAG READERS' CHOICE AWARDS.

The Best Multi-Cultural Self Published Book Of The Year

Being Plumville

The Best Multi-Cultural Self Published Author Of The Year

TIE

Sylvia Hubbard

Ann Clay

Savannah Frierson


The Best Multi-Cultural New Self Published Author Of The Year

Savannah Frierson

I think that's it for now. Oh, and keep your fingers crossed. I'm sending off manuscripts to folks this week. Also, thanks for your patience with Vietnam Story. It's not languishing, I promise.

Romance Slam Jam and Accomplishing Goals

The Romance Slam Jam in Chicago this year was definitely worth my while, and the best thing was it was worth my while both as a reader and as a writer. I can now put faces to the names of all those books I have stacked in my apartment, and consequently, those who have bought my books now can put my face along with the name on that cover and spine as well. It was very surreal, very nerve-wracking, very humbling, and very exciting all at the same time. I had a Readers Session with Beverly Jenkins and Nathasha Brooks-Harris. Both of these women have multiple books out with publishers, and Miss Beverly especially is one of the most beloved authors at this conference. And there's lil' ole me, with her self-published debut book with nowhere near the sales of either of the other women. Yet Miss Beverly told the attendees who'd come to the session to "Be nice to the baby", and they were. They were actually interested in what I had to say, in what I'd written, in what I'd write. Many of these women were older; all of them were black. I write interracial romances where the majority of the books being celebrated and written are monoracial Black romances. And yet, many women approached me and said, "I've never read interracial before, but now I'll buy your book." Goal accomplished. The fact that Being Plumville is set in a racially strife era in our country (then again, when hasn't there been racial strife in the US?), and these women are willing to give it a chance really meant a lot. I had so many wonderful conversations with established and aspiring authors, and I learned so much.

I had agent and editor pitches and both went so well that even if ultimately the project doesn't work out, I still think I have succeeded. I wouldn't hesitate submitting another project to them, and hearing other established and beloved authors talk about their struggles to get published encouraged me not to give up. In fact, a publisher that had rejected my work before said for me to submit again, and it was because of that one-on-one contact, I think, is what enabled me to get that request.

I didn't win the Emma Award for Debut Author of the year, nor did I win the Aspiring Author contest. I couldn't even be disappointed. By the time for the awards ceremony, I'd gained so much more than expected, that those wins would've been icing on the cake. Congrats to Isis who did win the Aspiring Author contest and to LaConnie Taylor-Jones who won for the Debut Author. Seriously, just being nominated, being the only self-published author on the list, was plenty validation.

It's been a week since the conference. A week since I sat on that Readers Session panel; a week since I've met some of the most phenomenal people I've ever met. A week since meeting people who've bought my books and told me how much they appreciated it. A week since just soaking up everything I could from people who've been in my shoes, and counseling people who aspire to just finish a novel. I've made contacts, even friends, mentors. This was definitely worth the trip, and I genuinely hope to be a part of it next year.

Being Plumville: 1 Year Later

Between this:

Title: Being Plumville

Author: Savannah J. Frierson

Genre: Historical

Hearts: 5/5 - Reviewer Top Pick

Reviewer: Lisa

Date: 4/2/2008

Online: http://www.nightowlromance.com/nightowlromance/reviews/Review.asp?ReviewId=1504

This is not an ordinary read – it is an amazing one! Savannah J. Frierson transcends barriers of time, culture, and race to create a love story which could be real. Historically accurate, pertinent, and with painstakingly correct dialogue, this book places you in the South in the 1950's and 1960's. The childhood friendship between Coralee Simmons and Benjamin Drummond has always been special but held within the confines of societal and cultural dictations of the time.

The tension builds slowly, leading to an amazing climax. Frierson fearlessly wrestles not only with blatant racism, but also with issues at the core of humanity; acceptance, change, equality, and growth. She skillfully explores conflicts between a person's being and doing. With expert finesse, she deftly probes painful unconscious influences cast by culture and society and how they dictate roles and behavior, creating a caste system still written about today.

Frierson is an author that I would, without a doubt, read again. I expect great things from her in the future. Romantic yet edgy, not only does she weave a wonderful story, but her characters are human, wrestling with humanity and authenticity in the deepest of ways. This reviewer has three final words – You Go, Girl!

And a very nice note from a reader who got wind of my book from a former nanny of all people, I'm surprised, humbled, and so blessed people are still responding so well to Being Plumville now that it's been out for a full year. Now, if only the agents and publishers could respond equally as well to my writing! God is something, because I'd just gotten another rejection from an agent, and yet I get these two lovely responses back. It's like He's trying to remind me that I'm doing all right and encouraging me to keep doing the do. I'm not gonna not listen, ya heard?! One day . . . one day I'll get that yes I'm waiting on, even if the nos get more and more frustrating to hear. I'll just pull up these reviews and reread the lovely letters readers are writing me. I really do appreciate it. It sound so trite, but it conveys so much of my gratitude, you don't even know. Also, thank you to all of you who came out to chat last Sunday! It was fun! I'll have to do that again soon.

And tomorrow is the 40th anniversary of Martin Luther King, Jr.'s assassination. On the surface it seems like it has nothing to do with the above post, yet I mention it because he was/is the face (outside of my mother, father, grandmother, aunts, uncles cousins) who struggled during the Modern Civil Rights Movement so that I can sit here in my mixed-race apartment and attend my mixed-race middle/high school and college and be employed at my mixed-race office and vote at my mixed-race precinct come November and date/marry whatever race I see fit. And then I think about Being Plumville and the story's setting and the story's, well, story, and it has just about everything to do with it. I tell you when I first started writing it, the year 1968 just popped into my head because it sounded far enough away from the current year (then 2004) but recent enough that it's still tangible in its access. 40 years isn't a long time. I have cousins older than that--a brother older than that! Both my parents, both my uncles and my aunts are older than that. We're all affected by that, and to write about a mixed-race couple who have to deal with all that upheaval and still find their way to each other and have current readers, many of whom weren't alive 40 years ago and many who definitely were; readers of all genders and races; able to relate to that . . . it means a lot. So thank you all. Truly. Truly, truly, truly.

Sav

VS Update and Chat Announcement

Hi, everyone,

Just wanted to let y'all know there is an update of Vietnam Story on my google group.

Also, for those of you who made it to the Night Owl Romance Chat, thanks very much! If you didn't, you have an opportunity to make it to this one--and it's only me and you this time!:

Chat: March 30, 2008 @ 8 PM EST

To celebrate the one-year anniversary of the release of Being Plumville.

I cannot believe it's been a year, actually, for real though. I've met so many awesome people during it and I hope to meet many more during this next one! I hope you all can make it!

VS Update

After a three-week hiatus, there is another update of Vietnam Story at SYG. Let me know what you think!

I Need to Know

What is it about my writing that makes people not want to either represent me or publish me? I've just gotten rejected by two agents and and a publisher for The Beauty Within and Trust Fall respectively. I'm very confused. I know I write IR, which already makes folks nervous, but other than that, I'm genuinely at a loss. Are my stories not fluffy enough? But then there's AJ's Serendipity, and the reviews on Amazon haven't been as positive as they were for Being Plumville, which I'm okay with, but I'm baffled nonetheless. I don't know even if I DID know what was wrong if anything about my writing will change, mainly because I write what the characters tell me to write lol. However, I know publishing is a business, and I would like to bet published on someone else's coin, so I need to know exactly what that golden market is in the eyes of agents/publishers. I'll have to say, I'm further confused because the majority of the people who have read my books are, gratefully, appreciative of my work and want to know when the next book is coming out *waves at the Emma Award nomination*! It's hard to tell them that I don't know, and harder still to explain I really have no control over the matter. The audience I have loves my stuff; the gatekeepers of the industry are (mostly) polite when they close the gates in my face. And then there are those other authors who are published, and I think that I, at the very least, have the same amount of talent as they do. That's the one bad thing about rejections other than the rejection itself--oftentimes it doesn't tell you why--just that it's not fit for publication/representation. That does not help me get better or tweak my product so that it will be. And when someone asks you for the full manuscript and then tells you thanks but no thanks is just really, really hard.

At some point, you just really, really want an answer to go your way. And yes, I'm speaking more than just publishing right now. It's just been an '08 full of "No" both personally and professionally. In my case, writing is both personal and professional, and I'm sure it's like that for other authors as well. But for me, I started writing to deal with some things, and I'm still dealing, but to have my writing rejected and me myself rejected, it's like a double-whammy and I'm still trying to learn how to make sure I bounce back up from each slap down, even if it takes longer to do so. I just need to make sure I get up. And now poor Vietnam Story is starting to languish because I'm not getting up fast enough, and the readers who are kind enough to stick with me on the google group--I could call them out by name lol--I appreciate the patience. It really only takes one really nice e-mail to keep you above the waterline sometimes.

The scary thing is, I have no idea what else I can do. I know this is a hard industry, and very few people make it, but I know of nothing else I can do. Well, editing, but that doesn't fill me with the same drive and passion as writing. I wake up and I think about it, and I go to bed and I think about it. I proofread and I see stories in some of the projects I proof *looks at Vietnam Story* and my office is full of former publishers, screenwriters, nonfiction writers, etc. It's an amazing place, but if I could be at home writing and getting paid for it, that would be fantastic.

This is a dump of a post, I know. I'm trying not to slip into that space of no writing, and it's hard, so I guess it's better to get it out here instead of to let it fester. I know I'm a good writer. I just wish I knew how to convince other people I am, too! lol

Chat @ Night Owl Romance--March 24 @ 8 PM EST

Hi everyone,

Just letting y'all know I have a chat on Monday, March 24th at Night Owl Romance @ 8 PM EST. I'll let you know more details the closer we get to the date.

I hope y'all can make it!

Sav

Stepping out of my comfort zone . . .

I'm going to try to write erotica. I'm nervous as heck about it, but that seems to be what publishers want, and I'm actually going to write erotica as the publishers claim they want it--heavier on the sex without sacrificing the love. I think it's possible. No, I don't have practical experience on the matter, but as another fellow writer has told me repeatedly--"I'm not from the 12th century but I still write about it." I can write about this, too. I hope it doesn't come out stupid, though, but I'm sure the twelve people who read my stories will let me know quite happily if the story is made of serious FAIL! lol

Vote for Me!--SORMAG Awards

Hey everyone! Please vote for me here at the SORMAG Awards. I'm eligible for the following awards:

Best Multicultural Romance Book of the Year (Either Being Plumville or AJ's Serendipity is eligible).

Best Multicultural Romance Author of the Year (Savannah J. Frierson)

Best New Multicultural Romance Author of the Year

Best Multicultural Self-Published Book of the Year (Either Being Plumville or AJ's Serendipity)

Best Multicultural Self-Published Author of the Year

Best Multicultural New Self-Published Author of the Year

I encourage you to vote, but be aware that putting my name in every category will null your vote. I've only included the categories for which I'm eligible, but there are plenty more. Also, think of other multicultural books you've read (including nonficiton) and vote for your favorites then, too. And if you'd like to spread the wealth in some of those categories, feel free, but please vote for me in several ;).

Have a great day!

Sav

Women and AA/IR Romance

So for the past few weeks I've been gorging myself, literally, on African-American romance. I do have a question though--why are the majority of the women in these books possessing high cheekbones and long hair that flows around the shoulders. I've seen plenty of black women in my day, and the majority of them do not have high cheekbones or hair that flows around their shoulders. What's wrong with having "regular" cheekbones and hair that stops at the nape (or shorter, natural). Because admittedly, I'm seeing "weave" with that earlier (Eurocentric) expression, and I don't think that was the intention of these authors.

And why are they all skinny (small waists, full breasts, slender hips)? All of them? I've only read one who wasn't like that--Chamein Canton's Not His Type, but she was also light-skinned and had good hair, too. Not that that's a problem, but where are thick girls who are more dark than light, who have typical African features and hair? It's not that I have a problem reading about all the shades of black women, but when I, essentially, read about the same woman appearance-wise I get a little wary. In fact, I think my slimmest woman that I've written is probably Coralee. Maybe Margot, but she's preggers, so she doesn't count. Jada isn't fat, but she'd never be called slim. Tyler is plus-size, and so is Rosalyn, if a little smaller than Tyler; and Samara is also plus-size. I think the lightest one is Samara as well. Jada has the most Eurocentric hair in terms of texture (although it is curly), then Rosalyn, and then Tyler. Coralee's hair would be nappy if not for the hot comb, and Margot and Samara have nappy, "natural" hair (although I try to make sure all of my female characters have natural hair, but I'm not above introducing a weave or two :-P). I guess my standards of black beauty were pretty diverse and pretty strong, but I know how it is to see black women who look closer to the Eurocentric ideal of beauty than not, and I try to be very conscious of it when I write. Since I primarily write IR, I don't want these black women to have prominent Eurocentric features to be seen as a "reason" why the (usually) white man would be interested in the first place. It bothers me so much when I read that, especially when white authors start writing black women (I haven't read a black heroine from a white author who has two black parents or isn't so light and bright regardless of parentage that I have to flip back at the initial description of where the author says the heroine identifies as black. If anyone has, please point me to it.). There's nothing wrong with a woman being (unambiguously) black and beautiful and attractive to both black and nonblack men. She doesn't need hair all the way down her back or a slender figure or honey/caramel skin (and I have honey/caramel skin). Dark, "natural"-haired, more-African-featured-than-not, curvy/heavy sisters need some love, too, after all. We're sure not going to get it from Hollywood!

ETA: I didn't mention Addy, mainly because I'm not finished with her story, but since her look, I don't believe, shall be changing any time soon, I'll say this--I think she's the tallest of all my heroines; definitely heavyset, but it's better balanced because of her height; has relaxed hair to her shoulders; medium-brown skin (more dark than light, but not dark dark). And Eric loves her to pieces. Boy Eric . . .

ETA2: There is also Working Man by Melanie Schuster that also features a plus-size heroine, and I think she's darker than Canton's heroine, too.

The Mansucript Formerly Known as Gym Story

The Beauty Within

Yes? No? Lay it on me!

I'm Having a Mild Sally Field Moment Here . . .

I’ve been nominated for an Emma Award for Debut Author of the Year for Being Plumville. What that means is, there were enough Romance Slam Jam conference attendees who’d heard of my book, read it, and enjoyed it, to nominate me as one of five brand-new authors. What’s even more trippy is that I’m the only self-published author on that entire list, and my name is on the same page as Brenda Jackson and Beverly Jenkins. This is the premier award in Black Romance—think the NAACP Image Awards v. Oscars/Emmys/Golden Globes, but for books—and I really had no idea just HOW much of a big deal it was until I saw my name on that list.. I found out about the nomination on Wednesday, but I’ve been sitting on it and trying to process it . . . I still haven’t quite, actually. I mean, yeah, I nominated myself, but I thought I was the only one, or maybe some of the other people I knew had nominated me, too, and that’s only about 12 people at the most. But . . . heh. I had no idea. You really can knock me over with a feather, I’m so surprised. And humbled, and yes, excited. I could win. If the four judges like my book, I could win. I could beat out all of these Leisure Books and Kimani Romances and Genesis Press and Parker Publishing people—many of whom have rejected me (in fact, an agent for one of the authors in my category rejected Being Plumville. Heh.) and make the thousands of dollars I’ve poured into publishing my book worthwhile. But on the other hand, I fully believe it when people say “It’s an honor to be nominated”, because I genuinely feel that way. I also think I’m the youngest person on that list, too. I have no agent, I have no publishing home, but, yo, I’m on that list. Not too shabby, I don’t think.

Proofreading and Novels

I'm not going to call out the current book I'm reading, nor am I going to call out the publishing house of said book, but suffice to say, whoever proofread/edited this book needs to be on probation. All of the mistakes keep knocking me out of the story, and maybe it's unfair because I proofread for a living, but if someone cannot catch that the surname of a character changes TWICE on THE SAME PAGE . . . there's an issue. And "too" =/= "to", and "generally" =/= "genuinely", etc. I mean, I know my own books might have some mistakes in them--hell, I've seen them--but everyone knows it's hard as hell to proofread/edit your own books because your brain automatically fills in the right word/spelling. But when you HIRE someone else to do it, you at least hope for semi-vigilant scouring of the text to make sure it is as crisp and clean as possible. And don't get me started on how I see more of this in IR/MC fiction than not, regardless if the publisher is e-pub, black pub, or "mainstream" pub (and that, everyone is a completely different post/rant for another time). If the leg up of traditional publishers to self-publishers is that you have more access to more resources, why can't one of these said resources include proofreaders? I've read WAY too many IR/MC books that are riddled with mistakes that you just don't see with the white romances (there, I said it). Now, I can't even begin to think of why, and I'm not even going to go militant with it, but if folks think people who read IR/MC don't want to see the cleanest prose possible, then they are sadly mistaken. We want quality, and I definitely demand it. I try my best to provide it when I write and proofread--proofread to the point I'm sick of my own damn story, but I can't afford another set of eyes to read. That's why I also think it's on the onus of the writer(s) to be as in command of grammar/vocabulary as possible, and don't just rely on F7, because F7 only does so much (remember, to/two/too are all spelled correctly; it doesn't mean they are being used correctly.) And even the "grammar check" only does so much. You HAVE to read over your work. I hated doing it when I had to write my papers in high school and college, and Lord knows if I'd cared enough back then to do it, I would've had higher grades! But this type of writing, the type of writing one day, God willing, will be my livelihood, I damn well do care, and I don't think it's too much for me to ask that publishers and authors care much more about the cleanliness of their product as well.

Gym Story

Yeah. First draft of this is done, too. Two manuscripts completed within two weeks of each other.

Gym Story still needs a title!11!

Vietnam Story 08

The update is up at the Google Group. And randomly, these two are wearing me out!

Trust Fall Synopsis

Much easier to write longhand than on the computer.

Finished

After two and a half years, I finally completed Trust Fall today. Luckily, I'd already started going through proofing (now I have to go over the last two parts I finished writing), and then I'm going to start submitting to publishers. What did I do to celebrate the feat? Take a nap! lol

Vietnam Story 07 Update

Vietnam Story 07 now up on SYG.

AJ's Serendipity: Now Available through Amazon

AJ's Serendipity at Amazon.com

Not gonna lie and say that didn't make me giddy to type in my name at Amazon and get two books instead of one. :)

Vietnam Story 06

It's now up on the Google Group for all those who are interested.

If Beale Street Could Talk

If Beale Street Could Talk

Read this book. Please, please, please read this book. It is beautiful in its grit, rawness, and despair because despite all the foolishness the central characters have to deal with, they love each other. This is a black man (James Baldwin) writing about a black woman (Tish) who is so very loved by a black man, (Fonny) and vice versa (because apparently we can't do that anymore). They are not beautiful people. He isn't tall with rippling muscles and a six-pack. She doesn't have curves that rival a mountain road and she wouldn't be gracing any Cosmos anytime soon. They are simply two young-adult black people in the '70s who love each other. He has nothing to offer her but his love, but I swear to all that is holy, I'd rather have a man like Fonny Hunt than the world's wealthiest and most handsome CEO. And the fact Fonny is in some serious trouble and Tish loves him. Tish's family rallies around him, so does Fonny's father. These people aren't wealthy. They all have rough edges. They cuss. They drink. They steal. But they love, and they love HARD and they love genuinely and they love true.

He stopped and looked at me, very quiet, very hard: there was a hardness in him I had barely sensed before. Within this hardness moved his love, moved as a torrent or as a fire moves, above reason, beyond argument, not to be modified in any degree by anything life might do. I was his, and he was mine--I suddenly realized that I would be very unlucky and perhaps a dead girl should I ever attempt to challenge this decree. (p. 76-77, Vintage)

Can I write like that when I grow up? Lawd, just . . . read this book. You won't regret it. It's not a romance, it's a love story, the kind that just makes you really thankful that there is such a thing as love despite all the other foolishness life can throw at you.

This Writing Thing

It's going to happen for me. I'm claiming that right now. It's already happening, but it WILL happen even more. All these discussions about stats and "backup plans" . . . I can't be worried about those right now. I have one goal--to be a successful author. I'm a GOOD writer, and someone in NYC will figure that out and be willing to take a chance on me. 2008, y'all better be ready for it. And when I get low and full of doubt, I'm coming back to THIS POST to remind myself that there is greatness ready for me to claim it, and I do. None of that soft-footedness of last year. This year, I'm not going to be afraid to be great, and I'm not going to be ashamed of the fact that I AM a good writer (it doesn't make sense, I know, but that's how I felt). I'm not. So, be ready for me.

New Year, New Updates

Happy New Year!

A year ago I dusted off this blog to keep people updated on what was happening to me, because I decided to publish Being Plumville. A year later, I have not one, but two books out now, and I'm working on many more to release for publication. It's amazing how quickly that all happened, and how wonderful it's been to meet so many people who actually like my work! I'm humbled and excited about it, and I hope to never disappoint.

As I'm sure most of you know, SYG voted for Vietnam Story for updates, and I uploaded chapters 4 and 5 there. It's restricted only to that group, but I'll put up announcements here to let you know when a new chapter is out. I decided to do this to keep readers abreast of something that I'm writing, since it is uncertain when publishers/editors will accept my writing, and I don't want people to be in limbo. I've also decided I'm actually going to start some chats and discussions to keep the group viable. I learned a lot by joining other groups by authors I enjoy, and I'm going to do better about etching out time to handle my writing business. This is my ultimate goal, and everything I do must feed into this goal--including the job I have that allows me to pay bills and live in an apartment. This writing thing isn't easy, but I know nothing else I could do with as much passion as I do this. Maybe singing, but I'm not extroverted enough to make a living from that! lol

Anyway, thank you so much to the readers here and on my group and those who bought my books! I appreciate it so much, and I hope 2008 will be extraordinarily great!

New Release: AJ's Serendipity

Available Now!

The last thing Greek Alejandro Melonakos expected to
find when shopping for food for his restaurant was the
love of his life, but that was exactly who he found when
he spotted Black American Samara Grossman across the
marketplace. Will he be able to convince her of his love
and gain hers in return during her five days on vacation,
or will his serendipitous find be all for naught?

Yes, I decided to release this as a bona fide book based on all the wonderful responses I got from it during the summer. Thank you so much for your input. I really appreciate it. This version is essentially the same, except cleaner and more fleshed out. Once again, thank you so much to Aliyah Burke for creating such wonderful characters such as AJ Melonakos and loaning them to me. And it's so rare to read a romance completely from the male perspective, so I think it's something fresh for the market right now. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it for your first, or second (or third or fourth . . .) time and don't be afraid to let me know what you think!

Sav

And the Winner Is . . .

Which unfinished story would you like for me to continue on the Google Group?

The Blueprint 0%0 Gym Story 34%24 NaNo '07 3%2 Trust Fall 6%4 Vietnam Story 57%40

Total Votes : 70

Wow! I'm kind of sad The Blueprint got NO love. :( And *laughs a little* y'all are going to have to wait awhile, because all the chapters I've written for Vietnam Story are already up on the group! Well, hopefully one day you'll all get to buy these lovely stories because I've a.) finished them! and b.) an agent/editor liked it so much they sold it to a publisher. Thanks so much for voting! And hopefully VS's muse will come back so I can start writing it again!