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PS: Shout out to all my blogging friends who are trying the audio thing! Only took me a week and some change to figure out how to embed audio onto Blogger! lol

SJF Books Universe

If you ever had a question for my characters, there's now a place to ask! First up is Reconstructing Jada Channing!

2010 RSJ Cruise Recap

It would’ve been much wiser for me to write a log of what happened each day I was away, but that would’ve been too logical, so I didn’t do it. Instead, I let myself experience everything—including my going to bed much earlier than any self-respecting twenty-something should, but bump that because when a woman’s tired she’s tired! Yet my waking hours—none of them was wasted. I was rarely bored, and unlike the last time I’d gone to this conference, few of my waking hours were spent in my room by myself (although at the last Romance Slam Jam, I was writing Trolling Nights—so I was productive!). I think the best way to do this is to go day by day, although I’m sure to combine some days as some thoughts may flow into the other.

Wednesday through Friday

My coworker/friend hosted me Wednesday night and gave me a ride to the train station Thursday morning. The train pulled out of Charleston at 5AM and I pulled into Miami around 6:45PM. What did I do on the train? Sleep. I tried some writing and I tried some reading, but I primarily slept. It was frigids on the train, and if I didn’t have too much stuff because of my books, I would’ve packed a blanket, no lie. I also called my friend because it was her birthday, and then my grandma and sis. But other than that, Travel Thursday was uneventful. Also, the hotel in Miami was okay. It was very “It will do, pig” and nothing epically awesome or epically tragic.

Friday had me taking an unexpected, unwise, and highly blessed romp through Miami in an effort to get my nails did. I got off too early from the bus, because the street I wanted was 8^th street, but there are apparently 80 “8^th Streets” in Miami, and the one I was on wasn’t mine. I walked through a Miami neighborhood that was no South Beach. There were fenced-in yards, “Beware of Dogs” signs on said fences, and bars on the windows on my way to the nail salon. This is where Boston/city living kicked in, because I walked like I knew where I was going (thank god for VZ Navigator!) and though I’m sure maybe three black people (and probably none of them American) lived in that neighborhood, I greeted people I saw and kept it moving. Damn near kissed the nail salon when I found it! The place was definitely not tourist-Miami. It was a neighborhood joint, complete with the meat man selling beef (all of this is in Spanish and I could follow a little). Busted out my Kindle and started talking to another woman beside me about ebook readers and the types of books we like to read. Didn’t mention I was an author but that’s okay. At the end of it all, my polish on the left pinky and right thumb didn’t make it pristine like out of the salon, but I’m not so vain that I whined too much. I’m a writer—I use my hands, it was bound to happen; but my feet were tight.

Friday evening was the book signing. Rochelle Alers remembered me from RSJ 2008 and gave me a hug. I…was shocked as hell…and so squeed on the inside! And then Pamela Leigh Starr—one of the first authors I read who wrote IR remembered me and we chatted a bit. Sat next to Shirley Hailstock, who was an RWA president and one of the foremothers of Black romance (and I love her voice; it’s such a calming, soothing tone). Finally met Iris Bolling—fellow self-published author, although she took a step beyond me and owns her own small publishing company—who won Debut Author of the Year, and she gave me a hug and said there was no reason for me to shy and lack confidence. Met Lissa Woodson, aka Naleighna Kai, who basically taught a master class on “getting your hustle on” all week. She was sold out at the book signing and STILL managed to sell more on the cruise to everyone—and I mean everyone. Met people who kept saying “I keep seeing your book on Amazon…” and then they look at me oddly like they cannot believe I wrote that book and then the six others I have published. I was much calmer this year, something Monique Lamont noted when we saw each other (I was a hot mess, last time, wet behind the ears and high strung don’t even begin to cover it!). Deatri King-Bey, Evelyn Palfrey, Denise Jeffries, AC Arthur, Gwyneth Bolton, Viola Walker, and Victoria Wells were all people I (re)connected with at the signing. Every one of these authors was so gracious and excited to see one another. It was bolstering, and the traditionally published ones had much advice for me and wanted to learn more about self-publishing and the wealth and willingness to share information was invigorating.

And because I was more comfortable with myself, over the course of the three years since Being Plumville came out, I was more comfortable approaching readers who might not have ever heard of me; but then there was one woman who’d e-mailed me before the event wanting to know if I had books. I met her and we got into a discussion about black romance and black love, black women in love, interracial love, and it was so great! And then other readers willing to give me a chance just based off of another author speaking to me or buying my book or telling me they’ll check me out—it was so great! Considering I’d arrived to the signing DIRECTLY after getting off the bus from the nail salon (the return trip was drama-free!), it was great.

I had dinner with Gwyneth Bolton and her husband afterwards, and it was wonderful getting to know them. Afterwards, I think I met my roommate (I say think because by this point I was doing the slow-blink so my memory’s a bit fuzzy!).

Saturday

In the future, I’m going to need this hotel to be on point with its breakfast service on cruise embarkation day. They know everyone and her cousin is trying to get on a boat somewhere, so why was service so slow? The poor hostess had to do double shifts by being a server too! Be that as it may, when we finally got the food, it was good. Ate with Victoria Wells and her sister, along with some other readers, but there was minimal conversation outside of “where’s the waiter?” Yes, it was that problematic. As we checked out of the hotel, the readers and the authors got a chance to chat more, so I hung out with my roomie, Monique Lamont, and Denise Jeffries while we waited on transportation to the pier. Those two women are mad funny and very nice for letting us tag along with them! Also, I will say Carnival Cruises is one of the most efficient operations I’ve ever seen in my life. Considering how many people were waiting to get on the boat, the embarkation process was swift.

Once on the boat, had some of the best cheesecake ever and that was the last time I saw it all trip! When I say I was hunting for that cheesecake…I know I should be ashamed to admit it, but I was. It was so good! We met the people with whom we would be eating dinner with for the next five nights and they were from Houston, DC, and California by way of Kansas City. I met one of the readers before at Beverly Jenkins’s Pajama Party in October, so small world! But they were wonderful dinner companions. They were picture happy too. Y’all should be proud of me, because I didn’t try to lean out the pictures! After dinner, we had the welcome reception, and I finally met Bridget Midway there, who is also someone I’d like to be when I grow up in terms of hustling and getting her name out there. I sold more books (practicing my hustle!) and I even drank some alcohol (I don’t drink normally, but...I’m not going to turn down free liquor!). And then I promptly went to sleep.

I blame the liquor.

Sunday

Started off my day taking pictures of Cuba and walking the track on the deck. That wind…grace of God I didn’t go blowing overboard—it was so strong! I don’t know how many laps I did, but I think I earned the melons, pancakes, grits, eggs, sausage, croissants I had for breakfast. I sat and talked a long while with Niambi Brown Davis and another reader, and they thanked me for doing their walking for them! Lol After that I got ready for my day, including getting my netbook because I was going to do some writing, dammit! Except, I didn’t. Instead, I sat with Ms. Alers, Gwyneth, Deatri, Lissa and some readers and we just talked for the next four hours about everything from television to movies to fandom (yeah, that was me lol) to healthcare, to courtesy in society to black identity to publishing, romance as a genre to black writers in general and it was good! It started to pour-down rain while we were talking, but we weren’t on an exposed area of the deck and where we were, there was a retractable dome, so it was all good. But, yo, I can say I shot the breeze with these women; and even though I was the youngest at the table, people still included me and I really should’ve taken notes listening to them. They were so full of wealth and wisdom and I’m very lucky I was included in that conversation. Sooner than we thought, it was time for dinner. It was the Captain’s night, but I didn’t go meet him. I wanted my cheesecake! That I didn’t get…alas. But I did dress up-ish, nice top and black slacks. After dinner I talked with Iris about ebook publishing and I felt every rock on that boat on that 8 deck (my cabin was on deck 1 and the aft—not a bad cabin, actually). And then, because I was determined to do some writing, I went on the main deck and find a little corner tucked away. I started writing, and I bounced my knee, which caught the attention of some guy. He came and made small talk, first about my knee, then made the assumption I was worried about something. I said not really, then told him I was a writer. I gave him my card; he asked what I wrote about. He told me about his wife and kid and then he said he would buy a book. Awesome, but I was getting sleepy, so he said he was going to get the money and come back. I signed the book because I needed this to be a quick transaction because I was sleepy.

Dude never came back. I was too sleepy to feel rooked.

Monday

It was raining (and by raining, I mean torrents), so I had to go to the gym to do my walking. It was as if the entire ship was in there, but luckily I timed it just right so a treadmill became available as soon as I walked in. I preferred the deck, but during my twenty-minute exercise, found out Sherlock Holmes was coming on later that day; but in the meantime, I caught the beginning of The Time Traveler’s Wife as I walked. Then I ate breakfast alone and took too many pictures of the Ocho Rios port. I couldn’t meet my friend in Jamaica. :( However, even though those plans fell through, I said there was no way I wasn’t getting off the boat and actually go to Jamaica. So I waited a few hours (and finished watching The Time Traveler’s Wife. It was definitely a wait for cable movie IMO) after the rush off and I was content to just stay right by the dock and get back on. Besides, Sherlock Holmes was coming on later and I hadn’t seen it yet. Come to meet some of my dinner-table buddies waiting for a friend who now lived on Jamaica! I’d intended to just sit with them and then go back to the boat when their friend arrived, but they invited me along and…I went! Man, as soon as you got on the street, folks were trying to sell you something, take you somewhere, etc. One woman said she’d twist my hair. Of course I said no—as nice as her hair was; if they’re anything like black hair salons, I would’ve been wherever she’d do my hair well after the boat set sail! And…it’s just not that safe to do. Anyway, we are browsing the stores for things and as I browse, I see a guy sitting against the wall near a store. He looked like he was wearing a uniform so when he looked at me I acknowledged him. No, he wasn’t the authorities, but a vendor, selling bracelets (1 for $3 and 2 for $5). And…he started to hit on me: “I like a woman with big breasts, big hips, big thighs, big ass—” *record scratch* I wasn’t ready for all of that! I said “Oh…” I mean, what do I say in response? This is all as he’s trying to sell me his bracelets, by the way. So I told him I’d take two bracelets in exchange for one of my books (because I had them with me; and yes, I sold some books in Jamaica). So he did (and he took a picture with some of my books) and then he asked for my number. I said no, because those International charges aren’t cute, but he could e-mail me. He said he didn’t know how to e-mail. I told him go to a library and ask for help (but much more nicely; I’m trying to keep this recap as efficient as possible! lol). Then we left and I had some Jamaican rum at a restaurant on the island (not…a local hangout spot by any stretch—definitely for cruise folk). Then we said goodbye to the tablemate’s friend (we exchanged cards) and returned to the boat in time for me to miss the first 20 minutes of Sherlock Holmes. I don’t think those 20 minutes were very important anyway.

That evening was the dinner and the Emma Awards, which honors the best in black romance and Ms. Alers gave the keynote address. She touched on a lot that we spoke about on the confab Sunday afternoon, and it was awesome. The awards ceremony was nice and quick too! I wasn’t up for anything but everyone who was nominated and won were very deserving. Afterwards…I went to bed. I’d had liquor at the ceremony.

It was free! It was green! I was feeling adventurous…

Tuesday

Grand Cayman Island day! Today was being lazy on the beach day too, hence no walking this morning. My roomie, who’d gone to a Jamaican beach the day before, decided to take it easy today and just go on shore when she felt like it. So, I was by myself and got on the tender to shore (if you didn’t catch the last tender at 3:15pm ship’s time, you’re SOL because the boat was leaving at 4pm, so this was a day you really had to be mindful of the time—especially when GC is an hour behind!), Kindle at the ready because I have books to read! Except, AlTonya Washington was also on this excursion. She had a book too.

We did no reading.

We pretty much talked the entire time and, like before, it was a great conversation! Here’s an author traditionally published with THE premier romance publishing company, and she’s self-publishing as well and we started talking about the state of publishing, especially for African-American writers, and it went into a discussion about relationships, etc. She’s a SC native, so we had that connection. I gave her The Beauty Within to have and I have her books on my Kindle. After returning to the ship, we had lunch and talked some more. Learned a lot from her!

Later that night, there was a Michael Jackson tribute in one of the clubs so I went to that; later that night, I actually got up and did Karaoke (No More Rain (In This Cloud) by Angie Stone, but I have to dock 2 pts from the Karaoke machine for having no Nina Simone. How do you let that happen?!).

Wednesday

The Caribbean was not having it. That water was rough on our last day. We felt every rock on that boat—ridic. Nevertheless, the Reader Sessions were that day, and I stayed for all of them. I was also part of one. They were all informative and I’m glad I stayed for all of them. Ms. Starr and Altonya both approached me and said they loved the books of mine they were reading. That certainly helped me sell more books! Also, because I’d mentioned Mildred D. Taylor was among my favorite authors during my Readers Session, Emma Rodgers (one of the founders of the Slam Jam and the woman for whom the Emmas are named) gave me her card and recc’d 100 Years of Solitude for me to read. Considering the last time I’d read that book it was in Spanish, I think I’ll give the English version a try! I spoke with Crystal Rhodes who spoke with me as well, said she was impressed with me, bought a book from me for her daughter. She’s a playwright, traditionally published and self-published, so her encouragement meant a lot! Lutishia Lovely/Zuri Day took a look at the Trolling Nights cover and raved about it. I told her I did the cover and she was even more impressed.

Can I just say shout out to the self-published authors? True story; we are the business. Renee Flagler is on point and doing her thing. I loved the look of her books. Just classy. Ann Clay was very lovely as well and has several projects in the works. We also exchanged cards. I met some more readers, passed out more cards, then ate some lunch. I don’t really remember what all I did after the Reader Session, but probably packed because it was not a lot of down time between then and dinner. At the last dinner found out someone knew a classmate of mine from Harvard and I would be seeing this classmate this weekend. I declare the world is entirely too small! I told my friend when I saw her and she got all happy and gave me a big hug like I was the woman I’d mentioned! Lol We took more pictures and then said goodbye to everyone, thinking it would be the last time we’d see each other.

Except it wasn’t. I definitely saw Ms. Alers again, Ms. Clay, and I went with Monique and Denise to the airport (even though my friend Shayla was letting me stay with her and her family in town before taking a flight to Boston the next day—it was just easier for my friend to get me from there). So there were more goodbyes, but even these weren’t final. I’ll do better keeping in touch, I promise, and we’ll see each other, God willing, in Baltimore for the next Romance Slam Jam. And as for me; I didn’t sell all of my books; in fact, I gave a lot away, but that wasn’t the main point for me. I got exactly what I needed to get out of this trip—confidence and the chance to own what I was doing. I didn’t really own it last time in 2008, although everyone I met was encouraging. The fact people, this time, were saying how proud they were of me, how encouraging, how inspiration almost—it was a great and humbling feeling. I learned so much and I was able to teach as well. I had a really great roommate who taught me how to cruise properly and I hope she keeps up with her writing! The next RSJ, I’m going to need her to have a red badge instead of orange for aspiring! And thank you to the readers who were willing to listen and give me a chance and to the authors who were willing to listen and give me advice. Yeah, RSJ Cruise was definitely good. And if I forgot anything or anyone, that doesn’t mean I didn’t appreciate the experience, just means my grandma didn’t pass on her elephantine memory to me!

Savannah Book Festival Recap

- Very windy. Like, ridiculously so, which made it almost unbearably cold. I tried to pretend I'd just left Boston and not rock my gloves, but then I kept it real and put them on. My luck I was right by the tent opening. Had it not been windy and just a few degrees warmer, that would've been the spot, but alas. Also, I would whip my head around every now and thing because I kept hearing my name (even though I knew they weren't talking to/about me)--hard habit to break, okay!

- Sold two copies of Being Plumville and one copy of Reconstructing Jada Channing, which means my time was successful. For me, I go mostly to network (which is huge, as y'all know how shy I am), and met some great folks there! The guy behind me sold seven books! Was really happy for him because he was a first-time author.

-A woman who didn't buy a book but took my card asked if I thought the situations from Being Plumville could happen today. And I told her yes, as when I was younger I started playing with a white boy on the playground and his older sister made him stop playing with me. I had to ask my mama why she would do that. And I'm sure twenty-plus years later scenarios like that are still happening, albeit, hopefully, not with great frequency. She then proceeded to tell me she'd married a Chinese man and briefly about having to deal with that in regards to her son and how, even in his 40s, he still faces some things.

Never know who will relate to you sometimes.

- Bertice Berry gave me a signed business card and she was happy I'm an author. Yeah, I fangirled a little bit, not gonna lie.

-People love Being Plumville's book cover; it got several compliments. Also, white people stayed pausing at I'll Be Your Somebody's book cover too.

-Met a former neighbor of Jamaica Kincaid from Vermont at the Festival. The world is truly tiny.

-I'm thinking about going into motivational speaking because several times at the Festival I encouraged authors/would be authors about putting themselves out there for the slaughter.

It's Been Quiet, I Know...

I've been writing and editing, which means the publishing part has cooled down since August. I'd also started a new job back in September, so there was so much flux going on in my life that I couldn't sit down and say or do boo to anything. And I had to replenish my savings, because being unemployed for six months does make the first bit go away rather quickly.

Now, for this year, I'm facing a philosophical dilemma about continuing self-publishing or trying to go the traditional route. I'm actually quite satisfied with how I'm going now. Sure, I would love to reach a wider audience, but I can release books when I want, how I want, and take a greater share of the money than if I were with a publisher. Beyond that, though, I want to support up and coming publishers who will be responsible for the images they put forth, especially about black women. I want to be a part of something like that, empowering, invigorating, enriching, encouraging, not bottom line or bust. I do need to be more business savvy this year and still work on my shyness. I have so many people who want me to do well, but it's easy to get stuck in your head where the doubt festers and gets loud and rank. So...that's what I'm going to do. I need to set up a schedule of sorts, and learn more about cover art/bring in some folks I know to help me out as well. I gotta put more money into this in order to succeed, I know. I think now, despite the fact I'm not nearly as deep-pocketed as I was last year, I can allot those finances much smarter than I did last year.

Anyway, I'll try to update this blog and my Web site better than I did last year too.

Re-Release of AJ'S SERENDIPITY! (08/17/09)

In conjunction with Aliyah Burke's latest release from her Megalodon Series Dimitri's Moon dropping August 15, 2009.

Greek Alejandro Melonakos hadn't been shopping for the love of his life during a routine market run for his restaurant, yet that was exactly who he found. The petite and curvy American Samara Grossman had captured his heart upon his first sight of her and he hadn't wanted it back—just hers in return. Will AJ be able to convince Samara they were meant to be together during her five-day vacation in Athens, or will his serendipitous find be all for naught?

The release features a new cover and an extra chapter for readers to enjoy!

Publishing and the Privileging of White Expression

As a primarily self-published author, I take on a lot of the responsibilities of a more mainstream publishing conglomerate. I have to, obviously, do my own writing; do my own editing (with some pitfalls, admittedly, because I cannot catch everything myself despite my best efforts); my own book covers; my own book pricing; and, most importantly, my own promotion. The actual formation of the book is the easy part, funnily enough; the promoting my book is a smidge harder. There’s the belief self-published books are by authors who “can’t hack it” or aren’t good/talented enough, so they’re immediately regarded as, if not outright trash, “less than” those who could get through those “pearly” mainstream publishing gates. Let it be known that yes, I would love to have the same reach as books with mainstream publishers can achieve, but I don’t necessarily need the mainstream publisher to go with it. If not for the other perks I could get by being a more mainstream-published author (access to more distribution channels, access to writing associations that provide healthcare), I’d consider that route as less than a necessity and more of a “do it if you want.” Then again, I am probably already there more than I realize. I like the freedom I have from total control over my product, even if that means I shoulder all the responsibility, and I’m a little frustrated I can’t get my product into as many hands as I would like or people dismiss it solely because I put it out myself and not because they disliked the story. And then I realized people would be dismissing it even if it were in every Barnes and Noble and Borders and Books-a-Million this country had to offer.

I’m a black author who writes about black women; and not only that, many of these black women 1.) don’t hate the fact they’re black, 2.) are involved with nonblack men, 3.) don’t hate black men.

And, of course, the only people who care to read about black women are other black women, obviously; and since only about five black women in the whole country read (if you go by mainstream publishers’ insinuations), then why put any money behind those stories, anyway? If you’re not writing something that’s salacious, overly heavy and deep ala Toni Morrison, or minimizes the “Negro Factor”, then your book will not enjoy the same amount of support as your white counterparts. Not only that, if a white author can write a similar story, his/her account will be “more authentic” than yours, because stories by white authors, no matter what the color of the characters, are always more universal than stories by Authors of Color (AoC), no matter what color the characters (and goodness help the AoC who writes about white characters)…especially if these stories are love stories.

Which are what I write.

When my first book came out, I was on a plane returning to Boston after having my very first book signing in my hometown. I was sitting beside a very happy white man (he’d been imbibing a bit), but he was chatty and friendly, and I told him I was an author. Never mind that being the first time I ever uttered those words out loud and actually meant them, but his eyes had perked up and he asked to see the book. I gave him the only copy I had on me, knowing I would get it back. He flipped through to the middle and began to read. After a few moments, he then pulled out a fifty, gave to me, and demanded I autograph “his” book. And then for the rest of the plane ride we started talking about race relations and how things have changed or haven’t, and it wasn’t those conversations where he was “challenging the authenticity of my experiences”, but an honest-to-goodness dialogue. It was the first time I realized my stories really could be universal, because I can admit this white man’s face was not among the ones I saw in the audience for whom I’d been writing. By this point, my novel had been rejected several times, one letter even going so far as to say I mentioned race too much, even though the potential agent knew the story was about a black girl and white boy who were former childhood friends reunited on a newly integrated college in 1960s Georgia.

Good luck trying to avoid mentioning race often in that story!

But it wasn’t just the white man who surprised me. It was the white women who’ve e-mailed me and said how much they just loved this book and asked to put it in their libraries; it was my white teachers from high school in South Carolina who just looked at me in amazement and couldn’t stop raving about this story. It was the black men at the book fairs who would talk me to death about the book and its relevant themes while holding it in a ninja grip. It was the black boys who saw their mama/sister/aunt in Coralee and really liked the book. It’s the white boy who, after hearing discussions about it, said he was going to buy it because the story sounded interesting.

Thank goodness I’d started self-publishing, or else I doubt I would’ve gotten to see all of this for myself. I would’ve been shuttled off into the “black sections of the bookstores”, the sections that are as far from the entrance and tucked around a corner so that nobody but those who know what they’re looking for will ever find it. I actually talked to someone from Borders Corporate about that, and she…couldn’t give me an answer. Not that it surprised me. There are arguments for and against having an African-American section and having books integrated into the bookstore as a whole. But the convenience of the section aside, I, as an author, don’t want my books separated like that. It’s like a big ole “blacks only” sign that apparently doubles as a force field to prevent those who don’t meet the melanin threshold barrier from entering the section or something. I don’t think I’ve ever in my life seen a white person come to that section whenever I’ve gone into bookstores unless they’re getting Zora Neale Hurston or Richard Wright for their kids’ English classes. And then this whole business about being “tricked” into reading black books because the cover wasn’t clear? I know all books I see have at least dust-jacket or back-cover blurbs, and if the blurb was good enough to pull you in…I don’t understand why the actual color of the characters can make a reader flip the script. Was it because these white readers really could relate to stories about black characters—especially romances? Did you know black women liked to be held tenderly? That black women liked to be courted and wooed? That black women do have jobs other than wearing a polyester uniform and taking someone’s order? That black men really do run companies they created from the ground up and then don’t run after the first white/nonblack woman they meet once they’ve made it? That black men still are attracted love black women? That black people can have healthy, loving relationships? That white/Asian/Native/Hispanic men of all races can be attracted to love a black woman without fetishizing her? That this same premise applies when the couples are same sex as well?

But there are some major “politics of respectability” going on in “black imprints” for mainstream publishers. Some of the guidelines include “heroine must not be involved with anyone but the hero; couples must use condoms; heroine isn’t allowed to get pregnant without being married or engaged”, and I’m thinking, not even white women in novels have to adhere to such strict rules! I don’t know how many “Secret Baby” stories Harlequin publishes in a month. But if the black characters don’t, it’s suddenly “street lit”, which has its own problematic connotations about suspected quality of the writers and its readers (i.e., mostly and unfairly negative, even if I don’t read street lit myself). But this either/or dichotomy over what kind of stories black authors at mainstream publishers are allowed to tell are exactly why many of us aren’t accepting any old contract we get from them. That we’re putting our books out ourselves. Because after four hundred years of not being able to say a damn thing, like hell I’m not going to say what I want and how I want now. But the publishing industry/media at large continues to have its “Time to Kill” moments and put white faces on black stories or insert white people in stories not about them, as if “White folks, or it didn’t/doesn’t happen/matter!” is the appropriate business model in a world that is certainly not majority white and, in the case of the United States, in a country that is headed by a nonwhite family and will increasingly not be nonwhite in the next few decades. The default universal experience has not been, nor will it ever be, “white”. And, sure, people have the right to write whatever they want, which includes white people writing nonwhite characters (though there doesn’t seem to be the same regard for nonwhite authors writing white characters); but when those white authors get a larger share of the market telling my stories, I just have to echo Ms. Mahalia Jackson: “How come, mister, you think you can tell me about that old song, when it was born in my mouth?”

I can carry a tune. I can sing just fine.

A Partial Career Update

I had a really good time at the book signing I attended two weeks ago. I didn't sell much, but the people I met were wonderful, and it was good to see so many self-published out there--and not just self-published, but bonafide publishers of their own. It was inspirational, truly. It was one of the best experiences at a book fair I have had. And now there's an article about African-American Romance and how people are finally waking up to the fact that black people/women read and voraciously, and that our stories...aren't as typical as the "mainstream", and that "our romanace" ain't like "theirs", and yet it is.

Pushing at boundaries, baby.

Which is probably why I am struggling through the end of a novel I am writing because it's taking very many twists and turns to get to the ending I see. I am a fly-by-your-seat writer because I let the characters do what they will. The times I've tried to force them in the direction I want them to go...they've never ended well. So I'm just a reporter on the insanity that is my mind and L'Hotel Characters Who Don't Know What the Devil They Want Other Than a HEA. So, I've been writing...other things that aren't so twisting and turning and angst-filled and heavy. I've gotten great response for it, but I still chug away at the novel.

Meh.

So, as I've been "unemployed" since February, I'm shifting more of my focus on manuscript editing. I just finished a project for Aliyah Burke and I have at least three more to work on for her; as well as Shara Azod offering me work on some projects for her, and Jeanie Johnson and Jayha Leigh wanting me on tap for them once their publishing house gets off the ground. I'm truly, truly grateful for this, and I am also a little anxious. Editing someone else's work is nerve-wracking, especially because it's someone else's. I try my hardest to go a good job, but those times you don't...everyone notices. I want to lower the rate of those instances significantly, because the one time I didn't it turned into a fiasco that almost led me to severing relationships with people I truly admire and respect. I know life is like that, but that part of life ain't the business at all!

I also have to think of my own writing career--the above novel aside. I have another novel that, like I said in a previous post, that everyone in the romance industry who judged it tore into smithereens. Now I have to wonder if I should just scrap the entire idea or self-publish it on my own. Like the above novel, this one goes into some very "don't be going there!" territories in the romance genre. And maybe I just need to reread it again or...a fresh pair of eyes should read it. It got great response when I had it up on my Google Group, but, I don't know...yet, I do have a few others I could release. Then again, there are other avenues of publication and I should never forget those. I have to keep trying and not get so comfortable in DIY. And...I need to get more comfortable at DIY too! However, I'm getting dangerously low on my "already written" cache.

Hence the need for me to finish up that novel. And Felix's Story. And too many other stories I've started and haven't looked at in months...maybe years. You'd think with all this "free time" I have I'd know how to be more productive. But if my muse ain't there, he ain't there.

*please come back muse, please!*

I think the solution is to leave my house, not even take my computer, and handwrite. We'll see if I do that. But if I pretend I'm "going to work" (although, I am), I'll be more productive than staring at the same more-than-four walls of my apartment (have I mentioned I love my apartment? Yes!).

Yay, early Saturday-morning purges!

New Release: Trolling Nights

What if a Navy SEAL has six months to convince a wary coffeehouse barista they were made for each other?

For as long as there have been Trolling Nights, Bevin Moore has been the unofficial official Gatekeeper for her group of friends, the Femme Crew. She is always the designated driver and always makes sure the ladies do not leave the premises with someone she considers a loser. Bevin takes her job very seriously, even if she doesn’t like Trolling Nights in the first place. Yet on one particular Trolling Night, she's completely unaware someone has, finally, chosen her.

Navy SEAL Timothy Capshaw has no problem going after what he wants; and from the moment he sees Bevin sitting alone and sentry-like in a booth, he is intrigued by her. After one dance, Tim knows he wants her. How will he convince Bevin he is the man she hasn't known she's been looking for and that the need for her Trolling Nights is over?

Sam Cooke on Loop

These past two weeks have been and will be extremely...off-putting. I want to thank those of you who have sent me e-mails and messages to keep my chin up regarding last week's fiasco that is still ongoing (which was capped by yet two more rejection letters from agents. Oh, it was a good week last week, yes lol). Shame on me for not realizing I would have the kind of support I'd received, but that was a singular blessing during that entire ordeal. I don't believe in coincidences, despite my reluctance to go to a church every Sunday, but I'm constantly reminded there's someone bigger than I looking out for me, and I'm eternally grateful. Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning; and while I don't particularly feel joy, I do feel more at peace than I had before, and I'm definitely grateful for that.

I had my last day at work on Friday, and my coworkers took me out to lunch and gave me a really nice card. I knew about the lunch; I'd even expected a card because I'd been at my job long enough to know that's just the type of great people I work with...but I was still touched by the nice things that were said about me and the genuine well-wishes bestowed upon me. I'm going to miss them, even if I won't exactly miss Boston per se. I've met and known wonderful people up here, and thank goodness for Facebook because we'll be able to keep in touch much better than we would probably without it. But it's going to be weird not getting up before the sun rises to go to work. It's going to be weird not to contend with ice and snow for the majority of the year (or how it seems to me anyway!). It's going to be weird to step out on faith and do what I need to do...what I've wanted to do since I was a junior in high school. Write. Scary, scary, scary. And maybe one of these manuscripts will be something an editor/agent will want to represent; but until then, I'll be self-publishing, which means no guarantees of success. SC has the 3rd-highest unemployment rate in the country, and I'm moving there with no "job" prospect in sight. And yet, I'm excited as well as trepidatious about the entire thing. This is the first time I'm going to do something for me, something that's not safe...something that has a real chance of blowing up in my face regardless of how much planning I've done to safeguard against it. I believe I am resilient enough to withstand whatever comes--even success. I hope lol.

I am procrastinating like crazy with packing. I have so much junk; I didn't know it could accumulate so quickly in three years (well, 7/8 years if you count college). I load 'em up and ship 'em out on Monday and Tuesday of next week, but it's hard to let go of routine; of that safety net. But I think I need to do this in order to go where I want to be. I'm scared...really, really scared. The first thing my uncle said when I told him I was doing this writing thing two years ago was how unlikely it would be for me to be successful. That wasn't the most encouraging thing I could've heard, especially when his (and, hell, the industry's) definition of successful is one I haven't met yet. According to agents and editors, I only have one publishing credit (if that, since it's with an e-publisher and it's a short story) and those three other novels and that one novella doesn't count. Except it does to me. That's blood, sweat, tears, sleepless nights, hungry mornings, me in those books. To say that doesn't count don't do much for the ego, I can assure you.

But I'm doing it anyway, because it counts to me. I'm choosing to look at the ending of my contract as a new beginning instead of dwelling on the horror of not having a "proper" job that pays benefits and a 401k (that...has gotten smaller, *eyes economy*). And I have to believe I'm smart enough to pull this off, and dare I say it, talented enough. And God willing, lucky and blessed enough. And I have to remind myself about all those e-mails and notes I got last week from people who are rooting for me, people who are farther along in their publishing journey who are cheering me on. It's very disconcerting to have people selling you to yourself, because I'm so used to focusing on what's not right with me that I disregard what is. You are often your worst critic, after all. I wonder if I had a book signing would people come--I'm so scared they wouldn't, you know? That's why I like those multiple author signings because maybe someone will mosey on over from a more established author and give me a shot.

I say this because I plan on releasing Trolling Nights in the next few weeks. The last time I had a book signing it was for Being Plumville, and considering that was my first book, I wasn't expecting many people to come outside of family and a few friends, but I am also...shy. But that's something I'll use these next few months to work on, trusting that people want to hear what I have to say, even if the majority of my experience thus far says otherwise. I don't get many reviews or responses (which goes back to why I was surprised by the e-mails from last week!) but that doesn't mean people don't know who I am or haven't read my work. But the bubble...it's easy to live in one in Boston. When I go home, it'll be slightly different.

Change..."Yes We Can!", eh?

Squeezing It In!

First off, Happy Holidays. I hope they have been and will continue to be safe and enjoyable!

Yes, it's been a month and ten days since I've last made a post, but I have a very good reason.

1.) I'm moving from Boston to Charleston, so I've been putting my ducks in a row for that--including writing ducks. This means I'm amping up the editing side of my writing life, although I will admit this is coming at a slight expense for my authorship. I hope things will settle down once the move finally happens, but because my contract in Boston is ending, I figure I need to make a break for it now or else I never will!

2.) I am now a member of Badazz Authors Group. Again. I'd left because I didn't think my style of writing would fit very well, but then I got over myself because the ladies of the group are fantastical and variety is a lovely spice of life, so, onward!

3.) Expect a new release in the next few weeks. What release, you ask? Oh, just the one that's been on the Upcoming Releases page for almost two years. Reconstructing Jada Channing, people! Yes, it's coming, and I hope you will all enjoy it! This is my baby, the first original fic I ever started with any seriousness (because that "original" story I started when I was 12 so doesn't count!). This is the thesis that let me graduate college, thank you, Jesus! Hopefully, it'll translate to a bona fide novel just as well.

4.) NaNo '08 is on a brief hiatus. Thank you sticking with me so far, but that's put on the backburner for a bit, but it'll come back!

5.) Tell your friends and family about me! Don't be a stranger! Join the Google Group or send me some e-mails. Also check back here because I have some serious plans for all of you.

6.) And thank you all so much for making 2008 wonderful for me. Yes, the year had its ups and downs, but I learned more about myself this year than I ever thought I could. And it's all your fault! ;) Have a wonderful New Year, everyone!

Black Women's Fiction and Romance

Right now I'm reading Leaving Cecil Street by Diane McKinney-Whetstone. I'd just finished reading her Blues Dancing about a week ago and Tempest Rising before that, and between reading these three stories, and then thinking about other Black Women's Fiction writers such as Alice Walker and Toni Morrison, I realized something. It's rarely a happy story. There is just so much pain discussed and shown and seen, especially on the part of black women, that I just feel heavy and want to cry. And then I think, is that all of our stories? Is that it? How we're not loved enough, or we're used too much, or we're ignored, or we're spotlighted for all the wrong reasons. We easily stray, we stay on the wrong straight-and-narrow? And to think that was what was only offered up until almost thirty years ago when Black romance really started taking off.

Let it be known I appreciate Ms. McKinney-Whetstone and Ms. Morrison and Ms. Walker and Ms. Angelou, etc. I do, and I like how they write, and I loved Blues Dancing almost as much as I loved Tumbling, but I think my current personal space is making my reading of Leaving Cecil Street so hard. I just . . . I want these black women to not only be loved, but to love themselves. And the reason why I appreciate these stories is because often, so very often, we don't as black women, and it shows us that. So when I am reading about these husbands, who love their wives as they say and the author says, straying, or these dirty old men preying on little girls/women (which is particularly notable because someone on an online group put forth her personal theory that little black girls are rarely seen as children, but just small adult black women, and I can't say I disagree with that), or women abusing other women because it's easier to hurt someone else than to deal with the pain you feel yourself, especially because you were never taught how, I just . . . I'm nodding and trying to hold tears at bay and wondering when will it be our turn as a people, to allow ourselves to feel loved and be loved and demand more than what we've been getting. And no, the answer is not "forget black men" and "black men are dogs" or whatever other reasons you hear to rationalize outdating (on both sides). It may not start with us, because we are children when we learn how the world operates, and it takes a long time to unlearn some things, but it does end with us. There has to come a point where we just say "stop" and "no more." I think all the women I've mentioned above allow their heroines to get there, but to watch that journey to that point, breaks my heart, especially when, in many ways, it mirrors my own.

I didn't really discover black romance until Brenda Jackson and reading Surrender. I didn't appreciate it then, either. I was still in high school, I was more fascinated with interracial fiction, especially after reading Sandra Kitt's The Color of Love, so while I thought it was a good story, I set it off to the side because I wanted to read more interracial fiction, especially since they were the types of stories floating around in my head. Fast forward to the beginning of this year and Wild Sweet Love by Beverly Jenkins, and then it was on and popping. I rediscovered Brenda Jackson, became introduced to Gwynne Forster, Francis Ray, Rochelle Alers, Donna Hill, Gwyneth Bolton, Dyanne Davis, AlTonya Washington, and practically inhaled Beverly Jenkins. And I even realized Ms. Kitt wrote more than just interracial romance (see, Adam and Eva), and that she was the first to write for Harlequin. Thank God for these women and their books and the many others who are breaking out onto the scene, or else it would be nothing but heavy reading for black women. And maybe, another part of my hesitation for black romance was because my main readings of black women authors were those heavier tomes, and I was not trying to have any more of that during my "leisure" periods. And, to an even sadder extent, because I didn't see any of that in my own life or on my own television, I thought it was more fictional than even interracial romance. At least Zack and Lisa had a kiss; and Winnie and Christian dated each other. There was no black couple like that in my everyday life, even if I had cousins who were in good marriages.

So now, here I am having published four times, three interracial stories and one AA story. Having completed five more, all of which are interracial, and I am struggling with one story that is completely women's fiction and two stories that are both interracial and aa. As the heavier books show, love, romance, relationships are far more complicated and messy than romance books show, but romance books let you feel that happiness and joy that everyone needs, especially black women. I write both, and apparently in the same story lol. I write both because I need both--I don't want nothing but heaviness in one story and nothing but light in another. I want to run that gamut of emotions, I want to feel . . . everything a human being could feel, everything a black woman doesn't usually allow herself to feel. I want to own that pain that I try to ignore, and I want to own that joy that I try to deny. And maybe that goal makes it difficult to place me with publishers or agents, but my counselor yesterday asked me who is my audience. I didn't answer her for a moment, because I knew it was an incredibly selfish one. I write for me. I am my audience. And something one of my writing instructors back in college says still stays with me now, even if I found that class personally such a struggle--the most personal story is often the most universal.

Thank You!

Thank you all so much! Because of you, The Beauty Within has sold 100 copies in one week! I appreciate it so much! I hope you are enjoying the read too!

*hugs to you all*

Sav

Tumbling, by Diane McKinney-Whetstone

My cousin Denita knows me well. She gave me Tumbling over Fourth of July, thought I'd like it, and I only now got a chance to finish it. Ooh, boy, it was a hard book to read; not because the mechanics of reading was difficult, but because the emotions that it drew to the surface made me feel really, really raw. Noon and Herbie; Ethel, Fannie, Liz. Willie Mann. Reverend Schell. Thomas Moore. Black people in the '40s and '50s in South Philly. My grandma was there; as was my dad. She could've easily been talking about them or a neighborhood like theirs. Gentrification. 60 years later it's still going on; still having a devastating affect on black and other minority communities. About passion and having it taken away from you . . . given to someone who shouldn't really have it, but she's the only one there who'll take it; a father resenting his child; a daughter resenting her father; a woman loving too much but not in the way the receiver wants. Slick, silver-tongued, too-fine man that woo the innocence from a girl who just wants to be held. A girl who knows too damn much and people are frightened by that knowledge, mad at it. A woman who offers healing the only way she knows how.

There were no villains in this story. No one was all good or all bad. They were human, and textured and tactile, like you knew them personally; like you were invested in how things turned out almost more than they seemed to be; that you wanted everything to come out right for everyone--not "comeuppance" right; "find peace" right.

When I grow up, I want to write like this too.

July=Dead Zone . . . Sort of

Which is why I'm only now posting about it in August! Ha! July is the dead zone month for me creatively, because my job . . . the one with benefits that allow me to go to the doctor and maybe survive once I retire (if that is still even an option by the time I reach that point) got insane. I worked a total of 207 hours in July (not counting the editing job I do for Red Rose and etc). Technically, I am only supposed to work 175 hours/month. I had no space in my head for anything creative. At all. I'd try to write and it just looked so foreign and AWFUL. It was not a good look. Even my bosses were like "get some rest."

But did I do that? No. Instead I call myself going out of town EVERY OTHER WEEKEND. What is this foolishness? Granted, the first weekend of July was the 4th, and I went home to South Jersey to the fam--Dad and Cousins I haven't seen in almost two years. I figured it was about time. I also had the opportunity to meet Eve Vaughn, erotica writer extraordinaire. Keep in mind, I've been fangirling her for several minutes, until another member of TST told me she loved my writing.

*gaping*

Right, so obviously, I was like, "we must meet" and we did. And we talked . . . actually not about writing! Which is fantastic, because when you don't talk about writing, you talk about things that make you a writer or give you inspiration/material for writing in far more organic and salient ways, to me, anyway. I learned so much about her, and she me, and we met for much longer than I thought. She's good people, Eve Vaughn, and all of you need to check out her books. And speaking of, we went to Borders, and her book was on the shelf! So of course, I bought it, even though I already had a book with me I wanted her to sign. I want that to be me one day, just browsing through the shelves and see a book with my name on it . . . yes. And then she had the nerve to say (as she signing her books for me, no less) she can't wait until I'm a bestselling author.

Um, whose book was just bought at a bookstore? Certainly not mine! lol

But the bigger thing is that even though she's definitely ahead in the game, she has nothing but well wishes for ME. I'm still learning how to get used to that, all of these established SUCCESSFUL authors who are expecting great things from me. I've not really ever had that in terms of something that's REALLY important to me. Academically, yes, that went without saying. But this writing thing, something that I haven't started sharing with the world with my name until about four years ago . . . I realize I am an infant in this business. I really am, but people are so excited for me.

It's humbling. Mentors rule.

So, two weeks later, the week that I worked 50 hours for my benefits job, I went directly from the work to NYC for the Harlem Book Fair. It was really a last-minute decision, because I was EXHAUSTED, but I need to network. That is something that needs definite improvement in my skillset, I feel, so I went.

Glad I did. I really only sat through two panels: the one on African-American Publishing and the one on Black Romance and Street Fiction. That last one was the main reason I went to NYC, and I wasn't disappointed. Although the Publishing panel was more geared to nonfiction/self-help publishing, it highlighted the importance of African-American booksellers, word-of-mouth, and creative ways to gain access to the resources the major mainstream/white publishers have in comparison. As an African-American author who writes primarily Interracial romances no less, that was a very worthwhile panel for me, because I know it's going to be harder for me to gain access to some of those resources than other types of romance writers. However, the Black Romance panel . . .

I rode on the elevator with Sandra Kitt and didn't figure it out until she sat on the panel.

*dies*

Clearly I was more exhausted than I thought, because Sandra Kitt . . . she was THE FIRST black romance novelist/interracial romance novelist that I EVER read. Ever. And my slow self didn't catch on it was her, which meant I missed a GREAT opportunity to talk to her. But, she was fantastic on the panel. She broke down the history of black romance, kind of shocked it's only a few years older than I am, and she talked about her way of writing her novels. She, like I, can't just have them falling into the bed after a sentence. She takes the slow-burn approach. And considering she was the first I read, maybe that's why I do, too. But it's hard for me to write sex/intimacy just for the sake of it. Like Ms. Kitt, it has to make sense for the characters and the story, or else why bother?

Also on the panel were Leslie Esdaile (LA Banks), Gwynne Forster, and Nathasha Brooks-Harris; and it was moderated by Donna Hill. Just listening to these ladies speak was so informative and wonderful. I learned so much--I think I was probably the only one there with a notepad and writing notes, like I was Black Romance 101 and I had a quiz in two days! After the panel, I found a huge pair of ovaries somehow and approached them all. Ms. Forster actually remembered me from Chicago, which is notable because the only interaction we had was me asking her to autograph my book of hers! Ms. Brooks-Harris, who sat on the panel with me and Ms. Jenkins, gave me a hug and her contact info! And THEN, in a move that surprised even me, I asked them to sign MY proof copies of The Beauty Within and Reconstructing Jada Channing because I didn't have a book of theirs to sign--to give me inspiration and encouragement when I start to lose focus and faith. They did so willingly, even Ms. Banks, who I'd never met until I asked her to sign my book. They were all so gracious and stayed and signed as many books after the panel as they could. The only reason Ms. Kitt couldn't was because she had a panel directly after the Black Romance and Street Fiction one ended, or else I would've asked her to sign too.

After that, I met an online friend who, which shocked me, said I was the first romance novelist she'd ever read. Wha? MORE shocking was she was the SECOND person to tell me this in as many weeks (the first being my coworker who actually read the proof copy of The Beauty Within before I even did--said she loved it. yay!)! She was patient and let me meet some members from Beverly Jenkins's Yahoo Group and the authors to sign my books. Unfortunately, the long week had caught up to me during the panel because I had a headache the size of Jupiter, so she let me get some drugs from the corner market (the combination of the lack of sleep, eating little that morning, the heat (it was HOT), and meeting everyone . . . she was awesome with her understanding). Then I had to hurry to a manuscript pitch, and she had to go to the ATM because she was buying two copies of AJ's Serendipity for me. Yay!

Of course, I got sidetracked walking through the Fair and talked with an author, Lizette G. Carter, who was with a traditional publisher and self-published her second release and doesn't regret the move. This is further ironic because the manuscript pitch I gave was actually for HBF Publishers, a DIY publishing company established by the same person who started the Harlem Book Fair. I thought it was going to be an editor from a publishing house, but I'm glad because I now have yet another avenue to get my books out there, and it sounds like something that people should keep an eye on in the future. They liked my pitch, and apparently so much so because the reps mention me on their blog!

Too cool! Especially since I know I was among the last to have a pitch with them!

But, of course, to further complicate things, I spoke to Ms. Banks again to thank her for signing my book and briefly about my publishing experience thus far, and she encouraged me to talk to her editor at St. Martin's Press, because traditional publishing is the way to go, in her opinion.

So, two votes self-pub, and two votes traditional pub, because Ms. Banks is VERY successful and clearly it's worked for her fantastically.

I don't know what got to me, people, but I must've been either too tired to let my shyness hinder me or the pain medication I took to get rid of the headache gave me some extra courage. I talked to the editor and gave her my card, and she was lovely with giving me advice and quick To-Do and Not-to-Do pointers for when I submit to editors and agents. Considering the fair was winding down, I was very appreciative of her taking the time out to talk to me!

Finally, I leave and meet up with a friend I hadn't seen since I went natural with my hair (so, over five years ago). He gives me the name of his agent, who SELLS books, and we talk about ways in which to get our names out there (he writes, too, mainly commercial fiction/thrillers). I hope I helped him with my limited expertise, but his connections into the publishing industry are really out of control, so I don't see him having such an issue with getting his work into the right hands, and he has a style and a product that lends itself well to crossover/mainstream publication.

So I make it back from my weekend in NYC (complete with an, essentially, two-hour detour to Philly because I got on the wrong bus! yes . . . 50-hour weeks are clearly no good), and then from then until about last Friday not an original thought crossed my head because I had no space. Couldn't really even be excited that my first contracted story The Coach's Counselor was going to be released at the end of the month because I was THAT out of it. I even thought the stuff I'd already written was utter garbage, which made Aliyah want to reach through her monitor and slap me for speaking, in her opinion, utter nonsense.

Well, I'm better now! I'm writing again, on Trolling Nights especially, which those who have read drafts are loving, especially Tim . . . which I really can't blame them because he is a whole lot of hotness (Maybe I'll be nice and post up a few more chapters here, yeah?). The Beauty Within is formatted and ready to go barring me seeing just ridiculous errors in this (hopefully) final proof. Other authors are doing the dang thing and releasing books so I'm never bored when my own characters are trippin'. And I'm an Author Spotlight on Rae's blog! Check it out!

Zora and Nicky: A Novel in Black and White

Read it. Read it if you want to read a fairly no-holds-barred novel that deals with race, religion, class, gender, faith, humanity. Read it if you want to be challenged. Read it if you want to be affirmed. Read it if you're Christian. Read it if you're not. It's not a preachy Christian novel; the characters struggles might not be your own, but struggles are universal, and I appreciated it. I appreciated how HONEST this novel was, and there's a scene in the last third of the book . . . when the main character Zora goes home with Billie, a woman she meets in the novel. Easily the most poignant and really most heart-grabbing scene for me. I appreciated this book, and thanks to Joyce for introducing the book to Jayha and for Jayha insisting it was a fantastic book and for Ms. Burney for writing it. This is the kind of book I want to write one day--not necessarily Christian IR . . . but something that can resonate that deeply. Yeah.

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.