NaNoWriMo- Which Novel Should I Write?

NaNoWriMo, otherwise known as National Novel Writing Month is November. It’s a challenge/opportunity to finally put all your thoughts together and take that book from your head to the page. This will be my first time participating. As always I have lots of ideas, but what I need is direction. The following are excerpts from 3 projects I am working on that I hope eventually to turn into novels. Please feel free to comment on which one you would like to read more of. Thanks.

#1 The Shim Diaries

Honey is vindictive. Just look it up in the Webster. You’ll see her staring back at you all hard eyes and soft curves. I bite my lip and shake my head the way I do every time I see her. I can’t help it. She is a worrisome creature, an ACME anvil in a slingshot hurtling towards my face with all that pow and bang, thick brown country girl body. Girls like that should come with a warning label: Damaged Goods. Look, but don’t touch. If you can peel your eyes off the booty or those pouty painted lips long enough to really see her, it’s very clear. But so few people actually look at one another in more than a perfunctory way. Most people don’t get past the tongue ring and the double D’s. Which is probably part of what got her here.

                “Stop looking at me Nelson,” she sneers. I don’t much mind the menacing glare, but her tone set my teeth on edge. This is part of what got me in here. Inhale, exhale. The edges of my rage gather together near the base of my skull, a storm cloud collecting condensation. Winds rise. Inhale, exhale. I sit down in the circle to keep from acting a fool. Honey likes to push.

                “Ain’t nobody looking at you. You’re dirty.” I say and drop my eyes into the space before her. I don’t have to look up to see her cut me a rank glance. Here comes the dyke speech. I’ve heard it before and I’ll hear it several more times before I escape this particular slice of hell.

                “You da nasty one,” she takes a few steps closer. Her legs come into view, brown cocoa buttered legs in gold Sketcher platforms and a too tight, too short spandex skirt. She lowers her voice. This is personal. “You think I don’t see you watching at me. I know you want to fuck me. You just a big ole nasty black bull dyke, mad ‘cause you know you can’t have this.”

                I lift my gaze slowly until my eyes meet the hardness in hers. I see you, I tell her silently. I see right fucking through you. You think I ain’t had girls like you before? I’ve had a hundred, a thousand, a million nothing fucks in dark alleys and beneath the stairs of Gethsemane. Juvi was full of Honeys, dead eyed girls, hard and soft, angry and afraid who wouldn’t hazard a glance my way beneath the fluorescent glare of day, but in the shadows of lights out…they’d come to me begging. Fix me, their eyes would plead. Hold me. Help me escape. And I would. I did. I bent them this way and that, kissed and stroked the feeling back into their fleshy bodies. I raised them up like Lazarus and never once asked for thanks, but ain’t no way in hell I’m gonna fix this dirty bitch. You want a healing? Go to the doctor.

                “Keep pushing Honey. You won’t like what you get.” I murmur just loud enough for her to hear, the low rumble of my voice powerful to my own ears.

                She looks like she wants to rip me apart with her bare hands. I don’t even bother to stand up. Honey is hood tough, scrappy and mean, an Oakland chick, but after lockdown and six months spent lifting and fighting and lifting some more, even hood don’t spook me. Not to mention I’ve got about 6 inches and a good hundred pounds on her easy. She’s like a yapping dog. She’ll bark her ass off, but she won’t bite. No one bites the pit bull.

                “Okay everyone, let’s get started. Honey, have a seat,” Miss White-lady-who-grew-up-‘round-black-folks-so-she’s-comfortable tells her. She goes back to her side of the room and I roll my eyes as Miss White lady leads us in the Serenity prayer that somehow never makes me feel more serene. But the surrender piece is key. Anything involving a corrections facility has to include surrender. It’s a core component to the re-programming process. You must give up any illusion of free will.

                Miss White lady is talking again. She loves making references to what got us in here. She scolds us for our bad choices, our negativity, our fears, our lack of vocabulary (to which I always have to stifle my ‘Bitch please. One of us scored in the 99th percentile on their Verbal SATs and it wasn’t you.’). If she’s feeling all “fight the man” she might mention poor school systems and that terrible unstoppable, indefinable evil: Racism. And maybe any one of those things might be a contributing factor to why I ended up on probation and in Anger Management before my 18th birthday, but for me the real reason can be summed up in three words: John Stanford Nelson, otherwise known as my dad.

#2 The Seventh Daughter of Empress

“Tell me of your dreams child.”

                Jossy hesitated. The old woman turned to face her. Before her sat her youngest granddaughter, the one most like the Empress in looks, from her flawless ebony complexion to the jut of her cheekbones. Yes, she was her mother over again in miniature. That alone was enough to send Carrow into a cold sweat, but she was still just a girl after all, with this one there was still a choice, still so many choices. This time would be different, she hoped. Yes, that was the strange unfamiliar feeling tingling across her skin, not chills, not fever, something far more sinister, far more contagious. Looking at the child, her round brown eyes almost too big for her delicate face, twin braids hanging down her back, Carrow could not help but hope for something better. She knew it was silly, but still the seed was persistent, a nagging growth at the edges of her mind. She had the feeling that this was her chance.

                “It’s alright child.”

                “But you told me not to…”

                “I know what I told you child, but I need to know. And you need to talk to someone. Remember that. I won’t be here much longer. The elder women sing to me nightly. So you must remember as much as you can.”

                “Don’t say that Myasha,” the girl pleaded, her dark eyes somber and dry. Carrow bit her lip at the name, one of many, so many names and Myasha was as ill-fitted as the rest of them. How she longed to hear the child call her by her true name, but such things weren’t done.

                “I speak only truth little one. Come child. Come and sit with me. There is still time yet. The drink is nearly ready and there is much for us to share.”

                Jossy rose from her place by the hearth and set about readying the table with the look of someone intent on her chores. Carrow knew differently. The child was thinking and thinking quickly, wondering who to trust. Her instincts were true, a necessary advantage for any daughter of the Empire. Even a lowly born girl, a seventh born who would never inherit needed to mind her position. Every girl child was taught this from birth, but still some were more savvy than others. So curious that she should be the seventh, Carrow thought with a grimace. She had the bearing of a first born…another misread vision. What a curse it was to see all the pieces and never the entire puzzle, never until it was too late.

                “Myasha, shall I bring the cups.”

                “No child. Light the candles and seat yourself. I’ll bring the drink.”

                Jossy lit the candelabra from the inside out until the whole table was illuminated beneath it’s woven branches. It was a beautiful piece of artistry made by one of Carrow’s sisters, another low born like Jossy, with the luxury to choose a vocation. Jossy stroked the base admiring the lines. Perhaps she too would be an artisan or a trainer. She had a way with horses. Though it was still years too early to think seriously on such things. Carrow returned with two earthen cups steaming with well spiced drink. She placed one in front of Jossy and sat opposite her at the table. Jossy waited, as was custom, for Carrow to speak a blessing.

                “Goddess, all thanks for the blessing of this drink and for those who are about to partake. May your abundance stay us in good stead forever. So be it.”

                “So be it,” came the echo in a small voice.

                With that Jossy took her first sip, reveling in the array of spices that warmed her from the inside out. Though the drink was common throughout the Empire, every family of women had their own special blend of spices and as the safe keepers of the realm, it was said that the drink of the Clan Empress was by far the best. Jossy, having never tasted any other would have readily sworn to it.

                “Myasha…”

                “Yes child.”

                “Speak your heart. I feel the weight of things unsaid.”

                Carrow grimaced again. Did the child not understand how disconcerting she could be? This would never do. But still she answered with truth. “It’s as I’ve told you. These dreams…it’s complicated.” Carrow paused, searching for the right thing to say. This conversation would be an important one. She wanted to set the child right. “Dreams are like swords. They are tools, nothing more. You must learn to use them and use them well, but also understand that like any weapon, they can be turned against you. For this reason you must never rely only on dreams. But neither can you ignore them.”

                “Why do they come to me Myasha? You know as well as I that this is not a gift of our Clan. Was it my father? You knew him? Please tell me who he was.”

                Carrow ignored the father question. That would lead the girl nowhere. “Don’t be silly. What difference could a man make in your bloodline? Besides which that is not entirely true child, you mustn’t buy into the legends of our Clan. Those stories exist for a reason, but the truth is that there are many unspoken gifts in our Clan. The why is neither here nor there. The point is that you have them. Listen closely, no one else must know.” Of her own dreams she said nothing. Not all truths were meant to be shared.

#3 The Road To Santa Fe

                My dad is in love with a dead girl. Her name is Nadine Silverman. On Saturday mornings when he thinks I’m still asleep, he walks down to the corner store and buys her flowers, usually roses, a dozen red roses. Then he walks down to the Jewish cemetery where she’s buried and replaces the last week’s flowers with the fresh ones. He doesn’t stay long. Sometimes he’ll kneel by her headstone and talk to her. I can see his lips moving, but I never get close enough to hear what he says. Sometimes he just stands there and stares at her grave with the saddest look on his face. She’s why he never remarried. She’s why he never goes on dates, even though all my teachers and all the women at the gym and the grocery store, and basically everywhere we go, do everything short of throwing their panties at him to get his attention. Sometimes he tells them he is too busy being a dad to date, but mostly he just avoids them because the awesome dad thing just makes them like him more.

                “Oh Solomon, you’re so responsible. It’s so nice to meet a man who is open enough to be such a caring parent,” they tell him. And he is. He is the best dad in the world, which almost makes up for my mom. She’s not evil exactly. She’s just…complicated in a way that sometimes makes me sad and sometimes makes me insane.

                My mom is Nicole Marie Shores-Lancer, the wife of Richard Lancer, the football player. I checked once to see if that’s what she puts on her business cards since that seems to be her primary occupation, but instead they read freelance beauty consultant. That’s a nice way to say people pay her to boss them around and to teach them to be flawless at every moment of everyday, even on Saturdays when you would think it would be okay to wear your pajamas into the kitchen to eat cold cereal (God forbid someone actually make pancakes). Appearing in pjs, even designer pjs, always earns me a: “Zorah really? Can you please go upstairs and change.” It’s a statement, never a question.

You can’t be sure when a journalist might be coming by to interview Richard Lancer. And where there are reporters, there are pictures. Or worse, mother might be ‘working’. She works from home, which means there is a continuous stream of pre-pubescent aspiring models and worse still, pageant parents. Pageant people are like some mutant breed of hairless show dog that has learned how to walk on its hind legs and apply spray tan. Most of them are totally nuts, not completely potty trained, and almost always on the verge of tears or complete hysteria. Just yesterday Betsy and Beatrice James showed up on our doorstep in tears (Beatrice, not Betsy) because Betsy gained five pounds and couldn’t squeeze into her size 0 custom made ball gown.

             “Zorah sweetie, why don’t you show Betsy your room while Beatrice and I have a Voss.”

             “Sure Mom,” I told her. I knew the drill. I escorted Betsy and her lemon chiffon dream poof to my private quarters. I will say this, I may not enjoy Richard Lancer very much, but he has good taste in houses, or rather he lets my mother’s good taste pick houses, one in Green Bay, one in Orlando, and one in Madison. The Green Bay house is for the football season. The Orlando house is to show off. And the Madison house is for the school year. My dad has primary custody of me. When Mother married Richard Lancer she thought she might be able to convince the courts to give her joint custody so she could move us to Green Bay, but even Richard Lancer couldn’t erase five years of abandonment and the negligent parenting charges. The judge had told her that while he appreciated the fact that she had worked hard to reconnect with me (lol), parenting required stability and my dad had proven that he could provide that just fine. Motion denied. But instead of bailing on me (again), she shocked us all by staying in Madison, at least during the school year, so I can see her on the weekends that she isn’t off being a trophy wife. Or, if I’m unlucky, she’ll take me with her to make an appearance as trophy step-daughter. Apparently I’m great for PR.

An Actual Writer-Me? YES.

There is so much that I don't remember, so many missing days. My parents tell me these stories about things I said or did and maybe that's the way it happened, but great chunks of my childhood are a hazy mystery to me. There is one thing I remember, one moment that never disappeared. I remember writing my first book. It had a white cover with thin plaid lines (red, green, and blue) and it was little more than a few sentences about flowers. It wasn't more than 7 pages long, complete with illustrations, but I remember the weight of it in my hand, the sound the binding made when it opened, and most importantly how it felt to have created something.

I have known for a long time now that I am supposed to be a writer. I won't be so cheesy as to call it destiny, but let's just say I've always had a strong inclination to put pen to paper and no matter what else is going on in my life, whether I am stateside or abroad, working or playing, there is usually a notebook in my purse and a pen behind my ear. I like to write everything: random thoughts, poems, song lyrics, essays, angry diatribes, novels, you name it, I've written it.

So why am I not a full time writer? Well at first it was because when I was 9 years old my mentor told me that in order to be a good writer I needed to have something to write about. Growing up in Wisconsin, arguable one of the more boring places to be me in, I didn't think I would ever have too much to say if I didn't escape. So off I went in search of adventures, and I found them on multiple continents, in bars I shouldn't have been in, on buses I wasn't quite sure were going where I thought they would, in grocery stores, in classrooms.

Everywhere I've been has been a story and I've been writing all along, but something happened during this journey. I stopped believing that I could be an actual full time writer. The only sensible way to do that would be becoming a journalist or something, but while I did write some articles, that wasn't really my thing. But the novelist thing? All the novelists and poets I knew were also professors and the writing was the side gig. So I did what I knew how to do, I worked hard doing other things and traveled and launched myself into all sorts of ridiculous situations in search of fun things to write about...and from time to time I published an essay or a poem. When I lived in Japan I even had a bi-monthly column. But mostly I have just been amassing a stack of full notebooks.

Finally two years ago, my mom mentioned (for the millionth time) that I should maybe take some of my poetry and put it together in a book. Christmas was near, so I thought, okay, sure, why not. And thus God, Hair, Love, and America was born. And there was that feeling again. I held the book in my hand and thought...I want to do this again and again and again.

But that was two years ago and a lot has happened between now and then. Once more I got sidetracked, but now I think I might actually be ready to stop making excuses, to stop being practical, and embrace the idea that I can do this thing I love to do and actually have it be enough.

To that end I am ditching my day job effective October 31 and will be exploding with new projects. Stay Tuned!