PORTOBELLO NOVELLA

Dutty Sink Drama - Anthology To Podcast

2021-02-06T13:50:00.001-08:00

In my own little bubble, from the four walls I have been busy getting my book ready for publishing day. I should include the link here, but the pressure is too great. I have to live with the proof versions first, given that it's already listed for pre-order on Amazon, 21st February 2021. The number formation, 21/2/21 appealed to me. What it means in terms of numerology, I know not. But it's days, not weeks and even now, as I write this blog, could have been published it by now. I may not suffer with writer's block, but my anxiety manifests when I try to press, enter, send, share or publish. *Shudders*

Since the pandemic and lockdown began, projects I had lined up were put on hold and my work took another direction as a result. I was all set to complete a new novella, a departure from the DJ Series, clubland rave-lit arena, when I ended up heading down a zoom creative writing rabbit hole. The pandemic has inadvertently awakened our socio-political awareness. An unprecedented time where society needs to pull together for the greater good, but our vital interconnectedness are buried in hindsight.

For a number of reasons from the agitator POTUS, Healthcare, Immigration, Windrush, BLM, Brexit, Diversity, Vaccines, Protests, Fake News, the Social Media backlash, I could not help feeling compelled to comment on issues concerning identity. When you strip it down, it seemed to run through the heart of global main stream media agendas.

I couldn't help but notice the increase in debates on TV, radio talk shows and or news items concerning the threat of 'other'. Over the last 10 years was growing ever louder. It wasn't just beamed from the flat screen into my living room, but was beginning to impact my life. What the hell happened? Race has become front and centre of all we talk about. Equality guidances conveniently, ignored excused by freedom of speech volleys. Does that make freedom of hate speech okay then? Freedom is a loaded word.

Let's look at freedom. As a 2nd generation, West Indian, born in the UK, I sensed that a history was being erased before my eyes after the Windrush scandal unfolded. I am yet to be convinced that Windrush records were destroyed. This is the UK after all. The home of the ledger and storing everything in triplicate. Across the country museums and libraries store records of the most trivial of socially historic importance. I'm an ex-Civil Servant, I witnessed how the destruction of papers was a gargantuan bureaucratic process, requiring signature after signature just to file something dormant before its cellar storage, let alone destroy. Fiddlesticks! I'm also ex-BBC and their operations were not dissimilar. Quite sure their archives would store copies of Windrush passengers for posterity. Hmmm...not buying this. They will of course mysteriously turn up as The Lost Windrush Papers documentary 2036. In the meantime lives ruined. Establishment mistrust deepens. British born West Indians, rejected wholesale, put on the backdoor again.

Insulted.

I was disgruntled leading up to 2020 and walked a few protest marches for differing causes, but I've accepted that I will always be little more than an armchair activist. It is a big ask for any black person, already undervalued to put their head above the parapet, under the watchful gaze of the establishment's tools of ordinance wielded in the criminal justice system and mental health. That in mind, I decided to use my strengths, an affordable strength, from home, under the glare of my laptop screen, and write Dutty Sink Drama (MT-Ink) an anthology of short stories, prose, spokenword about my identity, a fusion of West Indian and British influences for better or worse.

I chose the title, inspired by the Kitchen Sink Drama film movement, depicting the stark, depressing lives of the working classes in post-war Britain. The genre came of age in the 1960s, when I was born and when my parents came to the UK. A few of the films I saw included black actors representing the West Indian community, integral to the stories.

I am fascinated by this period in social history. Times of depravation, unemployment, austerity creates blame culture and it is convenient for governments to use propaganda to re-enforce a narrative. Poor housing, health and education had to be addressed. It didn't take much to point the finger. It may have been ugly, but to have that history 'destroyed' all these decades later in a bid to create a 'hostile environment' exposes a resentful underbelly no apology could heal. The desired result perhaps to leave 2nd generations and beyond a sense of uneasiness. Create a backlash, brew a storm to point the finger. It's them down there, not us up here, us with the power to effect change. I relay the same message in poetic and short story forms. Figure it out.

'Dutty Sink Drama' I hope becomes the expression, an umbrella, that best describes the experience of my West Indian generated peers and the ones that followed. Using creativity, I hope to kick start unity in this niche group and strengthen our resolve against the unfathomable 'mistake' the Windrush scandal will always be. We can't delete it. But we have to sleep with one eye open. Job well done dear Home Office.

While going through the drafts and cover design, it occurred to me the new best platform in town is where I should take the book. Dutty Sink Drama is now a podcast. There'll be readings and informal chats and interviews, from barely heard voices. Examine closely the hybrid of cultures a multi-racial society has made of us. How do we feel, how did we steer our way against the cacophony of adversity and bigotry in our paths, day to day, job to job. What strengths did we draw upon and what drove some of us to give up. The stories are nuanced. Just like everybody else. One black brush, does not paint all as we are constantly being led to believe, but balk against. Complex by education, class, culture and popular culture.

I am keen to see how my podcast develops ongoing, if it spawns hundreds of similar ones under the Dutty Sink Drama genre then my work here is done.

Listen to the intro on Spotify here: Dutty Sink Drama Podcast Introduction

or here RSS feed: RSS

Sated

2021-01-04T12:16:00.000-08:00

I discovered a new word after watching a chef led tv programme recently, Remarkable Places To Eat, BBC2 TV. Michel Roux Jnr is an amazing man. I am a fan. Would love to try his food someday. Never know... He used the word 'sated' to describe the satisfaction of gorging on good food. A Michelin star chef is someone that cannot afford to run out of foodie adjectives, not with his pedigree.

I collect words. This is what I do, I grab them from random situations and people. I write them down or look them up then run with it. I mostly dilute them in poetry. At other times, during the writing process of my current project, the word is submerged in the very next paragraph. I do not write it down to 'save' the word for a rainy day. I use it immediately.

Imagine the cornucopia of words I might have packed into a stand alone book by now. I could have written a literary journal of new word encounters. Has this been done?

I have this peculiar memory recall for that initial brush with a new word. For instance 'cornucopia' is one word I came across when I worked for a community cable television channel of that name. The word has popped up regularly ever since. I will forever associate the word with that company.

When I wrote songs I would jot down ideas or sing into a dictation machine - I bought my first one on a trip to Japan. I know, so analogue! A new word would find itself in the mix. Bearing in mind that I never carried a pocket dictionary with me and second guessed the meaning of each word by context. Before Google search or smartphones the creative process was a very different one.

Technology has seen me develop a 10-Word-A-Day habit, regularly searching for definitions or meanings online at the end of my fingertips. It has impaired my hobby a little. It's cheating. Is it not?

I am that person whose pride takes a sizeable dent if caught misusing or misunderstanding words. A bit like the man who refuses to ask for directions, I refuse to ask 'what does that mean, what do you mean, please clarify?'. I simply struggle to admit my ignorance in front of anyone. There's a stubborn resistance which says more about me, I'm sure. I mean it is only a word. Looking back, the knock on effects have impacted negatively along the way and as a result I have resolved to speak up going forward. In this multimedia age we perch, perpetually over the digital cusp of change and language is an ever evolving offshoot of this.

Some time ago, I found myself working in BBC Breakfast News department. A time when RSS and EMPD news streams ran over computer screens in LED script. The editor instructed me to keep an eye on the fax regarding a news item update. She said 'there's an embargo on that story, we will look at it again at 11am. Just sit on the fax for now when it comes in.' My action was to call my friend in Factuals department to ask 'What does 'embargo' mean hun?'. The diplomatic crisis of getting that wrong could have been far reaching. It was something to do with the Ethiopian government.

I am not a stickler for punctuation. There's a difference. People are free to uphold standards, that's their prerogative. See what I did there? I bought the book Eat, Shoots And Leaves before Google search or Amazon existed. I am not an anorak about it. Needless to say, I haven't read it all. Yet. I think by owning a copy it somehow validates my attention to such matters.

Not for me, saving up a word for Sunday best use. I will throw new words into my blog with immediate effect. Steer my hobby in that direction. A home for them at last.

The funny thing is that when I read through my drafts that 'new word' jumps right out at me and sated, I exclaim, 'ah, there you are, you made it in'.

Bridget Jones, Chicklits, Love Actually & Me

2020-12-22T20:44:00.000-08:00

The Christmas classic movies will mean something different this year. With London's lockdown tier 4 announcement it means the exodus to the Home Counties or internationally is now defunct. Watching the films with the same members of family quoting or interrupting is all a part of the traditional viewing experience.

Before, I became a writer I was out in the world collecting experiences, truth stranger than fiction style, I used to do the odd spot of Film Extra Work between BBC contracts and facilitating media workshops. As a result by some twisted finger of festive fate, I have become the anecdotal queen of the Christmas movie because I have been in Bridget Jones ll, Love Actually and Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Pt 2. I can be overheard braying "Christmas film? Pick one, any one - I'm all over them!" after which I proceed to share, drink in hand, boring anyone in earshot. Always a grateful audience gleeful at an excuse to swerve the tradition. Not so with my own family...nothing impresses them, but as an invited guest, there is no greater conversation starter. A role I've come to take in my stride.

No embellishments required, the facts are intriguing enough. I am no celeb. Just an extra on the cutting room floor for the most part. A black face for the 'industry' quotas required mostly. Unmissable when crowd scenes get altered on set as the 2nd AD shuffles us all about. Between each take, by reset the blacks are in the shadows, out of shot or simply moved off set. Black extras get to know each other, huddled together, we know the score. The blatant bias in the workplace is unacceptable now. Union exceptions were made for the film game. I thought it was ugly then as now. Today things are are on the move at speed, but there must be underlying tensions having been excused for an age. Let's leave that there.

Actor, Chiwetel Ejiofor had a major supporting role in Love Actually so I daren't go too right on. I only saw it for the first time 5 years ago and even then fast forwarded it to spot myself. Same goes for HarryPotter. I have anecdotes and will resist the temptation to write them here because that's my annual Christmas small talk material busted when in new company.

I have gone completely off-track. So I watched the writer, Helen Fielding documentary on BBC2 '25 Years of Bridget Jones' earlier this evening. Mainly because I enjoy watching author interviews in my down time. Down time? Don't listen to me. That is all there is at the moment in lockdown. She spawned a new genre - Chick Literature (Chick Lit) of which I am an indie Not-A-Best-Seller author.

I was relieved to see that they covered the unavoidable misogyny of the story. It was reflective of the time and the attitudes and even the comic factor has altered for good. As a civil society we are expected to continually evolve in terms of values. Fielding said she could not imagine making the film post the Me Too movement. I was keen to hear her response because I am at odds with it myself.

I wrote my first book inspired by 50 Shades, Diary Of A Call Girl, Memoirs Of A Geisha, Sex And The City as well as Bridget Jones Diary, like many authors have. Would any of these get commissioned today? I am still squirming at the title of my first chick lit novella - DJ Whore. It's like I have insulted every woman who ever kissed, shagged or married a night club disk jockey. I was adamant the controversial title stayed. But I question my motives. A discussion for another day.

The title must be off putting to the chick lit reader I was hoping to attract. I always said that it was a chick lit with a twist. Not quite the charmingly self effacing, relatable content expected. But I hoped that no one could deny they had the friend that had a penchant for 'copping off with the DJ' of a night out. But have I reclaimed the insult completely? The word whore is pretty harsh. Facebook and Instagram repeatedly rejected the title a few times when I attempt to pay for advertising over their platforms. My money is no good.

Is my book out of date in terms of attitudes? Afraid not. The reality of the lives depicted is still a thing. The club scene is global. The music transcends race and religion. Recreational drug use is integral to it. DJs are predominately male who are the whores technically.

I noticed the lack of books about a culture of people since 1985 completely ignored bar a slither of scenes in the odd drama. The films that have been made are testosterone heavy. These generations of folk - many still partying their middle age away, are unrepresented, but they are not a minority. What is that all about? I had no answers and set about writing a book I would want to read.

Whatever happens, my book is modern history. More than ever in our new world, it is hard to believe we revelled hugging and kissing in crowd filled fields, warehouses and super clubs worldwide. A portaloo lifestyle, gone for good, once a scourge of good times and now how we marvel! It is impossible to preempt a zeitgeist or the legacy, but that is exactly my goal. Set on a club scene in dot, dot, dot as opposed to set on a Mid-Western Plain in...It should be a stand alone genre.

I heard a male DJ use the expression DJ whore, as a term of endearment, I hasten to add. I am not judging. All I've done is use it as an ironic marketing tool. [Long pause]

One for the focus group then.

I bought the book Queenie (as yet unread) and expect Candice Carty-Williams and the generations that follow to bring the new world and the insecurities of her generation. It is still worthwhile to see what went before.

Let me end on this note. It was truly magical to meet the dashing Colin Firth aka Mr Darcy in not one but two films. Those huge hazel brown eyes have to be seen close up - swoon. Before the 2nd AD ousted me, you can just make out the shoulder of my jacquard coat, Actually. No chit visible.

Anthology Incoming...An Identity Spree

2020-12-22T19:35:00.000-08:00

Like a true recording artist - which I am not, my latest project is always my favourite. Really pleased with the way my Anthology is coming along. Keen to say, it may well be my best work yet. I'm swamped in cliches, but they ring true.

So why deflect from the unfinished project (working title: A Anthology Don't It) to write my blog? I'm in full deferment mode when I should be elbow deep in read throughs by now. What I do know about myself is that once it's completed, I will be stuck for what to say about it. Working methodically, try as I might, does not suit me. If I want a winter coat I have to buy it when I see it even during a searing heatwave because come winter, I end up scouring shop rails in vain. I have to make impetuosity work harder for me. This applies to my extra curricular interests. It isn't enough to write without running social feeds and blogs anymore.

Third paragraph in, I will start by saying it is an anthology of short stories, flash fiction, poetry, prose, auto-fiction and spoken word performance pieces. Quite the body of work. But when you make notes day to day. I am always shocked looking back at the amount of words accrued. The material and tone has changed dramatically. Gone are the love poems. Identity had barged its way to the fore. Divisive politics and identity politics, the leading agenda, had to some extent prompted me where Twitter rants failed to hit the spot. It's like 2016 gloves had come off in terms of tolerance. I seem to have been tossed into a new world of illegal bigotry boxing rings, no holds colour barred. The referee has been nobbled by the Brexiteer Bookies and Team Common Decency apprehensively waved the ever so white, white towel. The imperfect world I had known had descended into a free for all. Every man for himself, literally. Soon you'll be able to read all about it. I never intended to write on this topic. There is a new mood in the camp. I was happy as an emerging, maverick chick lit writer. Smashing up the genre, middle aged women and the club scene. I have a backlog of similar stories and flights of fantasy, but permission to land those tales has been temporarily, halted.

In my new work, I will be exploring the impact of a world and destiny I had no control of. Does anybody? The what, the where, the who I came to be. I am one grain of the Empire Windrush experiment. The generation born to immigrant parents in the UK. The well-worn story, told many times over when the Europeans who emigrated c/o Ellis Island to the United States, their legacy, which has influenced popular culture worldwide is a given. However, there are other stories. In every country, they have a generation of immigrant settlers, whose stories get a reveal once in a while. But this great experiment in the United Kingdom regarding West Indians integrating, I use the term loosely, into British society is only just beginning to see the light of day finally. We are oldies now, hurtling towards ever moving pension goal posts.

Social Media has globally escalated the communication between family and friends 'home and away'. The upshot is that the pan-african diaspora is but a click away. In a word we have galvanised. The black experience is a multi-cultural, multi-faith, multi-languaged and a multi-class conglomerate. Being black is a many splendour thing, persistently devalued as one bush stroke colour, one size fits all. The world whirled wide of the mark in the advent of social media and it is still in transition. When I look around, I see stalwarts out of step in this digital revolution. I see those too, who were ahead of the game.

The mainstream media trying to figure it out. How to manipulate the spin that has spun out of ideas. The masses are waking up and questioning the status quo, they've grown restless with mainstream populist, toothless, truthless, soundbites. Their focus on non-thinkers may yet blow up in their faces. These consumers cum pension investors, born into the one-sided history in their favour. I digress.

The pandemic is a moment in a history of extremities. The shock waves of the Nu-Middle Ages befell us in a blindsided swoop that will forever be the year 2020. An easy date to remember in a general knowledge quizzes going forward. We have had a moment to reflect. To reconsider how we lived before. To question what our lives are all about. Like it or not we are mostly smartphone tapping, armchair philosophers now. Politics for those that despised it became the must-have info, whether fake or real. The rest of us who relied upon it was flustered by the desecration of trust before our eyes.

Fun times, jah? I wrote about these things many times. Many times without the gravitas of the full command of geo-political English it deserved. But I made my point. I hated the facelessness of it all. As an emerging author, I deeply acknowledge that there has never been a more defining time to write my story. One voice from the integration experiment within the UK. The likeness of my person I am certain every non-black person in the country, has met at some point. In a club, a bar, a hospital, the workplace, on public transport, the dentist, in a shopping mall, in a car park, at the nursery, on the way to football, cricket or rugby, a concert, a festival.

I am certain no one can say they saw 'all' the black stereotypes presented to them from various media source culprits. Television, Film, News, Magazines, Advertising.

I never saw me.

But I saw me and my peers everyday. Not just in the cities. I used to question, how so? Why so? Never giving it more than 30 seconds. Filed under dormant in the recesses of my mind. I had a life to live. The people I integrated with and visa versa didn't seem to notice. It was simply ever thus. Why would a non-West Indian question the status quo. This was the UK. It was going to pretend we were not here. Ignore our presence, in funnily enough, stereotypical stiff upper lip fashion.

Identity the Black And Minority Ethnic (BAME) has made headlines and twisted negatively during the pandemic. The press still determined to write-off whole swathes of people by gene pool while we look on. 'See it's those pesky blacks spreading the disease. If it wasn't for them we'd be alright. Covid affects old people and BAME, they said so on the news so the rules don't apply to us as much'. That is how the news is delivered and perceived. Listen to talk radio to get a sense of how the deliberate distortion is swallowed up wholesale by a beguiled right wing electorate. Steady...steady.

The Black Lives Matter, leaderless movement, the biggest civil rights trauma group therapy ever, encapsulated the desperation of masses to speak. All at once. Every story same, same but different. The smartphone represents the torch of freedom. The world is really listening now because seeing is believing. The klaxon cry to speak up grew louder. Every little story adds up to the cumulative message. I sensed shift of discomfort ever since the protest marches began. I never marched before, but suddenly the last few years, many turned up at once. I marched for Grenfell, Extinction Rebellion, anti-Trump visit and BLM. I for one am thankful, that BLM gave us permission to speak without recrimination. But then, I'm not working for an organisation that forbids activism or political alignments. Had I been younger, not sure what or how I'd react, if I am honest.

There are genuine concerns that losing inequality will mean someone un-black will miss out. Somehow these concerns apply one way. I raise my eyebrows that such idealisms still exist. Isn't it a tad old fashioned? The anti-black rhetoric is so last century. Racism is like banned pre-dated 1947 ivory. As unsavoury as sending children to work houses. It was acceptable once. The hate is man-made. We cherry pick Dickensian and war time tropes and dismiss the rest to fulfil a narrative of 'other' or 'less than'. There is a shocking colonial hangover, of convenient double standards, while the underlying sclerosis of the liver ignored until it is too late. The tiresome 'lessons learned' enquiries should focus on the knock-on effects that come to hurt every one in the end.

I will forever be fascinated by racism and why it isn't treated as a mental illness. A phobia. You confront the object of your fears and fear dissipates with a phobia, right? Perhaps the fear is learned behaviour. This is nothing new. But for the educated establishment to carry this notion forward, the gate keepers, the economists, politicians who have studied capitalism, is something I will never understand. Nor will I accept. I expect it of the ignorant. That is why racism has to viewed as a self worth issue, a hyper inflated sense of superiority deflecting inner inferiority. Psychologists know this.

While these debates are on the table, see how easily I get drawn in, I must share my views and story to demonstrate what happened with one person, adopting the each one teach one. There are others like me. The Jamaicans I must state have had it particularly bad. The reputation for a country men from an oppressed tiny island that has influenced cultures throughout the world is an extraordinary feat. Any success has certainly been under duress on the journey. Guarantee it. Always singled out, I get this eery feeling that I and no one I know got the memo 'the Jamaicans are trouble'. But don't try to convince me that it is not out there. Bank managers, landlords, business lettings, manufacturing, anything involving investments or loans rejected, they will never admit this out loud. We only have to look around to see that they haven't. The heavy handed diversity measures being set up to counter this is well away, but Jamaican-heritaged folks' turn of fortune is where I would like to see a difference made.

I repeat.

I am a product in spite of this 'memo'. I rode against the tide of it for many decades. Even black gatekeepers I have met were of 'other Caribbean' or African heritage. The diversity sub-divisions may yet play on. But on my watch in 2020, I hope to put my lived experience on blast. I will encourage my peers to do the same. The stories of the hybrid Black Brit is factual. We have heard everybody else's. The Greek-Cypriots, the Turkish Cypriots, the Sikhs, the European Jewish, Ghanians Vietnamese, Bangladesh, the Irish and many other communities have been left alone to build their lives in Britain without much in the way of vilification. The Eastern Europeans have had a time of it, admittedly. The inflaming, inciting Pathé newsreel of these other immigrants perversely missing. Missing. Well, where are they? Were the West Indians the only boat passengers? Documentaries start with the Windrush ship, but the other races interviewed as contributors. Those damn Jamaicans singled out, bug the media and the establishment. I did not get the memo. Rumour has it, that there is one such note buried in parliamentary archives.

My book due out in January 2021 is not all hearts and rose tinted gardens, in the way it might have been previously. The light and shade is ever present. It doesn't represent everybody. It should speak as a snapshot of time. I coined a phrase to title my anthology, I won't reveal it here until it is registered for pre-order, which I truly hope goes on to typify the generation Windrush, the story they tried to airbrush from British history. The Pathé news reels, bores me now.

With that, for the next generation after me, in the name of mid-century history (lets see if it is possible to lose my documents) let the record state that I was here. A daughter of hard working West Indian immigrants. I am not a prostitute, a criminal, a spliff smoking puff-head, a hot-tempered, suspiciously fitting your description black. It is possible for two cultures to co-exist in one being. I am it. I like a curry patty with my chips. I like hot sauce on my cod. I dance to Elvis, Michael Jackson and Bob Marley, Blondie, Duran Duran to Five Star. Some times with a beer or sometimes Prosecco. I live next door to black and white neighbours in peace. The best, the very best of both worlds has been mine to fashion a life from. Which does not include blacksplaining. I am not alone. There're loads of us. Rob us of this chunk of social history, tolerate this narrative from our media, then you rob yourselves and your children's children of a future on an earth on borrowed time.

The 'Anthology Don't It' (WT) will include short stories, auto-fiction, alongside spokenword, prose and poetry under the theme of identity covering Windrush, Grenfell and the Pandemic. Available in Ebook/Kindle & Paperback. Sign up to the newsletter or Facebook for latest on the release.

Poetry Emotion

2020-12-09T12:25:00.000-08:00

I first released this collection soon after discovering self publishing in 2011. I had been researching agents and publishers for a ghost writer over the internet when I came across Lulu.com and Createspace.com. It was like a genie had granted me my longed for wishes right there and then. I knew I had pen-scribed paper manuscripts of songs and poetry dating back to my time in Art college during the 80's. I adapted them into every format denoted of the era from floppy disk to USB and CDs. Then as the fast paced advancements in technology careered into these platforms, it paved the way for me to save my work for prosperity. All at my finger tips with a little application - behold the possibilities...

I jumped in straight away and decided that I would figure out the pitfalls as I went along. I set up the account surprised at the almost insurmountable anticipation. What no, gatekeepers?! The dropdown of the first template had me salivating where it said 'Book Title'. The entry under 'Author' was vacant for my nom deplume, the best bit, so I thought until emblazoned before me, ISBN generator. Those four letters blew my mind, they leaped off my desk top screen like fireworks. The dream of publishing my own book was becoming a reality and what is more, it was all free. At this point, I was fully aware that creating a book would be the most satisfying project I would ever under take. I signed a major record deal once-upon-a-time, which barely evoked a dim response by comparison.

I recall that elusive record deal came with obligations which interrupted the creative process. For instance take producers in the studio to the marketing teams. Add to that the photographers, graphic designers, art directors, make up artists and stylists, studio hire and copyrighters and promo videos. It added up to an awful lot of compromise. It's worth marvelling at what it takes to line up all those ducks in a row in order to have a hit record. Writing the song is only the beginning. The lone, lyrical journey that is poetry can easily lose its rawness by the time it comes to light. Here I was without constraint, at liberty to steer my work from inception to book - much to the appeasement of my megalomaniac leanings.

I scroll down the page to upload a pdf file and a jpeg book cover. The generic book template options were great guides too. Armed with beginners photoshop skills under my belt made this less of a daunting task.

The poems had to be compiled into set pages. I thought I would start with publishing my earliest work. I had been writing about falling in and out of love, the morose and the joy of it above anything else. Which developed into life getting in the way of it and the over-thinking of it. Grammar permitting, I was at great pains to resist re-editing this work. At the time of writing, that was my truth, my outlook my ideals. I winced at the simplicity, patronising my younger self, reluctant in the acknowledgment that a diary is a diary. Hindsight must not be anywhere near it. Being objective was the most difficult thing to achieve. I would certainly advise getting a sub editor in. There is a responsibility for standards to be upheld for the sake of language with self publishing. Then again, language has always evolved and it finds a way to do so, which is why the importance of Hip-Hop and rap lyrics should not be underrated when it has fascinatingly catapulted language into orbit. From Chaucer to Shakespeare, Grand Master Flash & The Furious Five will eventually, sit comfortably side by side in language and literary history.

I experienced a strange feeling revisiting this work, trying to recall my muses. How a line here reminded me of the stark pain of rejection. Another line there and I re-lived the desperation to 'repair' the break ups. While learning the art of songwriting through poetry, the song themes were contrived about breaking up to make up, staying the night, setting me free - just leave, don't leave me this way, repeat, baby no, chorus out, ad lib. I studied popular music closely, all the genres, intensified closer still by my own emotional intelligence or the lack thereof. By merging the two areas, I crudely fleshed out this material. Like stitches Frankenstein would reject, the words were functional san finesse, soulless, with scant regard for the reader's interpretation, self indulgent. I might just as well had written my personal journal in rhyme and prose in vulnerable ink.

Vintage was the most appropriate title for these old poems. I was reading Richard Yates's reissued works at the time because of the film adaptation 'Revolutionary Road', his work listed under 'vintage' reads. I also live near the Portobello Road area famous for antiques and all things vintage, which I am a collector of...The sub title Poe-ho Series came about conjoining Portobello and Poe - as in Edgar Allan, master of the macabre, short story and poetry. The 'ho' was a euphemism for hoarder or the whoring of words.

Titles decided, the hunt for the photograph that most depicted 'old school' me was on. I used to be a test model and the photographer, whose name escapes me, it has been a long time, was a very cool black dude with an afro and his Hendrixploitation image. It was a Monday, and I was off to the legendary Rum Runner Club, in Birmingham that summer's evening. It was taken by the bay windows of our front room. I wore a leather headband over my curly mullet hairstyle, a fashion nod to concurrent movements Punk and New Romantics influencing my Soul Head self. Individuality of self-expression through up-cycling was central to those times.

I looked at some old jazz funk album sleeves for inspiration and found one which was by a Japanese soul jazz artist released in the seventies.

The content, the cover design and title completed, I ordered the first author copy to check through. As it baked in the Amazon oven, it was a matter of days before the first version arrived in the post - ISBN generated. Finally my work in black and white, in my hands and almost available for sale. Except I didn't want to sell them. It was an exercise in publishing my words, dismissing USBs, even cassettes, copyrighting my creativity once and for all. That was one of the happiest days of my life. There were errors of course and I went back and forth a few weeks until the pages and the grammar were perfected. Almost. Like relationships, no such thing.

Once satisfied, I went on to publish the others straight after. Four chapbooks in all.

During the first UK lockdown, with years of digital skills behind me, I thought it time to revisit and re-package these chapbooks. Embrace the brave new dystopian world and try to do more spokenword readings online. The zeitgeist of the pandemic was poetry, certainly out of fear and isolation and the desire for mindfulness tantamount to that. It was no different for me. I baked banana bread too!

The four chapbooks are available on Amazon in ebook/Kindle/paperback formats:
http://Bit.ly/PortoP4

Skin In The Game

2020-11-24T04:30:00.003-08:00

I have been scavenging for submission opportunities like a manuscript manifesting, marsupial 2.42am on Twitter, my search platform poison of choice, for workshops, short courses - anything that might get my work out there.

There’s always more one can learn, but after having already made the leap into self publishing and subsequently indie publishing, what else is there to aim for on the emerging writer route? Oh yes, the small matter of that mainstream deal. I know it isn't the be all, that authors pontificate about - until you actually get one. This single ambition is the life's blood of a writer, the desire to be published.

I am a writer who happens to be a citizen of colour in the 20th & 21st Centuries, the revelation in 2020 being I officially had skin in the game. The BLM movement has roared and is being heard, all a little late for me, if nothing else I am relieved for the next generation.

In the diversity led meantime, it doesn’t make me any less keen to ingratiate myself under the BAME label talent search pool. Never, has there been a better time to scale that diversity drainpipe to the roof terrace to the inclusivity incubator if you will. The view is lovely there, they tell me.

Excuse me if I sound defeatist, but I am #hellatriggered by my perceived identity from others and by other. I consider myself the embodiment of hybrid cultures, values and language. I refuse to be pigeon-hole held against my will. My free thinking will. My imagination. Jazz fusion would never have happened, nor punk and even street food, the traditional with a twist, were it not for the freedom to jam, rebel, experiment.

I wonder how much the pull of profits stifled innovation across creative platforms inward looking gate keepers enabled. Market the same thing. Repeat. We need more wild punts on mavericks. Thankful benevolent offerings to the Gods of Creativity and the Fires of Credibility.

If I must be defined, then it would please me to be considered the wild card option. Am I a fraud to say I am a BAME writer when I don't reference my own cultural identity in my work? Auto fiction allowing, perhaps my fiction is ethnically challenged. Is there a genre to which I must confine to in order to be considered an 'authentic other'.

I appreciate that there are known parameters in the publishing world that define subjects, from historical fiction to romantic fiction, thrillers to murder mysteries or even the chick lit, where certain events must happen by a certain page or the protagonist must be from a particular background. But this rigidity has implosive consequences. Mainstream often caught out by the zeitgeist.

The current drive towards inclusivity is in danger of facilitating division in its wake. Emerging genres may never see the light of day.

Who is gatekeeping the definition of 'BAME'. Can I be black and write a rom-com set anywhere, but the continent of Africa? Can I be black and write about brown lives in South Asia? Would it be possible to create Greek characters living in the Carribean? The algorithms are as infinite as the freedom to dream allows. Right now, I still do not see 'ME' reflected in the publishing world, on the page or off, even as a swathe of BAME writers are winning accolades.

My first novella series is about a lifestyle I know first hand, no research required. MT-Ink.co.uk my publisher had music and clubbing related titles, that is why I pitched my ideas there. I have more tales outside that arena of course.

My imaginings, I anticipate might not be in urban settings or exotic, faraway lands. I hope that my work in the name of equality is wanted when I submit. I am creating new genres because I am more than an underrepresented citizen of colour. I intend to explore the full colour palette beyond me. I am more than grayscale.

I am writing romantic fiction set anywhere I like. I am writing chick lits with a twist. I am writing erotica - a mood. I am writing fantasy without streetwise dragons. I am writing memoir, it's music, it's education, it's urban, it's suburban, just a life. I am writing poetry and spokenword. I am black in the 21st Century, so what? Regardless who is seeing, listening, reading, I write like no one is watching.

Thus unto the BAME breach go I. For I have skin in the game. To this end, I am writing a memoir trilogy and an anthology about identity (access code alert) my next release out on MT-Ink.com by end of year. After which I will continue to write, like no one is labelling.

skin

off

my

prose.

No skin off my prose

experiments in type

in fonts sans pencil

I pick a subject ripe

in the feeling

tender on the senses

I stop and start

follow my heart

my gut

as much as I can bear it

what is unsaid

only I can see

the code known only to me

I will not shy away

from what you read of my yesterday

today

Believe or be deceived

Throw my words away

Its no skin off my prose

No prose off my skin

About The Author Doc Binge

2020-11-19T14:12:00.003-08:00

Box sets and binge watching, are so 2019 for me. My latest indulgence has been a diet of 'author' documentaries and interviews. A few film director docs thrown in satisfies my day to evening viewing. The lions share of output that inspires my palate are from BBC, BBC4, Sky Arts and of course Netflix. I feel positively spoiled having this kind of access at my fingertips.

I do not read as much fiction as is expected from a writer, blame a hateful A Level English teacher for that. I haven't studied Creative Writing at Masters level where reading is essential. Not sure my online course in Masters of Classic Literature at Harvard qualifies? Did I mention...

I always had this fear of subconsciously 'borrowing' ideas from what I'd read. I can usually count on the free flow of the mind during dull chores or walking a familiar route to fire up my imagination. Innovation drives me. A flattering homage is admirable, but I dream of coining a phrase or a movement. There are no excuses, especially with all the influencing experiences at my disposal. Five minutes on the internet, however is an abrupt reality reminder that I am not capable of an original thought after all. Idea 1,262 gone, done, said before.

My obsession with originality probably came from my time in music, when it meant everything. I never consciously learned the lyrics of successful artists or even when I sang in bands, or dare I say, the words of my own work. I treat them much like conversations, what you have said is left dangling in the atmosphere of a room, swirling around subjectively echoing in the listener's ear. More often, instantly dismissed or forgotten, into debatable oblivion. As it should be. Social media has butchered our natural evolved communications from human to human, repercussions yet to unfold. Least said soonest mended is a favourite idiom of mine. A hard lesson I still grapple with. I can't rule out this blog, or any micro comment, from ever haunting me like cyber reflux.

Absorbing the life and times and techniques of successful authors, is fascinating stuff. The thrill of discovering writing patterns in common with a best seller, reassures me I am on the right path. With every idiosyncrasy they divulge, I vow to hit the laptop like a demon and write until my fingers bleed. However, somewhere between the rolling end credits and ordering their books online, I procrastinate and lose momentum. This is the space to capitalise on these fresh revelations, the inspired magic to kneed into a narrative, cultivate a character, propel the plot, rhythmically ride the adjective roundabout. I have since come to accept this as an arbitrary occurrence. A phone call, a Whatsapp, a delivery at the door and puff! The energy lost.

I re-settle, a hot beverage to my right, I rub away light debris from my rose gold, brushed metal finish keyboard in a bid to summons the laptop genie. Barely two terribly clever words in, I search for a definition on Google before disappearing down the rabbit hole of open tabs beckoning me in. A poets award event and reading on Zoom, tonight?

The Lockdown One On Lone

2020-11-05T14:51:00.014-08:00

In 2011, I had aspirations about this thing called 'blog' something to be owned, rather than do. As social media emerged into this post MySpace monster, it became a quest of mine. It was never quite the right time to start one. The effort was all encompassing at my first foray into the realm. I just needed the right template, how hard could it be? Face to face with Html coding scared me off immediately. As it would later turn out, self publishing a book would be a darn sight easier. In fact, 4 x poetry pamphlets and 3 x novellas later, uploaded ready for purchase on Amazon and guess what? Still no blog.

All these years the blog eluded me, somehow it became my agent for change, spurring me onto other writery projects in the meantime. As you are reading this you may be forgiven for wondering, well you've done it now. But the road to this blog is stranger than romantic fiction. I thought I should share, with the lesson in it.

I threw myself into honing my social media skills, hoping that one course or workshop would springboard me into some blogging action. Er, no. It's one of those subjects, no course I undertook would make it make sense. Other digital skills accrued such as websites via third-party platforms or graphic design apps, video editing, yet I couldn't get my head around those pesky Wordpress templates.

I embrace most things digital so why would the blog bother me this much. There was a blockage. No doubt about that.

Roll on 2020, the most productive January I ever had when...Well, we are all in it now aren't we? I joined a band after 20 years of sessions in outhouse music studios. I was serious about it, bought myself a new cable for my old microphones and a stand! As the rehearsals became a regular set up, I jumped at the chance to join a local gospel choir for beginners. It was low key (pun unintended) as in not in an old church building, where I was to garner the secrets of the harmony. An enhancement to my vocals in the band. Covid enters stage left, and put paid to rehearsing in small spaces.

January turned into February, I almost had a regular slot on local radio station, having pitched an idea for a show. One days training in and by March...Covid Lockdown stopped play.

I had just had an interview promoting my novellas on Portobello Radio podcast. Thrilled, I felt confident to generate a book tour of other local stations, but...Believe me, I never do anything in January unless I can take myself off to Goa, India and forget about it, as in 2019. The Lockdown crashed in, a new word in our conscientiousness, a new life sans style was upon us. My most productive first weeks of a year ever, dashed!

At first I relished the freedom of staying home, staying safe, finishing some of the novels on my slate these unprecedented times had presented. Keep healthy. Eat well. Embrace the solitude. Every writers dream was free unfettered time, or so I believed. How wrong was I?

My deferring tactics started kicking in again. I recognised it as it was happening paralysed to do anything about it. I began prepping my home for a pandemic puppy. I sourced fabric and sewn pelmets for my huge blinds. I upcycled an Ikea, Malm chest of drawers my neighbour was throwing out and one Chinese marriage cabinet, embellishing them with gold leaf for the first time. I baked banana bread, using 3 minute only recipes via YouTube. Writing? What writing? Writing what? I had not opened my laptop in months.

While I was waiting the recommended 10 weeks before bringing my fur baby home, the blossoms filled the vacant streets of West London during the heatwave. I had a moment, in a chat with a friend. One of those friends that is a human 'note-to-self', a gracious sounding board.

Blog envy spilled out of me at once. I'm supposed to be a writer, it's a necessity. This friend, in fine troubleshooting mode suggested a contact of hers who 'knew about these things'. How much was he going to charge, was the first thing I needed to know. She put me straight and wondered why I hadn't considered hiring someone to take the headache away before now. Call it kismet, but the universe answered my call, because shortly after an old friend of mine reached out via Facebook who happened to specialise in blog websites. He was to become my blog Svengali.

I was astounded why I hadn't considered outsourcing my blog build all along. I'm officially a megalomaniac. Don't put it off, just pay someone if you can, when you can. When I desire something, I usually set some goals in order to attain it. Get someone in, find someone who can, failing that then doing it myself. Here endeth the lesson.

Look mama, I'm blogging, I'm blogging!

Lockdown One also led me down a Zoom-fest rabbit hole. Since I wasn't writing, online creative writing workshops became my latest distraction. At least this way, I was building my author credentials. Especially, c/o the marvellous Stay At Home Fringe. Not to mention Zooms with established authors sharing their wisdom and inspiration.

Exalting my enthusiasm to the same note-to-self-friend (she's good isn't she?) when she whispered mystical words ending in 'Harvard University'. I missed the start, but my ears were suddenly fully engaged. I pressed her to clarify. Harvard was offering short courses online for nominal fees. I was buzzing at the courses on the prospectus at the prospect of learning from home virtually from Harvard. Really buzzing! I diligently set to work, registered and followed the lectures and set to read channelling full geek 'A' student. Rewarding myself with a Netflix box set in between modules.

Let me fast track this episode and the Harvard certificate in Masters of World Literature my raison d'être for 8 weeks. An achievement no less satisfying as being awarded a Masters degree in Literature. Yay! Well done me.

We are entering what is fast turning into the dystopian with Lockdown 2.0 underway? Now is the winter of my 'this content'. Sorry...I do hope I master what I should actually write in a blog!

Stay safe all.

SPOKENWORD - RE-SPOKEN

2020-10-23T09:06:00.002-07:00

In 2011, when I was trying to get my head around Wordpress (a major fail for me by the way), I came across a feature while browsing the internet for help. It sold me on the virtues of self publishing and never having to get caught in unsolicited manuscript submission hell. The book in you has an out. I had not had this kind of inspirational excitement since my parents gave me the best ever Christmas present, a blue Petit Junior typewriter when I was 10 years old.

I played at touch typing with it all the while dreaming of the books I would write and let my imagination flow. My first idea had to be perfect. Well that was December 25th and by December 27th my sister broke the letter 'e' and just like that my dreams were abruptly dashed. For days I looked at the machine and wondered how it could be fixed. Was it possible to write without the 'e'. I was delaying the inevitable disappointment. My parents rolled their eyes in that 'kids will be kids' not realising the enormity of the catastrophe. I took to the local stationers as directed by my father, but there was nothing they could do. I still ache for that thing. I only threw it out when I was 14. Gave up the ghost and let it go. That tail off of my imagination was kickstarted again the more I delved into self publishing.

I had been writing poetry since I was 6 years old which was read out in the school assembly after I won a pen nib badge for my joined up writing too. I won again after that every year of infants school. I knew it was something I could do. We had a new headmaster, Mr Silverman who was passionate about reading and writing. Isn't weird the things we remember? For the first time books became a part of a prize giving ceremony over each term. I didn't know how important it was, I just knew I enjoyed writing as much as drawing. Looking back the prizes were either Ladybird or Enid Blyton's post colonial crazies. I treasured them though. I still have them.

My writing journey started early. Further down after Art College, I joined a few bands and started singing and that was when I purposely set about trying to write poetry and songs. A had a manager (he fancied me, this was his excuse to hang around), who pushed me to hone the craft because as an artist the money was in music publishing. It's common knowledge now, but not back in the 80's. I struggled with it. I heard the hits and really listened, but didn't want to end up being influenced to the point of imitating.

One broken heart too many, I turned to writing my emotions on paper. It was certainly better than writing a Dear John letter in reverse. You only make that mistake once. The process was cathartic. I wasn't surrounded by poets. I wasn't in a bohemian world. I wouldn't have known the cliche that poetry can be. Only that it took sadness to really hone my craft. I tried prose. I tried metaphors. I experimented. All just to write away my feelings until I healed.

And so it went on. Girl meets boy. Boy dumps girl. Heartbreak. Repeat. As you can imagine between 1986 to 2011, that amounts to a body of work.

The original manuscripts were written, most times on lined paper and kept in folders. I photocopied them and self addressed them back to me to protect the copyright - unrecognisable in the UK. When the PC came in, I painstakingly wrote them out and saved them on a floppy disk, editing and revising them as I went along. That's when I realised how prolific I was. When I progressed to an Macintosh Desktop Pro, I really went to town to create a new file. Timely, just as I was getting to grips with self publishing. Here was the material ready to cut and paste.

The joy I found in megalomania, I could write, design my own cover and fonts all from the Mac. There was no no gatekeeper to tell me that I couldn't. I did it for me. Nothing more satisfying than putting these books together for the first time. Typical me, I did four at once. To be honest, I wasn't aware of the 'anthology' concept at that time.

The poetry became spokenword, because as an ex-singer it was natural for me to speak the words out loud, perform them. Looking back at the naiveté of the young girl I was when I wrote them, was a bitter sweet experience. I wanted to hug her and tell her it gets better. I want to reassure her that expressing yourself through any medium is a good thing for your sense of self. I wished she could have known that the book The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron would change her creative life.

The thrill of seeing my words dating back, my poetic journal if you will, in print. On a page. All my own handy work, well there's nothing like it. The satisfaction of a mission complete was enough. Not for me the day dream of best selling. I did once have a music publishing deal which came to nothing. I was realistic. The books were first published on Amazon. I priced them at £26 each, to prevent sales. I just wanted a record of them, ISBN registered. The author copies I took with me to various studios for singing the odd top line and the one or two performances since. Having them in my possession validated my ability.

There was another reason for the overpricing and that was I was uncomfortable with my raw feelings being 'out there'. I didn't want a pity party of my vulnerability. Some of the poems were reimagined, completely made up as part of my experimenting with prose. I didn't want to have to explain myself.

Here we are 9 yers on and I do not care. There is treasure between the simplest ideas. I learned that I always had a social conscience. The words are out of favour, but they're a time stamp. Authenticity is everything today. Recognising 'Mindfulness' is humanity moving forward to greater empathy at last. Our young people are fighting it out, writing online. How will they look back at their puberty and idealisms? It is all in writing for all to see. The outcome must be that they are not alone. They all did it. My outcome and many others is we did it on pen and paper. Lost diaries.

This is kind of an elaborate caveat to the reasons why these pamphlets exist. I haven't changed a thing. Just fancied up the covers.

They are to be enjoyed or dismantled. Debated or ignored. But it's just one young person trying to figure her emotions out. Expect an anthology in the new year. 😉

They will be available for purchase via Amazon end of October 2020.

JaxEtta Vintage

Colour Me Street Heart

JaxEtta Retronome

Electroscope

THE DJ BOOK SERIES

2020-10-13T14:14:00.032-07:00

You need a good read for the commute or the work from home coffee break in your kitchen, avert your eyes and log out a moment. As we slowly acknowledge that the new normal includes a lonely space, we cannot underestimate the power of escaping in a book, transported to a world you are familiar with. The chick literature is about day to day heroines in realistic situations we can relate to, juggling a career, making poor relationship choices and parental decisions. Trying to have it all. Hence a need for a short read, novella style. Enough to get you involved, but not bogged down when you have a life to tend to. Post pandemic, we may see this kind of fiction spawn a whole host of narratives. Home schooling and working from home was by all accounts pandemic torture 101. Pandemic puppies and family dilemmas next.

The DJ trilogy was penned in what now seems like halcyon days looking back. Without considering feminist sensibilities, before #MeToo and #BLM and #Brexit in the UK. Who can avoid political awareness now? It would be impossible to write without these parameters, acceptable less than only four years ago. The series, a snap shot collection of novellas about late-century modern social norms. The decadent lifestyles rarely acknowledged despite being more common place barely referenced in fiction or pop culture...until now.

Jaqi Loye-Brown attempts to flip the chick lit genre on its head having noticed the lack of chick lit reads set in clubland. Actually zero. Paying particular attention to the house music party scene in the UK since raves took over night clubs, late 80's. Following a quote by the late, great author Toni Morrison If there is a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, you must be the one to write it.

This glaring gap in the market inspired Jaqi to set about generating the club fiction genre, she has coined Rave Lit.

The only content out there were faction, factual, biographies from the DJ's perspective and typically male aspirations. Clubbing is reserved for a minor scene slotted in one episode of a drama series or one chapter in a romantic fiction.

Although the DJ novellas stand alone as good reads in their own right, there are threads continuing from the first to the third books sequentially. Minor characters feature as protagonists as the years roll on. A continuity of unresolved stories turn up unexpectedly.

Jaqi Loye-Brown’s debut novella, with its unapologetic title DJ Whore is set in London in the late 1990s, a modern period piece when the mobile phone was not so smart…and fax machines still existed. An era on the cusp of a digital revolution as post rave-generation women charged up their own destinies in determined to maintain a 'party lifestyle'.

The second release follows the five middle aged friends and their relationship with their DJ partners. DJ WAGs: Housewives of House is a chica fuelled novella about when loyalty, love and rave generation parenting all comes to a head after considering a reality TV opportunity.

The third in her Portobello Novella series, Jaqi Loye-Brown’s GRAM Mother casts a random eye over the life and loves of the enigmatic Myrtle, a watercolour artist approaching fifty and running on that last little something in the tank. Myrtle’s decadent lifestyle threatens to subjugate the precarious mother and daughter bond as she struggles to bring up teenager Severign in West London.

Why not grab yourself a large Merlot, a side of low fat popcorn and flick a page or two, order now for this time tomorrow.

GRAM MOTHER

2020-10-13T14:09:00.020-07:00

The third in her DJ series of short stories, Jaqi Loye-Brown’s ‘GRAM Mother’ casts a random eye over the life and loves of the enigmatic Myrtle, a watercolour artist approaching fifty and running on that last little something in the tank. Myrtle’s decadent lifestyle threatens to subjugate the precarious mother and daughter bond as she struggles to bring up teenager Severign in West London.

The eight ball on the cover is a familiar code any dealer and their decadent clients will be familiar with, the clue to the choice facing the protagonist after a relationship bust up. If you've read the second book, DJ WAGs, Myrtle and her bestie, Liberty made cameo appearances and GRAM Mother also revisits a storyline from DJ Whore, previously left unresolved. Order the DJ trilogy rave lit here.

DJ WAGS: HOUSEWIVES OF HOUSE

2020-10-13T13:58:00.023-07:00

Some yummy mummies are not like the others. Piper Blair and Dande Lyon's friendship comes to a head when their loyalties, love and lifestyle are tested under the spot-light of a reality TV series. Follow the dynamics of a group of middle aged, middle class functioning club veterans - well just! From Kensal Rise, Queens Park to Westbourne Grove, Ibiza and back again, disco to discord all the way.

This ravelit, gallops along on a journey of female led friendships, peer pressure and parenthood, caught in the strobelight of delusion, underscored by a reluctance to give up their party lifestyle, at any cost.

Jaqi Loye-Brown enlisted a stylist for her Housewives of House music characters, name dropping some of the coolest designers. Check out her Pinterest board for visuals.

Read this book stand alone or as the second in the the trilogy.

Available on Kindle/Ebook or paperback: DJ WAGs

Author links Jaqi Loye-Brown

DJ SERIES 1 - DJ WHORE

2020-10-13T13:50:00.023-07:00

The title is unapologetic. Jaqi Loye-Brown’s debut novel is set in London, late 1990s, a modern period piece when the mobile phone was not so smart…and fax machines still existed.

An era on the cusp of the digital revolution as women charged up their own destinies and pursued a 'party lifestyle'. A male dominated arena, but the women were a necessary part of club life history, worth acknowledging.

This tongue-in-cheek twist on the chick lit is a #ravelit read you can rely on for authenticity, an overlooked voice that speaks to the post rave-generation, clubbing veterans of which their are millions globally.

Available on Amazon: GET YOUR COPY HERE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

2020-10-13T12:38:00.010-07:00

Jaqi Loye-Brown has lived a storied life. From signed-singer to indie record label A&R...BBC researcher to supporting artist in Bridget Jones' Diary...add to that youth worker, or DJ/club-owner (ex) WAG, Jaqi travelled professionally and personally through many of the most defining moments of the nineties and the Noughties.

Equipped with experiences aplenty, material rich content often make it into her novellas...a unique remix of chick- lit with edge and homage to the first era of rave. RaveLit. A compelling new voice emerging in British fiction, Jaqi's narratives suffused with humour, sex, extraordinary happenings and maverick characters make them infuriating as they are endearing. There’s also more than a hint of nostalgia for a time that will mean a great deal to middle aged readers and musical persuasion - a penchant for house music.

An accomplished poet and spoken word artist, Jaqi has self-published four chap books, followed by three novellas in her DJ Series published by MT Ink.

Over the last few years unprecedented events has re-shaped her mindset and influenced her new work which has taken on a socio-economic, geo-political activist tone. A thread that runs through her work generally, but a concerted effort driven by a sense of responsibility. Grenfell Tower, Windrush, BLM, Trumpism and the onset of the Pandemic makes a polemic necessary. She has an anthology currently in development, spokenword, auto-fiction, flash fiction, short stories and prose exploring identity, her West Indian heritage juxtaposed with British values, diversity and the lack thereof. Less under represented voice more overlooked rebel yell.

USEFUL LINKS:

MT Ink Publishing

Amazon MT Ink

Amazon - Jaqi Loye-Brown

All Jaqi Loye-Brown Socials

JaxEtta Digital

MY FIRST LITERARY FESTIVAL

2020-10-13T12:31:00.006-07:00

There was a time when I was a workshop junky. I enjoyed learning new skills in informal settings. Spring time and Autumn would see me thumbing through new short courses from acting, to radio, mosaic to crochet. January when most people would want to start the new year with a new hobby was off limits for me, I am in hibernation mode until the clock goes forward.

Then, here it was, the City & Guilds 7307 Teaching Adult Education course I never knew I needed. It came easy to me as a seasoned candidate of this way of learning, I was aware of the do's and don'ts. Armed with my certificate it was inevitable that I would facilitate workshops myself. I did a media TEFL one to start with, a regular young adult media workshop and more recently safe guarding young people on social media.

When my publisher was invited to run a writers workshop for Pikes Literary Festival in Ibiza, I was asked to present a mini workshop as an emerging fiction writer on the MT Ink label (nonfiction, biographies).

I jumped at the chance - it was in Ibiza after all! At Pikes Hotel (of 'Club Tropicano' video fame). I was intimidated to be in legendary author company. Check out the flyer, I cannot name drop.

I was on the panel for the first one and ran a workshop for the second - it had been a great experience and the feedback was tremendous. Then the pandemic. All change. I had just organised a writers workshop to take place nr Portobello Road, but that pandemic got in the way of my chosen venue.

I will be back. The scheme of work, itinerary is all set. I guess it will have to be Zoom or Teams. I have to admit I over indulged on virtual courses - very focused this time around, only literary ones. The platforms have been excellent for delivering the workshop as we know it. I especially like the 'camera off' listen only setting when I wasn't feeling particularly sociable, but didn't want to miss out. Almost enhanced the experience so much so that I might just sign up for a January class next time.

Do keep an eye out on https://Facebook.com/JaqiLoyeBrownAuthor for updates on when I will deliver some workshops for aspiring writers. A passion I truly believe in. Everybody has a book in them.