TwoMindsFull

A re-post of our Father's Day essay...we feel it's a story that's worthy of repeating...

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Sun, 19 Jun 2011 15:44:00 +0000

Much like the "Yes, Virginia there is a Santa Claus" story that reappears every Christmas to remind us of what's important about the season, and will, we suspect, continue to do so throughout eternity, we once again share our essay about our very different "Dad" experiences, hoping that it too will remind each of you about the importance of Dads in our lives. Only the length of our friendship and # of books we've written has changed since we first wrote this piece back in 2000!

A Tale of Two Fathers

...it was the best of times...it was the worst of times...

In the course of nearly thirty years of friendship (and writing seven books together), we have discussed pretty much every subject under the sun at least a dozen times, and in a variety of moods from jubilant to melancholy. Whether the subject is the men we've dated (or married or divorced) or how to cure hiccups, we've found that one of the recurring themes is the strong presence of one of our fathers, and the total absence of the other's. All of this talk has made it clear ---in a way that's personal, not theoretical--- that whether pops was at the dinner table or in the wind, what he did or didn't do is critical. As daughters, we are generally quite aware of our mother's legacies. We are like her. Or unlike her. Happy to follow in her footsteps. Determined to avoid them at all costs– even if it means stepping on a crack or two. Or we are "our own person" and in complete denial about any correlation at all. But equally fateful for daughters is our relationship, or lack of one, with our fathers.

In Search of Donna's Father

I decided to look for my father after printing "unknown" yet again across the portion of a medical history dedicated to maladies that run on his side of the family. He left and took his family with him when I was an infant.

One of the three pictures I've seen of him was taken the day of his last visit. He smiles with an ease that belies any turmoil. My mother said he wanted the two of them to be free to travel, so I should be deposited with my grandparents. She wouldn't do it and thus, the split.

For years I denied any curiosity about my father. Mom loved me, and worked hard to keep us from the economic quicksand that swallows many solo mothers and their children. To show interest in a man who had dissolved all emotional and fiscal ties seemed treasonous. Then another medical form would nag at me, and I'd wonder, didn't it ever bother him that he had a daughter he hadn't said "boo" to since she was too young to remember?

Where do you look for someone who has been gone for decades? Phone books yielded nothing. I knew he had been in the Air Force, unusual in itself for a black man in the 50's. In the second photo he sits at a Paris sidewalk cafe, very dapper in his seriously pressed uniform. His grin is confident, even cocky, guaranteed to set the heart of his lady love in Harlem aflutter. His posture says he could take all comers. So what was so scary about a baby girl?

The Air Force sent me copies of his induction papers and assignments. He enlisted at 17, after tenth grade. His duties ranged from painter to supply records specialist, not much excitement for a young soldier crossing the threshold into manhood.

His fingerprints on the enlistment form startled me. Each filled its allotted box. I measured my fingertips against his, and for the first time in my life my hands seemed small. Those prints were more tangible to me than a snapshot. I could feel that hand, imagine it surrounding mine in the fatherly way I hear tell is protective and loving. If I met him would I hold this hand, or stand, arms folded, awaiting his rendition of a story I knew by heart from my side of the fence?

Often I have listened to woman friends recount fond stories of their fathers, and I get wistful with a dab of envy. One told of Friday midnight pizza runs. She and her siblings would gallop to the kitchen in their pajamas to join their dad for a slightly naughty snack. Another recalls the quiet moment when her father assured her that no matter what, he was in her corner. Knowing that one man on the planet cares for you without ulterior motive seems impossibly wonderful to me. Then I stop daydreaming. There are fathers who get drunk and wallop the first thing that moves, or those present in body, but unable to give love they perhaps never got. My father made a clean cut, not as jagged or ugly as some. Was I picking at a wound that had healed as well as it could? I didn't know, but I was not close enough to finding him to make myself answer.

At the Department of Health the clerk said I couldn't get a copy of my father's birth certificate unless he was already dead and pointed me toward the death records. I was annoyed. He was too young to be dead, but in the interest of thoroughness, I checked.

And there he was, in the ledger book for 1979--Charles Herbert Goins, my father. I stared at the page, waiting for some emotion besides shock to surface. He had never been real to me so I had no tears. He took up no space in my life, so I couldn't feel empty. Nothing came, not anger, satisfaction or sorrow.

My father had lived and died in the Bronx at the age of forty four, not very far afield for a traveling man. Had he changed much from the twenty one year old I had seen in his wedding picture? Dressed in a dark suit, he seemed very grown, but I have been twenty one. At that age we are often better at the guise of maturity than the details.

I copied the pertinent facts so I could complete what would only ever be a rough sketch of him. If I find members of his family, they can only tell me about him. The things I most need to know could only have come from his lips.

I have added heart disease to my list of hereditary ailments. That's what killed my father. The information is somewhat useful. I have heart problems of my own, so I guess the broken ones come from his side of the family. Yet, more than a hint at future ills, I suppose I wanted a cure for the recurrent ache I feel from being left without an explanation or a second glance. I guess it's like the arthritis that runs on Mom's side of the family. It's not debilitating. Some days are fine. Others, the pain is sharp, so you take an aspirin and keep going until it passes, but you know it will always be with you.

In Praise of Virginia's Daddy (pictured)

I'm the one whose father made midnight Friday pizza runs. He also teased and taunted my brother, sister and me through raucous games of Pick Up sticks, brought us Sweet Marie candy bars from his pre-dawn Sunday golf games at Niagara Parks in Canada. He cleaned up vomit soaked pjs at 2 am, proudly signed each and every report card and sent all of us off to college. My first dance was standing on Daddy's feet. Years later, he gallantly "gave me away", and danced with me at a wedding he knew was a mistake. When time proved him right, he never said "I told you so".

No, we were not raised by a single father. My mother was a full and active participant in parenthood, but this is not about her. This is about my father, a man who was always there for us. Sometimes he wasn't physically present. Snowy Buffalo winters forced him on the road, with his dusty, canvas tool bag, in search of work, but we always knew he was coming home. I don't know how or why we knew, probably because my mother knew he was coming home.

My father laid brick. Hard, honest, ordinary work, but we kids thought it was anything but ordinary. He worked for big construction companies and small ones, with two friends, even formed one of his own--Sloan Masonry, back in the '50's when the idea that a black man and two white men could go into business together was pretty much unheard of. They couldn't get enough work to sustain Sloan, but my father, Dave and Ray remained friends --apparently, another odd occurence.

Piled in the car on summer Sunday evenings, we would gape out the window as Daddy pointed to sparkling new schools, sprawling hospital wings, sleek, modern churches and tracts of ranch-style homes he had "built". He told construction tales about each one, some funny, others harrowing (or at least it sounded that way to us). I still hear his voice when I'm home and drive past St. Rose of Lima church or the Maryvale school.

My father didn't plan to be a bricklayer. He wanted to be a doctor, and served in the Army Medical Corps during WWII, (spending more time cleaning kitchens than wounds). After discharge, even with the GI Bill, medical school was beyond his grasp. Somehow, undertaking presented itself as an alternative. Frequently he pulled out his diploma from the Atlanta School of Mortuary Science. "I can do your hair," he would tease my mother, my sister and me, "if you lie down." He cracked up every time he said this. We did too. But Daddy had too much life in him to spend his days with the deceased. He discovered that being a mortician was not even a poor relation to being a doctor, so he learned to lay brick, like his father and his older brothers before him. The proudest day of Daddy's life came when my brother graduated from medical school.

My father believed in learning, for himself and for us. I learned a lot from him: how to properly water a lawn, make oyster stew, drive a nail straight, and grate fresh coconut. He taught me to believe in myself and be proud of being smart (like him), to laugh, deeply without reservation, to think quickly, respond decisively, and cleverly (I can go from dead sleep to a wisecrack in six seconds flat). He taught me that to have a friend you have to first be a friend and that character, not race was what I should be concerned about. He taught me how to be comfortable around men, how to hold my own ground, and not be intimidated by them. He taught me how to live, love, give and trust. I thank him for these lessons.

I don't know where my dad learned to be a father. His father died when he was a small boy, leaving my grandmother to raise him, his four brothers and one sister alone in rural North Carolina. I'm not even sure he planned to be a father, but he certainly learned somewhere.

Don't get me wrong. My dad was not a saint. He was a good man, which is not an oxymoron. He didn't think what he did was remarkable. He loved his wife and children and he showed it. He did what he was supposed to do, the right thing. When I was growing up, my cousins and childhood friends lived more or less like we did.Everyone's father lived at home, went to work, and grumbled about fixing broken bicycles. It was all I knew. My father was smart, funny, wise and strong. I thought so then, I think so now. I took Daddy for granted, he was always there--like air. Wasn't I supposed to? I was thirty before I fully comprehended that my father's extraordinary, involved, loving presence in my life made me unique among friends and acquaintances.

John Lafayette DeBerry II died in 1984. I still miss him every day, but I also feel his presence sometimes in a passing shadow or a fleeting thought. And every now and again his presence is as real as he was. On a visit with my mother a few years ago, I brought her some clippings and reviews of our latest book because I knew she enjoyed them. She directed me to the den and told me where to find the scrapbook. “I had to get another one,” she announced. My puzzled expression told her I had no idea what she was talking about. That’s when she informed me my father had bought it when I embarked on yet another of my many careers--plus size modeling. “I fussed at him for getting such a big book,” Mom said. “He told me not to worry. You would fill the pages.” Two years later my father died, and my restlessness with being told what to wear, where to stand and how to look, led me briefly to the business side of modeling, before I found my way to writing novels. “But your father was right anyway,” my mother said. “You filled it up and last month I had to buy a new one.”

Until that moment I knew nothing about the scrapbook and the faith it showed my father had in me, but I didn’t have to---I’d felt it. I had walked my path with that unconditional love, support and belief I could do anything, as the foundation of my entire life.

So whether he gave us a good foundation or left us standing on shaky ground, a father's influence on his daughters is undeniable. For one of us Daddy is a lifelong reason to give thanks--on Father's Day or any old Tuesday. The other still works at feeling good enough, at believing that being disposable is not her birthright although it was her father’s legacy. Because in the best of times or the worst of times, at the core of who we are as women...and how we perceive ourselves, is the very first man in our lives--our father.

The Golden Rule of Partying With Friends—Take Care of Each Other!

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Fri, 27 May 2011 15:59:00 +0000

At least once a year there is the case of some young woman who was out partying with her friends. She gets very drunk and leaves alone, or her friends put her in a cab alone, or she goes off with some man alone. The result—she ends up raped and/or beaten and/or dead. Our first question—WHAT KIND OF FRIENDS LET YOU FEND FOR YOURSELF WHEN YOU ARE, FALL DOWN, THROW UP, BLIND DRUNK!!!!

On Thursday there was a verdict in a trial that resulted from one of those cases. NY Police Officers Kenneth Morano and Franklin Mata were accused of raping a very drunk woman after they were called to help her out of a cab and into her apartment. They were found not guilty of all but official misconduct charges. We have no way to question their guilt or innocence—the jury has spoken. (Despite the acquittal, the officers were fired from the NYPD.) But if one of her friends had gone home with her in the cab, the whole situation would have been avoided.

The golden rule of partying with friends—Take Care of Each Other! Most of us (that includes BOTH of us) have had nights where we were a little to indulgent with the margaritas, martinis, cosmos, beer, wine, Jell-o shots—fill in your beverage of choice. Presumably we are all adults, which should mean we can take care of ourselves, but when alcohol is introduced, all bets are off. And mostly you can tell whether your friends are over the line, whether she is attempting to pole dance with a stop sign, is talking out of her mind, is slumped and glassy eyed at the bar or pukes on the dinner table (which happened to someone we know well. She is eternally grateful that her friends covered it up with the tablecloth, left a very big tip, and took her home).

Sometimes friends thank you for your troubles. Sometimes drunken friends are belligerent and insist they can handle it. Do whatever is in your power to keep them safe. Take car keys, hail a cab and get in it with them. You might decide you are never going out with them again, but take care of them this one last time. Your friendship may be over but this one last time you may keep them safe, or even save their lives.

Please share this with your friends, daughters, sisters, nieces—all the women you care about.

The Once and Future Oprah

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Thu, 26 May 2011 17:31:00 +0000

Viewing early episodes of the Oprah Show is startling--they bear a striking resemblance to the shows of Jerry Springer or Maury Povitch, those epics of pathology and confrontation that brought us Baby Mama Drama, Who's the Daddy and every sensation short of (and possibly including) two headed babies (Oprah actually did air a show about separating conjoined twins). The more outlandish and dysfunctional, the better. Oprah could have continued along that same path and probably had a reasonably successful career, but it is obvious that somewhere along the line, she made an effort to do more. Wallowing in the muck and allowing us to gawk at the spectacle was not the point. Finding a way to let people understand their behavior and realize they had the power to change it for the better became her calling.

There are those who don't sing Oprah's praises. As novelists, we have certainly been part of the outcry about her absence in the conversation about the state of African American books and literature. Unleashing Dr. Phil upon us is at best a mixed blessing. Oprah could be over the top, giving cars and houses to audience members, wearing diamond earrings the size of pecans on daytime TV, loading 65 pounds of fat on a little red wagon to represent her weight (temporary) loss. But it is undeniable that Oprah, "A colored girl from Kosciusko, Mississippi," as she calls herself, with a made up name, and as we say of a character in one of our books, "A face she would grow into," showed us a new brand of television. People made changes for themselves--lost weight, built schools and dug wells, called out their abusers. They made changes for family members, for their community and for the world, because Oprah showed them that letting their light shine could allow others to see. People who had not read since they left school read books because Oprah said to. Advertisers from Dove and Target to United Airlines and Proctor & Gamble scrambled to support her causes, and reap the benefits of being associated with her and her audience. "Living Your Best Life," sounds as simplistic as a bumper sticker, but it does allow you to aim high.

Over the course of 25 years Oprah has shown generosity, good business sense and some questionable hair and wardrobe decisions. She let us see her insecurities, her foibles, and the way she has grown through the years. Now she has taken her, "Oprah Money" and founded OWN, following in the footsteps of women like Lucille Ball and Mary Tyler Moore who sought to be more than just "talent." It is a bold step, and whether or not the network soars she has earned a place in the history of a medium and in the lives of millions of people. It is quite an accomplishment.

Now the Oprah set as we have come to know it will be dark, but surely she has taken her light with her. So long for now...

The Nothingness That Is a Size Zero

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Sat, 14 May 2011 15:46:00 +0000

Our 1st article on AOL-Black Voices-on body image. Please read, comment & spread the word!

While body image issues are a pandemic in our society, the stats are about the same as they were in our day. The average American woman is still 5'4", wears size 14 and weighs a little under 165 lbs. The occasional "fat fashion" article runs in a major newspaper. The naked size 14 posing in 'Glamour' was called brave, and the Dove Real Women campaign was seen as groundbreaking, but we still live in a size-ist ghetto…Click to read entire article

Show and Tell--Or why LeBron and Lilo are emblematic of what's wrong with US (U.S.)

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 14:12:00 +0000

No, I’m not just a bitter, middle-aged hater with no life. I do not begrudge them their youth, their talent (however that be measured) or their insane, outrageous (and in no reasonable way justifiable,) jillion dollar incomes. I do not envy their fame and resulting lack of privacy or their larger-than-real-life, extravagant lifestyles. And even though I’ll go on record as saying I’m not a fan of either teen angst movies or sports, this is not where the problem lies. This is America—where there’s something for everyone and unless your preferred “something” hurts somebody, I’m pretty chill about all that freedom of choice—especially in entertainment, even as that extends to slasher movies, watching curling tournaments. Go right ahead, enjoy! I’m a writer. I get the way it works and know first hand that taste and choice don’t necessarily go hand in hand—and that we can’t legislate or arbitrate either. And that’s OK.

My issue is with the amount of media attention these two young people have garnered in recent weeks and what that says about us and our priorities.

Working backward from the most recent coverage, I point to the unfortunate Ms. Lohan. Yesterday, I did not see any local (NYC) or network news broadcast--morning, noon, evening or late, that did not report Lilo’s incarceration either as the lead story or the second news item. In the days immediately preceding her inevitable an unenviable trip to the slammer her story was still in the first five minutes of news reports. Really?! Was there nothing more important happening in our cities, country or even the world than a story they’ve already reported on ad nauseam? The tale of this spoiled, sad, ungrateful, irresponsible, disrespectful, marginally talented, severely under-parented young woman and her escapades has been paraded before us for years now and we’re still watching the spectacle like it’s new, or worse yet, important??

Then two weeks ago, it seems the whole world was hanging by tenterhooks, holding its collective breath for 25 year old basketball wunderkind LeBron James to decide what team/town would be graced with his athletic prowess and money generating presence. I grant you that he is a talented ball player and seems to be an all around nice guy who still takes advice from his mother. All of which makes him refreshing (at least so far) in comparison to the over blown, foolish, ego driven, stupid antics of so many athletes in the news. But the exercise of his free agency clause was so crucial to our American well-being that it commanded an entire TV show— “The Decision”, albeit on ESPN, a network dedicated to sports worship. Seriously?! The special drew nearly 10 million viewers—and the network had hoped for more. Seriously.

Libraries are closing.

Schools are under-funded.

High school drop out rates are increasing at an alarming pace.

High school graduation rates are decreasing at an alarming pace.

Teachers are underpaid.

There are at least a dozen other countries ahead of us in education rankings.

And we’re focused on Lilo and LeBron and Real Housewives and Snooki? This is what we think is important? If the medium really is the message as McLuhan said, then the message is: “We’re idiots.”

Readin' Writin' and Racism 2010

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Wed, 30 Jun 2010 13:56:00 +0000

Writing White---Redux 2010

We first wrote this piece as an article back in 2005 but it never found a home. So we posted it on our blog in September 2007 and again in November 2008 and 2009. Last fall, Virginia’s Open Letter to Oprah made the cyber-rounds, author-friend Bernice McFadden took a stance on Seg-Book-Gation, and Carleen Brice's blog Welcome White Folks and December is National Buy a Book by a Black Author and Give it to Somebody Not Black Month, celebrated it’s first anniversary, but it’s evident things haven’t improved significantly. There’s the recent post by Laina Dawes on Blogher.com, Reading While Black or White: Do Readers Prefer Books Written by their Own and Black and Blues, by Cheri Paris Edwards. Seems we’re touching a nerve. Some react negatively-there are some truly hateful comments on Bernice McFadden’s recent Op Ed piece in the Washington Post, Black Writers in a Ghetto of the Publishing Industry’s Making, but we have new voices joining the conversation--white voices. Virginia participated in a Shewrites Radio chat yesterday about this issue and while those of us who were present (Bernice, Carleen, Martha Southgate) and vocal were not surprised to discover the audience was mostly black, Kamy Wicoff, founder of Shewrites was taken aback and wrote this post after our hour of (black) power radio: Books by Women of Color: Separated, and Not Treated Equally, Either. Speak Up, On This, She Writes! It is the opportunity to have these conversations; to have them aloud and not just with others who have similar experience that we hope will initiate a broader understanding on all sides.

For now, it seems that white readers prefer books about black people written by other white people, like Kathryn’ Stockett’s The Help, (the most recent), Sue Monk Kidd’s The Secret Life of Bees and Chris Cleve’s Little Bee. And why are the black characters in so many of these stories caught in some kind of Antebellum, Reconstruction, Jim Crow or Civil Rights era, generally separate and unequal historically? Do the lines of demarcation lessen a kind of general uneasiness? Is it too uncomfortable to see the wide variety of ways black people exist today, and therefore easier to portray us as the “Magical Negro” -- always good, and selfless with a little noble savage thrown in for good measure? Is it simpler to write off Barack Obama and Oprah Winfrey as anomalies and accept the thug/athlete/rapper as more accurate representations of black people today, and therefore more easily dismissed?

Readin’, Writin’ and Racism—Do You Want a Mirror or a Window?

When a black writer or entertainer achieves success with a wider (read white) audience, a la Will Smith, Denzel Washington, Oprah Winfrey or Terry McMillan, they are said to have cross-over appeal. Why isn’t the reverse true? When blacks watch CSI, Iron Man 3 or pick up the latest James Patterson, no one attributes that to cross-over. Is it assumed that everyone will find these diversions entertaining? That race doesn’t matter as long as it’s white? That African Americans, Mexicans, Chinese, Lakhota Sioux, Lebanese and whomever else the census separates out will “get” the storyline and generate the dollars requisite for success?

Even in one of the most racially diverse television shows, “Grey’s Anatomy”, the central character, intern Meredith Grey, is a white woman, despite the fact that series writer/producer Shonda Rhimes, is African American. Happenstance or economics? Quiet as it’s kept, in our first novel, Exposures, we “wrote white”, deciding it was the surest way to test our joint writing chops--and get published. It worked; the novel sold in two weeks. It took a lot longer to find a home for our first book with black characters. At the time we didn’t fit the established categories (we weren’t Toni or Terry—Morrison or McMillan in case you’ve been under a literary rock for the past twenty or thirty years), so many editors didn’t believe we would find an audience.

Are these situations silent testimony to the more refined racism that lives with us everyday—the kind of de facto pecking order largely unrecognized by those who perpetuate it, and unchallenged by those of us who are aware, but just grateful to be in the game? Maybe it’s not so silent. The movie “Crash” asked questions about who we are, and what we think about all those other people. There was awkward, knowing laughter in the theater when our not so secret little prejudices were laid bare. We wonder what people who watch on Blue Ray in the privacy of their own homes have to say.

Not so long ago, a White reader (one of several who identify themselves that way) emailed to say how much she enjoyed one of our books, but wondered if she was welcome to read our work since she wasn’t black. We were stunned by the question, but it spoke to the segregated reading habits that are more the norm than we would like to admit. Are we so tired of dealing with each other at work, in the supermarket, on the bus, that it’s a relief to open a book and find people with strange accents and hairdos banished from our fictional world? Or is it more insidious? Are books our mirrors, and we only look for reflections of ourselves?

Shouldn’t reading provide a window to the greater world? We read Anna Karenina without being Russian, The 100 Secret Senses without being Chinese, Catcher in the Rye without being teenaged prep school boys, Shelters of Stone without being Cro-Magnon—Anne Rice without being a vampire. We delight in Carl Hiassen without being Floridians, Sandra Cisneros with no experience of being Latinas from Chicago, understand the plight of a Nigerian girl as told by Chimamanda Adichie, never having set foot in Lagos. Since childhood, we have read thousands of books about people who didn’t look like us and found them enlightening, hilarious, heartbreaking, and know, without doubt, we are better people because of it.

Why then is it so surprising when works of fiction, save for “literary” efforts like those of Alice Walker and Edward P. Jones, which mostly recount our collective, tragic, post middle passage history, cross over? Are we to believe that as fully franchised, contemporary Americans living a variety of social, educational, and economic circumstances that our stories are so foreign as to be incomprehensible? That we share no universal human truths?

After the surprise success of Tryin’ to Sleep in the Bed You Made, (Almost 800,000 copies later, we are happy to report those who didn’t think people would get it, were wrong—at least they were then.) which featured drawings of two brown-skinned women on the cover, our publisher made a conscious effort to cross over our next book. The resulting cover was dominated by a house, flanked by a lush tree. Our three main characters were rendered the size of carpenter ants, their color indistinguishable. So, to appeal to a wider audience we had to lose face? What must we sacrifice to be palatable to the culture at large?

Some bookstores have separate African American areas. Is this to make us more comfortable in unfamiliar territory? Does this highlight our work, or let other people know they can skip this aisle? Granted, some argue that having a unique section celebrates the black experience. But are they really separate but unequal niches, a publishing ghetto with very different real estate values?

Until Waiting to Exhale made publishers understand that black people buy books, we were mostly left outside the gates. Clearly they did not learn in American history that we risked and often lost our lives to learn to read. The Exhale phenomenon is the reason many of us were given a chance. Walter Mosley reached a wider readership thanks to the endorsement of President Clinton. But is it really so hard to throw open our windows and get some fresh air? Browse a bookstore section you usually pass without Oprah to lead the way? Ask a librarian or a co-worker for a recommendation; that’s how many non-black readers found our work. You might discover a good read on an unexpected shelf—maybe gain insight into someone else, or surprisingly, yourself.

A Tale of Two Fathers

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Sun, 20 Jun 2010 15:30:00 +0000

A re-post of our Father's Day essay from last year...we feel it's a story that's worthy of repeating...

A Tale of Two Fathers

...it was the best of times...it was the worst of times...

In the course of more than twenty five years of friendship (and writing seven books together), we have discussed pretty much every subject under the sun at least a dozen times, and in a variety of moods from jubilant to melancholy. Whether the subject is the men we've dated (or married or divorced) or how to cure hiccups, we've found that one of the recurring themes is the strong presence of one of our fathers, and the total absence of the other's. All of this talk has made it clear ---in a way that's personal, not theoretical--- that whether pops was at the dinner table or in the wind, what he did or didn't do is critical. As daughters, we are generally quite aware of our mother's legacies. We are like her. Or unlike her. Happy to follow in her footsteps. Determined to avoid them at all costs– even if it means stepping on a crack or two. Or we are "our own person" and in complete denial about any correlation at all. But equally fateful for daughters is our relationship, or lack of one, with our fathers.

In Search of Donna's Father

In Praise of Virginia's Daddy (photo left)

Interview with SistahFriend Book Club

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Fri, 28 May 2010 14:55:00 +0000

We were in Augusta, GA, on tour with Uptown.

Finding the Little Girl We Lost

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Mon, 24 May 2010 21:57:00 +0000

From VDB:

Last week, I saw this video of the little girl declaring her love of life, family and herself and felt compelled to blog about it because I think we all come into the world with this same kind of potential for exuberance and positivity but too often, somewhere along the line, it leeches out of us--especially girls. Her enthusiastic display shows none of the inhibition, concern for what others (boys or girls) may think, fear of rejection (from boys or girls) or ridicule (from boys or girls) that eats away at the psyches and souls of girls. Sadly we become so preoccupied with whether or not people like us, whether we are acceptable that we totally forget what WE like—and that we should always begin with our very own selves.

About ten years ago, I came across a batch of childhood photographs of me. There were three pictures in particular that struck me. The little girl captured in each of those fragile, cracked black and white photos was so unrepentantly herself, so sure of her place in the world—albeit that that world was a small patch of sorta-farm in rural North Carolina—that I decided I wanted to keep her around. The photographs are of me at two, three and four years old and I had each tiny picture, restored as best I could, then blown up, matted and framed and hung them on the wall in my bedroom.

The first image, of a resolute, pensive two year old me—or as solemn as a two year old in pj’s standing in waist high grass can be. I’m out behind the North Carolina house where I was born. (The house my grandfather built, the house my father was born in --the house that is pictured on the hardcover version of Far From the Tree.) I use this photo to remind myself that this is as serious as life ever should be…that I can still see over the tall grass and some days I have to look at it more than once.

The second photo is of me at three, by the back door of the same house. I have no idea why I’m so happy—Was it something my mom said? Something my dad did? My grandmother blowing me a kiss? My baby blue (so I hear tell) hair ribbons? I have no clue, but it’s clear I can barely contain my delight in whatever it is. This picture is on my wall so that I remember to always express my joy without reservation and to celebrate whenever possible.

The third picture is of me (yes it’s a white picket fence—talk about cliché) at four years old, outside of my Nana’s house in Buffalo—the city (my mom’s home town) we had moved to by then. The place where the moment we arrived, I demanded my father pull the car over so I could get out and “walk in it” if it was going to be my new home. (For the record, he did let me out so I could plant my feet and order my own steps in my new town.) But I digress—this picture is about me “feeling pretty.” I quite obviously LOVE my dress and doubt that anything could shake my four year old, knock-kneed confidence that I was gorgeous. This photo is to remind me of that feeling on the days that self-doubt creeps up, taps me on the shoulder and whispers in my ear in attempt to undermine my appreciation of myself.

So little Jessica’s video is a 21^st century version of these old photos and should be a reminder to all of us never to forget that little girl we were, the one who didn’t know boundaries or limitations. The little girl who dreamed and dared and sang her own song out loud

It’s difficult to photograph a photograph, but here they are

Sure Signs You're Becoming Your Mother- RE-POST

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Sun, 09 May 2010 15:01:00 +0000

In honor of Mother's Day, we're reposting a blog from several years ago that reminded us (and plenty of you) that we're all not nearly as Far From the Tree as we think we are! Below are the first 40 of the 80 Signs You're Becoming Your Mother, we posted back in 2007!

===============================

It’s Monday. It’s raining buckets here. We’ve dragged ourselves to the computer. Donna just went to the kitchen, fixed a cup of coffee, left it on the counter, went back to the desk and sat down. It took a few moments for her to figure out what was wrong with this picture. Yeah, Monday’s are a real mother. . .

And forgetting what you got up expressly to do—that’s something our mothers did, and we’d roll our eyes and think, “Dag, what’s wrong with her?” Except now it’s you, and you don’t know when that happened and you swear you just need a vacation. . . Do not stress. This is part of a natural evolution. The good news—It’s out of the closet, so we’re not losing our minds in silence. Forgetfulness, along with the sudden appearance of a soul patch and the disappearance of our waistlines, indicate that whether we have children or not, we are in the process of morphing into our mothers.

For those of you under thirty, this will be like trying to interpret ancient cave drawings. Interesting to look at, but totally meaningless in your world. Be patient—your day is coming. If you’re past the big three-o but not yet forty, you'll smirk and say "that will never happen to me!" Between forty and fifty more of these than you want to admit will apply. And beyond the half century mark, you will find great comfort and satisfaction in the realization that you're not the only one!

So when you wake up in the middle of the night, gasping for breath because you suddenly realize.... Aaaargh! I'm Becoming My Mother!!! Try to stay calm. Do not tear your hair out---it's probably thinning anyway.(Of course, now there's Rogaine.)

But this is not the end of the world (It happened to your own mother and her mother and her mother and...), just the beginning of a new era!

Here's a prayer to see you through.

...Grant me the serenity to accept the things I can't change (not that I haven't tried), the strength to run screaming from the things I can and the wisdom to keep laughing, because nobody likes a joyless old heifer.

And here are some signposts along the way. We started this list way back when we were writing Far From the Tree and just found it in the abyss that is the “Future Projects” file in our computer.

We’ll be posting more on what we’re calling Mother Mondays. Here goes:

1) What you want instead of a vodka shot is a nice cup of herb tea.

2) The "s" word you use to describe shoes is “sensible”, not “sexy”.

3) The furry food in your refrigerator really disgusts you.

4) You hear yourself say, "How can anybody dance to this?"

5) It's that special night, the one you've been planning for, but you wear galoshes a storm coat, muffler and hat with that slinky little black dress because, after all, it is snowing.

6) It's midnight on Saturday night and what you really want to do is go home to bed...to sleep.

7) Your knees announce that you're going to sit down.

8) The little girl you used to baby sit is on her second divorce.

9) You take that big slice of Bermuda onion off the burger because the indigestion it will cause won't be worth it.

10) Even the thought of brushing your teeth in cold water causes pain.

11) You change the sheets every week, on schedule.

12) You can't stand fingerprints and toothpaste spatters on the bathroom fixtures.

13) You actually look forward to family gatherings and remember that Uncle Joe's second wife Ida can only hear out of one ear.

14) Being regular isn't the opposite of being 'late', so the Correctol is in the medicine chest right there next to the Midol.

15) Fiber does not refer to linen or silk.

16) Small children call you "Ma'am".

17) Young adults call you "Ma'am".

18) The oldies station no longer plays music from the decade when you slow danced in the basement.

19) Kids don’t know there was an original version of that song.

20) You understand that Scotch tape is not an acceptable substitute for a needle and thread.

21) You're walking down the street, you see someone’s reflection in a store window and think, “Gee, she looks so much like my Mother.” You’re horrified to realize it’s you.

22) You look at a picture of yourself as a child and see your daughter.

23) You look at a baby picture of you with your mother and realize you look now like she did then.

24) Lingerie becomes underwear and it’s no longer optional—it has advanced engineering

25) Your flannel nightie is your favorite.

26) You keep bed socks in the same drawer as your pajamas because your feet are always cold at night.

27) You wear pants because they keep your knees warm (see # 7).

28) You carry paper towels in your pocketbook to mop up after “power surges.”

29) You buy extra-calcium everything.

30) Retro clothes don’t make you look hip. They make you look like you’re wearing your old clothes

31) You diligently write reminder notes—then forget where the hell you put them.

32) You hear yourself say, "My goodness!" instead of #$%&*! the way you used to.

33) You keep extra birthday cards on hand and actually mail them so they arrive on time.

34) You smile smugly when kids say, "What do you know?"

35) There's always something to eat in your refrigerator and you cooked it.

36) You can only eat cereal or toast after 10 PM if you plan to get any sleep.

37) The thought of cold pizza for breakfast is revolting.

38) You finally admit the photo isn’t blurry—your eyesight is, then give up and get the glasses (but they’ve got to be cute).

39) Your glasses hang from a chain around your neck because it’s the only way you can find them.

40) You remove the clothes from the dryer at the end of the cycle instead of using it like an extra dresser drawer.

Re-segregating Black Authors, Can I Get a Witness...

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Sun, 11 Apr 2010 20:19:00 +0000

This post is from Keryl McCord's blog, Musing on the New South

I sincerely hope that I can write this post and not melt the keys on my lap top. Going into this I know my blood pressure is going to rise. But as you will see, not without reason.Barnes and Noble is one of my most favorite places in the world. It probably has something to do with growing up in New York City and the original B&N being almost a second home, the New Public Library was first. Then B&N caught the expansion bug and went global. But I digress.

Moving to Georgia almost four years ago now, and discovering a B&N within five minutes of my house was a source of great great joy. I've spent a lot of time there sitting, sipping, wandering, listening, reading, and of course buying books.

Last night though, I wandered in to my favorite B&N and inquired, "I'm looking for UPTOWN, by Virginia DeBerry and Donna Grant." Now understand, I only inquired after trying on my own to find this new book that was just published a month ago! It wasn't with the NEW FICTION-JUST RELEASED. It wasn't in the Fiction section that also has a space for JUST RELEASED. By now I'm scratching my head and feeling slightly perturbed.

So the kindly well trained clerk rapidly begins walking away from the fiction section, actually it looks like she's heading to the kiddie section, then a detour around a couple more areas that look like research and non-fiction and voila, she points to the African American section. Huh? To add insult to injury it is a right pitiful African American section at that. It can't rightly be called a section as it is only one book case and it isn't full. Hello. What's wrong with this picture?

My kindly clerk checks the few books in Afr Am, UPTOWN is absent. Like a run away slave, I wonder, maybe it ran to another section? So back we go toward the fiction section but we only get as far as the entrance to the golden gates for there on what I now know is called an end-cap, there are more books by Black authors! About six of them, and at the very bottom, there is UPTOWN. Your two or three year-old might find it, it would be at eye level for them. But for adults? I don't think so.

So even if not in the Af-Am section, just in case you don't get the message, it is "segregated" with other books by Black authors because they just have so so much in common.

Sensing the heat radiating from my head, the clerk inquired, "Is there something wrong?"

Is there something wrong? Hell yeah there's something wrong. Because as I looked around the fiction section, prominently displayed in the front so that it can't be missed with all the other books they want you to see as you come in the door is a book, Little Bee, by a white male British author, telling the story of a Nigerian girl in England. Excuse me! Why is his book featuring a story about a black female considered "General" fiction and put up front but a book by two black authors about black people is considered Afr Am and relegated to the back of the book bus? To read the rest of this post, click here.

Author vs Writer

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Mon, 05 Apr 2010 16:36:00 +0000

The Author, DeBerry & Grant, just got back from book tour, and we are tired but happy. Isn’t that the same as The Writer DeBerry & Grant, you ask. Nope, The Author and The Writer have very different jobs.

First, let’s clear up the singular versus the plural. Yes, we’re very close friends, but really we’re two very different people. Except that when we are writing it has always been extremely important to have one voice. Readers should never be thinking, “Did Virginia write this part, or did Donna?” That would mean they have been taken out of the story and are thinking about the behind the scenes business and we don’t ever want that to happen.

So, what’s the difference between The Author and The Writer?

The Author is the public persona. The Author goes on book tour, meets with book clubs, and does interviews. The author wears clothes that go together and has combed hair. The author gets up at 4:30 A.M. to catch flights, takes off her shoes and is patted down in the security line when her bra hooks set of the magnetometer again, and graciously signs autographs. If you have taken a picture with someone whose books you like to read, you have a photo with The Author.

The Writer does not like having her picture taken—way too scary. The writer wears whatever is comfortable—matching doesn’t count. The writer hasn’t noticed whether her hair is combed and hasn’t gone near lipstick or mascara. She hasn’t actually looked in the mirror—only at the computer monitor. In fact, the more unkempt her appearance, the happier The Writer is—it means focus is where it should be, on the work, not the wardrobe. The Writer may have eaten left over Chinese food for breakfast or a bowl of cereal for dinner. The Writer gets up at 4:30 A.M. because she woke up with words in her head, or the solution to that knotty plot problem she went to bed thinking about and has to get it down before she forgets. The Writer smiles when the writing flows in a pleasing rhythm or she finds just the right word to express what a character is feeling.

During The Writer’s time, The Author is under house arrest, but given half a minute to daydream, may contemplate future headshots, manicures—(no raggedy cuticles when signing books) and what passages she might read aloud at signings—when The Writer finally finishes the darn book. In other words, The Author gets to take credit for all of The Writers hard work. But that’s OK. It’s how the deal works. Fortunately, we have learned how to manage our multiple personalities and get the most of being The Author and The Writer, Virginia and Donna, The Individuals and The Friends.

Is it The Author or The Writer who answers fan mail, Facebooks and Tweets, designs and orders bookmarks, and writes blogs? Hmmm—good question. Guess it’s really a little of both. And right now, we’ll be transitioning back and forth between the two as we work on our next book, while still going out to talk to readers about our current one, Uptown.

March and April Signings for Uptown

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Wed, 24 Mar 2010 18:27:00 +0000

Friday, March 26, 2010 7:00PM

UNION, NJ

HERE’S THE STORY

1043 Stuyvesant Avenue, Union, NJ

Saturday, March 27, 2010 2:00PM

SPRINGFIELD, NJ

BARNES & NOBLE #1884

240 Route 22 West Springfield, NJ

Sunday, March 28, 2010 (Tentative) 2:00PM

NEW YORK, NY

Sip & Sign Sunday

INDIGO ARMS

181 Lenox Avenue, New York, NY

Tuesday March 30, 2010 (Tentative) 7:00PM

NEW YORK, NY

B. SMITH PARTY (Private/Invitation only)

320 W. 46th Street

New York, NY

Tuesday, April 6, 2010 7:00PM

NEW YORK, NY

BORDERS BOOKS & MUSIC #200

461 Park Avenue @57th Street

New York, NY

Thursday, April 8, 2010 7:30PM

NORTH BRUNSWICK, NJ

BARNES & NOBLE #2985

869 Route 1 South

North Brunswick, NJ

Friday April 9, 2010 7:00PM

NEW BRUNSWICK, NJ

ALFA GALLERY -Book signing and Uptown Art Exhibit with Vesselin Kourtev

108 Church Street

New Brunswick, NJ

Tuesday, April 13, 2010 7:00 PM

BARNEGAT, NJ

OCEAN COUNTY LIBRARY/BARNEGAT BRANCH

112 Burr Street

Barnegat, NJ

Thursday, April 15, 2010, 7:00PM

ROCHESTER, NY

MOODMAKERS BOOKS

302 Goodman Street North

Rochester, NY

Friday, April 16, 2010

5-7PM

BUFFALO, NY

THE GIRLFRIENDS, Inc. (Talking Leaves Books)

Chow Chocolate

731 Main Street

Buffalo, NY 14203

Saturday April 17, 2010

AMHERST, NY

2PM

BARNES & NOBLE

1565 Niagara Falls, Blvd

Amherst, NY

Sunday April 18, 2010

CHEEKTOWAGA, NY

2PM

BORDERS BOOKS & MUSIC

2015 Walden Avenue

Cheektowaga, NY

Monday, April 19, 2010

WILLIAMSVILLE, NY

7:00PM

ZION DOMINION BOOK CLUB

Zion Dominion Global Ministries

895 North Forest Road

Williamsville, NY 14221

Zen and the Art of Book Tour

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 22:13:00 +0000

We are 10 days past publication and on another countdown of sorts.

The book tour launch sequence has begun and “there’s no stoppin’ us now!” Since our first official event, a party and book signing for about 150 Monday night, we have been prepping for departure. Being away from home for two weeks and in a different city (with widely varying mean temperatures) every day of those two weeks not only calls for state of the art packing skills it requires us to summon up BOOK TOUR mindset—the one we put away when the last tour is over and have only thought of since as an occasional anecdotal episode. “Remember when we were stranded in Sacramento airport and…” “Which airport were we in where the waitress invited us to her house?” “What was the name of the hotel where my bed collapsed?” (Most of these, “remember the time,” stories involve airports or hotels.) But now we have to find that "come what may" attitude again and strap it on tight.

Book tour is, in many ways, like preparing for any kind of marathon event. Training, mind over matter and playing hurt are key to making the journey a success. We must stop thinking of things like sleep and regular meals as requirements, and see them as luxuries we are thrilled to have when they occur. We must remember not to be wary of strangers—most of the folks who cross our path are readers, and we have found readers to be warm, funny, interesting people we have enjoyed greatly. We must use our best scouting skills when navigating the path to our required destinations. As opposed to the good old days, when we had officially sanctioned and trained author escorts, most of us still lucky enough to have a publisher sponsored tour, have more responsibility for finding our way to the bookstore, library, radio station, etc. once we are in the city of the day. And although we are given detailed instructions and directions on how to reach a particular location, (including estimated times from one point to another by various means of transportation) there are always glitches. We must be Zen about weather and flights. We must learn to be at home at or near departure gates--listening to announcements while having conversations/emails/texts with our publicist, travel agent, editor and/or agent. Oh yeah, and our family and friends. Paraphrasing the oath we took as Girl Scouts many many years ago –We must do our best at all times to be friendly and helpful, considerate and caring, courageous and strong.

And of course we must remember to be grateful for the opportunity to meet and spend a little time with those who make it possible for us to do what we do.

Countdown to Publication #0 Days It Happened on Monday

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Tue, 02 Mar 2010 19:33:00 +0000

Our takes on the last day before Uptown is officially released.

DONNA

It happened on Monday. I was taking a shower when it hit. Yes, it was 2:30 in the afternoon. I hadn’t been away from the computer until then. I made myself get up because Virginia and I needed to get to the post office. And I really needed a shower—Trust me.

So I soaped up some essential parts, and then the wave smacked me upside the head and left me woozy—Uptown pubs tomorrow and until that moment I thought I had my feelings under control. No big deal. We did everything we could do—write what we feel is a fast paced book, with intriguing characters and situations and let as many readers know it’s coming as we can. I mean, really, it’s not like it’s the first time.

But it’s really always the first time. No matter how I prep for it there is always the point when my feelings get out of control. Kind of like when I’ve had surgery. I am calm in my hospital pajamas as they walk me to the surgery suite, swaddle me in the microwaved blanket and look for my veins. No big deal I tell myself. My doctor has explained the procedure (and I’ve triple checked on the internet). These are trained professionals, blah, blah, blah. And then there comes this moment when my brain is screaming, “Oh crap. They’re gonna cut me open and move stuff around!!!” Fortunately, that moment happens shortly before anesthesia is administered. To read the rest of this post, click here:

Uptown has landed!!

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Tue, 02 Mar 2010 01:39:00 +0000

It's Official-Uptown has landed and should be on the shelves at bookstores near you!

We say should, because, well, lets just say, sometimes they don't make it out of the stockroom in time for their big debut. This is where we need your help. If you go to find the book and it's not where it should be, first, please ask a sales associate to find it for you. And if they tell you they don't have it, be sure to let us know (even if they offer to order it for you, which is fine)! We need to know the store name and address so we can report it to our publisher. They are looking closely at early sales numbers (a lot like that first weekend at the box office for movies), but if the books aren't out they can't be purchased, so we need to let them know. So consider yourselves deputized as the Uptown Patrol!

The day a book comes out is still both exciting and scary, but we're strapped in for the ride. We thank you for continuing to take the ride with us and we look forward to your comments about Uptown.

Uptown-Amazon and Uptown-B&N

The Top 10 Signs that We are Within a Week of Publication

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 15:29:00 +0000

The first article about us as authors, back when we wrote Exposures as Marie Joyce, appeared in a newspaper called The New York Press. It was generated because WE sent out a press release. We had had a great editor, but there was no publicity or marketing budget for that book. Hell, our entry level—read minute—advance (divided in half, paid out in thirds) was barely enough for dinner out and a cab ride home from the restaurant, so we were left to our own devices to create whatever buzz we could for our freshman effort. Somebody had to know we’d survived four months in an apartment together, living on sugar and caffeine to keep us awake and writing while the rest of New York City enjoyed spring, and that we now had a book to show for it. . . didn’t they? We thought so, and we were proactive even then—or was it that we didn't have sense enough to know better? No matter—occasionally ignorance leads you in the right direction.

In our press packet we included “Top Ten Reasons Why You Should Read Exposures.” It definitely got us newspaper and TV coverage in Buffalo, New York, Virginia’s hometown. They are always welcoming to their hometown daughters (Donna has even been given a proclamation declaring her an official Buffalonian). But amazingly, our PR foray got us some ink in a New York City paper, which for newbie authors with an unheralded, unreviewed, unheard of paperback, was a little like winning an Olympic skating medal while wearing flip flops.

So, as an homage to that first adventure in shameless self-promotion, here are the Top Ten Signs that We are Within a Week of Publication: to continue reading, Click here

Win a copy of ta-da!!! UPTOWN!!! Finally! Deadline NOON Tomorrow 2/19

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Thu, 18 Feb 2010 18:08:00 +0000

The New D&G Trivia Contest!

THE WINNER WILL BE RANDOMLY SELECTED FROM THE FIRST 20 CORRECT ANSWERS WE RECEIVE.

Answers MUST be EMAILED TO: VIRGINIAANDDONNA@AOL.COM by NOON (12PM) EST 02/19/10. PLEASE INCLUDE YOUR FIRST NAME AND YOUR CITY.Today's Prize—a copy of UPTOWN!

Answers to all questions can be found on our website, blog, Amazon, via Google OR in your head!

Remember, we can be tricky and the answers may not be what you first think of!!! We'll announce the WINNER Saturday (02/2010) by 10PM.

Watch for another UPTOWN! giveaway contest on @Bernice McFadden's blog!!

Dwight Dixon is a main character in UPTOWN!. In what previous DeBerry and Grant book did he appear?

Uptown Review-Words of Inspiration Book Club

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Wed, 17 Feb 2010 18:28:00 +0000

We're happy!!

In Uptown, a prominent Harlem family is forced to deal with the issues that were done in the dark and have come to the public light. Avery Lyons abandoned New York and her family in an effort to runaway from the skeletons in the family closet. Avery is forced back to New York after twenty years to face the demons of her past. She will be forced to swallow a big girl pill to deal with all of the family drama from the past as well as the new family drama that seems to materialize on a daily basis with her cousin, Dwight Dixon.

Dwight sits atop the Harlem real estate throne is father King carved out years ago. Dwight wants nothing more than to step from the long shadows his father has cast and create a name for himself in the real estate world. But at what cost? Dwight wants to change the façade of Harlem by selling his soul to the devil, throwing folks under the bus and offering sacrificial lambs for slaughtering. Dwight’s “by any means necessary” attitude might cause the empire that he dreams of to come crashing down before it is made a reality.

Virginia DeBerry and Donna Grant do not disappoint in this drama filled thriller. DeBerry and Grant clearly illustrate the cutthroat world of Manhattan real estate and the tension and turbulence that this world can bring to families trying to get a slice of that American pie. While Avery searches for her identity, Dwight begins to lose his. DeBerry and Grant do a fine job of artistically crafting these characters and the supporting characters that bring Avery and Dwight to life from the pages. DeBerry and Grant deliver with their usual grace, humor, style and eye to detail. Uptown is a read not to be missed by old fans or new

Guest Blog for Shewrites.com

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 18:33:00 +0000

Countdown to Publication: #16 Days

About 100 years ago, or more accurately in1996, when we were in pre-pub for Tryin’ to Sleep in the Bed You Made, which was technically our second book, but the first under our own names, we decided to include a letter to the readers in the back. It was our way of extending what we’ve always viewed as a communication between writer and readers. We wanted to assure that if someone was actually motivated to write back, they had a way to reach us directly. This was a lesson we learned after our first book, Exposures, (written as Marie Joyce, both of our middle names) came out. About nine months after publication we received a large envelope from our publisher. It contained several letters that had been sent to us, in care of them, by readers. Clearly they had been moved around somebody’s desk until, in a fit of organization, this somebody stuck them in an envelope, actually looked up our address and sent them to the mailroom. No matter how purloined our “fanmail” had been we were grateful to receive it and because our mothers had taught us well, we wrote responses to each one. But we also decided that in the future, if indeed we had a publishing future, we wanted a direct line of communication with our readers.

So we headed to the post office and rented ourselves a PO Box. And we got our first email address—back when Prodigy and Comp-u-serve were still prominent. We opted for the upstart AOL. Our editor was mystified. “Why are you including an email address?” To read the rest of this post, please visit:

http://www.shewrites.com/profiles/blogs/countdown-to-publication-16-1

VALENTINE'S DAY DeBerry & Grant TRIVIA CONTEST

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Sat, 13 Feb 2010 21:15:00 +0000

!!VALENTINE'S DAY TRIVIA CONTEST!! ( We will accept entries through midnight tomorrow 2/14!)

THE WINNER WILL BE RANDOMLY SELECTED FROM THE FIRST 20 CORRECT ANSWERS WE RECEIVE.

Answers MUST be EMAILED TO: VIRGINIAANDDONNA@AOL.COM by midnight EST 02/14/10. PLEASE INCLUDE YOUR FIRST NAME AND YOUR CITY.

Today's Prize--another "TWO-FER" autographed paperbacks GOTTA KEEP ON TRYIN' and WHAT DOESN'T KILL YOU.

Answers to all questions can be found on our website, blog, Amazon, via Google OR in your head!

Remember, we can be tricky and the answers may not be what you first think of!!! We'll announce the WINNER Monday (02/15/10) by 10PM.

In What Doesn't Kill You, Where does What Doesn't Kill You heroine, Tee, first meet Ron?

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 16:56:00 +0000

Across 110th Street—Harlem is changing, in this latest novel by Virginia Deberry and Donna Grant. A familiar character, former fiancée of Jewel Prescott from Better Than I Know Myself, Dwight Dixon emerges at the center of controversy. With good intentions, but ulterior motives Dwight decides to make his own mark on the landscape of Harlem by building Dixon Plaza--a multi-million dollar commercial/residential skyrise. As in Better Than I Know Myself, Dwight’s actions and those of his family members threaten to destroy his dream.

Again, DeBerry and Grant have written a page-turner that kept me up late nights with a tissue box beside me as I became engrossed in the lives of Avery Lyons, Dwight Dixon, Jazz Christmas and characters I already knew from Better Than I Know Myself. Uptown has all the ingredients that offer ardent readers a satisfying read: relatable characters we either love, or love to hate; contemporary issues that are pertinent to those of us who care about our people and our heritage; and a strong believable plot infused with passionate conflict---ALL set in Harlem, a place which still holds the aroma of Langston Hughes’ dreams: “What happens to a Dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun . . . or does it explode?”

Perhaps Uptown: A Novel is also a tribute to the place where so many Black people realized their dreams during the Harlem Renaissance, to encourage more of us to do the same today.

Angela Reid—President of Imani Literary Group-Metro Atlanta

Trivia Contest Finalists

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Wed, 03 Feb 2010 15:01:00 +0000

Our first novel was called EXPOSURES and the first 25 correct answers to yesterday's D&G Trivia Contest came from Donna, Mary, Val, Lora, Joni, Angela, Lena, Chrystal, Lashonda, Carmen, KaToya ,Adrienne, Joyce, Lorraine, Carole, Janice, Pat, Mira, Senta, Liz, Keisha, Mia, Anika, Cerita & Tonika. ONE of them will win What Doesn't Kill on audio later today!

!!! DeBerry & Grant Trivia Contest!!!

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 15:51:00 +0000

We plan to hold several contests between now and next month's release of UPTOWN-so check back here often! THE WINNER WILL BE RANDOMLY SELECTED FROM THE FIRST 25 CORRECT ANSWERS.

Today's Prize--an audio edition of 2009's WHAT DOESN'T KILL YOU.

Answers to all questions can be found on our website, blog, Amazon, via Google OR in your head!

Today's answer MUST be EMAILED TO: VIRGINIAANDDONNA@AOL.COM by midnight EST 02/02/10. PLEASE INCLUDE YOUR FIRST NAME AND YOUR CITY.

We'll announce the 25 correct entries tomorrow (02/03/10) by noon and POST the WINNERby 10PM (02/03/10)

Question: WHAT IS THE TITLE OF OUR FIRST NOVEL?

From Bernice McFadden's Blog

noreply@blogger.com (DeBerry and Grant) — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 16:18:00 +0000

How amazon.com helped me to stop wishing I was a white writer...

The other night I was up watching a re-run of The Dave Chappelle Show and the opening skit resonated with me so much so, that even though I was drifting off to sleep I popped right up to fully take in the message which represented what it is we African American writers have been complaining about.

The skit started with Dave explaining that even though he says some pretty outrageous things on his show, there are many more thoughts swirling in his head that his producers and more importantly his sponsors and white audience members would find offensive - simply because he is black.

So to get around that Dave brought out a beautiful white woman, handed her a set of cue cards where he had written some of his most bizarre thoughts and she proceeded to voice those thoughts through song.

Even though the words that came from her mouth were still Dave’s thoughts and feelings, it was deemed acceptable coming from a white woman.

This is exactly what happened with Kathryn Stockett’s The Help and Sue Monk Kidd’s The Secret Life of Bees – publishing decided that they could take these stories that were essentially stories of the Black experience and deem them acceptable titles to be marketed to black, but more importantly to the larger, whiter reading audience and not just because they were written by white women, who were writing from a place of white privilege (outside looking in) but because those white women were able to deliver stories about the black experience minus the “grit and edge” which most often brings about feelings of “white guilt.”

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