Harlem Writer

Resurrect Your Abandoned Novel Workshop

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Sun, 06 Mar 2011 05:42:00 +0000

Resurrect your abandoned novel or short story collection from the bottom of your bureau drawers or from being used as a doorstop.

The reasons are unique and universal, but they exist all the same. We are committed to helping you revitalize your forgotten prose into a polished and marketable book, but we won't stop there.

We are looking for serious, reliable, and disciplined short story or novel writers with a body of work. We are seeking writers with a firm foundation of The Elements of Fiction Writing, versed in workshop dynamics, and able to give and receive constructive feedback.

We meet weekly on Thursday evenings, 6:30 p.m. - 8:30 p.m., in Midtown Manhattan. Each workshop is limited to six writers because it seems to be the best way to ensure that each member’s work gets the attention it deserves.

We use a glass booth format which allows for uninterrupted feedback during the workshop. It also forces everyone to listen to each other and streamline the feedback offered. Our goal is publication.

Morningside Workshops focus on learning and improving craft with a healthy dose of professional branding and marketing. The gradual result of The Morningside Method ™ is a well-rounded writer who might pursue an MFA, find an agent and build a career as a published writer, produced playwright, optioned screenwriter or working television writer who understands the creative, business and legal components of their career.

Morningside Writers Group is listed among other regional writing groups, writing centers, and workshops which offers alternatives to a full-time MFA degree program in the April 2009 Cover Story in the Writer Magazine, The L Magazine, and most recently in Time Out New York.

Interested writers visit the application link here: Resurrect Your Abandoned Novel

An Ideal Writing Workshop Member

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 16:16:00 +0000

All art is connected on some level. All humans, too, are connected in minute and major ways if only we pay attention to each other. My initial goal was to unite creative writers in my living room who'd form a loose literary chain gang, with the sole purpose of nurturing and uplifting the person sitting next to them.

I've written on this blog about how I formed Morningside Writers Group, so need to revisit it. This post is to lay bare the disappointment and in other instances, anger, I feel after a workshop participant bails on the group ceremoniously or whimpers out like a deflated balloon. Past members have had to choose between their spouses, family, or friends who didn't believe in and support their creative journey toward personal fulfillment, or prior to the ease and prevalence of POD publishers, navigating the traditional obstacle course of agents, editors, and mainstream book publishers that might result in publishing a short story collection or novel.

Writing workshops are for mature, responsible individuals who need a creative community to lean on, learn from, to co-teach, and be held accountable. Writing workshops aren't for clichéd people who believe they'll find publishing success, dead or alive, at the bottom of a shot glass or beer bottle. Drunken and drugged out artists and writers are wretched stereotypes.

Writing workshops aren't social or civic clubs. Writing is an individual pursuit, even when collaborating with others. In those instances, each team member has to know who they are, what they're writing, and most important - why they're writing. If it's for instant fame and celebrity, that fool will soon be disillusioned. Writing workshops aren't group therapy sessions or places to idle away free time after work or on the weekends.

Before applying to a writing workshop, not a how-to writing class, a person should have a body of work as would a photographer, painter, or sculptor.

Writers create and recreate worlds on the page and screen, similar to a photographer closing a camera's shutter at the right moment to capture an image that existed then. Writing is a snapshot, a moment when an individual is open to the invisible and seemingly impossible.

An ideal writing workshop member is an avid reader across several genres who specializes in at least one. S/he is an expert or soon becomes on the inner workings and window dressings of literary or commercial fiction, screenwriting, or personal essays. My on-the-job training and process as founder and moderator, while not perfect, has worked for the last seven years. I strive weekly to improve and strengthen the mission statement so that Morningside Writers Group remains relevant for those seriously pursuing publication and production.

I'm hopeful each time I read a promising application, optimistic during the first few weeks of a new member's acceptance and joining, and temporarily saddened when a participant (a) flakes out (b) stops producing quality writing (c) habitually late submitting work for discussion (d) disrespect others in the group or (e) realizes s/he lacks the discipline and drive to publish.

It angers me when a participant in a cowardly move, sends an e-mail resignation rather than have the decency to (a) discuss concerns in person or on the phone or (b) try to negotiate realistic changes if need be. This strikes at my core and goes against the foundation of the workshop. Despite the mistaken notion that a departure isn't personal, it is. I wonder if the person's telling the truth for their resignation, and if there was anything I could have done to salvage the membership. I know that everyone doesn't feel the same about the workshop as I do, but please have respect for fellow workshop members who've invested countless hours reading, marking-up, and preparing discussion notes for a submission. The defector is bailing on the entire workshop roster, not just me. I'm the glue that holds everything together. I've developed a thicker skin in latter years and am able to rebound faster than some others.

No self-respecting person wants to have coffee, send submissions for feedback, or hangout after such cowardice. Wasn't that the initial reason you applied for and later joined the writing workshop?

A workshop is in service of the majority, not one or two misguided snobs who want the majority to tailor to their whims. I've never done well with cliques, and abhor prejudice and discrimination. My creative DNA is comprised of inclusion, not exclusion based on different writing genres or creative outlets. Why then would I create an elitist workshop, application requirements notwithstanding?

I'm overdue to step off the merry-go-round and devote more time to writing and submitting, and less as a wet-nurse to those that are careless and insensitive. My biggest challenge is that I'm a mentor and rescuer, but I must modify my behavior to ensure I that I, too, achieve my multi-book publishing goals. Family and friends have warned me that I'm a glutton for punishment, taking in doe-eyed strays I'd be better off passing by. I've been told I need to become a bit selfish, and put my creative writing and directing pursuits first, and everyone would follow my lead. I'm not currently built that way. I must find a healthy compromise.

How do you deal with the crazymakers in your creative life? I'd love to hear from you in the comment section below.

You Might Have A Stalker If . . .

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Wed, 05 May 2010 16:46:00 +0000

All the years I've moderated and participated in Morningside Writers Group didn't prepare me for a would-be workshop member stalker. I know that nerves are usually part of the screening process, but never in my writer's imagination would I have scripted what happened.

I interviewed an applicant for the fiction group earlier this year. It was an easy conversation. We sat for about an hour and half because I wasn’t pressed for time as I am on most days.

I’d arrived earlier to stake out a chair – it’s Starbucks, so you know it’s usually crowded.

I placed my jacket on the high chair next to me at the window bar to hold the seat for her.

She arrived and asked if it was okay to place her jacket atop mine. Innocent enough, I thought, and we proceeded to meet and greet, talk about Morningside.

This is where it gets murky.

At some point during our interview or immediately thereafter as she stood to put on her jacket – her hand accidentally (yes, I said accidentally) falls, slips into my pocket and out with my keys into her pocket or purse unknown to me.

Confusion ensues after the fact. How in the hell did she NOT realize that she’d accidentally slipped her hand into my pocket and had my keys in her fingers?

Off she went in one direction, and I to the new grocery store next door to Starbucks uptown, and then on to C-Town.

It wasn’t until I was standing on the front stoop, hand in pocket, three full grocery bags at my feet did I realize I didn’t have my keys where I remember they were when I locked my apartment door on the way to meet her.

I turned my pockets, jacket, backpack, anything within sight upside down and inside out. No keys.

I looked around for the crew of Punk’d. Nope. Didn’t see Ashton or Demi nearby, and then I panic. ( I still don’t know that she has my keys on her person and on the way home.)

I called my roommate. Refused to return my mother’s call from earlier. I am a big boy. This is silly. My keys, well, they fell into my backpack, somehow, right?

Off I go back to Starbucks and one of the two grocery stores. Scavenger hunt revealed nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Crazy thought. What if somehow (the applicant) picked up my keys from the inside of my jacket when she pulled her waist coat from mine? I called, left voice mail sounding every bit uncertain and embarrassed. It felt accusatory.

I call mom by this point. I’m certain someone’s followed me, knows where I live, and will rob me.

The applicant returns my call. She was apologetic and offered to meet me in the city to hand over the keys. I was just happy that they weren’t lost.

Harp music …..

Roommate drives me to Time Warner Center to meet her and pick up the keys. She’s profusely apologetic, again. She has to make it up to me. I must let her make it up to me. I refused. It’s an honest mistake (right, I ask myself).

She doesn’t relent. No, you must let me make it up to you. Okay, I say. Maybe just coffee or a small token … (back inside my head) You really don’t have to. She doesn’t back down until I agree to dinner. I joked, well, my birthday is next month.

On the down the escalator she says, "At least you’ll remember me now."

Cue theme from Fatal Attraction.

The Joy of Teaching

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Sun, 18 Apr 2010 21:17:00 +0000

I never imagined I would be an Adult Continuing Education and GED instructor when I was child in Houston. I had no desire to teach. My mind and heart were fixed on the bright lights of Broadway, and I thought I'd eventually relocate to Los Angeles and work in television and film. If anything, I would have probably taught acting workshops and once I felt qualified, I would directed and taught other directors.

I think the best teachers are actors and directors, for no other reason could we lead and inspire various personalities, skill sets, and appease parents. Apart from helping classmates in school, younger siblings, and later their children with multiplication tables and personal essays, I didn't think of myself as a teacher. That changed when I relocated to New York and was between jobs as most actors and freelancers tend to be. I responded to an online ad for GED instructors in Spanish Harlem, and didn't know the first thing about formal instruction.

The job description called for a focused, dedicated, and energetic education professional. The only thing that wasn't on my resume was certified teaching gigs. I was accustomed to casting calls, cold readings, and convincing someone that I was right for the part. How different could this potential job be once I learned my role teaching inner city teens and adults?

I was to prepare a fifteen-minute lesson, and if the students didn't like me, I'd be on my way. My former boss stood nervously in the door as I passed out handouts, loosened my tie, and set about my mock training and part two of the job interview. What felt like an hour, was in reality twenty minutes. We locked eyes and she gave the hand signal to continue because I had a captive audience.

In a matter of a week I was to become an instructor, sensitive to high school dropouts and adults who had long since abandoned their education to marry, raise a family, and coincidentally put their children through school.

Walking across town once a week with my three-ring binder in my backpack, I never knew what to expect, and which students would attend having understood and completed their assignments. Some students complained that the work was too difficult, while others didn't have resources to buy classroom supplies and were embarrassed to say so.

I was getting an informal education not afforded me in the Houston suburbs. There were days I felt square and out completely out of touch, but I forged ahead with Shakespeare, Alice Munro, Chinua Achebe, The Elements of Style, and The Elements of Grammar. I was determined to expose my students, level the playing field, somehow.

A few of my fondest memories. Being called Mister, which of course reminded me of Sidney Poitier. My female students, no big stretch there, embraced learning and oftentimes challenged the male students. The time some of my former students offered to walk me home after a disruptive student threatened to beat me up because he didn't understand an assignment, and felt by pommeling me into a pulp, would make it and me go away.

I miss my students and that first storefront GED workshop. I then moved on to two community centers and two nights a week when my former boss relocated to new educational nonprofits. I miss creating weekly lesson plans, the smell of the dry erase markers, and seeing the look on a student's face when the light bulb pops on. Teaching a class is different than being a writing workshop moderator, but I use a similar toolkit.

All isn't lost. I recently began teaching Stage II Fiction Workshop for writers ages thirty-nine to sixty. I look forward to hitting my stride again, but with fewer students who happen to have formal education.

Who are your favorite teachers? What did they do to inspire you? What are your best school memories?

Landlords from Hades

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Thu, 25 Mar 2010 20:36:00 +0000

I've lived in my apartment and perhaps New York City far longer than I thought would when I relocated to the East Coast years ago. When I packed my dreams, fears, insecurities, and Texas mementos into several suitcases and two footlockers, I wanted to flee from Houston. The only plan I had was to land on my feet and figure things out as a I went along. An actor skilled in improvisation, and a bit of a showman, my primary concern was the cold weather.

As a young child and teen, we moved many times in a few years, less than other classmates, but still disorienting all the same. I think the anxiety set in back then and has remained one of my preoccupations. I don't like moving because of minor issues as my mother seemed to do. I've a faint memory of returning from school one evening to an announcement and cardboard boxes that we were moving to a new apartment complex.

My mother was my first landlord from hell when she kicked my younger brother and I out, I was barefoot, dazed, and just knew that I was the victim of a sick joke or test of loyalty. I remember standing in the parking lot outside that apartment trying to process what had happened.

I spoke up. That's what happened. My younger brother had did something that she didn't like. Into our bedroom she brayed, not quite foaming at the mouth, leather belt in flight as he cowered on my bed filled with wire hangers. Whatever he'd said or done to her, his being potentially paralyzed by hanger wasn't worth her rage. I might have raised my voice. I had to, or else she wouldn't have heard me. She had to whip him, and might have caused irreversible damage . . .

There we stood in the Houston night, looking at each other, and intermittently at mother's bedroom window at my underage pregnant cousin our mother felt obligated to mother because she'd always wanted a daughter. It might have been a few seconds or minutes, but they both stood staring out at us.

Time passed, and she allowed me back inside long enough to put on shoes, dump our clothes inside a large black garbage bag, and phone someone to pick us up. Successive calls to relatives, "That's your momma, and I ain't getting into that. She's crazy." Click. Dial tone. It wasn't until I phoned her then best friend that was someone willing to drive the ten miles between granny's neighborhood and our home to transport us safely. I remember the expression on her face when the car eased to a stop in the parking lot. It was as if she thought, "Damn, they got away!" I didn't know how to process my mother's reaction. I later realized she needed to be needed, feel validated as a person and our mother, but didn't have the vocabulary for it.

Codependent parents aren't the same as some landlords. Landlords need tenants to rent or purchase apartments, condominiums, or split-level townhouses. My first nasty piece of work was in New Jersey. I lived in a below-street-level studio as big as a broom closet. My inaugural winter was brutal. I had to sleep with the oven on and opened, underneath an electric blanket, with a portable electric heater nearby. Had the pilot light gone out overnight, I could've died from gas inhalation.

Leapfrog through time. After several unsuccessful attempts of polite asking, and a housing inspector that visited on a warm and sunny winter day when the indoor temperature registered the minimum legal, I withheld rent and was later summoned to court wherein I was ordered to pay by a specified day or face eviction. No way. I wasn't going to pay a lump sum while I could see my frosted breath before me at night in the bathroom. I'd long-since stopped using the oven as a heat source.

Pressed for time, I called in sick, ignored my mother's pleas to return to Houston, and set about looking for a new apartment. I was successful thanks to the aforementioned improvisational acting skills. White lies notwithstanding, I was happy I'd found a place before my lump sum payment due date. Two local Jersey friends and I moved the contents of my studio in Pathmark grocery carts.

There wasn't a moment to spare. We made one final trip to double-check, by which time the constable had padlocked and brandished the front door with a yellow eviction notice.

My second apartment was all but uneventful save for the noisy next door neighbor who blasted his Spanish music well into the night, and on occasion would trip the circuit breaker located inside my kitchen. He'd bang on the door or our adjoining wall in the ground floor apartment. "My friend, my friend, I gottee no lights!"

My nominee and winner of Landlord from Hell is the ghoul I've rented from since time immemorial. If it were a musical, they'd be the slimy couple from Les Miserables, and heaven knows they've made my life throughout the years, hell. Exhibit A: the building was without gas for several months and they were too lazy and cheap to do anything about it. I reported them to the NY housing police after wrestling with the decision, unsure of the consequences. I was within my rights to report the lack of a building necessity, but I should've filed the report anonymously. They three-way called me and proceeded to call me everything but a child of God. How dare I tattle on them!

This man told me a few weeks ago that I was the worst tenant: unapproachable, unfriendly, loud, and a few other vile things. Apparently I'm the building pariah that no one wants around, and it's only because of my former female roommate who flashed her breasts and sat provocatively with her legs slightly apart that we were given the apartment. I knew he didn't like me, and she made no secret of it. I had the credit rating, money in the bank, and a fulltime job at a reputable company. I was an ideal tenant in theory for a landlord with a vacancy. I fell short with the failed lounge singer because I didn't have breasts. I've accumulated a list of cosmetic and necessary repairs over the years that he refuses, conveniently forgets, and recently learned two new words: capital improvement.

I hate being at the mercy of others, but know that it might happen again. I need to learn better coping skills to deal with the power hungry, unsavory characters, and the temporarily blinded and insane.

Black History Month Celebration

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 00:07:00 +0000

What does Black History Month really mean for African Americans and other global African descendants who make their way to the United States? February is the shortest month of the year, so the good folks who were compelled to mark our history didn't do us a favor. Was it so difficult to choose a month with thirty-one days when weighing centuries of murder, rape, lynching, and suicides at sea? Perhaps those additional three days would have been too much to bear for the undoubted republicans who signed the legislation.

My personal, familial, and cultural identities are tied to my blackness. I can't and wouldn't deny who I am, but millions of others habitually attempt to do so. My childhood was predominantly African American until junior high when I met and befriended Mexicans and Mexican-Americans.

I've always been fascinated by genealogy and family lore, but to date I've yet t follow through. My thinking was that I would get around to interviewing my granny on camera or digital voice recorder. She would tell me what it was like to be a black child in the 1920's and 1930's, in Texas. I missed the opportunity to do so three years after her death. I still wonder what her life was like those many years ago, and further what our ancestors' lives were given that she was born in 1917.

I'm not naive enough to think our family doesn't have slavery among the ranks, but were always free do what they wanted within the confines of the racist south. There was no escaping who and what we were - Southern Blacks, not that anyone tried to assimilate or pass for white.

Slavery and its unwitting offspring, racism are seven-headed hydras, and twenty-eight days once a year will never be enough to make right what was and still remains an injustice.

The argument could extend beyond African slaves who were treated as cargo on The Middle Passage, to others races throughout history that were at one time another a servant to a conquering nation.

One blog post isn't sufficient to discuss this topic, but I want to add my five cents. I personally feel cheated by Black History Month that takes place in February.

It wasn't until I'd transferred high schools that I made a point of educating others on the atrocities, setbacks, breakthroughs, and triumphs of African Americans. I can't remember how I managed to do morning Black History Month announcements. It wasn't every year. I think it was only during my senior high. I still recall the white student who sat alongside me, noncommittal expression about his face. He was being obnoxious but tried to wrap it in genuine concern and or curiosity moments before I took hold of the microphone. I remember BLURTING BLACK into the mic one morning, perhaps verbally raising my Black Pride Fist at him and all the non-black students and faculty listening.

It comes down to individual beliefs, acknowledgment of the history, and a concerted effort never to forget.

Killer Cats at Caroline's

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 00:43:00 +0000

A few years before I relocated to New York City, I met a photographer in Houston at my high school's fiftieth year anniversary. She was smitten with me, but the only thing that registered was New York. I'd previously thought I'd relocate to Los Angeles and work on television dramas, sitcoms, and eventually movies, but shifted my focus to Broadway's bright lights.

When she offered, "If you're ever in New York, I'd love to photographed," I readily took her card, shook her hand, gave her my requisite theatrical grin. I'd later figure out how I'd make it to NYC, but for moment I had a contact that I could call upon.

I scheduled an audition at Tisch School of the Arts at New York University, and she volunteered to let me crash at her apartment on West 72nd Street, a few feet away from the entrance of Central Park.

Prior to the night in question, I'd been allergic to bobtail cats, and to my surprise she had two robust and or overweight cats reminiscent of feline linebackers. The building exterior was swanky, but the one-bedroom apartment was cramped.

The audition is a blur now, but I still remember the minuscule, almost not there kitchenette, the bump-my-knees into one too many pieces of furniture in the living room, the clawfoot bathtub, and the exposed wooden four poster bed. These many years later, I probably wouldn't recognize her if I saw her on the street. She had red hair back then. She was accommodating in a familiar southwestern, hospitable way. I had full reign of the apartment, or so I thought (more on this later). She packed a bag and stayed with an upstairs neighbor.

My first trip New York was one week, but one of the nights that will forever be etched in my memory is when her two psycho cats, perhaps unsure of who I was, or fed up with my presence in their mother's absence, began a slow and methodical stalking of me as I rearranged my clothes in my suitcase.

Before I realized it, both cats had crept into the bedroom, a la National Geographic stalking their prey. Was there power in numbers? The primal, coordinated attack underscored by in stereo growls, hissing, and yowls was proof positive. A simple flick of my hand, "Shoo cat. Get on outta here and leave me alone," wouldn't work on this night. I had invaded their territory, and the spoiled felines weren't having me.

At this point, the yowls intensify. Sitting atop the log legs, glowing eyes locked on me, my heart began to race. I ran through several scenarios in my mind-all should result in their remaining alive even though I contemplated knocking them both off their perches with my deodorant, shampoo, or tube of toothpaste. They were house cats. Shouldn't they back down, scurry away, leave me in peace?

Not these two cats. They stood their ground, and my fear intensified. I was actor after all, and my face was my calling card. I wasn't going to risk a kamikaze cat attack to my arms and face while trying to defend myself, and not injure my host's pets.

I remember abandoning whatever was I was doing, and hightailing it into the bathroom and closed the door in the nick of time before a paw with sharp, exposed claw swiped underneath the door. It was on now!

Safe inside the locked bathroom, I felt like a fool. Safe, but foolish. How in the hell did I allow two cats to get the better of me? Those beasts wouldn't let up. They paced back and forth just outside the door, voicing their displeasure with my presence. I didn't care if they shredded my clothes, as long as my skin remained intact.

I can see the bright white lights in Caroline's bathroom now. I can see one too many bottles of cosmetics, bags of cotton balls, or her female products littering the countertop and shelves as I stand with my back at the door, again trying to figure out what to do.

There would be no letting up that night. I wouldn't be returning to the bedroom for a solid night's rest. I settled into my temporary home until she'd return the next morning. I spied some of her plush, over-sized bath sheets, and her very comfortable five-star hotel robe. I unfolded two or three of the bath sheets, slipped on her robe, stepped into the bathtub and fell asleep to the feline sentries' dismay.

It was as if nothing happened the next morning when she arrived, called out to them, and poured their morning food into their bowls. I had to be safe with her in the apartment. When I made my way to the living room looking worse for wear, she promptly laughed at me, disbelieving my previous night of torture. Those cats were possessed, and I was to have been their sacrifice to whatever dark force they worshiped.

Number One Tennis Fan

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 19:37:00 +0000

I became an avid tennis fan a few years ago after having had no interest in the game. Tennis, similar to golf for me was for others, not for my inner city upbringing. I didn't see a tennis racquet or court until I transferred high schools during my sophomore year to a predominantly white school, in the tony neighborhood of River Oaks. The other side of town that I was bussed to during the early morning hours under the cover of darkness.

I wasn't exposed to elite sports, and truthfully wasn't athletic beyond junior high track and field, and my first year of high school in the marching band. I didn't think I'd become a near-raving lunatic for women's tennis as an adult as I sat on the manicured lawn of Lamar Senior High School eating lunch, several blocks from the River Oaks Country Club. Men's tennis is a snooze for me. The women bare their emotions, are prone to drama, medical timeouts, and downright soap opera villainness cheating and scheming.

The white students in my adopted high school were the ones with tennis racquets, attire, and aspirations, although none went on to collegiate or professional sports. My only ties to the game was during Black History Month in February in the faces and lives of Arthur Ashe and Althea Gibson, both of whom seem mythical, out of reach, and enshrouded in special access.

I don't remember my first Venus, Serena, or James Blake match, and it doesn't matter now. I admire tennis players because they are pitted against each other like a heavyweight boxer. Singles players have to rely on their own wit, not fellow team members. When I watch one of the African American players, I feel the pressure they might feel in this still lily-white sport. What must it feel like as a minority in those stadiums as all eyes are trained on your every move, perhaps waiting for an error to cheer?

I'm probably too emotional when I watch. Ask my upstairs neighbor who pounded her foot on the floor during the epic Wimbledon Ladies' Final between Venus and Lindsay Davenport, with Venus outlasting Lindsay in the third set tiebreaker 9-7. I felt she was playing to win, but also had the weight of Black America on her shoulders. Perhaps not.

Tennis is closest to writing for me because both pit the athlete and writer against himself and the opponent across the net or receiving editor and eventual audience. I'm not as fanatical as "La Agrado" in All About My Mother or Robert DeNiro in The Fan, but I've had my moments of outrage and disappointment when James, Donald Young, Venus, Serena, Jo-Wilfred Tsonga, or Gaël Monfils gave away an easy win to a lesser opponent. Those types of matches were like watching a traffic accident. You know you should look away or keep on driving, but you stare, hopeful, that the victim will rebound and everything will return to normal.

One of my fondest memories was a live blogging event moderated by Sheila of Black Tennis Pros. I'd like to think I've settled into my tennis skin and knowledge as an armchair coach, and will no longer respond like a raving loon when the regular season starts, but that will depend on whose playing on any given day. Join me for the Australian Open beginning on January 18th.

Harlem Writer v. 5.0

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 03:48:00 +0000

It is that time of year to make New Year's Resolutions, reflect on the previous year hopefully with little or no regrets, and concentrate on who and what lies sometimes at the end of our fingertips or in the adjacent cubicle.

I'm not immune to a bit of navel gazing, self-recrimination, and self-pitying, but what matters is how long I allow myself to remain in any of the aforementioned altered states. Navel gazing is all about staring in the mirror, amazed at who I was and what I accomplished. If this goes on for too long, days or weeks will pass me by. No, it's better to tabulate the hits and misses, and step away from the bathroom or full length mirror because someone else probably wants to adore their reflection. The opposite for navel gazing is self-recrimination.

How many times have I berated myself for simple, silly, forgivable transgressions when all I have to do is remember to ask God for forgiveness and move on? I'd rather not say, but as with the theme of this blog, I'm looking ahead, not behind in order to improve my internal operating systems. I've been taught and read that worrying is a sin. Heaven knows that list is already overpopulated, so one less will lighten the load.

Self-pitying is self-recrimination's darker twin. I've recently began watching Intervention on A&E, and my heart goes out to those bold or foolish enough to have a camera crew follow them around as they live through their addiction(s). A recent episode struck a nerve. A young mother couldn't get over herself and her addiction because she was too busy feeling sorry for herself rather than focusing on recovery. My addictions aren't narcotics, prescription drugs, or alcohol, but for about ten minutes I identified with the snotting and crying woman sitting in the parking lot, confused about her next step.

Granny would always say to us, "Trouble is easy to get into, but hard to get out of." I took from this episode: to be careful who and what I ask for in 2010; to look both ways before crossing the street, and to slow down. Life is always better after a power nap or a full night's rest. If it's meant to be, it will happen.

I've resolved to dance with abandon, creative writing at least two hours a hour a day before bed or while the chickens are still asleep, and guide my PR clients to the best of my and my team's abilities, imagination, and vision. I've resolved not to personalize random blog or forum comments, or mumbled insults on the subways or buses. I've resolved to live each day as if it were my last. Tomorrow isn't promised, so it's best to live today.

Morningside Writers Group - Time Out NY

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 16:09:00 +0000

Date: November 6, 2009 1:39 PM
To: inyc@timeoutny.com
Subject: question for you…Has Time Out New York ever done a roundup of writing classes in New York? Liz

For bookish inspiration

Wine fuels six-person workshops held weekly at Cobble Hill’s Freebird Workshops (Freebird Books and Goods, 123 Columbia St at Kane St, Cobble Hill, Brooklyn; 718-643-8484, freebirdworkshops.webs.com; $230 for eight sessions), where local authors lead discussions on any genre. As a bonus, participants are encouraged to overcome their fears of submission—each eight-week session wraps with the distribution of stamped envelopes and literary magazines addresses.

Admission requirements: Short writing sample

For gender parity

Twice a month, the Morningside Writers Group huddles around moderator Kendall Williams’s kitchen timer at the Sony Plaza Atrium (550 Madison Ave between 55th and 56th Sts; morningsidewriters.com; $85 for six months, $120 for one year) so no one rambles on for too long. This crew takes the idea of balanced criticism to a new level—each group has an equal gender split. “Women and men view the world different,” says Williams. “So a workshop of all men, when there’s a female character, who’s gonna tell me if the woman’s worldview is accurate?” Similar insight for those writing about an undead vampire’s worldview is, sadly, unavailable.

Admission requirements: Ten-page writing sample and personal statement

For published proof

The courses at New York Writers Workshop (Jewish Community Center, 334 Amsterdam Ave at 76th St; 646-505-444, newyorkwritersworkshop.com; $400 for ten sessions, $395 for conferences) come with no shortage of success stories; student Lauren Weisberger got the deal for The Devil Wears Prada while she was learning from instructor Charles Salzberg. Classes range from “Introduction to Writing a Graphic Novel”—don’t worry if you can’t draw!—to advanced groups for already-published scribes. Special “Perfect Pitch” conferences put book ideas in front of editors from big-name houses, but a Prada-size advance is far from guaranteed.

Admission requirements: Three-page writing sample

For thorough screening

Don’t let the name of the Unterberg Poetry Center at the 92nd Street Y (1395 Lexington Ave at 92nd St; 212-415-5500, 92y.org/poetry; $385–$610 for eight sessions) scare you; there are courses in fiction, nonfiction, and playwriting, as well as poetry (plus the occasional master class). Acceptance is the first hurdle; a $10 fee will get your manuscript read by the program teachers, who’ll then battle it out over who gets your genius. Open-enrollment courses are available to all paying word junkies.

Admission requirements: Writing sample up to fifteen pages

For ladder climbing

Like making baseball’s major leagues or winning a reality show, getting published is all about wanting it badly enough. At least that’s the attitude of The Writers Studio (272 W 10th St between Greenwich and Washington Sts; 212-255-7075, writerstudio.com; $370–$455 for ten sessions) founder and Pulitzer Prize winner Phillip Schultz; the school’s fiction and poetry classes are about giving tools to writers that are already passionate. Students move up a five-level system like karate kids earning belts, and Schultz himself teaches the Level V master classes.

Admission requirements: None, but new students can enter only at Level I or II.

Article originally published on November 26th.

Dynamic Voices - Accent Reduction

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 16:17:00 +0000

What does it feel like not to be understood at a job interview, in class, or in social setting? Does it crush your confidence? Does it make you shy?

How do you think it would feel when you've learned to reduce your accent and increase your confidence?

Native English speaker available in Manhattan offers short and long term customized lessons (contract required) for non-native and native English speakers in Accent Reduction and Accent Elimination.

Learn the dynamic and interactive techniques to reduce your accent, speak with vocal clarity, so that you will be understood at school or work.

Learn how to master job interview skills that will increase your chances of getting a promotion at work or a new job.

Contact Dynamic Voices for additional information, rates, and to book an audit session

Novel Writing Basics

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 21:23:00 +0000

How does a novel begin? After I’ve decided my novel premise, I invite a cast of characters onto the stage and watch them interact with each other. Careful observation and close listening reveals the hook. The protagonist has a goal, and over the course of the novel, the antagonist tries to counterattack. In the early stages of the novel, an outline is essential to keep track of who’s doing what to whom, when, and why. Have I created a strong protagonist with risks and stakes, and one that I’d want to spend at least one year of my life getting to know? Writing a novel is akin to training and running a marathon. Short story writing is closer to speed walking or sprinting.

What must my novel contain to keep readers interested? I use a novel notebook with yellow tabbed dividers to store pictures from magazines, newspapers, and research. I keep it nearby or certain sections whenever I’m writing first or second drafts. Novel writing is methodical, but if the writing is sloppy, readers might walk away from the finished product.
I pace myself as I write so that I don’t suffer burnout or become discouraged.

Imagine a circus ringleader who has to keep an audience engaged while keeping watch on two adjacent rings. An aspiring novelist volunteers at the onset of the creative work for this unpaid job that’s not without its own danger. A book that has weak action, events that unfold too fast or too slow, and no drama or tension is a disaster. Novelists have to juggle characters, setting, dialogue, and point of view without revealing heavy-handed techniques or imitative styles.

Why is novel writing lonely? Writing is a solitary occupation, but it needn’t be isolated. I believe that writing workshops are essential for every aspiring and established scribe’s sanity. Ideas don’t happen in a vacuum, and neither does writing and revision. I need a committed, intelligent, and focused community to keep me in check over the months and perhaps years it takes to write a novel. All writing groups aren’t created equal. The group I founded uses the CORE Method™: Constructive, Organized, and Realistic Evaluation. Setting out to accomplish the herculean task of writing a novel is exciting, painful, and frightening without expecting harsh feedback.

It takes a village to raise a child, and it takes a writing workshop or trusted first readers to help shape a publishable novel. Artists need a nurturing environment during the latter stages of a work’s evolution. It is in the workshop that writers are accountable to each other with word counts, but it is best not to submit until both the author and pages are ready for constructive feedback and public viewing.

If the creative work is well received and becomes a bestseller, kudos to the writer. Few writers’ first thoughts are that they’re writing a bestseller. I believe we all set out to create three-dimensional characters in vivid worlds both familiar and foreign with identifiable traits, reasonable goals, and a payoff at novel’s end. Invisible contracts exist between authors and potential readers. Tell me story, but not just any story. I want it to keep me awake at night, help me forget my troubles, educate, and leave me wanting more. Each writer has the unenviable task of creating magic on the page.

Savory Writing: Character and Plot

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 21:27:00 +0000

The first step in creating memorable stories, essays, and screenplays is my idea journal where I write the title, initial character names, brief biographical sketches, character wants, story premise, and possible resolutions.

I make the connection between writing and cooking because of my love of Southern home-cooked meals, observing my granny make coffee in her old-fashioned stovetop percolator, skillet spoon bread, and after church Sunday family dinners at granny’s house.

Each of these scenarios is similar to writing in that my granny, mother, and various family members began with an idea. They might have planned it out mentally or jotted down their shopping list before going to the grocery store.

Plot/Cause and Effect. Writers must double-check that their story makes sense, and that all the scenes move forward. Similar to cooking, the circumstances (ingredients) must change between the beginning and the end of each scene or chapter. The story or chapter is likely to hold reader interest if all of the ingredients and seasonings are balanced.

All meals aren’t created equal. Each time we prepare a meal, we seek to experiment which leads to improvement. Each time I sit down to write or stand at the kitchen countertop to prepare a meal, I add something new to push both to the next level.

How do we define plot? A plot is a narrative of events, the emphasis falling on causality. “The king died and then the queen died” is a story. “The king died and then the queen died of grief” is a plot. The time-sequence is preserved, but the sense of causality overshadows it. If it is a plot, we ask “why?”

With this in mind, we return to preparing our story. My protagonist finds a recipe for his granny or aunt’s Southern Surprise Chicken Soup, and sets off to the grocery store to buy the listed ingredients. This is a good start, but I need to expand the idea so that it’s interesting and would hold a reader’s attention over the course of a short story. My male protagonist, with index card in hand, sets out for the grocery store, and then along the way he encounters an unforeseen obstacle that will test him. In order to hold my readers’ interest, this surprise obstacle must be realistic and not plotted for the sake of advancing the story. The king in our plot example died, and because the queen was grief-stricken, she followed him into the afterlife.

How can writers apply this example to their own writing? Readers read to escape. Readers read to learn. Readers read to find parallels in their lives to what’s written on the page or hand-held device. What started as a simple story of making soup takes on new meaning when we introduce conflict and raise the stakes. On the way to the store, our protagonist’s journey is temporarily interrupted, and he has to make a choice. Does he get involved with the unexpected source of conflict and possible character growth, or continue along his path?

Let’s return to our soup preparation in our fully stocked and modern kitchen. As we're preparing our soup with the listed ingredients, we realize that something is missing – a spice, perhaps, and we must improvise. Our hero, too, must improvise. If he ignores the source of conflict, he’s forever changed. If he participates, alters, and/or counterattacks, he’s changed also. Action and inaction originate from a character’s personality. Getting involved with this conflict is a decision that he must deal with, and conversely, walking away is decision that might forever haunt him. This is where we see the character and ourselves in action. Readers learn more about the character, and we see what we’re able to do in the kitchen, against the clock, as our dinner guests are en route to the potluck dinner. Is the character resourceful, pessimistic, or on the brink of tears?

At this point in our story and soup, ingredients and story elements are heating up. We see the vapor rising, the aroma fills the kitchen and the surrounding rooms. We adjust the fire, stir in additional vegetables, and look over at the cutting board once we realize that we’ve not added the chopped parsley and cilantro. We toss a handful inside our soup pot and stir.

Our protagonist, if he’s three-dimensional and realistic, can’t foresee the obstacle. He must adapt as it unfolds. It must appear natural and effortless for the reader. Writers must play fair with readers, or they’ll walk away from a story. The hook, or story promise, is why readers choose a certain story over another.

If we’ve promised Southern Surprise Chicken Soup, the surprise shouldn’t be that it’s beef or tofu. It’s an implied contract with our dinner guests, and we will be held accountable.

Midway through our story and soup preparation, we keep an eye out for errant insects, attention-seeking family members, and red herrings. There will always be someone or something competing for our attention in the kitchen, while we’re writing, or reading a story. With a careful symphony of ingredients, story elements, and revision, we are on our way to creating a robust soup that will leave our guests hungry for seconds and a story that keep readers engaged.

Our end goal is to have created a savory soup and memorable story. We dash about the kitchen looking for last minute accents and flavor boosts. We set up the table and flatware. We ask ourselves if candles would be over the top for our simple potluck dinner with high school and college friends.

Writers, too, must stand back and examine the setting, plot, characters, tone, and voice of the creative work. Are all the necessary people, places, and events on stage and the page?

How does the final product smell and taste? Is it a beautiful bouquet or something we must add salt or pepper to after the fact? At story’s end, is there a reward for our readers? Will readers be satisfied or left with more questions than when they began? Did we accomplish our story goal? If not, there’s always next time to improve our writing.

Nightmare on Your Street : NY Times Op-Ed

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 15:49:00 +0000

Spiritual Warfare in Harlem Update: I was recently interviewed by Lizzy Ratner, NY Times Reporter for story on haunted New York apartments. The original blog entry is here.

The interactive Op-Ed dated October 30th is available online here, scroll through to panel number six. Don't freak out because of the number six as some might attribute it to the mark of the beast. Maxie's pictured left.

I’ll Take Manhattan, Along the Adirondack Line

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 02:31:00 +0000

New York City is an ideal place for people of all ages who want to unwind, play, and meet new friends in an energetic backdrop.

Beginning at the southern tip of Manhattan, the borough offers views of The Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn, and New Jersey from Battery Park City, which buttresses The Hudson River. Fall is a good season to stroll along the multi-leveled plaza, watch sailboats zip by and stately cruise ships glide by to dock in Midtown Manhattan.

While you’re downtown, don’t forget to walk over the cobblestone streets to The South Street Seaport to shop and dine in various retail stores and restaurants. The historical area adjacent to the Seaport has yet more quaint shops and restaurants within minutes of Wall Street and the NYSE.

The next stop on our walking tour of Manhattan brings us to TriBeCa and world-class hotels, novelty shops, and locations for various movies and television shows, not mention the tony residences of local celebrities such as Robert DeNiro and Leontyne Price. Manhattan is best experienced on foot, so be sure to wear comfortable clothes and shoes, and bring bottled water. Manhattan can’t be fully enjoyed in one day, there’s much to see and do in different neighborhoods, museums, and at landmarks.

No trip to Manhattan is complete without a visit to Chinatown, east of TriBeCa, and within a few blocks of the Lower East Side. Crossing Broadway into Chinatown is akin to stepping back into time or traveling to a small village in the Orient. All manner of fowl and fish are visible in restaurant windows and specialty stores as you navigate along the main thoroughfare of shops and kiosks that sell faux designer handbags, athletic wear, and New York memorabilia.

Sights, sounds, scents, and multiple mainland Chinese accents and dialects compete for your attention as you traverse along the zigzag streets heading further east. The Lower East Side and the East Village are eclectic neighborhoods, but don’t offer outsiders anything of interest. The allure of these two areas lies in their offbeat and anti-establishment status, a one-time haven for creative types and musicians who couldn’t afford to live above 42nd Street. It still maintains its avant-garde status as a home to painters, singers, and denizens who live on the edge, and or aspire to. The neighborhood hosts an annual summer Fringe Festival.

As the name states, Little Italy, has authentic Italian pastries, pasta, and marinara sauce, and the annual San Gennaro Festival in early September. Visitors can also tour the original St. Patrick’s Cathedral that’s now a parish house. The tight-knit streets in Little Italy are reminiscent of New York City’s yesteryear as brought to life on screen in Martin Scorsese’s Gangs of New York.

If culture is what you seek, check out the New Museum of Contemporary Art in SoHo, and then head over to one of best attractions in the city, Chelsea Piers, a multi-unit sports and activity complex where visitors can play golf, ice skate, climb indoor rock formations, lift weights, go kayaking in The Hudson River, and host birthday parties. Silver Screen Studios at Chelsea Piers have also been used for feature films, dance rehearsals, special events, music videos and commercials.

Midtown Manhattan is home of The Empire State Building, Madison Square Garden, and Macy’s Department Store. Visitors and native New Yorkers head to the Observatory on the 86th floor for a spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline. You’ll never be at loss for entertainment at The Garden with year-round sporting events, solo musical artists and bands, and family shows. Christmas shopping at Macy’s is a must during a fall visit to New York City. The block-long store’s windows are decked out in holiday fanfare and decorations accent the entire store. Santa Claus is usually on hand to grant wishes and check his list one last time before he climbs aboard his sleigh for the annual Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in November.

Once you’ve caught your breath from all things shopping, make your way to Lincoln Center for The Performing Arts, where you’ll find an entertainment complex that features renowned orchestras, ballet performances, independent films, and opera. If Wagner, Mozart, Mahler, or Pedro Almodóvar isn’t to your liking, head east to Central Park to see the orange and brown fall leaves, rent a bike and peddle leisurely around the six-mile circumference, or go horseback riding along the Bridle Path.

No visitor should leave Manhattan without experiencing Harlem’s Apollo Theatre on West 125th Street, a place where dreams still come true, while others are dashed on stage during its weekly Wednesday Amateur Night. The audience shows its appreciation for stellar acts with thunderous applause, and cast many would-be performers off the stage with raucous laughter. A final stop on this trip is The Cloisters at Fort Tyron Park, with its collection of art and architecture from medieval Europe. It’s also a great place to shop for last minute gifts and keepsakes before continuing on to your next destination.

Spiritual Warfare in Harlem

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 16:14:00 +0000

I've sensed for years that there's a presence or ghost in my apartment. I've written on this topic before, but feel I must readdress because I'm more determined to rid my living and creative spaces of the unwelcome boarder. I sense that it's an older African American/Hispanic (blatino) male, in his mid to late 50's, that committed suicide in or near the bathroom or kitchen window. There are times when I feel a gravitational pull when I'm near the bathroom window more so than the kitchen, as if I'm floating or leaning over the windowsill. I don't want to relive what he, heretofore unnamed, Gustavo, experienced during the last moments of his life. Did he actually commit suicide or was he pushed to his death? Did he commit suicide in the alley below or met with some other end at the hands of an angry assailant?

It matters not how Gustavo met his end. It's time for me to evict him, and send him into the light. He's not malevolent. He's lonely and distracting when it's most inconvenient for me. I've numerous creative snippets, opening paragraphs, and titles simmering in my idea journal that he's been preventing me from completing. Not one for navel-gazing, my mind wanders, and off I go cleaning or rearranging something. This isn't avoidance or typical creative procrastination. I've felt a weight descend upon me. During those moments, I've been able to step outside of my body and see myself in suspended, distracted animation.

Gustavo's a puppeteer, and I've been his unwitting doll that he's manipulated far too long. It's time to call on fellow faith/spiritual warriors to exorcise and evict him.

My mistake has been downgrading him all these years. He's not evil, just lonely. He's not evil, just finds ways to distract. Well, enough of that nonsense. If it's not helping me, it's definitely hurting me. Gustavo, I'm calling you out. Be gone!

I've made excuses for myself, and those, too, must stop. I know Gustavo's real, and not a euphemism or thinly-veiled rationale for fear of success, of which I know I don't suffer. I've thought this through over the years. Probably too much. I've given it and him energy that should've fueled my writing, working out, living, rather than feeling trapped in my home office.

I need to figure this out soon because I'm not getting any younger, and I've circled this fork in the road too many times. What could this/he represent in my life?

There's a marked difference when I'm not in the apartment. Outside, I feel free, weightless, and oftentimes don't want to return home. I know what I feel is real, and not something I've manufactured from my writer's toolkit.

I've felt the presence of evil sitting on the edge of my bed that made me bolt upright and command it to leave. That was a one-time occurrence. Maybe I've been wrong all this time, and it was Gustavo who sat on the edge of my bed, but then has since changed his complexion so that I think he's innocent and not focused daily on getting rid of him. Angels and demons, from what I've read and been told, are masters of illusion.

Act Three: time for me call upon all of my faith, strength, and determination and send him into the light. Gustavo, I send you forth into the light, or the into the bowels of hell, if you prefer. Just get thee behind me!

Blog Talk Radio: Staging Your Writing 06/27/09

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 01:47:00 +0000

Which challenges do you face in your creative writing life? Are you looking for a writing workshop, yet unable to locate one in your local community? What about starting your own writing workshop, or joining an online workshop?

Anjuelle Floyd and Morningside Writers Group founder and moderator, Kendall Williams, discuss Staging Your Writing to create dynamic and publishable personal essays, memoirs, fiction, screen, and stage plays.

We will also discuss the challenges and triumphs of starting and maintaining a committed writing workshop and community.

Join us on Saturday, June 27th, 3 p.m. (EST).

Lady Clancy : Laid To Rest

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Sun, 26 Apr 2009 02:43:00 +0000

I used to be allergic to a stray bobtail cat lurking around my Granny's house. Granny's house was always a soft place to land for family and neighbors alike, and apparently stray animals found our company appealing as well.

I started kindergarten with mummified legs because I had sores between my knees and ankles. I remember my mom getting upset because the teacher wanted to discipline the entire class, but couldn't include me for an undisclosed reason.

I avoided cats from that point in my life until I relocated to the East Coast and a feline purred and cooed in and out of my legs, unbeknownst to me, as I sat in the living room of a Dominican grandmother with a Cruella de Vil white streak in her otherwise jet-black air. I jumped, certain I'd have an allergic reaction, and perhaps rushed to the emergency room. I didn't have a reaction. One childhood trauma overcome.

As I recall, I was feeling homesick, and tried to talk several grade school and college classmates back in Texas to relocate as my roommate. When that failed, my thoughts shifted to adopting a pet. I didn't have a good track record with puppies, and the thought of walking a dog in a new frigid climate wasn't on the top of my list.

I thumbed through The Village Voic e, and landed on an ad from a cat rescuer in Stuyvesant Town. In my newfound allergy-free state, I wanted an orange tabby, one of the kittens she advertised.

I arrived at the apartment that undoubtedly had one too many felines, and was guided to a back bedroom with playful and meowing kittens clamoring for attention, as if they knew they were being screened for adoption. All except one. The orange tabby that I wanted, didn't want me.

Defeated. Crushed. I took my pet carrier and slinked out to the hallway. The cat lady wouldn't be outdone by a persnickety kitten. There was another litter of rescued kittens playing in the bathroom. I made my way inside and sat on the edge of the bathtub. What would it hurt to look at other kittens before I left?

My heart was set on that orange tabby, but an affectionate gray calico had other plans for me. She brushed up against me, perhaps because she was sick of auditioning for would-be adoptive parents. I scooped her up into my arms and off we went with her initial vaccination records.

Nineteen years and a second tortoise shell cat later, I was faced with the decision to euthanize Clancy after a long bout of illness. My once fat cat had lost weight, her gaunt face and hollow eyes begging me to put her out of her misery.

I procrastinated. I prayed for a miraculous recovery. Maxie, the younger cat, began avoiding her. She knew we were all preparing for a slow death march, and wanted no part of our subterfuge. Maxie did her best to keep me distracted, away from Clancy.

I accept now that it was selfish of me to prolong her pain, but I wasn't ready to let go. I logged onto the NYC Animal Shelter website weekly in attempt to steel myself for what might happen, but there'd be no way to script my emotional state and reaction. What if she died at home underneath the kitchen table? Would that be best for all involved? I'd have preferred not to have taken her to the shelter in East Harlem. I was greeted by a mixture of dying, fearful, or soon to die animals.

The shelter clerk wasn't welcoming or warm. The volunteers questioned my decision, while at the same time trying to get me to adopt a new pet before I left. I wanted to turn around. I couldn't end her life no matter how many times I had to clean up after her because she wasn't able to make it to the litter box.

I experienced an admixture of calm and uncertainty as I filled out the surrender application. Yes, I want to view the body afterward. Yes, I'm willingly ending her life. No, I won't hold anyone responsible.

I lifted her over the counter, and that was the last time I saw her alive. Forty-five minutes later, my roommate and I walked to a back room and spoke to her corpse, eyes opened, lying on her side. She looked peaceful. I tried to close her eyes with my fingers. I couldn't. They wouldn't close. I apologized. Somewhere inside me, a light turned off, a gong sounded.

No respiratory movement. No snoring this time. The Slavic vet reassured me that I'd done the right thing, that she was in pain and suffering. I picked up the soiled pet carrier, slipped on a pair of purple latex gloves, and blasted out the remaining signs of Clancy with a strong current from a water hose. It was and still remains a surreal experience. I keep waiting for someone to shake me from what seems like a nightmare or a bad joke. She was either underneath the kitchen table, lounging in the clawfoot tub, or reclining on the windowsill as I brushed her.

Empty carrier in hand, a male employee expressed his condolences as he stood cleaning out his shelter truck that I'm sure he collects abandoned and stray animals to that very location. From the bottom of my heart, he said, I'm sorry for your loss.

I'm sorry that I didn't have a backyard or pet cemetery to bury Clancy, instead of a mass cremation with other shelter kills. Everything changes from now on. I won't get a do-over, but I have an opportunity to improve Maxie's life, and when we're both ready, the life of a second kitten.

Toxic Love

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Thu, 19 Mar 2009 18:00:00 +0000

Many people are in toxic relationships with a significant other, family member, friends, or with the person reflected in the bathroom mirror. We're taught as children to respect ourselves, and that love doesn't hurt. As we age and shed childish dreams and distance ourselves from our parents' protection, we slowly forget these important lessons and enter into destructive relationships that corrode our confidence and self-worth in order to hang onto somoeone we'd be better off removing from our lives.

It takes two or more to create a toxic situation. The spiritual vampire is normally at the center of the storm along with his/her willing victim. Love and/or the promise of love is seductive, intoxicating, and can be overwhelming in its early stages. I'd venture that most of us enjoy the pursuit, courtship, and initial euphoria of new romantic love or a platonic friendship.

Is love about power, egos, and manipulation? When dealing with an insecure person, certain relationships can resemble a corporate acquisition. These spiritual vampires are quite skilled in what to say and do to attract fans, admirers, and pawns to move about on their Chess board.

Manipulation is both subtle and overt, and oftentimes when we realize we've been lulled into a walking coma, it seems as if it's too late. The Kool-Aid has been digested and taken up residence in our flesh and bones. At this stage, panic sets in, and we feel woozy, stuff our clothes and last remnants of our pride inside an old suitcase, and head for the door.

The dominant one in a toxic relationship isn't always the one with strongest personality or the most intelligent. S/he is a master manipulator, skilled in guilt, and various partner dances to keep victims cheek to cheek whenever the scent of an escape wafts on the air.

All toxic relationships aren't created equal, and some can become dangerous or even turn deadly if left unchecked and untreated. The battered woman who forgives her mate after the first assault and remains in the home is asking for a repeat performance if she doesn't seek help or altogether leave.

Habitual arguments between romantic partners, roommates, or platonic friends should be examined for their root cause. Dancing with a demon isn't fun, as we rise and fall, sway back and forth in that familiar and hypnotic, addictive Tango or Waltz.

How many of us endure toxic relationships because we think we can't do better than the person we're involved with or that we don't deserve mutual friendships? How many of us keep stoking the flames of a relationship because we'd otherwise feel lonely? Rational thinking is abandoned because we yearn for attention, encouragement, and support. Granny always told us, "You can do bad all by yourself. You don't need anyone to help you with that."

I'm not advocating President Obama allocate money to research this oftentimes puzzling interpersonal dynamic, but we need an open dialogue for those who suffer, and treatment for the perpetrators.

I'd like to hear from you on how you ended a toxic relationship. Was it difficult to sever all ties? How long did it take?

Personal Twitter Guidelines

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Tue, 10 Mar 2009 13:13:00 +0000

Several self-proclaimed experts have written their official Twitter rules, most of which I don't accept. When I first read about Twitter, I wasn't too sure if it was for me. I knew what a blog was, but this thing called micro blogging, I'd have to observe from a distance.

My initial and ongoing reaction to Twitter is that it's similar to merging into oncoming traffic at a busy metropolitan intersection or highway. You want someone to stop and notice you long enough so that you can join others in a conversation.

We've all rules of engagement, stated or subconscious, and Twitter is no exception. I don't like social media pundits, gurus, and experts offering unsolicited advice on how and why I should interact with people in cyberspace. My understanding of Twitter, MySpace, or Facebook, is that it's self-paced and voluntary. We're not in high school English class with a daily mandatory journal entry. However, some people feel compelled to share the trivialities and minutiae of their lives. God bless them that they have followers who enjoy reading such grocery lists. I personally do not. I prefer differences over a bleating sheep mentality any day.

The beauty of a global audience is that each person has an online signature, much like a fingerprint, whether or not they're aware of it. My opinion: it's sad day online when more people than not follow the beat of another person's Djembe, dun-dun, or snare drum.

I'm flattered when someone wants to follow me, but I don't automatically follow back. No apologies. I'm not concerned with accumulating thousands of followers. I launch Tweet Deck because I like interacting with people I might not otherwise have an opportunity because of time, time zones, and geographic distance.

Why should I automatically follow someone I've no potential personal, professional, or social interest? I don't respond well to unofficial online rules of engagement.
Back to my temporarily being flattered when someone new sends a request to follow. I think someone or something (Mr. Tweet) has advised that I'm worthy of being followed, but that doesn't guarantee I've any interest in following back. I don't want to read one-word tweets "hot", or "going home", or "stuck in traffic".

When I post a tweet, my goal is to offer news, tips, or interesting tidbits that I would appreciate reading. I talk about my personal world, but not to the point of self-indulgence or sheer boredom. Is there a mute button on Twitter? Yes, it's called block or unfollow.

A few reasons why I will not follow, block, or unfollow:

No personal picture or avatar.
No personal/business profile or website/blog link.
No updates: "I've not updated yet!" (When you do, get back to me.)
The person is obviously online to push their product or service, and has no personal stake for using Twitter.
The person is more concerned with accumulating followers, similar to notches on a bedpost of sexual conquests.
When there's an obvious disconnect. The person hasn't read my blog, website, or tweets, and has no understanding of who I am and why I'm online.
Not understanding that all relationships require time, nurturing, and maintenance. Those seeking instant gratification might be in for a surprise.

Fitness Log: Metamorphosis

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Mon, 09 Mar 2009 14:00:00 +0000

Working out requires time, energy, discipline, and healthy eating habits.The time isn't an issue because my trainer is punctual three days a week. I've only to set the alarm and get dressed before he arrives. I've yet to schedule time when he's not with me to guide me through a series of exercise homework. It's not that I don't like or want to work out, it's an issue of time away from work or chores. The goal in the coming days and weeks is to block out at least three to five additional hours for physical fitness.

I've posted an ad for an early morning jogging buddy so that I will be accountable to someone else, and they in turn to me. It works the same with my trainer. I expect him three days a week, so I know I have to schedule that time to work out, or it'd be a waste of his time.

I must allow time to shed unwanted pounds and inches around my waist. Even if I could afford it, I wouldn't have liposuction or a tummy tuck. I'm not a candidate for either. Cosmetic weight loss procedures are quick fixes to lingering health and emotional challenges, similar to weight loss supplements, the results are almost immediate, but the maintenance becomes the real test.

I've enough mental and emotional energy to workout, it's the physical endurance in the early stages of retraining my body and mind to perform exercises that seem to contradict with the natural flow of my body. Where does one summon the energy to exercises regularly? Caffeine? Weight loss capsules and powders that contain preservatives, additives, and caffeine?

Time and discipline work in tandem for me. Or is it the chicken and egg conundrum? What needs to happen first? If I'm disciplined and focused in my goals to workout, I'd automatically set aside time to workout alone so that I'll achieve the body I want sooner.

Working with a personal trainer is new to me, and I'm glad that Ryan has the patience, training, and experience to help transform me from sedentary to active once again. I don't remember when something shifted inside, and I became a hermit save for my attending biweekly writing workshops. One cloudy or rainy day that I didn't jog, rollerblade, or dance barefoot in Central Park can't be the sole culprit for my expanded midsection. One day quickly becomes a week. Fast forward, and I'm struggling to button my shirt or pants, which was depressing. I'd always been skinny or slim. I still have the first pair of designer jeans I bought back in high school, and until two years ago, I could wear them.

My daily food logs have shed light on when and what I eat. Water, good. Fruit juice, bad. It's better that I eat the raw fruit. Chewing kick starts digestion, and increases metabolism. Three square meals low in carbohydrates, high in protein, and two to three healthy snacks a day are necessary to decrease the unwanted increase. It might not be easy because healthy living in any economy can be expensive if you don't have the disposable income.

The plump caterpillar is gesticulating in his cocoon, rapid heartbeats, random insecurities, dreaming of chocolate donuts, cookies, and ice cream. The plump caterpillar knows intellectually that physical fitness and fresh food are keys to a better life, and that he shouldn't complain about exertion or soreness. The caterpillar, once reborn, will take to the sky and soar higher than before with his carved physique.

*Feel free to leave comments on your physical, emotional, and spiritual transformation. Spring is here. Let's get rid of excess baggage and climb the mountain together.*

Fitness Log - Where Are My Abs?

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Mon, 02 Mar 2009 13:47:00 +0000

I began working with a dynamic personal trainer a few weeks ago to rediscover my previous West African dance and rollerblade physique. The first few sessions were as I suspected: huffing and puffing on the exercise mat, cursing all varities of cookies, ice cream, and chips under my breath.

I didn't know what to expect after my initial weigh-in and fitness evaluation. Ryan, my personal trainer, was patient and detailed, measuring body fat, heart rate, and other prerequisites before logging them into an elaborate computer program. I was impressed and awed. He was as thorough as any general practitioner I've ever visited, minus blood test and urinalysis. He won't need to test internal items because my daily food log will reveal what's happening on the inside.

I workout three times a week, for approximately one hour, during which time he guides me through a series of balance, cardio, and aerobic exercises customized for in-home training.

The road to renewed health won't be long or treacherous. It'll require discipline, healthy meals, and daily maintenance. I'll have to get accustomed to logging meals, snacks, and liquid beverages. I know that I don't drink enough water. I don't need a food log to show me that. The log will serve as a reminder to drink at least eight glasses of water a day.

We're off to a good start, and I expect to increase my metabolism while decreasing my midsection. I didn't expect the importance of the mind-body-soul connection. Why am I working out (beyond the obvious health or vanity reasons)?

I invite you to take the journey with me every Monday as I log my progress under the Fitness Log heading. I welcome your comments and support, because I know I'm not the only one undergoing a physical/emotional/spiritual transformation.

*Photo disclaimer: The posted image is an idealized version of the body I could have if I pursue perfection. I'm not. My aim is a healthy lifestyle, not first prize at the Mr. Olympia bodybuilding contest.

Verbal Agreements - Just Say No

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Sun, 15 Feb 2009 17:27:00 +0000

Are verbal agreements binding? Depending upon what's involved, I would say more often than not, verbal agreements aren't binding in a court of law. I'm no lawyer, but let's examine. If one agrees to perform a service for another who states he is unable to afford said service, but afterward the recipient demands a change in the originally understood verbal service agreement, then no.

Oftentimes the basis for a verbal agreement is good faith because one of two parties can't afford a product or service. In recent times, I've bartered copywriting or editing services for web design, development, or CMS (content management system) help.

I recently had to deal with the ugly side of publicity, and here I am examining and reexamining myself and my intentions to perform good deeds and network with other creative souls. This analysis strips the inherent good will.

I think more artists need to take better control of their careers, which includes a thorough understanding of the legal rights in their state or country. I'd advise not to rely on phone conversations and verbal promises meant to soothe a person's fears in the heat of the moment when they're panicking about a broken heart, job loss, or being on the brink of homelessness.

I've learned my lesson: get it in writing to prevent misunderstandings, future temper tantrums, long, threatening e-mails, and text messages at all hours of the day or night. Get it in writing, even if it's on a coffee shop or restaurant napkin. Don't threaten litigation if you've previously stated you can't afford other services, because that would be tantamount to fraud or theft of services.

Invest in a Mead Composition notebook or a digital voice recorder for all important creative and business meetings. Take meeting minutes, date the entry, and mirror back to those in attendance: "What I understand is..."

Should an agreement come from the meeting, have the other person sign and date the entry until a formal contract is created and co-signed by both parties. An audio recording is easier because it would be an actual transcript of the conversation. Don't be sneaky, mind you. Ask permission to record the conversation and place the device in clear sight.

Open your eyes and ears, and pay attention to who you're speaking with, body language, and verbal ticks, if any, before going off on a tangent with unfounded legal threats that wouldn't have legs in court.

The Ugly Side of Publicity

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Fri, 13 Feb 2009 17:43:00 +0000

I've had a fast and early education into the darker spectrums of human fraility and psychosis as a publicist. I had no grandiose expectations when I considered representing a friend who's now a client.

My job is to create or help create a marketable brand, field and secure radio, TV, and print interview requests, and promote my clients to their ideal demographic.

I didn't expect to deal with prim donas, would-be divas, people who'd never qualify as a diva, or people better suited an insane asylum.

My new job as a publicist is one that I embrace and know that I will be successful because I get to incorporate my background in theatre, writing, and editing. Most successful publicists and marketers have the gift of gab are are social butterflies. How else can we place our clients in venues and on radio and talk shows if we're not liked, or at least respected?

I've no patience and time for people who think they can take advantage of me or anyone else because they were once a corporate executive, physically attractive, or accustomed to delegating to subordinates.

Every third person is clamoring for fifteen minutes of fame and notoriety, but two out of three people don't understand what's involved in creating a public identity. It requires hard work and daily maintenance to sustain a reputable career. This isn't to say that one-trick or one-shot ponies have no place in life; they are the ones who amuse and teach us what not to do.

The ugly side of publicity shines a floodlight on the darker reaches of human greed, insecurity and stupidity. Too many are outraged or shocked during the early stages of contract negotiations. Don't be. Compromises have to be made to ensure both sides get the best deal at the time. Still others want to threaten legal for verbal agreements after they've watched a few episodes of Law & Order or Boston Legal. These are the ones who will probably never be successful, and will do whatever they feel necessary to have an audience.

The Beginning of The End

noreply@blogger.com (Harlem Writer) — Wed, 11 Feb 2009 17:05:00 +0000

I'm struggling with a decision to euthanize my oldest cat. I can't bring myself to do it despite the fact that her health is failing. She was once a fat cat that made no qualms about eating the younger cat's food when unattended. She was once a bold cat, but now she's a mere shadow of a her former self.

I know that I'm mixing my feelings for my granny with Clancy. Natural death is expected. My granny died when she was ninety years old. Clancy's purred and cooed for eighteen human years, which would make her eighty-eight years old in the animal kingdom.

I know I'll have to do one of two things: contact the cat lady in Stuyvesant Town and ask if she still has the country home where her cats roam free until death, or take her to local animal shelter and have her put to sleep. The first choice is easier, provided the cat lady (her self-described moniker, not mine) is willing to pet her out to pasture.

Death is permanent, and I'm not prepared to step into the role of executioner.

I think, too, about Maxie, my black tortoise shell cat. She knows that the end is near for Clancy. Maxie's taken to following me around the apartment more often than not, rather than one of two favorite hiding spots underneath the coffee table or living room sofa. She's been beside herself, meowing, and trying her best to communicate what I know all too well when I lock eyes with Clancy.

I used to be allergic to bobbed-tail cats as a child. My mother was concerned and surprised that I'd have a cat, and eventually two. I don't know that I'm not a dog person, but cats are less maintenance than dogs. And there's no walking a cat during freezing New York winters.

I think what it'd be like decide to flip the switch on a human relative. What if I'd wait a few more minutes? Who says that there wouldn't be miraculous recovery?

I know I have to make a decision, soon. I keep hoping upon hope, that, she will eat more days than not, and her guttural wails that stop me in my tracks will cease. I feel as if I'm playing God. Who am I to end another life? I don't have all the answers.