Bernice L. McFadden's Blog, page 12
June 13, 2012
Unearthing Family Secrets: A novelist searches for her roots..
Some of you may know that I consider myself an amateur genealogist. Back in 1996 or 1997, I can't remember exactly when - I began the arduous and exciting task of researching my paternal family line. You see my father, Robert L. McFadden, never knew his dad; Harold McFadden. He abandoned the family when my dad was still just an infant.
My grandmother told my father that old, overused story: Your father went out for a pack of cigarettes and never came back."
She never talked about him to us grand kids - in fact she never talked about any of her family members at all. It wasn't until she was dead that I found out that she had a brother and a sister who had predeceased her.
After her death I took possession of her personal papers and photo albums. She had been a dancer with the famed Mary Bruce Dancers of Harlem. I assumed she met my grandfather, who was musician, at the 1939- 1040 New York's World's Fair. They both worked Mike Todd's (Elizabeth Taylor's 3rd husband) Gay New Orleans Village at the Fair.
She got pregnant, they got married and he left the apartment he shared in Harlem with his mother Chappo and step-father Sam, and moved in with his wife and her parents in an apartment located at 1452 Bedford Avenue in Brooklyn.
My grandmother gave birth to my uncle on July 22nd, 1941 and then a year to the day in 1942, my father was born and soon after Harold left.
From the papers my grandmother saved, I know that the government was looking for Harold because he had dodged the draft and I knew that he died in Newark, NJ in 1958. Other than that - I didn't know much about him.
Now his mother, great-grandmother, Chappo - has been a source of great interest for me for many, many years. First of all - what a name!!!!! Chappo....I love it. And if I had known her name before my daughter was born - my daughter would have carried it into the future.
I think Chappo might be my muse.
I knew she was a musician - I knew that she was married to Isaac McFadden and she had given birth to Harold McFadden in Louisville, Ky. I knew from Harold's birth certificate that he was the second child born to the couple and the first was deceased. I recently found out that the first child was also a boy, named after his father Isaac McFadden, Jr.
I knew that Issac Sr. had died just a few months after Harold was born. I have been unable to find Chappo and Harold on any 1920's census reports. They don't pop again until 1930, where she is married to a man named Sam Elliott and they own a brownstone on 133rd street.
She disappears again - and then I get word from by friend Valerie and fellow genealogy enthusiast that she has found her in DC and Lebanon, PA -- this is all before 1917, when she is married to Isaac. And then voila! A marriage certificate surfaces from 1922 in Grand Rapids Michigan were she became betrothed to Samuel Elliott.
And it's from that piece of paper that I found out that she is the daughter of prominent Georgia minister. (And that in of itself is a very fascinating story)
So I'll admit - I talk to Chappo all of the time. Especially when I'm researching family - I fuss with her about being so elusive. I talk to her and in her own way - she talks back.
I've had a case of the "blah's" for a few days and yesterday was no exception. I sat down at my desk, clicked on the computer and stared helplessly at a manuscript I have found myself unable to work on. I closed that window, spent some time on facebook and Twitter and then I went to Familysearch. org to run the same information I've been running for over a decade. I became angry that it was not in the budget to reconnect my Ancestry.com account and then I got mad about publishing -- the kids -- the world and so on.
You ever have one of them days?
In any case, somehow I ended up on Genealogy Bank and they were offering me a 30 Day Free Trial. Well hell, Free is something I need right about now and I hurriedly accepted the offer.
You know that scene in War Games when Matthew Broderick finally types in the right password and all of the bells and whistles happen? That's what happened to me.
I typed in my grandfathers name and low and behold -- what I found - still has me reeling.
Apparently, Chappo, Samuel and Harold left Harlem in the late 40's and moved to a house on 17 Fountain Avenue in Trenton, NJ. I know that Sam was a cook, and Chappo was a music teacher and I assume that's how they continued to make their livings.
My grandfather however, had become a menace to society.
The Trenton Evening News Headline Read:
POLICE RAID, FIND DOPE CACHE
MUSICIAN AND WOMAN HELD - 186 MARIJUANA CIGARETTES SEIZED.
It was September of 1951. My grandfather was 34 years old. Oh yeah, and they found a concealed .32 caliber revolver. This was not his first brush with the law. There is another newspaper report of him being arrested for speeding. And then there is mention about a 1945 federal charge.
So he went to court and claims that he learned how to smoke the weed while touring around the country and no, no, your honor those 186 bags of weed were for my personal use! ROFLMAO
They sent him to the state pen.
I'm glad Chappo wasn't alive to see where her son had ended up. She died in May of 1951. Her husband Samuel had died in '47 and apparently Chappo's brother; John E. Robinson a retired postal worker who had spent his intermediate years in Brooklyn and was a minister (like their father had been) was also living with the family, had passed in '49.
I don't think Harold was ever released from jail. I know he died from colon cancer in Martland Medical Center in December 18th, 1958.
I usually unearth one or two (if that many) pieces of information a year - yesterday I found a watershed of information and was so very, very grateful! While these finds may bring closure to one part of my research - the journey is far from being over.
I know there's some other family members out there from this line -- perhaps someone with photos!!! I would love to have picture of Chappo!
Perhaps, some of these names and places ring familiar to you. Hey, you never know....we might be kin..
Bernice L. McFadden
My grandmother told my father that old, overused story: Your father went out for a pack of cigarettes and never came back."
She never talked about him to us grand kids - in fact she never talked about any of her family members at all. It wasn't until she was dead that I found out that she had a brother and a sister who had predeceased her.
After her death I took possession of her personal papers and photo albums. She had been a dancer with the famed Mary Bruce Dancers of Harlem. I assumed she met my grandfather, who was musician, at the 1939- 1040 New York's World's Fair. They both worked Mike Todd's (Elizabeth Taylor's 3rd husband) Gay New Orleans Village at the Fair.
She got pregnant, they got married and he left the apartment he shared in Harlem with his mother Chappo and step-father Sam, and moved in with his wife and her parents in an apartment located at 1452 Bedford Avenue in Brooklyn.
My grandmother gave birth to my uncle on July 22nd, 1941 and then a year to the day in 1942, my father was born and soon after Harold left.
From the papers my grandmother saved, I know that the government was looking for Harold because he had dodged the draft and I knew that he died in Newark, NJ in 1958. Other than that - I didn't know much about him.
Now his mother, great-grandmother, Chappo - has been a source of great interest for me for many, many years. First of all - what a name!!!!! Chappo....I love it. And if I had known her name before my daughter was born - my daughter would have carried it into the future.
I think Chappo might be my muse.
I knew she was a musician - I knew that she was married to Isaac McFadden and she had given birth to Harold McFadden in Louisville, Ky. I knew from Harold's birth certificate that he was the second child born to the couple and the first was deceased. I recently found out that the first child was also a boy, named after his father Isaac McFadden, Jr.
I knew that Issac Sr. had died just a few months after Harold was born. I have been unable to find Chappo and Harold on any 1920's census reports. They don't pop again until 1930, where she is married to a man named Sam Elliott and they own a brownstone on 133rd street.
She disappears again - and then I get word from by friend Valerie and fellow genealogy enthusiast that she has found her in DC and Lebanon, PA -- this is all before 1917, when she is married to Isaac. And then voila! A marriage certificate surfaces from 1922 in Grand Rapids Michigan were she became betrothed to Samuel Elliott.
And it's from that piece of paper that I found out that she is the daughter of prominent Georgia minister. (And that in of itself is a very fascinating story)
So I'll admit - I talk to Chappo all of the time. Especially when I'm researching family - I fuss with her about being so elusive. I talk to her and in her own way - she talks back.
I've had a case of the "blah's" for a few days and yesterday was no exception. I sat down at my desk, clicked on the computer and stared helplessly at a manuscript I have found myself unable to work on. I closed that window, spent some time on facebook and Twitter and then I went to Familysearch. org to run the same information I've been running for over a decade. I became angry that it was not in the budget to reconnect my Ancestry.com account and then I got mad about publishing -- the kids -- the world and so on.
You ever have one of them days?
In any case, somehow I ended up on Genealogy Bank and they were offering me a 30 Day Free Trial. Well hell, Free is something I need right about now and I hurriedly accepted the offer.
You know that scene in War Games when Matthew Broderick finally types in the right password and all of the bells and whistles happen? That's what happened to me.
I typed in my grandfathers name and low and behold -- what I found - still has me reeling.
Apparently, Chappo, Samuel and Harold left Harlem in the late 40's and moved to a house on 17 Fountain Avenue in Trenton, NJ. I know that Sam was a cook, and Chappo was a music teacher and I assume that's how they continued to make their livings.
My grandfather however, had become a menace to society.
The Trenton Evening News Headline Read:
POLICE RAID, FIND DOPE CACHE
MUSICIAN AND WOMAN HELD - 186 MARIJUANA CIGARETTES SEIZED.
It was September of 1951. My grandfather was 34 years old. Oh yeah, and they found a concealed .32 caliber revolver. This was not his first brush with the law. There is another newspaper report of him being arrested for speeding. And then there is mention about a 1945 federal charge.
So he went to court and claims that he learned how to smoke the weed while touring around the country and no, no, your honor those 186 bags of weed were for my personal use! ROFLMAO
They sent him to the state pen.
I'm glad Chappo wasn't alive to see where her son had ended up. She died in May of 1951. Her husband Samuel had died in '47 and apparently Chappo's brother; John E. Robinson a retired postal worker who had spent his intermediate years in Brooklyn and was a minister (like their father had been) was also living with the family, had passed in '49.
I don't think Harold was ever released from jail. I know he died from colon cancer in Martland Medical Center in December 18th, 1958.
I usually unearth one or two (if that many) pieces of information a year - yesterday I found a watershed of information and was so very, very grateful! While these finds may bring closure to one part of my research - the journey is far from being over.
I know there's some other family members out there from this line -- perhaps someone with photos!!! I would love to have picture of Chappo!
Perhaps, some of these names and places ring familiar to you. Hey, you never know....we might be kin..
Bernice L. McFadden
June 11, 2012
Tryin' to Make a Dollar Outta Fifteen Cents...
No, this post is not about poverty. This post is about our teenagers who (not all but many) have lost their Goddamn minds...
As you all may have heard, the popular television minister Creflo Dollar, was arrested for battery against his fifteen year old daughter. She claims that he knocked her to the floor, punched her, choked her and beat her with a shoe.
Now I wasn't there and neither were you - we don't know what actually happened. I am not a proponent of child abuse - but in the words of Chris Rock: "I'm not saying it's right, I'm just saying I UNDERSTAND."
I'm sorry this has happened to Creflo Dollar - but this incident actually allowed me to the opportunity to talk about something similar that is going on within my own family.
But before I get into that, let me say this: I once had a fifteen year old daughter. Creflo Dollar is a wealthy man who I'm sure has provided his daughter with all he never had and all this child could ever dream of.
When my daughter was fifteen years old - I wasn't wealthy, but I had more money than my parents did when I was fifteen. I had a house and my daughter had her own room. Growing up, I had to share a room with three siblings. By the time my daughter was fifteen she was on her third passport. I got my second passport at age 28.
Now, I was not that parent who "gave" her everything she requested. I think that's ridiculous. I told my child if she wanted a new pair of sneakers every week, she would have to get a job and buy them herself. And she did. Remember when the first Ipod came out? It was about $400 dollars, right? She had to save her money and buy it herself. If I had of bought it, it would have been broken in under a month. Past history told me so. But when she spent her hard earned money - she took care of it and it lasted for years.
In any case, my daughter's fifteenth year was very difficult. Suddenly she was lying, cutting school and hanging out with kids who were headed no where fast. If you looked up the word defiant in the dictionary - there would have been a picture of her. If I said black, she said white. I was at my wits end. I found out that she had had her first sexual experience and that of course made things worse for a number of reasons:
Girls are not equipped to handle the emotional toll that comes along with sex.
They believe that love and sex are one in the same.
They now think that because they're doing what you and your mate are doing - that they are now your equal and should be treated as such even though they're not contributing to the mortgage, monthly bills, health insurance, food or clothing costs.
When someone you have had a hand in creating - that you have struggled and sacrificed to provide for, educate and keep safe, continuously disrespects you and breaks the rules that they should be abiding by -- no matter what your threshold - at some point you...will...snap.
You've seen news coverage about teenagers who have pushed their parents to the point of temporary insanity. The teenagers end up in a group home or dead - and the parents are carted off to jail.
Recently, a fifteen year old female family member of mine has started to act out - similar in the ways that my own daughter had behaved at the same age. She made an accusation that when it was repeated to me, left me stunned. Turns our though, it's a lie -- the cops know its a lie and the therapist knows its a lie. This lie and others she's told over the past few weeks have sent shock waves through the family. People are taking sides and pointing fingers. The family is coming apart at the seams - and all because this fifteen year old feels that there are too many rules in her life.
Now she has had a life similar to that of my daughter. Her parents take her own fabulous vacations, she in involved in a number of extra curricular activities, she goes to the theater, her biological father and paternal grandmother give her EVERYTHING she asks for. Remember that $400 dollar ipod? She had one at the age of five...
She does not understand why her mother needs to know where she's going when she leaves the house. She does not understand that she can't be in the street (like her friends) until all hours of the night. Or can't talk on the phone (on a school night) for as long as she wants..clean her room, wash the dishes.........etc... Too Many Rules!
This generation is very, very different from mine. When I was THIRTEEN years old, I spent an entire summer caring for my twin, toddler siblings. They were 13 months old and I was responsible for them, Monday through Friday 8AM -6PM. This included three meals a day, multiple diaper changes, managing crying fits, pushing a heavy metal double stroller around the streets of Brooklyn, playtime, reading time, nap time -- and all of this on top of my normal chores of cleaning the bathroom/kitchen, my room, washing clothes........etc.
Neither my child, nor this family member were/are capable of doing a quarter of that at fifteen.
TD Jakes talks about this. He says we are raising children who sit and feast at the table - not children who know how to prepare and set the table. In other words, we're giving them too damn much and when we tell them NO - their world falls apart.
My daughter ran away because she was told NO. And so did the above mentioned family member. If I had runaway every time I was told NO - I would still be running!
And furthermore, I had every reason to runaway and didn't. Don't belive me? Then read my (memoir in disguise) book: The Warmest December
We are raising a generation of children who have a strong sense of entitlement and wouldn't know what empathy was if it dropped down from the sky and introduced itself.
But I think I may have strayed just a bit....
There is a black female comedian who in her stand up routine says: "My mother told us kids she beat us so the police wouldn't have to."
If you're black - I don't even have to explain why this is painfully true --
Creflo Dollar was arrested and had to pay a 5K bond. So his child is lying - she has cost her father a large amount of money and national embarrassment - all because her father said: No, you cannot go to a party.
Here's something else that comedian said her mother told her: "You gonna call the cops on me? Go on ahead - I have money to bail myself out of jail, how you gonna get out of the group home?"
Maybe these privileged disrespectful children need to spend a month in a group home so they can appreciate all that they have. See how the folk from the other side of the tracks are living, maybe then they'll think twice about hollerin' wolf and learn to appreciate what they have - rules and all.
How many times do they think they can bite the hand that's feeding them - before they get smacked????
***I know this is a highly emotional subject for many, many people -- while I welcome your comments - please be respectful..........*****
Bernice L. McFadden
As you all may have heard, the popular television minister Creflo Dollar, was arrested for battery against his fifteen year old daughter. She claims that he knocked her to the floor, punched her, choked her and beat her with a shoe.
Now I wasn't there and neither were you - we don't know what actually happened. I am not a proponent of child abuse - but in the words of Chris Rock: "I'm not saying it's right, I'm just saying I UNDERSTAND."
I'm sorry this has happened to Creflo Dollar - but this incident actually allowed me to the opportunity to talk about something similar that is going on within my own family.
But before I get into that, let me say this: I once had a fifteen year old daughter. Creflo Dollar is a wealthy man who I'm sure has provided his daughter with all he never had and all this child could ever dream of.
When my daughter was fifteen years old - I wasn't wealthy, but I had more money than my parents did when I was fifteen. I had a house and my daughter had her own room. Growing up, I had to share a room with three siblings. By the time my daughter was fifteen she was on her third passport. I got my second passport at age 28.
Now, I was not that parent who "gave" her everything she requested. I think that's ridiculous. I told my child if she wanted a new pair of sneakers every week, she would have to get a job and buy them herself. And she did. Remember when the first Ipod came out? It was about $400 dollars, right? She had to save her money and buy it herself. If I had of bought it, it would have been broken in under a month. Past history told me so. But when she spent her hard earned money - she took care of it and it lasted for years.
In any case, my daughter's fifteenth year was very difficult. Suddenly she was lying, cutting school and hanging out with kids who were headed no where fast. If you looked up the word defiant in the dictionary - there would have been a picture of her. If I said black, she said white. I was at my wits end. I found out that she had had her first sexual experience and that of course made things worse for a number of reasons:
Girls are not equipped to handle the emotional toll that comes along with sex.
They believe that love and sex are one in the same.
They now think that because they're doing what you and your mate are doing - that they are now your equal and should be treated as such even though they're not contributing to the mortgage, monthly bills, health insurance, food or clothing costs.
When someone you have had a hand in creating - that you have struggled and sacrificed to provide for, educate and keep safe, continuously disrespects you and breaks the rules that they should be abiding by -- no matter what your threshold - at some point you...will...snap.
You've seen news coverage about teenagers who have pushed their parents to the point of temporary insanity. The teenagers end up in a group home or dead - and the parents are carted off to jail.
Recently, a fifteen year old female family member of mine has started to act out - similar in the ways that my own daughter had behaved at the same age. She made an accusation that when it was repeated to me, left me stunned. Turns our though, it's a lie -- the cops know its a lie and the therapist knows its a lie. This lie and others she's told over the past few weeks have sent shock waves through the family. People are taking sides and pointing fingers. The family is coming apart at the seams - and all because this fifteen year old feels that there are too many rules in her life.
Now she has had a life similar to that of my daughter. Her parents take her own fabulous vacations, she in involved in a number of extra curricular activities, she goes to the theater, her biological father and paternal grandmother give her EVERYTHING she asks for. Remember that $400 dollar ipod? She had one at the age of five...
She does not understand why her mother needs to know where she's going when she leaves the house. She does not understand that she can't be in the street (like her friends) until all hours of the night. Or can't talk on the phone (on a school night) for as long as she wants..clean her room, wash the dishes.........etc... Too Many Rules!
This generation is very, very different from mine. When I was THIRTEEN years old, I spent an entire summer caring for my twin, toddler siblings. They were 13 months old and I was responsible for them, Monday through Friday 8AM -6PM. This included three meals a day, multiple diaper changes, managing crying fits, pushing a heavy metal double stroller around the streets of Brooklyn, playtime, reading time, nap time -- and all of this on top of my normal chores of cleaning the bathroom/kitchen, my room, washing clothes........etc.
Neither my child, nor this family member were/are capable of doing a quarter of that at fifteen.
TD Jakes talks about this. He says we are raising children who sit and feast at the table - not children who know how to prepare and set the table. In other words, we're giving them too damn much and when we tell them NO - their world falls apart.
My daughter ran away because she was told NO. And so did the above mentioned family member. If I had runaway every time I was told NO - I would still be running!
And furthermore, I had every reason to runaway and didn't. Don't belive me? Then read my (memoir in disguise) book: The Warmest December
We are raising a generation of children who have a strong sense of entitlement and wouldn't know what empathy was if it dropped down from the sky and introduced itself.
But I think I may have strayed just a bit....
There is a black female comedian who in her stand up routine says: "My mother told us kids she beat us so the police wouldn't have to."
If you're black - I don't even have to explain why this is painfully true --
Creflo Dollar was arrested and had to pay a 5K bond. So his child is lying - she has cost her father a large amount of money and national embarrassment - all because her father said: No, you cannot go to a party.
Here's something else that comedian said her mother told her: "You gonna call the cops on me? Go on ahead - I have money to bail myself out of jail, how you gonna get out of the group home?"
Maybe these privileged disrespectful children need to spend a month in a group home so they can appreciate all that they have. See how the folk from the other side of the tracks are living, maybe then they'll think twice about hollerin' wolf and learn to appreciate what they have - rules and all.
How many times do they think they can bite the hand that's feeding them - before they get smacked????
***I know this is a highly emotional subject for many, many people -- while I welcome your comments - please be respectful..........*****
Bernice L. McFadden
May 21, 2012
May 3, 2012
Sometimes...is it just a black thing?
I had someone, very well respected in publishing take a look at my self-published novel: My Name is Butterfly.
The person gave her honest review of the story and some of what she said I've heard from other people in the industry who have read my previous books as well as every day people who just like to read.
What I've found is this: While white people enjoy my stories, they often complain about the language my characters use to express themselves. They also take issue with the sex scenes and the violence.
And while I cannot be accused of utilizing foul language, sex or violence gratuitously - I rarely hear this complaint from readers who share the same cultural background as I do.
So it got me to wondering if in some instances when we do not understand one another, could it be because it's a black thing? Have black people been predisposed to so much violence (both physical and verbal) that when we read it (or in my case when I write it) we barely flinch?
Does it have to do with how we were raised?
I came from a home that did not censor my reading material or what I watched on television. I raised my daughter that way and my sister is raising her children in the same way.
I won't say that we weren't chased out of the room when grown folks were talking - but maybe we weren't chased out of the room as often as most kids.
My parents had a volatile relationship. They fought and argued right in front of us. The only thing that happened behind closed doors was their sex. And we knew what sex was - our grandmother talked about sex with the same enthusiasm that maybe your grandmother discussed needlepoint or cookie recipes.
Nothing was hidden. And death...well death was and still is a significant part of life. My sister tells a story of heading off to school one morning and coming across a dead body on the sidewalk. She was about twelve or thirteen years old. She stepped around it and continued on to school. Her thought at that moment: "The man is dead. There is nothing I can do about it and I can't be late to school."
We are a matter of fact type of family and I think in many respects that black people are a matter of fact type of people. This is not to say that we are not passionate - we are very passionate - history demonstrates that.
But we do have an it is what it is attitude -- until well, it isn't.
Now where my writing is concerned - I've been known to pilot my reader through heartbreak and despair, stripping them down to their emotional hide. I think you "feel" the most when you're exposed and vulnerable. I think you learn to feel and empathy when this is done to you.
I don't pull punches and I don't whitewash - it's not my style and I'm not sorry for it. An author friend of mine tells me that I have a: Gayle Jones streak in me...and I guess I do. Maybe the impatience I feel in my own life leaks into my writing.
I'm not a fan of books filled with fluff and muck in order to reach some publisher contracted page count. Fillers not only weigh down the story, but takes away from it. It's hard for me to stick with those types of books - and I feel bad about that because they're probably really excellent stories that I will never know because it was just too difficult for me to see the forest for the trees... I think in most of my novels I take the reader directly to the forest and offer up the trees as back-story.
There is an immediacy in my work that has followed me like a specter my entire life and I wonder if it has to do with my ancestors or because of the near fatal car accident I was involved in or because of the Mayan Calendar...(<<<--LOL)
But seriously, tell me readers how much of what you read has to do with how you were raised and how you live now and writer's how much of what you write relates to your upbringing and present lifestyle? I don't know if I've made any sense here. I've got a lot of stuff swirling in my head and I don't even know if the title of this post is accurate - but it is what it is.
All of what I've said ends with this: I've made my novel: My Name is Butterfly available for .99 cents until the end of May. You can download from
The story centers on the practice of ritual servitude in Ghana and how this practice destroys and then reshapes the Tsikata family. The person I mentioned earlier in the post said this about the subject matter:
"You've also chosen a subject that is nearly impossible for most American readers to fully understand--writing about the long-term results of Trokosi is a little like writing about a five-year old who undergoes a cliterectomy, with most other Africans accepting this unspeakably awful cultural practice."
In light of this and because I'm really curious to hear the thoughts from readers - American and otherwise - I’ve dropped the price of the e-book from $6.99 to .99cents. It's an experiment of sorts that I think in the end will either propel me to make some changes to the story or keep it as it is. I appreciate your participation in the experiment and please do spread the word!
Bernice L. McFadden
The person gave her honest review of the story and some of what she said I've heard from other people in the industry who have read my previous books as well as every day people who just like to read.
What I've found is this: While white people enjoy my stories, they often complain about the language my characters use to express themselves. They also take issue with the sex scenes and the violence.
And while I cannot be accused of utilizing foul language, sex or violence gratuitously - I rarely hear this complaint from readers who share the same cultural background as I do.
So it got me to wondering if in some instances when we do not understand one another, could it be because it's a black thing? Have black people been predisposed to so much violence (both physical and verbal) that when we read it (or in my case when I write it) we barely flinch?
Does it have to do with how we were raised?
I came from a home that did not censor my reading material or what I watched on television. I raised my daughter that way and my sister is raising her children in the same way.
I won't say that we weren't chased out of the room when grown folks were talking - but maybe we weren't chased out of the room as often as most kids.
My parents had a volatile relationship. They fought and argued right in front of us. The only thing that happened behind closed doors was their sex. And we knew what sex was - our grandmother talked about sex with the same enthusiasm that maybe your grandmother discussed needlepoint or cookie recipes.
Nothing was hidden. And death...well death was and still is a significant part of life. My sister tells a story of heading off to school one morning and coming across a dead body on the sidewalk. She was about twelve or thirteen years old. She stepped around it and continued on to school. Her thought at that moment: "The man is dead. There is nothing I can do about it and I can't be late to school."
We are a matter of fact type of family and I think in many respects that black people are a matter of fact type of people. This is not to say that we are not passionate - we are very passionate - history demonstrates that.
But we do have an it is what it is attitude -- until well, it isn't.
Now where my writing is concerned - I've been known to pilot my reader through heartbreak and despair, stripping them down to their emotional hide. I think you "feel" the most when you're exposed and vulnerable. I think you learn to feel and empathy when this is done to you.
I don't pull punches and I don't whitewash - it's not my style and I'm not sorry for it. An author friend of mine tells me that I have a: Gayle Jones streak in me...and I guess I do. Maybe the impatience I feel in my own life leaks into my writing.
I'm not a fan of books filled with fluff and muck in order to reach some publisher contracted page count. Fillers not only weigh down the story, but takes away from it. It's hard for me to stick with those types of books - and I feel bad about that because they're probably really excellent stories that I will never know because it was just too difficult for me to see the forest for the trees... I think in most of my novels I take the reader directly to the forest and offer up the trees as back-story.
There is an immediacy in my work that has followed me like a specter my entire life and I wonder if it has to do with my ancestors or because of the near fatal car accident I was involved in or because of the Mayan Calendar...(<<<--LOL)
But seriously, tell me readers how much of what you read has to do with how you were raised and how you live now and writer's how much of what you write relates to your upbringing and present lifestyle? I don't know if I've made any sense here. I've got a lot of stuff swirling in my head and I don't even know if the title of this post is accurate - but it is what it is.
All of what I've said ends with this: I've made my novel: My Name is Butterfly available for .99 cents until the end of May. You can download from
The story centers on the practice of ritual servitude in Ghana and how this practice destroys and then reshapes the Tsikata family. The person I mentioned earlier in the post said this about the subject matter:
"You've also chosen a subject that is nearly impossible for most American readers to fully understand--writing about the long-term results of Trokosi is a little like writing about a five-year old who undergoes a cliterectomy, with most other Africans accepting this unspeakably awful cultural practice."
In light of this and because I'm really curious to hear the thoughts from readers - American and otherwise - I’ve dropped the price of the e-book from $6.99 to .99cents. It's an experiment of sorts that I think in the end will either propel me to make some changes to the story or keep it as it is. I appreciate your participation in the experiment and please do spread the word!
Bernice L. McFadden
April 30, 2012
Fear No More..
I spent two weeks in Florida with the same family that I would spend weeks with in Ohio. They've relocated and have started a new life in the sunshine state. They've rented a lovely home with an in ground pool. The community is surrounded by walking trails. I saw a family otters crossing the road, headed towards a lake, beautiful birds and blooming magnolia trees with limbs low enough for me to get up close and personal with the soft, white petals.
My cousin and I took daily four mile walks and during those walks, the hours that followed and the evenings that closed the day - I felt the stress, worry and fear I'd been experiencing over the past few months begin to slip away. Which is what should happen when you're on vacation.
I checked my blood pressure every day and it was perfect. My vertigo subisded and for the first time in a long time I could take a deep breath and the air didn't feel like a rock in my chest.
I've long suspected that New York was making me sick. That my house was making me ill and perhaps God had set things in motion to move me out and along towards something new...
Now I've hinted here and there about the situation with my house...how I'm fighting to keep it. I won't say that I've loss the battle or that I don't have anymore fight left in me -- I will say that I nolonger have a desire to fight. I don't know if this house is worth the energy - the stress - the sleepless nights - the pack a day nicotine habit.
I love my home - I do! It's a old and filled with ghosts and memories - memories that were here when I arrived and memories I've created while living here. It tore me to pieces when two years ago it became clear that I mightt not be able to remain here. And worse yet -- what would I do with all of the stuff I'd collected in the decade I'd been here?
I was inconsolable!
But now I feel different about the situation. I needed those two years to get used to the idea of change and the very thing that I once feared, I now welcome with open arms.
Maybe I'm just tired - or getting to the age in life when you just don't give a shit anymore. Or maybe I'm really embracing the: Don't sweat the small stuff adage that I've heard a million times during my life.
Right now pure happiness for me would be to be free of responsibility and know that wherever I am - I am home...even if that is on a couch a my sisters house or in a guest bedroom at my cousins house.
Happiness for me would be to pack a suitcase and roam around the world for a few months - afterall I can work from anywhere!
Coming to terms with ones situation and seeing the upside instead of the darkside is a wonderful, fantastic thing!
I feel like a bird....free to fly wherever I chose to go...
Stay tuned.......
Bernice L. McFadden
My cousin and I took daily four mile walks and during those walks, the hours that followed and the evenings that closed the day - I felt the stress, worry and fear I'd been experiencing over the past few months begin to slip away. Which is what should happen when you're on vacation.
I checked my blood pressure every day and it was perfect. My vertigo subisded and for the first time in a long time I could take a deep breath and the air didn't feel like a rock in my chest.
I've long suspected that New York was making me sick. That my house was making me ill and perhaps God had set things in motion to move me out and along towards something new...
Now I've hinted here and there about the situation with my house...how I'm fighting to keep it. I won't say that I've loss the battle or that I don't have anymore fight left in me -- I will say that I nolonger have a desire to fight. I don't know if this house is worth the energy - the stress - the sleepless nights - the pack a day nicotine habit.
I love my home - I do! It's a old and filled with ghosts and memories - memories that were here when I arrived and memories I've created while living here. It tore me to pieces when two years ago it became clear that I mightt not be able to remain here. And worse yet -- what would I do with all of the stuff I'd collected in the decade I'd been here?
I was inconsolable!
But now I feel different about the situation. I needed those two years to get used to the idea of change and the very thing that I once feared, I now welcome with open arms.
Maybe I'm just tired - or getting to the age in life when you just don't give a shit anymore. Or maybe I'm really embracing the: Don't sweat the small stuff adage that I've heard a million times during my life.
Right now pure happiness for me would be to be free of responsibility and know that wherever I am - I am home...even if that is on a couch a my sisters house or in a guest bedroom at my cousins house.
Happiness for me would be to pack a suitcase and roam around the world for a few months - afterall I can work from anywhere!
Coming to terms with ones situation and seeing the upside instead of the darkside is a wonderful, fantastic thing!
I feel like a bird....free to fly wherever I chose to go...
Stay tuned.......
Bernice L. McFadden
April 9, 2012
My Name is Butterfly (New on Kindle)
Available NOW for KINDLE (Nook edition coming soon...)
Back in 2007, I visited Ghana. I was moved by the people and the history. It only seemed natural that a story would form from my experience and research. I think it's an important story that everyone (no matter their background) should read.
I hope you read it. I hope you tell others about this story.
Bernice L. McFadden
Back in 2007, I visited Ghana. I was moved by the people and the history. It only seemed natural that a story would form from my experience and research. I think it's an important story that everyone (no matter their background) should read.
I hope you read it. I hope you tell others about this story.
Bernice L. McFadden
April 3, 2012
Sugar: 12 Years Later.....
I will start by saying that as of late - I only check the mailbox after I see the mail spilling out of it.
Why?
Well it's a habit that develops overtime when the postman stops bringing checks and only delivers bills, final notices and clothing catalogues that you are no longer able to purchase from.
So, yesterday the mail was spilling out of the box and I thought, "Oh God" -- it's that time again!
I tossed the envelopes onto the coffee table and continued about my day. Each time I passed the pile I hissed and cussed at it. When the sun went down and the house began to grow dark and chilly, I prepared a cup of tea, peeled a granola bar from its aluminum wrapping and decided that after my snack I would tackle the dreaded mail.
As I suspected - bill - bill - bill and then oh, what's this?
My royalty statement had arrived.
Twice yearly since 2000 a royalty statement arrived from Penguin Publishers. The statement detailed the number of books I sold between accounting periods. It also told me how much money I was yet to earn before I could receive a royalty check.
Now lemme 'splain this to those of you who are not familiar with the world of advances.
A long, long time ago before the stock market crashed and the world went haywire, we authors received pretty sweet advances for our books.
What is an Advance? Well here is how About.com defines it:
An advance is the money a publisher pays an author for his book. In book publishing the publishing houses pay an author for the right to publish their book and then the publishers take a chunk of each sale of the book. The reason the term advance is used is because this money is paid out well in advance of the book's publication. The term advance is actually short for "advance against earnings," because it represents money the publishing house is laying out against money it has not yet made. The size of advances varies widely. An untested author who receives a big advance is someone the publishing house thinks will produce a bestseller. Authors who are already well established, and known for selling lots of books, also command high advances.
So yeah.
Now my advance was nice - but not as "nice" as other folks. But it was more money than I'd ever made so I was happy. And besides, I had a two-book deal - which doubled the advance. I was thrilled. I bought a house!
Now of course, I thought that I would earn out the SUGAR portion of the contract within a year - and that might have happened had the book not been pigeonholed. But it was, so it didn't.
You see once you earn out the advanced monies you then receive royalty payments. Let's just say for arguments sake that you would receive about $1.25 per book sold.
The year's eeked by and the advance amount at the top of my royalty statement hardly seemed to budge. I couldn't understand why and when I went to investigate I found out that my contract had been "joint accounted." It was explained to me that because the second book on the contract (The Warmest December) had been taken out-of-print before earning out its advance - now the first book on the contract (SUGAR) would have to earn out for itself and The Warmest December!
Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?!!!!
By then, Sugar was only selling about 500 copies a year. Honestly, I don't know why they even kept it in print!
Well, it seemed to me that I would never ever hold a royalty check in my hand!
In late 2009 God threw me under the bus (okay I was suffering from agoraphobia) While I was convalescing in my home (okay, unable to leave it) I was struck with a brilliant idea and the 10th Anniversary, 10K Book Campaign was born!
I encouraged the publisher to give SUGAR a new look:
..And then I reached out to Book Bloggers who had never heard of SUGAR or me and asked if they would read and review the book for their audience. I reached out to bookstores and asked them to stock SUGAR - I reached out to readers and asked them to BUY Sugar and do you know what happened?
Between December 2009 and December 2010 SUGAR went back to print three times, totaling roughly 10,000 copies!
Of course, when March 2011 rolled around, I fully expected to receive a royalty check...but alas, it was not to be.
But - there is a happy ending to this story. When I finally sat down to open my most recent royalty statement - low and behold, there was my first ever royalty check! It was small - I mean it was miniscule - but thrilling nonetheless.
There's enough here for me to get my hair done and maybe a few dollars left over to buy me a bottle of "two-buck-chuck" to celebrate this milestone.
The accounting period for the next statement closes on June 30th, checks will arrive in September - just in time for my birthday. Maybe that check will be enough for me to celebrate with a bottle of good wine and a mani-pedi..
It's exciting to know that the seed I planted in the winter of 2009, sprouted and bloomed in the spring of 2012.
So I guess in many ways this post is about two things:
1. A Cautionary Tale: Never ever allow your agent to joint account your multiple book/music contract unless of course you're receiving a multi-million dollar advance and then who cares...take the money and run....!
2."Our greatest glory is not in never failing, but in rising up every time we fail."~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
Bernice L. McFadden
March 25, 2012
The Longest Day Ever: A Day In The Life of A Mid-List Author...
Hey Ya'll...
This is kind of a footnote to my previous post: An Angry Black Writer Speaks Out!
I just wanted to give you all an example of one of my days. I hope that other authors will share some of there's. I think our readers need to hear/read about the reality of our - as Kola Boof put it: Un-glamorous lives.
So a last week, I rose at 7AM, showered, put on my regular run-of-the-mill bra, non-matching panty, Rainbow shop brand denim jeans, non-descript blouse and shoes. I threw on some make-up, had a light breakfast, watched a little CNN and headed out into the world at around 11AM.
I arrived at NY Penn Station around 11:45AM..Picked up a Blueberry Jamba Juice, Smoothie and treated myself to a copy of that expensive ass New Yorker magazine that I love so much and climbed aboard the 12:30PM Amtrak Commuter Train to Boston.
Beautiful ride. There was heavy fog resting over the Connecticut shoreline. I read some, slept some and wondered if I was truly fulfilling my purpose on this earth.
Two hours in my bladder began to scream. I hate using public rest rooms - and I always try to hold my pee-pee until I can get to one that is a little less... "Public" - sometimes I can and sometimes I can't. This time I couldn't.
Thoroughly disgusted with myself...I trotted back to my seat and slathered my just washed hands with hand sanitizer. All I want to do now is take a shower.
I arrived in Boston at 4:30PM. A friend of mine met me at the station. We took two trains to Cambridge. Halfway through the trip on the first train I realized that I was feeling sick. I thought I might fall over. I suspect it was because all I consumed since 8AM that morning was a light breakfast and a medium sized Jamba Juice Smoothie.
My blood sugar had dropped to a dangerous low. I dug in my purse and found a piece of gum, which I popped into my mouth. I smiled assuredly at my friend. The dizziness retreated. I thought: I've cheated death once again!
My friend and I had dinner at a small Indian restaurant. We ordered a bottle of wine. We drank all of it, left the restaurant and arrived at the bookstore at 10 minutes to seven.
I went to the checkout counter to announce my arrival. I was so tired. More than tired. Dead on my feet. I'd already had a full day - and hadn't even done my "job" yet.
At the checkout counter there were bookmarks. 3-D bookmarks. But I didn't know that they were 3-D - all I knew was that there were moons, stars and snarling animals floating around me. My head snapped back in horror. My friend laughed and said: Cool huh? 3-D book marks!
Yeah, cool, I said in a shaky voice 'cause I thought that I was losing my mind....getting ready to do a Martin Lawrence up in that joint.
I was sooo tired.
I read with four other Akashic authors. One brought a bottle of Wild Turkey ..just looking at the molten brown liquid made me want to go to sleep. Thanks but no thanks I said.
We five read enthusiastically for the audience of ten.
I sold two books and signed five for the store.
At 8:45PM my friend's friend drove me back to the train station. We all kissed good-bye. I promised to stay over next time I was in town. Next time I have money to do so.
I climbed aboard the 9:30PM train. I wished I could have slept. But I couldn't. I only nodded here and there. It was the longest train ride of my life.
I arrived at NY Penn Station at 2AM in the morning. I had $40 bucks in my pocket. $40 bucks, which should have lasted me the entire week, cause I'm on a budget like I've never been on before. But it was too damn late and I was too damn tired to take the A train home and besides I'd promised my sister that I wouldn't take the A train home, so I kept my promise and I hailed a cab.
A nice Nigerian cab driver, dressed in a hounds tooth suit jacket smiled at me from beyond the plexi-glass shield that separated us. He talked and talked. I pretended to listen as I discreetly wiped at the tears in my eyes.
I turn into an infant when I'm feeling over-tired, over-whelmed and underappreciated. He talked and talked and all I could think of was: I'm tired....tired...tired
I was tired and I wished I owned one of those 18 hour bras - 'cause the run of the mill one I was wearing was slicing into my skin and my nipples were cussing me out like I had voted for McCain in the last election.
I arrived at my front door at 3AM. With tip the cab fair was $30. I had ten dollars left for the week. I waved good-bye to the taxi man who was such a gentleman that he waited until I was safely inside of the house that Bank of America is trying to take away from me.
Inside, I released my breasts, stepped out of my clothes and hopped into the shower.
Under the spray of water I chanted: I am getting too old for this particular type of bull-shit.....
After the shower I was wide-awake. I was so tired. So very, very tired but sleep would not take me. So I surfed the Internet and watched television.
My eyes began to grow heavy at around 7AM. 24 Hours after my journey began sleep finally took me and the last thought that washed over me before I fell into slumber was: Is it really all worth it????
Bernice L. McFadden
This is kind of a footnote to my previous post: An Angry Black Writer Speaks Out!
I just wanted to give you all an example of one of my days. I hope that other authors will share some of there's. I think our readers need to hear/read about the reality of our - as Kola Boof put it: Un-glamorous lives.
So a last week, I rose at 7AM, showered, put on my regular run-of-the-mill bra, non-matching panty, Rainbow shop brand denim jeans, non-descript blouse and shoes. I threw on some make-up, had a light breakfast, watched a little CNN and headed out into the world at around 11AM.
I arrived at NY Penn Station around 11:45AM..Picked up a Blueberry Jamba Juice, Smoothie and treated myself to a copy of that expensive ass New Yorker magazine that I love so much and climbed aboard the 12:30PM Amtrak Commuter Train to Boston.
Beautiful ride. There was heavy fog resting over the Connecticut shoreline. I read some, slept some and wondered if I was truly fulfilling my purpose on this earth.
Two hours in my bladder began to scream. I hate using public rest rooms - and I always try to hold my pee-pee until I can get to one that is a little less... "Public" - sometimes I can and sometimes I can't. This time I couldn't.
Thoroughly disgusted with myself...I trotted back to my seat and slathered my just washed hands with hand sanitizer. All I want to do now is take a shower.
I arrived in Boston at 4:30PM. A friend of mine met me at the station. We took two trains to Cambridge. Halfway through the trip on the first train I realized that I was feeling sick. I thought I might fall over. I suspect it was because all I consumed since 8AM that morning was a light breakfast and a medium sized Jamba Juice Smoothie.
My blood sugar had dropped to a dangerous low. I dug in my purse and found a piece of gum, which I popped into my mouth. I smiled assuredly at my friend. The dizziness retreated. I thought: I've cheated death once again!
My friend and I had dinner at a small Indian restaurant. We ordered a bottle of wine. We drank all of it, left the restaurant and arrived at the bookstore at 10 minutes to seven.
I went to the checkout counter to announce my arrival. I was so tired. More than tired. Dead on my feet. I'd already had a full day - and hadn't even done my "job" yet.
At the checkout counter there were bookmarks. 3-D bookmarks. But I didn't know that they were 3-D - all I knew was that there were moons, stars and snarling animals floating around me. My head snapped back in horror. My friend laughed and said: Cool huh? 3-D book marks!
Yeah, cool, I said in a shaky voice 'cause I thought that I was losing my mind....getting ready to do a Martin Lawrence up in that joint.
I was sooo tired.
I read with four other Akashic authors. One brought a bottle of Wild Turkey ..just looking at the molten brown liquid made me want to go to sleep. Thanks but no thanks I said.
We five read enthusiastically for the audience of ten.
I sold two books and signed five for the store.
At 8:45PM my friend's friend drove me back to the train station. We all kissed good-bye. I promised to stay over next time I was in town. Next time I have money to do so.
I climbed aboard the 9:30PM train. I wished I could have slept. But I couldn't. I only nodded here and there. It was the longest train ride of my life.
I arrived at NY Penn Station at 2AM in the morning. I had $40 bucks in my pocket. $40 bucks, which should have lasted me the entire week, cause I'm on a budget like I've never been on before. But it was too damn late and I was too damn tired to take the A train home and besides I'd promised my sister that I wouldn't take the A train home, so I kept my promise and I hailed a cab.
A nice Nigerian cab driver, dressed in a hounds tooth suit jacket smiled at me from beyond the plexi-glass shield that separated us. He talked and talked. I pretended to listen as I discreetly wiped at the tears in my eyes.
I turn into an infant when I'm feeling over-tired, over-whelmed and underappreciated. He talked and talked and all I could think of was: I'm tired....tired...tired
I was tired and I wished I owned one of those 18 hour bras - 'cause the run of the mill one I was wearing was slicing into my skin and my nipples were cussing me out like I had voted for McCain in the last election.
I arrived at my front door at 3AM. With tip the cab fair was $30. I had ten dollars left for the week. I waved good-bye to the taxi man who was such a gentleman that he waited until I was safely inside of the house that Bank of America is trying to take away from me.
Inside, I released my breasts, stepped out of my clothes and hopped into the shower.
Under the spray of water I chanted: I am getting too old for this particular type of bull-shit.....
After the shower I was wide-awake. I was so tired. So very, very tired but sleep would not take me. So I surfed the Internet and watched television.
My eyes began to grow heavy at around 7AM. 24 Hours after my journey began sleep finally took me and the last thought that washed over me before I fell into slumber was: Is it really all worth it????
Bernice L. McFadden
March 24, 2012
A Mad, Black Writer Speaks Out!
Steps up to mike, removes mike, taps mike…
Testing one, two, three…
Can the people in the back hear me?
"Okay, here I go..
So this thing that I'm about to talk about has been weighing quite heavily on my heart, mind and spirit for a sometime now.
I want to school some of you out there about what it's like out here for us "mid-list" authors. Mid-list basically means an author that sells "ok" – but not so much so that they're spending anytime at all on the popular, recognizable bestsellers lists like: The New York Times, Los Angeles Times, USA Today and so on…
The lucky "Mid-List" authors have jobs or careers outside of their writing profession. I say "lucky" because those folk aren't financially dependent on the sale of their books. So basically, the monthly expenses they incur to keep a roof over their heads, gas in the car and food in their bellies are taken care of by that weekly, bi-weekly or monthly paycheck.
Then there are authors like myself, who are totally dependant on the number of books we sell.
Now here's the thing: No matter how many books we sell – we authors (with publishing houses) do not get paid weekly, bi-weekly or monthly. We only get paid TWICE a year. And some of you maybe surprised to learn that if you pay $25 or $30 for a hardcover or $15.00 for a paperback – WE DO NOT GET ALL OF THAT MONEY. We receive a very small percentage of the cover price. And when I say small – I mean maybe 7% --
So you do the math…
Now, I've said all of that to say what has really been eating me:
Some folks and by folks I mean organizations…solicit authors to come to address their groups and expect authors to give of their time and talent for monies equivalent in my mind to a pack of gum and a metro-card.
They rationalize this ridiculousness with: Of course we'll offer your books for sale at the event.
Well, that's nice – but uhm, there's no guarantee that audience members will actually purchase books. I mean they've already plunked down between $30 and $75 for the lunch/dinner of pressed chicken, over cooked vegetables, baked potato and the dry to the bone, Sock-It-To-Ya cake offered for dessert.
They listened to the author speak, got their questions answered about how to go about finding an agent/publisher, gleaned some knowledge about the publishing industry, got to shake the authors hand and even took a picture with the author....and after all of that, they didn't even buy a book.
You get what I'm saying?
Now I know these are difficult financial times, people are thinking long and hard about paying an extra cent for anything… Well, not anything….
People complain about a $25 sticker price for a book, but will spend three and four times that for a concert ticket. In fact, let me just go on ahead and say that I am downright jealous of entertainers who have multiple streams of income!
Imagine the singer who writes a book and then licenses his or her name to a perfume, jeans, shoes and then goes on to star in a movie….
Those same folk who snubbed paying $25 for MY book – will buy the singers CD, new book, pay to see said singer in concert, purchase the perfume, jeans, shoes and then take the ENTIRE FAMILY to see the movie….
I can't count that high…but I'm sure you can. So, please do the math…
If I was pulling in money from four or five different sources – yeah, I could give plenty of time away – but I don't, so therefore I can't..
Now this part is for MY COMMUNITY. So white people – if you want to skip over this, go right ahead.
My people, my people… why don't you support us writers in the same way you do other entertainers? Need I remind you of the slave codes that prevented us from being taught to READ AND WRITE?
I do? Okay, here are THREE:
"Any person or persons who attempt to teach any free person of color, or slave, to spell, read, or write, shall, upon conviction thereof by indictment, be fined in a sum not less than two hundred and fifty dollars, nor more than five hundred dollars."
"Any free person of color who shall write for any slave a pass or free paper, on conviction thereof, shall receive for every such offense, thirty-nine lashes on the bare back, and leave the state of Alabama within thirty days thereafter..."
"Any slave who shall write for any other slave, any pass or free
paper, upon conviction, shall receive, on his or her back, one
hundred lashes for the first offence, and seven hundred lashes for every offence thereafter..."
We BLACK writers are the keepers of our past, chroniclers of the present – all of this for you and future generations and this is how you treat us???
SMH
Maybe I have to come at you this way:
You know how much you earn. You may not be happy with it – but that's not relevant here. If your boss came to you tomorrow and said we're going to have to cut your salary by 90% and your responsibilities will remain the same, what would be your response? I suspect you'd feel insulted and pissed off.
This is how we authors feel each and every time we are offered a pack of gum and a metro-card in exchange for our time, talent and energy.
Think about this – a lot of times the money I earn from speaking engagement is the only thing standing between the lights staying on or the lights being turned off. The only thing standing between forcing me to choose between food and sanitary products.....putting the pen down forever and disappearing for good…
Celebrate your authors, don't insult them…"
Drops mike….strolls away…….
Bernice L. McFadden
Testing one, two, three…
Can the people in the back hear me?
"Okay, here I go..
So this thing that I'm about to talk about has been weighing quite heavily on my heart, mind and spirit for a sometime now.
I want to school some of you out there about what it's like out here for us "mid-list" authors. Mid-list basically means an author that sells "ok" – but not so much so that they're spending anytime at all on the popular, recognizable bestsellers lists like: The New York Times, Los Angeles Times, USA Today and so on…
The lucky "Mid-List" authors have jobs or careers outside of their writing profession. I say "lucky" because those folk aren't financially dependent on the sale of their books. So basically, the monthly expenses they incur to keep a roof over their heads, gas in the car and food in their bellies are taken care of by that weekly, bi-weekly or monthly paycheck.
Then there are authors like myself, who are totally dependant on the number of books we sell.
Now here's the thing: No matter how many books we sell – we authors (with publishing houses) do not get paid weekly, bi-weekly or monthly. We only get paid TWICE a year. And some of you maybe surprised to learn that if you pay $25 or $30 for a hardcover or $15.00 for a paperback – WE DO NOT GET ALL OF THAT MONEY. We receive a very small percentage of the cover price. And when I say small – I mean maybe 7% --
So you do the math…
Now, I've said all of that to say what has really been eating me:
Some folks and by folks I mean organizations…solicit authors to come to address their groups and expect authors to give of their time and talent for monies equivalent in my mind to a pack of gum and a metro-card.
They rationalize this ridiculousness with: Of course we'll offer your books for sale at the event.
Well, that's nice – but uhm, there's no guarantee that audience members will actually purchase books. I mean they've already plunked down between $30 and $75 for the lunch/dinner of pressed chicken, over cooked vegetables, baked potato and the dry to the bone, Sock-It-To-Ya cake offered for dessert.
They listened to the author speak, got their questions answered about how to go about finding an agent/publisher, gleaned some knowledge about the publishing industry, got to shake the authors hand and even took a picture with the author....and after all of that, they didn't even buy a book.
You get what I'm saying?
Now I know these are difficult financial times, people are thinking long and hard about paying an extra cent for anything… Well, not anything….
People complain about a $25 sticker price for a book, but will spend three and four times that for a concert ticket. In fact, let me just go on ahead and say that I am downright jealous of entertainers who have multiple streams of income!
Imagine the singer who writes a book and then licenses his or her name to a perfume, jeans, shoes and then goes on to star in a movie….
Those same folk who snubbed paying $25 for MY book – will buy the singers CD, new book, pay to see said singer in concert, purchase the perfume, jeans, shoes and then take the ENTIRE FAMILY to see the movie….
I can't count that high…but I'm sure you can. So, please do the math…
If I was pulling in money from four or five different sources – yeah, I could give plenty of time away – but I don't, so therefore I can't..
Now this part is for MY COMMUNITY. So white people – if you want to skip over this, go right ahead.
My people, my people… why don't you support us writers in the same way you do other entertainers? Need I remind you of the slave codes that prevented us from being taught to READ AND WRITE?
I do? Okay, here are THREE:
"Any person or persons who attempt to teach any free person of color, or slave, to spell, read, or write, shall, upon conviction thereof by indictment, be fined in a sum not less than two hundred and fifty dollars, nor more than five hundred dollars."
"Any free person of color who shall write for any slave a pass or free paper, on conviction thereof, shall receive for every such offense, thirty-nine lashes on the bare back, and leave the state of Alabama within thirty days thereafter..."
"Any slave who shall write for any other slave, any pass or free
paper, upon conviction, shall receive, on his or her back, one
hundred lashes for the first offence, and seven hundred lashes for every offence thereafter..."
We BLACK writers are the keepers of our past, chroniclers of the present – all of this for you and future generations and this is how you treat us???
SMH
Maybe I have to come at you this way:
You know how much you earn. You may not be happy with it – but that's not relevant here. If your boss came to you tomorrow and said we're going to have to cut your salary by 90% and your responsibilities will remain the same, what would be your response? I suspect you'd feel insulted and pissed off.
This is how we authors feel each and every time we are offered a pack of gum and a metro-card in exchange for our time, talent and energy.
Think about this – a lot of times the money I earn from speaking engagement is the only thing standing between the lights staying on or the lights being turned off. The only thing standing between forcing me to choose between food and sanitary products.....putting the pen down forever and disappearing for good…
Celebrate your authors, don't insult them…"
Drops mike….strolls away…….
Bernice L. McFadden
