Rosalind Guy's Blog, page 46

Here’s My Confession

My name is Rosalind Guy and I struggle with writing endings. (insert deep exhale here) There! I finally am able to admit it.

I’m not the type of writer who strictly adheres to an outline, either for my short stories or novels, so a lot of times I start on a writing journey with no clear sense of where I will end up.

I always begin a story with an image, a line or a character that makes such an impression on me that it becomes ingrained on my brain. Those are the stories I know I must write. But, honestly, I hardly ever know what the end destination will be. Quite honestly, that’s part of the joy of writing for me, wondering where I and my characters will end up.

I’ve been struggling with the ending for a short story I’m currently working on. The story, Mama B, is a piece I’ve been working on for many, many years. It’s undergone several transformations over the years. Now, that I have finally deemed the story in its final phase, I’m struggling with bringing the story to a natural close. I wanted the story to come to a natural ending, which, I guess, may not necessarily be realistic.

Lying in bed, this morning, thinking about the story’s ending, I, for some reason, began to compare it to the ending of a book I recently read by Nicholas Sparks. I began to question whether the ending scenes in his book were realistic or a creature of a different breed. It seems, sometimes, that Sparks chooses the bloodiest collision course for the characters in his stories. Meaning there’s no happily ever after. No predetermined format whereby two people meet, deal with a problem, realize they can’t live without one another and then choose to live happily ever after. Nope. If that’s what you’re looking for, you definitely don’t want a Nicholas Sparks story. In fact, that book, The Best of Me, infuriated me, made me want to incinerate it because I was so dissatisfied with the ending. (If I didn’t value books so much, I would’ve burned that book up!)

Still, this begs the question, should all stories/novels leave their readers feeling as unglued, as pissed off, as Sparks’ book left me feeling? Possibly.

That makes me believe I may need to revisit Mama B’s current ending. Maybe the sutures of that ending are too perfectly aligned. Maybe they’re so perfect, in fact, that no one will give them a second glance. And that’s certainly not the type of story I want to write.

I’ve read lots of books and lots of stories; some have remained with me, some I have forgotten as soon as I walked away from them. I don’t want to write forgettable fiction. I want to write stories that leave an indelible impression on the minds of my readers — much like the beginning kernels of the story does for me.

My path of reflection in bed this morning didn’t end there. I also thought about the book I’m reading and thoroughly enjoying. It’s wonderful to journey back through history through the eyes of Pearl Cleage. I’m reading Cleage’s autobiography Things I Should Have Told My Daughter. Something that struck me as I’ve been reading it is the character analysis or just her thought process, where she analyzes the most random people or situations. For example, this guy who sits down beside her at the bus stop. Her description of him makes it painfully obvious that she does not find him physically attractive, yet he asks for her phone number. When she declines, he tells her, “You don’t want to, but you kinda do, right?” Her analysis of that interaction is so real, so authentic. It ends with her wondering, …”what might have happened? C’est la vie!” I love it.

For some reason, as I’m contemplating this, I begin to understand that people do not always present their authentic selves to us. Perhaps it was the utter authenticity of the situation that helped me understand that or perhaps some other thing that helped me understand it, but, at that moment, I went ‘Eureka!’ I don’t think I wholly understood or acknowledged this fact before because, with me, what you see is what you get. And, you know, we perceive other people and life through a reflection of ourselves and our experiences? Well, with me, what you see is what you get. I’m really simple. If I say I love you, well, hell, I love you. If I say I don’t love you, I don’t. Doesn’t mean I hate you, but I don’t love you. My words stand for themselves. No unmasking is necessary. If I say I support you, well, dammit, let go and depend on me because “I got you!” That is one of the things that I have come to despise about some of the people I have met, that they play games with people and wear masks that seem almost to blend in perfectly with their face and you’re hardly able to discern that they’re wearing it until it’s too late. I cannot stand dealing with people who are unable or unwilling to present their true selves and motives to you so that you can tell exactly what you’re accepting into your life. Everyone has an ulterior motive for the things they say and do, it seems.

Aha! In order for my characters to be memorable, they need to have layers and hidden motives. In concept, I was aware of this, but it took experiencing it as a life lesson to really know it.

No one remembers the woman who truly loves and cares about those around her. (Well, unless it’s Dr. Maya Angelou) No. They remember the woman who manipulates and deceives to get what she wants. Think Alexis Carrington or Victor Newman.

This provides validation for me. It is important for a creative artist to journal his or her experiences. An artist’s job is to hold up a mirror to the complexities of life and allow people to see themselves. And you can’t do that if every time the artist holds up the mirror, he only sees or shows him or herself.

Life’s a complex bitch. In my stories, I have to remember to show all different types of characters trying to manipulate this bitch called Life and show them trying to live the life they want to live. Of course, each character’s goal and perception will be different, but that’s where the conflict comes in, right? Right.

Aha!

As, Dr. Maya Angelou said, “When someone shows you who they are, believe them.” But don’t stop there. Hell, write about it! There’s a gold mine of material to be found in the most difficult situations and the most difficult people.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Hump Day Goodies

Okay, so today is one of those days where you get good news and throughout the day you find yourself smiling when you remember it. To others, it may seem as if though you’re smiling at nothing, but you’re smiling at the remembrance of the good news. 

My regular readers might remember that I held a Goodreads giveaway, where I gave away two copies of my newest book, Tattered Butterfly Wings, back in April. One of the winners posted her review a couple of days ago, though I just stumbled across it last night. Here it is (I removed the reader’s name, though it’s visible on my Goodreads author page.): 

 rated it 5 of 5 stars

I won this book in the goodreads giveaways, I am so pleased as it’s one sounded really interesting. It didn’t disappoint, it tells the story of 4 teens struggling with different emotional problems at a specialist facility. The book is well written and you feel the emotional ups and downs as each story is told. I really enjoyed this book and will be looking forward to reading more by Rosalind.

 
The other thing that makes today a “goodie” for me is that I finally purchased a copy of Pearl Cleage’s Things I Should Have Told My Daughter. Mrs. Cleage was one of the authors who graciously took time out to respond to my Ten Questions, Ten Answers interview a couple of months ago. At that time, she mentioned her book and I wrote in this space that I planned to get it. And I just did. Yay! Goodie, yes. And I’ll tell you how much of a goodie. I cracked open the book as soon as I walked out of the bookstore. I was driving down the street reading the comments on the back cover, then at a red light, I cracked it open to the first page. 
 
From the first words, I already can tell I’m about to read something special: 
 
“I’ve been heading in this direction for years. I light a candle. I light a joint. I turn down the music and begin to write.” These are words from Cleage herself, dated November 30, 1980. 

 
I went to Starbucks to write, but who am I fooling? I’m about to read a few pages of this book by one of my favorite authors. Then I’ll spend some time working on my own stuff. Because of the excitement I’m feeling over beginning this new book, I’ve decided to run her Ten Questions interview again, here in this spot. Enjoy!
 

One thing I always remember about my favorite authors is the book that led to my discovery of them. I discovered Pearl Cleage with What Looks Like Crazy on an Ordinary Day. After my first read of this book, it became one of those books that I would re-read and re-read because of the enduring messages and the wonderful storytelling.
Cleage is an Atlanta-based writer whose works include eight novels, a dozen plays, two books of essays, two books of poetry, essays, and newspaper columns. Her new book, Things I Should Have Told My Daughter: Lies, Lessons and Love Affairs will be published by ATRIA in April, 2014. And I can’t wait to read it.

1. When was your breakthrough moment? (When did you know you were an author and not just a writer?)

I knew I was a writer as soon as I learned there was such a thing as a writer. I always wanted to be a storyteller. I guess my breakthrough moment came when my sister taught me how to read and write when I was four years old and my grandfather gave me a tiny little spiral green notebook and a little number two pencil and I started writing stuff down for my stories. I would give a lot to have those notebooks now, but none of them survived. I’ve been writing ever since. I’ve been very lucky to have both commercial and critical success, but I didn’t need any of that to convince me I was a writer. I already knew it!

2. Where do you get your ideas for your novels?

My novels always start with a character who appeals to me. I’m going to have to spend a year with this person, so I want it to be somebody I like and somebody I find interesting. I’m endlessly fascinated by people and how we make the decisions we make. Like who to love. (One of my favorites.) Or what is right and what is wrong. Or how we are connected to other people, like our families. I do a lot of work on that first character until I can see clearly where she (for me, the main character is almost always a “she”) fits and what her problem is. At that point, I can start working on other characters and the plot, which is always the hardest thing for me. If I had my way, my characters would walk around and just talk about whatever came to mind, conflict be damned! Of course, that’s not possible, but it would certainly simplify my writing life!

3. Are you a plotter or a pantser?

I don’t know what a pantser is. I know I always try to come to plot through character. I don’t write detective stories or murder mysteries so I’ve got to find a situation where the problem is serious, but death doesn’t have to be the solution. My books almost always feature a strong heroine who is grounded in the community she lives in and connected to the life that community in a way that may bring her into contact with dangerous people who don’t have good intentions. She’s also probably in love or falling in love with somebody. I really like love stories in the midst of real life situations. Anybody can fall in love if they’re rich, beautiful, healthy and strolling down the beach at sunset! The challenge is to fall in love in the midst of the messiness of real life.

4. Where is your favorite place to write?

I like to write at home in my office. My desk faces the front window so I can watch my neighbors going by and living their lives. I’ve never been able to write in hotels (too antiseptic in one way and too many leftover stranger vibes in another…) and I’ve never had the money to rent fabulous beach houses so I work at home. It’s actually a blessing that most of my novels take place in the neighborhood where I live. That way, everything that happens on an ordinary day is fair game for the books.

5. What is your favorite quote or advice about writing?

“Being a writer is like having homework for life.” I think it’s from Laurence Kasden, the screenwriter and director.
I also like “Writing is mostly a question of continuous work, done alone.” Don’t remember who said that one.
I also like “A writer’s life should be a tranquil one. Read a lot and go to the movies.” That’s Mario Puzo.
This was my Sixties favorite from Amiri Baraka, “A black writer’s job is to write something so ba-a-a-ad they have to ban it.”
Also Toni Cade Bambara who said “The job of a black writer is to make revolution irresistible.”

6. Who are some authors who inspired you?

My two favorite writers are Langston Hughes and Alice Walker. Langston because he is so deeply rooted in his African American-ness, but from that vantage point, he was able to travel the world and feel at home everywhere. His writing is like having a conversation with a good friend. I love Alice Walker because she is unafraid to tackle subjects that are challenging. Whenever I get cocky and think I’m really a serious truth teller, I read a new book by Alice and know I still have a long way to go. I also love Lorraine Hansberry because seeing her play “A Raisin in the Sun” when I was eleven years old made me know I was a playwright.

7. What advice would you give to aspiring writers?

I would say write something every day. Take yourself and your work seriously enough to set aside time and place to give it your full attention, even if it’s just for a half an hour a day. If you are going to be writer, you have to get into the habit of writing. This is the work you’ve chosen. Be disciplined about getting it done. Think of yourself as a “cultural worker.”

8. What is your favorite first line from one of your novels or your favorite book by another author? (Please include the name of he book and the author’s name.)

“Blind people got a hummin jones if you notice.” Opening line of the short story “My Man Bovanne,” by Toni Cade Bambara, Random House, 1972.
And: “Call me Ishmael.” Opening line of Moby Dick by Herman Melville.

What fictional character from your novels most resembles you?

They all resemble me! The good, the bad, and the ugly!

10. Finish this quote: Writing, to me, is…like breathing: I can’t live without doing it!

 

Happy Hump Day People! Savor the goodies of the day!

Peace & Love, 

Rosalind 

 

Sound of a Breaking Heart

We are so careless with other people’s hearts. It’s hard to believe that love is the reason we’re here, the thing that separates us from animals – the fact that we are able to verbalize our love for others, yet we don’t truly respect love. A dog will lay his life on the line for his owner, the one he loves. A man or woman will play with the heart of someone brave enough to love. I say brave because if you completely open yourself up to loving someone else, you open yourself completely to being hurt by that person as well.

So, tonight, I was flipping through my phone and I saw this picture of a boy playing keep away with a girl’s heart. I cried as I looked at the picture. Then I wondered, what sound does a breaking heart make?

 

What sound does a breaking heart make?
The crack of a helmet meeting with ribs
on the football field?

A high-pitched scream from stepping on blocks
and other childish things left scattered about?

The sound of a siren wailing behind a driver
carelessly going five miles over the speed limit?

A sound like tears falling softly against a
crying woman’s pillow?

The sound of a spoon falling in the sink with
dried chocolate ice cream in the center?

The sound of a hissing balloon that’s losing
all of its air?

Or maybe a breaking heart doesn’t make a sound,
at all. And that’s the great bittersweetness of love.
To drown in the sights and sounds of love when
love still exists in the foundation of a relationship, but
when loves is gone, it just sneaks out the back door
and no one knows it’s gone until silent tears begin to fall.

Happy Tuesday people. Whatever you do today, do it fabulously. And, hopefully do it with or in love.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Man on the Eleventh Floor

Man on the Eleventh Floor

A man killed himself
today. I didn’t try to
stop him. I watched him
climb onto the ledge
outside his window. And
I mimicked his movements
as I stood below, a mime
in the tragedy of his life. When
he began to move along
in the shadows, trying to
escape the light of the moon,
I only moved to follow, thinking
how it would be to swim in
his eyes, the dark pools of sadness.
Held me magnetized, the sadness
in his eyes but still I didn’t try
to stop him. There was no logical
reason to explain the slow build
of anger I felt inside when I looked
into his eyes. Angry bile rose up
in me and drowned all the words
I could think to say, to stop him.
I swallowed my anger and turned
and walked away. A man killed
himself today. And nobody knows
why. I didn’t try to talk him out
of it and I didn’t stop to cry when
I knew he had stepped out on the
wings of a prayer unsaid, thinking
I had wanted to stop him when
all I had wanted was to pass by.

 

I can’t really explain the inspiration or motivation for why I composed this poem. I took a nap this afternoon and when I woke up, I had this image of a man standing on a ledge. I picked up my notebook and started to write. Right before I fell asleep, I do remember thinking, I’m wasting my time writing. No one wants to read my stuff. (Yeah, that old woe is me angst of a writer) But I don’t think the image had anything to do with that. Besides I immediately recognized that thought for what it is and I shoved it out of my mind.

One of my favorite stories to teach my tenth graders is Contents of a Dead Man’s Pocket by Jack Finney. But, of course, the main character in that story is not trying to kill himself. And he’s not on the eleventh floor. Eleven, in my mind, is actually symbolic of birth because it’s my birth date. The speaker in the poem seems to be experiencing a type of new birth, while the man she is watching is experiencing the end of his life – by his own actions.

I don’t know what inspired the poem, but there it is. I’m off to do some writing now, and when I’m done, I’ll reward myself with a few more pages of Carrie by Stephen King. This is my first time reading it. I haven’t seen the movie either, at least not recently. I’m enjoying it. I’ve read more than half of the book today alone. But, in order to be able to read some more, I have to do some writing.

Later peeps!

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

 

*Photo courtesy of Blue-Eyed-Girl from deviantart.com

My Secret, Didja Get It?

I’ve been a fan of the PostSecret blog since its inception. In case you’ve never visited the site, here’s a link: http://postsecret.com/. New postcards are posted every Sunday morning and I visit the site, faithfully, to read the secrets. About a year ago, I wrote my own secret and mailed it in. It was never posted to the site. I’ve posted it here as well as a poem to go along with it.

Waiting in Vain

I’ve grown accustomed

to being the lady in waiting.

The role of a lifetime. Always

waiting in vain, while bowing

my head in shame. Thinking,

always thinking, I’ve changed

the course of the crooked path

laid out for me to travel, only

to find the more things change,

the more they remain the same.

And I wait.

You’ll never catch me

waiting in the same spot as before;

that’s the one thing that always

keeps changing. But I’ll always be

that little girl who watches from

the shadows, the broken train

of men who traipsed through our

living room to the bedroom, wiping

their trashy ass feet across my mother’s

heart and face. Her tears drowning in

the bottom of a glass. Her pain too

palpable for me to get pass. Always

looking for a way out, a way to move

past a life that seems destined not to

last or amount to anything worth living.

And I wait.

That little girl

trembling in the dark corners of

my heart is ravenous for a love, but

she just spends all her time waiting.

I see her head pressed against the pane

of the rickety screen door, the door that

never could keep out all the hurt. Still

her eyes shine with innocent hope.

She’s hopeful and her hope causes me

to cry, for how can I tell her nothing will

ever change for her? That she’ll always be the

fucking lady in waiting. Waiting for

shit to change. It never will though.

She’s waiting in vain.

And I wait.

People will blame her,

point the finger of shame,

tell her there’s no real power

in the name she’s inherited. The

name she was called by her mother

or by all of her past lovers. (There has

to be another name for them cause

none of them ever really loved her.

Did they?) You have the power to

change they tell her with an insane

haughtiness. And like the scared

little girl she is, she cowers in the

corner wishing for change ‘cuz

she’s tired of staying the same.

And I wait.

The plan seemed

reasonable, a simple exchange

of her pain for mine. I would

go to that little girl and lift her

up in my arms. When I did pick

her up and hold her close, all

I did was cry though. Her sadness

seeped into me and I wanted to

die because I knew I wouldn’t

be able to change things for her.

No matter how I tried to convince

her she wasn’t the blame, she

stayed the same. Just a little

sad girl waiting in vain. Hoping

things will change. Just waiting

in vain.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

 

We’re All Bizarre

Emilio Estevez’s character in The Breakfast Club says, at one point in the movie, that “We’re all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it, that’s all.”

I watched the movie again last night and when I heard him say this, I instantly thought of the characters in my latest novel, Tattered Butterfly Wings. TBW is about a group of teens who end up in Merryhaven, a home for troubled teenagers. Marcus, who became depressed after the death of his twin brother, has tried to commit suicide several times. Petey, who never felt like he belonged anywhere, has resorted to cutting himself to deal with the pain of his existence. Glory, who was molested by her mother’s boyfriend, deals with her feelings by journaling about them. She also writes poetry. But that creative outlet is not enough to prevent the ultimate blow-up. Then, there’s little Joseph, though small in stature, he is a long-time member of a gang. After his older brother was killed, Joseph’s dad forced him into the gang life. These teenagers like all the other teens at Merryhaven are only trying to learn how to survive the circumstances of their life that makes life seem unbearable.
Before writing this novel, I did some research, but I didn’t feel compelled to do a whole lot of research. I’d already done it, as a teacher, just by listening to my students as they talked. Over the years, I have heard more than my share of stories that reveal a deep level of depression and sadness that dwells within a lot of my students. There was the girl whose father was burned alive in a car (wrote about in earlier post), the young man whose mother was a drug addict and she died while using drugs one day (her family believed the dealer had slipped something in her drugs), the many young girls who have been molested by either their mother’s boyfriend or some other person in the family, the kid who cut himself because people made fun of him at school and he was shuffled between families, feeling that none of them really wanted him around, and the young men who have been kicked out of the house because it was what their mothers’ boyfriends wanted.
With the issues many kids deal with today, it’s no wonder many are depressed or slip into depressed-type states.
The stories aren’t just in my classroom either. With depression being a major health issue with teens today and first symptoms showing up as early as fourteen years old, this is an issue that needs to be addressed. That’s what I tried to do with Tattered Butterfly Wings. I wanted to get people thinking about and trying to understand what teens today are facing.
This is not an issue that can continue to be swept underneath the rug. Think: Andrea Yates who drowned her kids, Susan Smith who killed her two young sons, and then there’s one of the more recent cases involving Julie Schenecker who murdered her two teenaged children. One story that emerged following the murders claimed Schenecker murdered her children to keep them from suffering from mental illness. Other stories focus more on the mother’s alleged mental illness. Apparently, she struggled with depression and bipolar disorder.
More and more people are being diagnosed with bipolar disorder. More of our children are being diagnosed with mental illness and other behavior disorders. I witness the effects every day and that’s enough for me to know that this is an issue that needs to be addressed. Tattered Butterfly Wings is a novel that explores the topic of behavioral disorders by focusing on the teenagers who suffer from them, from the decisions they make to the things they do just to try to keep from being overtaken by their illness. I purposely chose not to focus on medications that are usually prescribed and the effects of those. I wanted to show them as real people, young people struggling with issues that are out of their control and issues that bear down heavily on them. You can read a sample of the book here (or order the book and read the entire thing):http://www.amazon.com/Tattered-Butterfly-Wings-Rosalind-Guy/dp/1494831457/ref=la_B00BGH5F88_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1400952319&sr=1-1

Destruction
Gleamed in her
Eyes, like the slicing
Side of a hunting knife.

It was
Obvious her gaze
Was looking for a
Victim to slice apart.

No one
Could understand
How her heart was breaking
Or the choices she was making
All they could see was the
Destruction that gleamed
In her eyes.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

 

Love Really Isn’t

So much of love really isn’t. That’s something I’ve known but have really learned recently. It’s amazing to me how many people are not really in love with the person they have chosen to be with, but with what that person is able to bring into their life. Some people “fall in love” because it’s convenient for them to do and satisfies their immediate needs. Most times they’re so blinded by what they see that they don’t really see the person in front of them until it’s too late.

To justify this carousel of “love” and the way “love” just never seems to work out, we come up with little sayings to make us feel better. “It’s better to have loved and lost…” “Love ain’t nothing but a four letter word…” “True love isn’t easy…”  And all the other nonsense that is meant to justify people’s bad decisions when it comes to love. Now, don’t get me wrong, if you’ve read my blog, you know I have made some very stupid decisions in the name of love. This is simply a realization on my part, something I’ve been thinking about lately. And the realest quote I found that explains how the majority of people view and interpret love is : “What most people call loving consists of picking out a woman and marrying her. They pick her out, I swear, I’ve seen them. As if you could pick in love, as if it were a lightning bolt that splits your bones and leaves you staked out in the middle of the courtyard. They probably say they pick her out because they love her, I think it’s just the opposite. Beatrice wasn’t picked out, Juliet wasn’t picked out. You don’t pick out the rain that soaks you to a skin when you come out of a concert.” –Julio Cortazar

I absolutely love that quote because that’s what love really is. You don’t pick love and if you do, more than likely you pick the wrong thing. Just my two cents. And that’s all it is because I don’t have the answers for how this should be done. I have tried spending time by myself and waiting for love to find me. I’m assuming the people I ended up in relationship with were just people who had picked me and, obviously, for all the wrong reasons. As always, as I was ruminating on the subject of love, a line came to me. I wanted to write a poem around the line and so I did. The line that came to me was: “Loneliness is an empty and abandoned house.”

Here’s the poem:

Loneliness is
an empty and abandoned house.
A place where love no longer lives
but occasionally comes to visit. The
windows are closed, the curtains are
all pull closed too and all the floors
were snatched up in a hurry.

The occupant
of the house never invites any of
her friends over for fear she will be
judged a lazy housekeeper because
the blind cannot see that the beauty
of the house is not in its physical
appearance, but what’s hidden deep
within the walls and down the long,
lonely halls.

A ‘For Sale’ sign
now sits in the front yard for all to see
an obvious travesty that will carelessly
transfer the deed of the sad little house
and all its problems to whoever stops
to see it. Someone who will move all
his new shit in, pretending to fix it up
but really he doesn’t give a fuck.

He just needs a place to rest
his head. And this is better than
nowhere.

Performing the dance
of mere circumstance and pure happenstance
the old owner of the sad little house will
move to another city and downgrade to
an efficiency. The windows will be open
and the floors will be done. But lying in bed
all alone, suddenly she can see that loneliness
can last forever and love is not a home.

Just let the rain fall, people. Let love blossom from a friendship. Let love be. Don’t try and force it. Because when it’s forced, it’s not love and I don’t know what the hell it is to tell you the truth.

Happy creating people! I’m off to work on a story I’ve been revising for several weeks. Since it’s the last day of school, I’ll have a little more time to devote to my writing.

See you soon!

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Blues of a Love Junkie

Words are important because they allow us to tell stories. And stories are important because they reveal our legacies, our wishes, our dreams, our thoughts, and our visions for the world. I love telling stories. So, here’s my story for today:

Yesterday, my beautiful daughter Jasmine finished painting the cover for my CD case. My spoken word compilation CD was one of those things I planned to complete this year. It’s also one of those things that somehow got overshadowed this year. Seeing that beautiful cover inspired me and I got back to work last night.

Blues of a Love Junkie. I am, of course, the love junkie. I love love. I love being in love. I desire feeling loved. Trying to find love has been the cause of many of my bad decisions in life. When I was a little girl, I didn’t feel loved. By anyone. My dad was doing his thing and that didn’t include being a father to me or my brother. My mother, the original love junkie, was busy trying to get over losing my dad and was, herself, trying to find love. Not being able to find love made her unhappy. She was so unhappy, in fact, that I asked her one day weren’t we enough to make her happy. She replied honestly that, no, we were not enough to make her happy. And my little brothers, well, they were little brothers. So, I became a love junkie. I wanted so desperately to feel loved. But what really does a teenage girl know about finding love, right? I found everything but love. I entered my first abusive relationship at 14. This was followed by a series of stupid decisions in the name of love. I did stupid things in the name of trying to feel loved and never once did I feel loved. At 18, I married the man who spent half of the 12-13 years we were married abusing me. (I’m working on my memoir and it will detail how I survived that marriage, but most importantly how I was able to make it on my own as a single mother. Also, what I learned from that experience about myself and about relationships.)

My parting words to my husband: “I’m going to find someone to love me for me and someone who values me.” Insert big LOL here. That didn’t happen. What did happen was that I learned to love me and I focused all my energy on my career and my children.

Blues aren’t all bad, right. So, I don’t have all bad stories to tell. I have some good ones. So, on the compilation CD there are poems about my good and, not bad, but learning experiences. Mostly, what I’ve learned though is to wait. I’ve learned that it’s possible to find the love of your life, but sometimes we become so impatient in our waiting that we end up in relation-shits that we fight tooth and nail to keep because it can take several years to realize that you are in a relation-shit. On the other hand, it usually takes very little time to realize that you are in the right relationship.

A couple of the poems that will be on my CD are already on SoundCloud. I’ve shared a few on here. I have a couple of weeks left in school and when school is out, I’m going to get to work re-recording and perfecting those. In the meantime, I’ve started working on the title poem for the soundtrack. A line came to me the other day as I was riding in the car and I knew it needed to go into the poem: A band-aid never takes the place of skin. It conceals the pain, keeps it within…” I’ve been a band-aid before. I’m sure I’m not the only one. The thing about band-aids, though, we don’t keep those. Once they’ve served their purpose, we throw them away. After I wrote that line down, another came to me, then I realized these lines will work well within a stanza I wrote a year ago. So, yeah, it’s coming together.

So, there you have it, Blues of a Love Junkie. Just remember, the blues are necessary to appreciate the good. So, don’t be bitter about learning experiences. Stay open to experiencing the good. Because it’ll come and when it does, you don’t want to be obligated to a relation-shit.

So, here’s an excerpt from one of the poems that will be on the CD:

Brother man thought he was slick with hiz pick-up
line. The brother walked right up to me and

committed the ultimate no-no deed. He
fingered the kinky locks of my ‘fro like I was

some Korean hair store ho. He asked if I
was looking for my Superman, I said no.

He said, girl, you know you need saving and
wearing a steely gaze, I tried to put him in
his place, told him he needed to

step out my face ‘cuz where he was headed,
he was going alone. The notes he was playing

with those slick ass words could never complement
my song. Blues of a love junkie, a junkie for love.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

* Note: I’m still working on the piece above, but it’s looking like it’ll be the title track on the CD. If you’d like to check out some of my other spoken word pieces, visit my SoundCloud page : https://soundcloud.com/rosalind-guy/tracks.

Here are links to two of my favorites:

What is Black Power?: https://soundcloud.com/rosalind-guy/what-is-black-power

My Black King: https://soundcloud.com/rosalind-guy/my-black-king

Ready or Not

A person can have the biggest blessing ever fall right in his or her lap, but it won’t matter if the person doesn’t recognize it as such or treat it as such, especially if he or she ends up treating it as just an ordinary gift. Ordinary gifts sometimes are placed in the back of the closet and forgotten about. When the recipient remembers to open it, it may be too late. For everything, there is an expiration date. A lot of times we straddle the fence, feeling bullied by our fears and choose to stay on the fence rather than jump down and take a chance. All because we don’t realize that even blessings come with expiration dates. –Rosalind Guy

 

At the beginning of this year, I declared I would not be doing the whole New Year’s resolution thing and I didn’t, but I did set goals. Lately, my goals have become somewhat overshadowed by circumstances I’ve created for myself. This was supposed to be the year that I dedicated all my free time to promoting myself and my writing. One act every day is supposed to work toward the goal of advancing myself in the publishing world. I created one of those lists that includes among the listed items, being recognized internationally for my work.

I got side-tracked and it’s, now, time to get back on the right track. Many years ago, when I was working hard to become a published writer, I wrote a love story called For Katie’s Sake. I have said it before: back then I thought I was a fire ass writer and I had no problem selling myself. I sent my stuff out regularly and en masse and read everything related to writing that I could get my hands on. I had the misfortune to read a piece of advice that advised aspiring writers that once they caught the attention of a publisher, if the publisher demanded changes to the work, but the writer didn’t want to compromise the vision they had for their work, then they shouldn’t feel they have to accept the suggestions. It was something along those lines. And, by Jove, I listened.

Hmm. Yeah, okay, right. So, as I said: For Katie’s Sake. A big name publishing house expressed interest in the novel. This publishing house had just started a young adult romance line and thought the book would be perfect for it. But they asked me to change the ending; they wanted a happily ever after ending. My ending was anything but. You know what this fool did? I liked the story with the ending it had, so I said “I don’t want to change my ending.” In essence, I told this big publishing house thanks, but no thanks.

Fast forward a little more than 15 years and said novel is resting in the bottom of my “writer’s closet.” I do have two books that have been self-published, but I am nowhere near where I’d like to be as a writer. Hindsight is 20/20, right?

I threw away a blessing with both hands. I know that now. I was a young fool. I’ve learned my lesson. That door is now closed, of course. It’s way past the expiration date for that particular opportunity, so I have to come up with another plan. And that’s what I’m doing.

Because of things I’ve experienced, I’ve created a short list of tips for those who aspire to achieve success in the arts. The most important thing to remember about advice, though, is that what works for one person may not work for another. So, here’s my two cents:

1. Take advice about those things that are important to you with a grain of salt. Don’t be so naïve to believe that every piece of advice offered about your situation is gospel.
2. Before you make a move, check your heart’s passion. Look carefully at the pros and cons for all available options.
3. Ask for advice if you must, but remember you are the one who will have to live with the consequences of your decision(s).
4. Be open to possibilities, especially those related to your life’s passion.
5. Dream big. Expect big. Work toward achieving the big. You only have one life to live. Carpe diem the hell out of this life.
6. Only take action that will satisfy your heart’s desire.
7. Only take action that will satisfy your heart’s desire.
8. Only take action that will satisfy your heart’s desire.
9. Only take action that will satisfy your heart’s desire.
10. Don’t try to live your life like anyone else. Be the original you were created to be. You have your own unique story to tell and you won’t be able to tell it if you’re running around trying to imitate others or if you are living your life for other people.

Today, in the car, my son and I were trying to figure out the big secret behind living a fulfilled life. I told him that, at the end of my life, I don’t want to have regrets because I’ve spent all my time worried about things that didn’t matter. You know what we realized? That the only thing that matters is love. Not just relationship love, but that is a biggie. But also love of self, loving what you’re doing with your life, and loving those people who are important in your life.

When I worked as a reporter, I interviewed this PR specialist who told me that every day when she dropped her daughter off at school, she would leave her with the words: “Make today a great day.” That was my ‘aha ‘moment. But I’m going to take it further and say make this life a great one.

I hope you got something helpful from this. But, remember, take it all with a grain of salt. What works for one person may not work for another. As for me, I’m ready for the opportunity that will propel me forward in life. I will not be straddling any fences anytime soon.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

 

Rocking My Foundation

Today I had the foundation rocked from underneath me. I thought I knew and was comfortable with who I am as a writer. I thought I had this all worked out. But a chance conversation (and you know I don’t believe in chance meetings, everything has a purpose in our lives) led to an approximate two-hour conversation that covered so much different ground while staying in the same neighborhood. In the course of that conversation, I learned that I haven’t even scratched the surface of who I am as a writer. 

I was late for work today because my car wouldn’t start. And when I made it to work, the teacher in the class next to me had pulled all my homeroom students over to her class. As soon as I arrived at school, I went over to grab my students and thank her. After I had my class settled, I felt compelled to go over and express my gratitude again. Before I could make it there, one of the officers assigned to our school, Officer Smith, stopped me and asked a question. The question led to a conversation that left me feeling unmoored.

We discussed our kids (the younger generation of children coming up today), we discussed the lack of black men in households today and how it appears to be a repetition of patterns that began in slavery, we discussed personal/shared experiences, realizing we had an awful lot in common…as I said, we discussed a lot. The thing that left me feeling shaken was when I was talking to her about some of the things I have endured during my life and was telling her how once I let go of all those pre-conceived notions of how I thought my life was supposed to be, I ended up on this path where I was allowed to walk away from hell and into a place of peace. I knew, too, that I was on the right path because once I walked away, doors were opened for me. I entered places that were not supposed to be available to me. From working as a reporter to  being a teacher today. I never wanted to be a teacher. It was the result of a seed that was placed in my soul and once it took root, doors opened easily for me to place me where I was supposed to be. I have a firm belief that I was supposed to teach in order to become a more skilled writer and in order to have a positive impact on the lives of kids in my community. 

As I was speaking with Officer Smith about my past experiences, her eyes began to water. She asked me, “Why haven’t you written about this?”

Guess what, I was speechless. I had attempted to write about my experiences many years ago, to provide a glimpse into the world of an abused woman, but the project floundered. I never thought of taking it up again until today. Because I made it. I have made some very bad decisions in my life because there were things and people I thought I wanted in my life. Walking away was hard, even when I hated so much the way things were. I did walk away though. And, once I did, I found a sense of peace I’d never before known. I went from sleeping with a knife under my pillow every night and dreading going home every evening to being able to view my home as a place where I could relax, relate, release and be made whole. If you haven’t been there, you might have difficulty understanding just how big that is.

Because of the conversation today, I have decided to write about what I experienced: from the first beating at 14 to the last one before I finally took my children and walked away. I have decided to write about how those bad decisions to stay in relationships that broke me down and made me feel miserable about myself serve as my motivation to live differently today. I’m not broken because of all I went through. I live purposely because of all I went through. And I thank Officer Smith from the bottom of my heart for showing me what was right in front of my face all along, but still was difficult for me to see.

You know, I’ve said before, that if you wake up out of your sleep to write something, it’s bound to be something special. This is a poem that I woke from my sleep and wrote. I’m thinking of using it as the foreward to the book I’m planning to write about all those things that were supposed to break me down. I’m hoping my story will serve as inspiration to those who may be still stuck in their situations. I’m excited and nervous all at the same time because, as I told the officer today, to tell that story I’m going to have to go back and re-live some of that stuff I lived before. In order for me to present an honest look at those events, I’ve got to venture over to the other side of the wall that I’d put up in order to maintain my sanity.

Excuse the rambling post, but I’m learning some things about myself as a writer today. And I’m a bit all over the place, trying to understand how to make this happen.

Anywho, here’s the poem,

 

Pieces of You

 

You took out a knife and sliced

off a piece of your pinkie finger and

handed it to me, the only part you

could offer of yourself to me

‘cuz there was just no way you’d

offer your whole self to me. So, I

settled for the pieces given to me.

 

Pieces of you have floated into my

life, settled into my space like remnants

of food that slowly drop down to

the bottom of your glass of red Kool-aid.

And nothing can make those unsightly

particles attractive anymore. Once

 

they break away, become pieces, it’s

not even fit for consumption anymore.

What once was whole is now pulled

in a million directions, trying to maintain

a balance of imperfection – the imperfect

union of molecules that abrade one another

and yet the crumbling pieces sparkle like gold as

they fall to the floor and suddenly the

pieces are being grasped for with both hands.

 

There was a time when I thought I

could help put those pieces of you back

together, but now I know better.  Now
I know that only you can reassemble

the pieces of you and bring your crumbling

self back to a sense of completion.

 

For now you offer pieces, a scattering of

convenient portions of time and self,

‘cuz  change is hard and so is facing your

fears. That’s why I continue to

find myself being placed on a shelf,

believing those sweet lies meant for me

and no one else, while you drape yourself

in futility, offering up the best of you

to anyone but me, sometimes to those

who desire to keep you in pieces

because a presentation of the whole you

is not attractive to the one who

only desires to feast on your bones.

 

Peace & Love, 

Rosalind