I could also title this, “The Sad Barbaric Yawp of the Sweaty angry Writer”.
Shouts for help from the author.
- Apparently when I’m working on something that feels right, I just start sweating. Awesome. It would be fine if I was working at home I could just take my clothes off (I am pretty sure Jerry Stahl said something about writing at 4 am fucked up and naked) but I am at my dayjob and I can’t just take my pants off.
- I almost got in a fight with an older White dude on my way to work today because he didn’t approve of my conversation with a young Black Poet about #blackpoetsspeak and how vital it is that he a.) write that shit and b.) hustle that shit.
- I am 99% sure nobody told him ever that his voice, his hood voice matters. Even though he couldn’t get my phone number i gave him ideas and resources. I told him explicitly that he has to work, write and grind. That it is possible to do this without being educated or fancy. I told him HE FUCKING MATTERS and some piece of shit crusty ass old White dude tried to start a fight with me about it. He had that look in his eye and I’m pretty sure if I didn’t look fucking insane (I was going to hit him in the face with my phone gripped in my fist) he would have swung on me.
- I almost yelled “the fucking bell is tolling for you asshole” but I restrained myself to just saying “fuck you, fuck your feelings and keep your racist views to yourself”.
Aside from sweating while writing I’m sweating while reading some tasty things.
I’m just a bit past the middle of The New Black: A Neo-Noir Anthology.
First impressions. It is a strong collection. I’m familiar with a lot of the authors already. The writing is across the board so far tight and great. The intro bits were very endearing.
I’m enjoying it a lot and yet I’m yearning for some hood in the noir.
I keep wondering as I read more neo noir, am I really the only person thinking about/writing noir in the hood?
We know I feel the same way about horror and most everything.
Now I’m not talking Hood Lit. That is a whole other thing.
I’m hungry for stories that are yes well written and yes dark as fuck and yes are firmly rooted in the Hood.
This is the same hunger I always have.
I’m pretty sure I need to accept that I will always have this hunger unless I stop reading so widely and that just isn’t gonna happen.
I do write the stories as much as I can but that does not satisfy.
Part of the problem is also that because I have this need that is not satisfied ever, I find I have a disconnect with the lit world at large that I am unwilling to quite let go of.
Above the education of White people I need to keep myself, okay enough to make my own art.
That has been something I’ve struggled with a lot in the past year. My self care related work has been really a huge part of me figuring out how to balance the gut wrenching bloody things with the not so bloody things.
I’m not all the way there. Sometimes I write things that fuck me up for days and I can’t write anything else.
I’m still struggling with myself to put up my crocheted shawls (in spite of a LOT of interest) and having the confidence to do art related things without shame or bad feelings.
Shit y’all that bit is hard. As hard as I find it to call myself a poet with seriousness.
Okay I have shit to do and I’m starving.
Another new thing is that writing does shit to my body lately. I’ll talk about that in a whole other post.
Tomorrow I am doing something super special and going out for a fancy super fancy dinner with Milcah and my partner. We are going to be a trio of romantic hot ass looking mother fuckers up in there.
I’m writing about it after.
That’s all for now.