Freeform

Just WriteSometimes I overshare about what I’m working on. And it’s kind of cool because the responses to the sharing are always positive, and motivating and reassuring. But there’s the other side. Sharing also leads to requests for timelines–which I then provide but rarely keep–then there’s disappointment from readers, and contrition from me because the last thing I want is for readers to be disappointed, even when in disappointing you, I may be satisfying myself. So, I tried, and continue to try to plan my releases, and have at least somewhat of an idea of when something I promised might be available.

This year, I have some ‘Have-To-Write’ books in my head, and God willing, they’ll get written. But I’m finding that the timeline I’ve set isn’t working. And that’s because something else is going on with me. I’ve been freeform writing a lot lately. Characters, stories and ideas are coming out of nowhere, and I’m just letting them come, not asking them to wait in line behind others, and not censoring them in any way. Most have been unusual, unformed, even unlikable and in a lot of ways uncharacteristic of what I’ve done in the past, and that’s been incredibly exciting. At least for me.

Writing evolves. I don’t want to write the way I wrote two, or three, or five years ago. For readers of romance, relationship-focused or women’s fiction, that can be scary, or even irritating when their writers change course. And I think many writers know this, so they disappear into their writing labs, and experiment in isolation, and agonize over hundreds of pages before they feel confident enough to release something that first and foremost satisfies them, but also satisfies their target readers. (I don’t believe for a second when writers say they write only for themselves. That’s what journals are for, not novels.)

But that’s a delicate and sometimes impossible balance. To satisfy your personal creative growth impulse and that of an audience who wants most of all, for you to give them what they know they will love. Imagine for a moment that you make a delicious pot roast with fingerling potatoes and a side of wild rice. Your family tells you it was the perfect meal. And then, every day, for the rest of your life, they demand that you make pot roast with fingerling potatoes and a side of wild rice. As delicious as you found that meal, as proud as you are of having made it, one day, you begin to loathe pot roast, cringe at the sight of fingerling potatoes and vomit if you have to eat wild rice. So it is with writing; at least for me.

The only cure is to step away from the pot roast, at least for a while, and experiment with, say, chicken marsala. That’s what I’m doing for now.

And I realize that produces some disappointment. The dread of your disappointment made me even consider, for a hot minute inventing a second pen name, something to hide behind so that I could keep the expectations and positive equity intact with the other things I write. But y’know what? I’m not going to go that route. I’m going to trust you to hang with me while I write stories that surprise you, or shake you up, or make you mad, or frustrated, or sad.

Wanderer - High ResolutionSo … what that means is that before I return to pot roast–which I have no doubt I will do from time to time–I’m doing chicken. And lamb. Pork even. You don’t have to like them. I mean it, you don’t. But do this for me? Judge them on their own merits. Don’t expect them to taste like pot roast.

And you know me … I’ll tell you everything as I go along this journey; probably more than you care to know about ‘process’. That’s all for now. Back to cooking ….

~N~

P.S. You know I have an online book chat about ‘The Wanderer’ coming up in a couple of days, right? Join the online book club ‘Because My Heart Said So’ here, to participate in the chat THIS WEDNESDAY, May 30th at 7 PM.

New Release! The Wanderer

Wanderer - High ResolutionHere’s the deal with 2018. I decided to write with no fear. You ever meet a writer who says they know their stuff is really good, then one of two things is almost certain to be true:

  1. They’re projecting confidence they don’t entirely feel (i.e., they lyin’); or
  2. they’re not as good as they think they are

Writing is a fearful, fetal-position-at-3am-sobbing-into-your-pillow kind of thing, believe me. Sometimes I write a paragraph I love. Sometimes I write a book I like a lot. I have never, never, ever written an entire book I loved. That’s the high I’m chasing. I feel like it might take me a lifetime to get there.

The fear is what makes me write slower than I might otherwise write, and also, strangely, release things on impulse, almost to purge them from my head and set them out into the world where, occasionally people will validate how terrible I thought they were to begin with. And sometimes people will tell me I was mistaken, and it wasn’t terrible after all. Of course, the latter is by far the preferred outcome. Fear of the former stunts you. I think you have to fail a lot in order to succeed.

So, this year , I made myself a promise. I would write more, write more carefully, and write without fear. By that I mean, I’m going to write entirely what I feel, and just let it go. I think, I’ve done that periodically, but not nearly as often as I would have liked to. So this novella, one of my ‘Shorts’ is where I’m marking time with that. If things I release, sound and feel different, if you sense I’m going someplace really different for a minute with a book, or series of books it’s probably true. But ride it out with me … I think we’re going to have fun.

Oh, and ‘The Wanderer’ is available now! Check it out, exclusively on Amazon.

The Wanderer: The ‘Shorts’ Series

I have another of my ‘Shorts’ coming out in the next few days, so I thought I might take a minute to explain again what they are. In the interim, between writing longer books (say 275-425 pages) I sometimes get story ideas that I’m not sure I want to develop into full-length novels. Or, I get inspiration to develop characters that just won’t leave me alone. So, I write them. Sometimes these characters come to me in first person, sometimes in third. Sometimes they are wordy and introspective, sometimes they’re whimsical and not that deep. Either way, I’ve started putting them to the page, with no expectations about how they might be received. If received well, and if I still have something to say, I may continue the story in yet another ‘short’ like I did with the ‘Coffee Date’ book. Or, a single story may be all there is.

The ‘Shorts’ are generally under 200 pages in length, but I hope, not short on detail and characterization. They’re my way of freestyling–a riff committed to the page, that might work well, or not at all. They’re essentially my way of letting you into my mind. At the end of last year I decided that if I think of a story, I’ll write it. I won’t agonize, ruminate, or marinate … I’ll just write it. The ‘Shorts’ will always be priced between 99 cents and $2.99 because, well, they’re short. And I am not sure yet whether I will release them in print, because who wants to buy a pamphlet for $8.99, right?

This one, ‘The Wanderer’ came to me as I was writing something else, and rather than shove it aside, I decided to complete it. It’s different in theme, and a little bit in tone from what I generally write but was kind of a cool bridge for me, from one project to another, and helped me renew my ‘write every day’ pledge to myself. So … I hope you enjoy.

Here’s an excerpt from ‘The Wanderer’:

Wanderer - High ResolutionI am messing around with one of Rain’s computers when the doorbell rings. For a few moments, I have no idea what it is, because it peals like a musical note. I pause, thinking it’s a phone ringing somewhere in the house, or that Rain is back and playing an instrument. I finally realize what it is and go down to answer the door.

Outside, a FedEx guy is holding a package. He looks surprised when he sees me.

“Hey,” he says. Then he hands me a box and asks me to sign for it.

As I am scratching out my signature he asks after my brother by name. I look up.

“You know Rain personally?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “I deliver here all the time. This is my regular route.”

“Oh.” I hand him the tablet I’d signed on.

He pauses, like he wants to say something more, so I lift my eyebrows, prompting him to speak.

“You must be his sister,” he says.

“Yeah. He told you about me?”

That possibility pleases me. I have been invisible in Rain’s life for so long, it would be cool to think that at least I was on his mind, and that he talked about me.

“No,” the FedEx guy says. “But you look alike.”

“Oh,” I say again. “Well … I’ll be sure to give him his …”

“Yeah,” the guy says. “Yeah. You have a good day.”

He turns to leave, and I watch his firm calves, and his muscular ass, visible in the shapeless shorts.

Before Jamaica, I was in Italy, where Black guys were fairly scarce. The only ones I ran into—with a few exceptions—were young Africans, who were hungry strivers, refugees, or menial workers who had left desperate circumstances and were unable to consider women, or relationships as anything more than a possible leg up in a society that still viewed them with suspicion. I didn’t object to their circumstances or even their desperation, but I knew that on some level they didn’t even see me. They were too preoccupied, most of them, with the more basic things on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs—food, shelter, safety—to even think about esoteric matters like emotional wellbeing, or love. But I fucked a couple of them anyway, because in my own way, I was unable to think about emotional wellbeing or love either.

I watch the FedEx guy not because he is especially attractive, but because I am starved for the company of American men. Black American men, especially, with whom I don’t have to constantly explain myself, and who understand ‘where I’m coming from’ both literally and figuratively.

I take Rain’s box inside and set it on the foyer table, and then I remember Bryan. Even though I lost his number, it would be easy enough to find him, since I know where he works. I head back to the computer and look up Chaplin.

On the school’s website, in the ‘About’ section, I find pictures of faculty. And there is Bryan. He is one of only two Black members of the teaching staff. The second one is also male, and he is—no surprise here—the gym teacher.

In his picture, Bryan looks young, and hip. I can tell from the picture that some of the girls probably have crushes on him, and that some of the boys probably try to quote Jay-Z or Drake lyrics to impress him. I smile at the thought. Bryan would love that. He would encourage it.

And then he will later stand at a bar with his friends—all Black men themselves—and say things like, ‘I’m probably the only brother those kids will ever have an actual complete conversation with in all their lily-White lives.’

When we were in college, Bryan was the Black guy all the white guys wanted to befriend. Because he has a neutral, affable, ‘not-carrying-the-anger-of-my-race’ demeanor, that white people find approachable, and refreshing. He made them feel like they needn’t worry about their latent bias, because after all, they thought Bryan was cool, weren’t even slightly uncomfortable around him, and he seemed comfortable around them as well. So, that must mean they’re not racist, right?

Bryan is like Barack Obama was when he was on his first campaign for President. Unaffected and even affectionate around whites, but only letting his inner Black guy loose when he was with the fam. Otherwise, you might have thought him race-neutral.

I used to like that about Bryan; the ease with which he code-switched, and the almost shockingly racially-charged things he would say, in that nice, Northeastern accent of his when he was in a room where everyone was Black.

I find a phone number and dial it on Rain’s landline, asking the nice lady on the other end if she can connect me with Mr. Banks. She tells me he is in class, but that she will leave him a message. I ask her if she can see the number I called from, because I don’t know it by heart. She tells me she can.

“Great!” I say, my voice chirpy. “Could you ask him to call me back at that number please?”

“Certainly,” she says, equally chirpy.

“Oh,” I say. “And one more thing. What is the number I called you from?”

She laughs and gives it to me and I write it down.

I was only able to get to Rain’s from the airport because I took Uber and had his address in an email he’d sent me before I left Jamaica. I gave him the date and time of my arrival and asked him to be home in time to greet me. He had responded, asking no questions—as though I hadn’t last seen him almost three years earlier—in one brief word: sure.

That was my brother—a man of few words, unless he was singing.

Having gotten out of my way the whole issue of Bryan having a way to get in touch, I go back upstairs to take a late-morning nap, shoving aside the large duffle that I still hadn’t completely unpacked.

A picture falls from it. I turn it over onto its face, so I won’t have to look at the image. Then I curl up on my side and go to sleep.

The next sound I hear is the ringing of the phone. There is drool on my chin and I have that dazed, brain-numb feeling that often comes from sleeping too deeply in the middle of the day. I find and answer the phone in Rain’s messy master-bedroom and am not surprised when I hear Bryan’s voice on the other end.

“C’mon out and have a drink, or a coffee, or something with me,” he says. “I’m free for the afternoon.”

 

SAMPLE SUNDAY: ‘The Broken’ COMING SUMMER 2018

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A lot of folks have reached out to ask me about Devin’s story. You may have met him in ‘The Takedown’. So I thought I’d give you a sample to let you know I’m working on it. This one is actually super-important to me, and I want to get it right. So, I’m projecting a late summer-early fall release. I work on it every now and then, when something strikes me about Devin. His story is not unlike that of someone I know and love very much, so I can’t screw it up. It will be a love story, of course, but with elements of two people learning to love themselves just as they learn to love each other. At the moment, I think I’m going to call it ‘The Broken’. Here’s a sample. Enjoy.

N.

From ‘The Broken’:

Half past midnight and well past drunk, Harper was sitting on the floor of her living room, pretending it didn’t matter that Matt and his boyfriend were cuddling on the sofa; and near her on the floor, his sister Sloan and her boyfriend, Ross were doing the same. They were watching a soulful French film that was non-linear and not at all conducive to getting drunk and high. The last thing one wanted to do when they had been drinking and smoking was read. And the second to last thing one wanted to do was feel like the fifth wheel. Harper was doing both.

All evening, she had been reaching for her phone, pretending to check iMessage, as though she had other options. But the truth was, she had imagined a very different kind of evening. She, Matt and his boyfriend had done the whole movies and chill routine many times, but it was easier with them, and more raucous. People stopped in at odd hours, bringing more drinks, more weed, and once in a while, even some harder stuff. And it would be fun and diverting, and Harper wouldn’t think, or even feel much of anything. The music would be loud, the television would be turned up to compete with the music and everyone would be practically shouting to be heard above it all. But this time, Matt had toned things down for his sister who was younger, and went to an artsy college. The French movie was her idea.

“Harper!”

She looked over her shoulder. Matt was talking to her, and she’d missed whatever it was he said. “Huh?”

“The door. Didn’t you hear it?”

“Nuh uh. Is someone out there?”

Matt looked at her with wide eyes. “Yeah. I guess. And I didn’t invite anyone else, so …”

Harper sat upright. Alert suddenly.

Please, she thought. Please. Please. Please.

Standing, she shook her head a little to clear it. It was almost one in the morning. She hadn’t even given it a thought that he might …

Devin was standing there when she opened the door. He was in jeans and a long-sleeved black t-shirt. He looked lean and rangy. And as always, he looked good. So, so good.

And Harper was surprised that she had the urge to hug him. If she did, he would probably recoil in shock. As it was, he was looking at her as though his being there was as unexpected to him as it was to her.

“Hey,” he said. He didn’t smile.

The corners of her mouth twitched as she tried not to do so herself.

“Hey.”

~~~~~~

Devin was up before anyone else.

Harper was still asleep next to him. Her apartment, her neighborhood, were so quiet, it was almost unnerving. Even though he had much nicer digs himself now, he still remembered what it was like to live in Brownsville, where he was accustomed to noise all night, just outside his window. Baseheads and other junkies wandering the street, shouting expletives at each other, sometimes getting high in the tiny alleyway just behind the building. Sometimes, he heard people having transactional sex, the grunts and groans cursory, sad, and sometimes theatrical, because the pleasure was being faked.

Harper’s bedroom was like sleeping in a cocoon. Twice he’d woken up, reminding himself of where he was by looking around. She had posters on the walls, like a teenager might. Of Tupac, Jimi Hendrix, and OutKast. And framed LP covers, from eighties artists like MC Lyte and Chubb Rock; artists who had been talented enough, famous enough, but who were mismatched and counter-intuitive. Devin had a feeling that if he asked her, she would have very specific reasons for why she liked each one, and maybe even specific memories associated with them.

She was an interesting, and strange chick. When she talked about music, it was with a light in her eyes that made him want to smile, because it was something he almost never saw in people who weren’t themselves musicians. That light—the way she looked when she talked about music—was what made him want to sleep with her that first time. He noticed that she was pretty, probably even beautiful, but he noticed that as an afterthought. The exteriors of people were sometimes the least interesting parts of them. Inside was where all the action happened; and in some people, it was where the darkness lived. You couldn’t trust anything that was on the outside.

But still, Harper’s outside appealed to him. He reached beneath the sheets and touched her. She moaned in her sleep and opened her legs a little wider. Watching her face, Devin stroked her. Her eyelids fluttered as she came awake, and finally her hazel eyes were visible, clouded over and unfocused. He kept his gaze fixed on them, moving his fingers in slow and then faster circles, feeling as she grew moist, then slippery, then sopping wet. Harper’s lips parted and she moaned, her hips lifting off the bed.

“Devin,” she said. She bit into her lower lip, and all the while, her eyes remained open, and she stared right into his. “Devin,” she said again.

He had the sudden and surprising urge to kiss her mouth. He still wasn’t used to kissing on the mouth when he was fucking. He had kissed Kay, when they had that kind of relationship, a long time ago, but no one since, except now, Harper. But with Kay it was because he had never just fucked her. What they had done was about love, and after her, he had loved no one else. Kissing was too intimate to do with just anyone.

He had been mindlessly stimulating Harper while his mind drifted, so Devin was almost startled when she lifted her hips even higher off the bed, and emitted a low, deep cry as she came. Then she was limp again, still looking at him, her eyes lazy and half-shut. She smiled.

“Good morning,” she said.

One corner of Devin’s mouth lifted at the unexpectedness of the greeting, at the irrelevance of it. Just as their greeting at her front door the evening before had been irrelevant. In the things they didn’t say, sometimes it felt as though he and Harper actually said a great deal.

~~~~~~

“Did you find an apartment?”

Harper was sitting opposite him in the diner down the block from her house. It was a faux-diner, really. Decorated to look old-fashioned, but in reality, brand spanking new. A breakfast of two eggs, home-fries and bacon cost fifteen dollars. Devin shook his head in disbelief and put down the menu.

“No?”

He looked up at Harper. “No, I mean, yes, I found one.”

“Where is it?”

“Couple stops from here. Near the bridge.”

Harper looked surprised. “Oh. Wow. Cool.”

She was wondering, as Makayla had, how he could afford it. But unlike Makayla, Harper wouldn’t ask.

The waitress showed up and Devin ordered the expensive two-egg breakfast, after Harper had ordered her own. And once their coffees were refreshed, their server left them alone again. The only other people in the diner were young families, couples with kids, cajoling them through waffles and pancakes, trying to keep their little hands away from the syrup.

“You want to come see it?” Devin asked, on a whim.

“You have the keys and everything already?” Harper asked. “You signed a lease?”

He nodded, and shrugged. “I’m not picky.”

Harper laughed. “I know. I’ve seen the place you have now, remember? Are you going to be able to get out of that lease?”

“Lease?” Devin laughed. “That place is barely habitable. They’re lucky I don’t report them for all the code violations.”

“I do want to come see it,” Harper said. She moved the salt and pepper shakers back and forth, like someone playing a game of chess and contemplating her next move. “But I have to … I’ve got someplace to be today.”

Devin leaned back, studying her. This was the first time in ages he could remember seeing her outside of his apartment in the cold light of day. Her eyes looked more amber than hazel. Her lips were pink. It was like she was suddenly in technicolor.

“What?” she asked.

He had been staring, and it embarrassed her.

“I was just wondering what it is you’re doing today that makes you not want to come see my new crib,” he lied.

“I do want to see it. This is just … it’s something I can’t get out of. Again.”

“So you’ve gotten out of it in the past?”

“Many times. But my chits have all been used up.” She shrugged.

“What is it?” he asked. “This thing you’ve gotten out of many times before.”

“I’d rather not say.”

Devin didn’t press. Because if it were him, he would not want to be pressed.

“But maybe after?” Harper asked.

Devin shrugged. “Maybe,” he said.

 

COMING SUMMER 2018

NEW RELEASE! ‘THE MAKEOVER’

This is my first release of 2018, y’all! It was a really fun but in some ways tough one to write. I’m not sure I’ve ever tried to do a book (that isn’t a sequel), where the couple is very much in love from page one, and have a long, rich, shared history. They’re also just regular people in that they had happy home lives, no deep, dark secret or significant trauma to work through, but just usual ‘couple-stuff’ — information that shouldn’t have been withheld, feelings that they don’t fully understand or explain, and a litany of advice from various friends and family, sometimes sending them off course. That was the fun part of writing ‘The Makeover’.

Writing un-tortured souls is new for me, so that was the tough part. But I thought I’d give it a shot, especially as a counterpoint to all the negativity that seems to be out there in the world lately. I wanted to do something fun, and light and easy to digest. I hope I succeeded, and I hope you check out — and enjoy–‘The Makeover’.

Here’s a sample, to whet your appetite!

Happy Reading!

N.

A Modern Love Story

From ‘The Makeover’:

“So,” Sam began. She had taken her favorite spot in her large brown suede armchair that had seen better days, and curled her legs beneath her. “What was all the cock-blocking about?”

Colt almost tripped over the coffee table, before sinking onto the sofa. “What?

“I wanted to stay, Colton. And you just barged into my conversation and …”

“Wait. Hold up. When you say cock-blockin’ you mean you were about to go home with that nigga?”

“Don’t say that word.” Sam closed her eyes and shook her head. “You know I hate it when you use that word.”

“Okay, fine. Lemme rephrase that. You were about to go home with that knocka? That clown. That …”

“I get your point. And probably not, but you didn’t know that! What if I were to come up to you and Bambi and drag on your shirttail and mess things up for you?”

“I wouldn’t have thought about it that way. If you wanted to jet, that would be the move. Plain and simple.”

Sam shook her head again, clearly disbelieving.

“But let’s get back to this whole cock-blockin’ comment. I mean, you do that shit, Sam?” He leaned forward. “Meet dudes in bars and then just … what? Let them …” He broke off, finding himself unable to even voice the thought let alone imagine the pictures that went along with it.

“I have … experiences,” she said vaguely, not meeting his gaze. “I mean, I’ve done some things. Haven’t you? I mean, I know you have.”

“It’s different.”

“How’s it different, Sir Sexist?”

“If I go home with a woman, I don’t worry about my safety. I don’t worry that she might overpower me, rape me and then slit my damn throat in the middle of the night.”

Sam pulled back. “God. Graphic much?”

“Because that’s the kind of shit that happens out here. To dumb-ass chicks who meet strangers in bars and take them home.”

“Why’re you getting so heated? It’s not like I’m a virgin.”

“I know. But I …” He stopped.

But he just didn’t think about it. The idea of Sam having actual, real-ass sex with some dude, the idea of her fucking some dude, he had avoided by not thinking about it. It was like a literal black hole in his consciousness—a sensory deprivation chamber, thankfully devoid of sight, sound, and everything else.

In college, she lost her virginity to some kid in one of her study groups. A nerdy dude who wore khakis and top-siders. When she told him—or rather when he pried it out of her—Sam hadn’t given any details, thank God, other than that she had finally “done it.” He’d seen the difference in her for weeks; a new awareness of her body, and sensuality in her movement. The kinds of changes that happen when a woman discovers her sexual power.

Colt remembered going out and shooting hoops till he was exhausted, and then calling a girl, whose name he didn’t even remember now, to come over so he could exhaust himself another way. He remembered eyeing the dude Sam told him she’d slept with and considering backing him up and telling him to leave her alone, except that everything he might say would be such a cliché: ‘you leave her alone, she’s a nice girl,’ or ‘you better not hurt her, or I’ll kick your ass.’

None of that seemed to apply, because he saw Sam with dude, and how he treated her like a queen. If he treated her right, then Colt had no cause to complain.

And if they were having sex, well … Colt would just not think about that part.

That had been his habit since, when men would enter and leave Sam’s life. And it was easy most of the time, because he wasn’t around for much of it, and the men were always temporary. There had been the one knucklehead who had lasted almost two years. Some dude she didn’t talk about much, who’d been around during Colt’s rookie year.

Other than that, if there were men in Sam’s life, they were like ghosts, a series of names that meant little: Eric, Jeff, Daniel, Jerome … whatever. Dudes who remained vague and whose stints in Sam’s life were briefer than the length of a basketball season.

“I mean … how many dudes we talkin’ ‘bout?” he asked now.

“How many women have you slept with?” Sam challenged. “And if you say it’s not the same, I will throw this wineglass at your head.”

“Well it’s not.” He sat back again. “But for real. How many?”

Sam stared at him. She downed the rest of her wine, and her eyes seemed to pierce right into his, behind his, and deep into his confused mind. She chewed on the corner of her bottom lip.

“Colton.” Her voice was quiet, and her expression suddenly solemn.

“What?”

“If I ask you something, will you promise to tell me the truth?”

“Of course. Always.”

“Okay, but this time you might be tempted not to. So, I want you to promise.”

He shrugged. “I promise.”

“Were you …” She looked down at her lap then up at him again. “Tonight, when you saw me with Aidan …”

“Was that his name? The joker with the ugly-ass watch?”

“Colton.”

“Okay, go ahead. Was I what?”

“Jealous.”

Colt blinked and swallowed back the instinctive denial.

Fuck it.

“Yeah,” he said, finally, looking off to an area just above her head. “Little bit.”

Sam stood and came toward him.

Colt froze when she stopped, standing between his legs. She straddled him. Her knees on either side of his thighs. She lowered her weight, so she was on his lap.

Sam.”

“What?”

“We can’t …”

“I was jealous too,” she said, talking over him, her words tumbling forward in a rush.

Colt looked up at her and she gave a little one-shouldered shrug.

Available now, exclusively on Amazon.


 

SAMPLE SUNDAY: DL White’s ‘Leslie’s Curl & Dye’

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DL White is another of those writers that, if the world were a just place, we would hear a lot more about. I just started reading her work last year when she had a promotion running, and quickly became a fan of her keen eye and ear. She writes real, mature, women’s fiction with just enough romance thrown in, and describes the inner lives of women  incredibly well (check out, ‘Brunch at Ruby’s’). No cookie-cutter, endlessly wisecracking, paper-thin characters here. This is the good stuff.

So it’s going to be a particular treat to meet and sit with, and share a glass (or three) of wine with her at Wine with Writers Atlanta on March 10. That’s next Saturday, y’all! I think you can still get a ticket if you’re interested. If you make it out to meet me, DL White, Tasha L. Harrison, Rae Lamar, Lily Java and Jacinta Howard that would be cool, but if not, please check out the books. And with them, have a glass of wine of your own.

I’m just getting to know DL, but I really want you to get to know her (and her work!) too. So … here’s her interview. Ten questions, and some very funny answers, followed by a Sunday sample of  ‘Leslie’s Curl & Dye’.

Love & light,

N.

Ten Questions for DL White

Would you like to see into the future? Why? Nah. I like predictability as much as the next guy but I also love the element of surprise. If you STAY ready you ain’t got to GET ready. HA!

If you could only choose one vacation destination where would you pick and why? Eauh Gah why are you asking me thisssss??? A beach. I don’t know which one but it should have soft sugar sand and blue green water and the air should be warm… that’s as specific as I can get.

What show on Netflix did you binge watch embarrassingly fast? It wasn’t Netflix, but the L Word… I found it online and blew through that series like CRAZY.  I think I stayed up all night to watch the last season. I heard a rumor that the show was coming back, though I feel like people are just playing with my emotions. But can Jenny still be dead but Dana come back?  GAH JENNY SCHECTER WE HATE YOU!

What will finally break the internet?  I’m not sure it can be broken at this point. It’s so evil, it’s all powerful.

What’s in your purse?  Like fitty eleven pens, ibuprofen, 4 tubes of chapstick, 2 lippies (beauty bakerie- get hip to it!)  my organizer, my wallet, Tangy Mae Kindle, and one of those multi charge cord things so I can charge all of the things. And of course the work phone and the Ho phone.

Favorite book you’ve written?  Brunch at Ruby’s. It’s always going to be my Book Baby.

Are you spring, summer, fall, or winter? Please share why. SUMMER. I just LOVE it, heat and all. I moved south for the HEAT and the sunshine. Spring is a close follow up. If I don’t have to worry about a jacket and the skies are blue and cloudless…. Heaven.

If you were a city, which city would you choose to be and why? Some place modern and cosmopolitan but also kinda small townish and downhome…. Like Atlanta. Or maybe my vision of DC, a hip chocolate city.

What technology from science fiction do you wish existed? Teleporting. I neeeeeeed that technology. Like, I love going places but I hate the airport and I don’t like to drive long distances. If I could just… arrive… at the nearest beach that would be great.

What are the most common road blocks that stop people from achieving their dreams? Fear. In my opinion, roadblocks boil down to fear. Fear of unknown, fear of success, fear of failure, fear of the word no, of people not liking us or our ideas.  When we stop being afraid of what could or won’t happen, when we get rid of the what if’s, we’re able to push forward. Speaking for myself, really

27786239_10159967782015494_1652126059_o (1)Wine/Book Pairing:  Chateau St Michelle Riesling/ Leslie’s Curl & Dye

 

From ‘Leslie’s Curl & Dye’:

He smiled, quietly laughing while his eyes surveyed the salon, starting at the reception desk, a plain old desk from Caine Brothers Wood Works. Then he took in the mismatched leather chairs that comprised the waiting area; the salon chairs with peeling vinyl patched with black tape and the shampoo bowl that was a refurbished and redesigned laundry sink.

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To the naked, and maybe the more upscale eye, the Curl & Dye wasn’t much to look at. But people came to the Curl & Dye for the atmosphere.

“I mean, with all due respect, Leslie…” KC shrugged and gestured toward the small salon. “You’re not my competition.”

That lofty, lightheaded feeling was zapped as quickly as it came. I felt like I landed face first on the pavement. There went my moment of attraction.  

Tamera stood beside me, her arms crossed. “Look who decided to slum it over on the old side of Potter Lake.”

“I’m not… slumming. I hadn’t been over here since I moved back and— “

“And you decided to pop in and start some shit with us?”

KC’s eyes narrowed and his brows formed “V” of irritation. The glare he gave Tamera gave me an uneasy feeling.

“Tam, why don’t you close out the day for me? Pull the receipts and get the deposit ready.” I led her to the front desk and pulled out the chair for her to sit.

As soon as she was settled, I grabbed KC’s arm and guided him back out of the shop into the warm evening. I heard Tamera grumbling, not even under her breath, as she sat at the desk and began the daily closing ritual.

“What do you want?” I asked him, noticing the enormous black Escalade parked in front of the window. “We’re about to close up.”

He shrugged a shoulder, tossing his keys from one hand to the other. Back in college he used to do the same with a basketball. “I just… was around and— “

“Bullshit. You have no reason to be on this side of the lake except to be snooping around this shop. So… what? You wanted to gloat? To say some more shit about stealing my clients?”

“I’m not steal—” He heaved a deep sigh and shoved both hands into his pockets. “I felt bad. About earlier. You surprised me by showing up at the shop. I felt cornered and I get mouthy when I feel like that. Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot— “

“No, I think the foot we got off on was right. You came out here and opened a business in direct competition with mine— “

“That was not my intent, Leslie. I keep telling you, I didn’t know this shop was here.”

“Well, now you do.”

I paused, giving a wide-eyed stare at ruggedly bushy eyebrows, at long, undeservedly lush lashes, at almond shaped eyes, at full lips and well-edged goatee.

Damn, he was fine. Had always been fine but… damn, he was fine.

“Now I do,” he acknowledged, with a head nod. “All I’m saying is that we should be able to co-exist.”

“Coexist? Seriously?”

I gestured toward the building that was The Curl & Dye, catching a glimpse of Evonne and Tamera standing in the middle of the shop watching us talk. I pulled him away from the window, toward the driver side door of his truck.

“It would be one thing if you were just a barbershop. Most of the men in this town do their own hair; they only come to me if they want something real nice. That cheap cut you offer is perfect for them.”

He scoffed, but I ignored it. “We can’t coexist because women are going to your shop instead of mine, for services I offer, my mother offered, my Grandy offered for years.  Your shop could lose a customer or three and it wouldn’t hit your bottom line. I need every client I can get. Your shop is some kind of…”

I shrugged, shaking my head. “Get rich quick scheme, it seems. Except you’re already rich, so now you’re just being greedy. The Curl & Dye is my bread and butter. It keeps me and my parents in food and electricity and Grandy in good care at Primose Gardens. It’s about more than a cheap haircut.”

“What do you want me to do, Leslie? Shut down my shop on some first dibs bullshit?”

I began to back away from him and his truck and his intoxicatingly sexy smelling cologne. It was making me heady and I was feeling all kinds of familiar feelings from being too close to him.

“I just want to run my shop, KC.”

“And I want to run mine.”
Book/Website Link:

Buy the book: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075J6LQ8X

Get to know the author: http:/BooksbyDLWhite.com

Spring Fling: ‘THE MAKEOVER’

A Modern Love StoryI wanted to write something fun. Just to clear out the cobwebs of winter, and get in a groove again for tackling some other story ideas that have been rattling around in my brain for far too long. So, I thought, what could be more fun than a friends-to-lovers story? And as often happens, when you think about a trope to write, you search your memory for something similar, trying to access those emotions and use them. Turns out I had some.

One of my greatest loves was a childhood best friend. We grew up together, he and I. Not in the sense of having known each other since we were little kids, but because we’d gone through those important tween-to-teen years together. His name was Nicholas. And from the time I was thirteen until I was eighteen, he was the closest person in the world to me. He was a ‘bad kid’ who skipped school, got hassled by the police and smoked weed with a bunch of other guys who were similarly under-supervised young men. Nicholas and I talked on the phone for hours, morning, noon and night. Sometimes we sat on our respective ends of the line, saying little, just watching television, occasionally exchanging a word here and there. We saw each other whenever my very structured home and school life would permit, and we often orchestrated nights for me to sneak out to see him.

With him, I went places my parents would have screamed bloody murder if they knew about, and I was exposed to people they wouldn’t in a million years think I knew. More than once, I remember Nicholas’ hand on my back, ushering me away from someplace or some situation saying, “you don’t need to be here.”

Nicholas was both protective of me, and the guy my parents would believe I needed to be protected from. He sometimes wore a lot of expensive gold jewelry, which I had him take off whenever my parents were likely to see him. I had an inkling how he was able to afford the jewelry, but we never talked about it. When I turned seventeen, I went to college, and he disappeared from my life for a while. He resurfaced in my junior year when I was in upstate New York, calling me unexpectedly (I still don’t remember how he found me, because this was before cellphones were so ubiquitous), and asking if he could come crash for a while. I couldn’t tell him no. I never could. He was tired, had been slingin’ somewhere he shouldn’t have been, and needed to get out of New York City. It seems he had been in Brooklyn the entire time I was upstate, and I didn’t even know. I was angry he hadn’t reached out sooner.

When I let him into my room, he shed all his clothes, except for his boxers, and slept like the dead. I mean, nothing I did, making noise, talking on the phone … nothing woke him. I went through his stuff while he was sleeping, searching for clues about his life. All he had was one duffel bag. I found tools of the street trade, and some of his powdery, white product.

It was winter, and I remember he finally woke up the next day, late in the day when it was dark, though not nighttime. He told me it had been a long time since he’d been somewhere, and with someone that made him feel safe enough to sleep so deeply. Then he asked me to take him to the Metro North train station in the morning because he was planning to get back to the city, ‘dump some things’ and then fly to Atlanta. We talked about his life and what it had been like. It was what you would expect, of someone who was in that life. We reminisced about old times. He looked older than he was, and a little sad. I remember contrasting the new Nicholas, with the old one, who back then was so handsome, he could be called beautiful. This one was handsome, but much harder. No longer beautiful.

The next morning, when we got ready to go to the train station, he told me he was sorry he hadn’t found me before. But, he said, it probably wouldn’t have been good for me if he did. And then, just before he left he reminded me of when we were younger.

“I always wanted us to be together,” he told me, shaking his head. “But I just couldn’t trust myself to do the right thing if we were. You understand?”

The part I remember most clearly is when he said, “You understand?” Because he was looking right at me, his expression really intense, like he really, really wanted me to understand.

So, I said I did.

I hugged him. He got out of the car, and walked into the train station, and I’ve never seen, or heard from him since. I ran into his brother once, I asked how Nicholas was. He said something like, ‘he’s in Atlanta. He has a family. He’s happy.’

Okay, so see, my friends-to-almost-lovers story was less than “fun”. My memory took me to other places than I intended for my fun spring novel. It took me a place where I realized that sometimes there are reasons a friend remains so, and reasons that you don’t cross that line. But what if you did, even when maybe you shouldn’t?

That’s what ‘The Makeover’ is about. When a beautiful friendship undergoes a makeover, and turns into a sometimes messy relationship, can there be, at the end of the day, anything worth salvaging?

From ‘The Makeover’:

The restaurant, was old-school Chinese, decorated in red and gold, complete with dragon tapestries and long draping tablecloths. It was crowded and noisy, but they were seated right away, near the window, looking out onto K Street and its busy pedestrian traffic. At the table for two, Colt wiped his clammy hands on his thighs, and just after they were handed their menus, excused himself to go to the men’s room.

Once there, he washed his hands, stared at himself in the mirror, took a deep breath and went back out.

“I ordered for you,” Sam said as he sat down.

“What’d you get?”

“Your usual.”

She was looking down as she said it, digging for something inside her large pocketbook that Colt was always teasing her about. She fished out her wallet, a notebook, her phone and finally a glasses case. She opened it and took out a pair of reading glasses, perching it on her face, and then continuing to look through the pocketbook.

Then she pulled out a makeup case, and a novel. And kept digging.

“What in the … what you lookin’ for in there?” Colt asked, laughing.

“Lip balm. My lips are always dry. I don’t think I’m drinking enough water. Either that, or this fancy lipstick is drying them out.”

Colt reached across the table and tipped her chin up. Then, with his napkin, he gently wiped her lips clean of lipstick. Sam looked at him, frozen in place, one hand still in her bag.

“There,” he said quietly. “And here …” He reached into the pocket of his sweatpants and handed her his lip balm, the simple yellow tube of the cocoa butter kind he got from CVS.

Sam took the tube and opened it, applying some to her lips and then handing it back.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice equally quiet.

To break their mutual stare, Colt picked up the novel she had placed on the table. “Still reading this, huh?” He flipped it over to the back cover, checking the name of the heroine. “Has ‘Gabby’ found true happiness yet, or is she still stuck in her rut, caring for her elderly father?”

“She’ll still be stuck in the rut until I get about one-third of the way in. And by halfway, she’ll get to have sex with a super-cute guy who she never imagined in a million years would be interested in her.”

One corner of Colt’s mouth twitched. “Oh, for real? Is that how it works?”

Sam nodded. “But he’ll want Gabby just as much as she wants him, and maybe even more. For reasons that will never become completely clear. And about three-quarters of the way in, they’ll have a misunderstanding, but by the end it’ll be resolved, and they’ll be blissfully in love.”

“So, if you know all this going in, why are you reading it?”

“Because real life is unpredictable enough,” Sam said, her eyes serious. “It’s calming to read something that tells you that even if it’s rough going, you’ll get your happily-ever-after in the end.”

Nodding, Colt handed her the book, and she put it back in her pocketbook. He looked down at the table and traced a circle on it with his forefinger.

“Look, Sam …”

Their waiter reappeared, and placed a dish with spring rolls in front of them, and a bowl of steaming wonton soup in front of Colt.

“Enjoy,” he said, backing away with a little bow.

“Work is killing me,” Sam said. The words came out in a rush.

Colt paused and looked at her with narrowed eyes, momentarily thrown by the abrupt change of subject. Then he saw her hands, nervously replacing all the items she had taken out of her purse. Were they … shaking a little?

“Why?” he asked her.

“Why …?”

“Why is work killing you?”

“I’m working on a position paper about juvenile asylees, and …”

“Juvenile what?”

“Asylees. Asylum-seekers.”

“Oh.” He nodded, and reached for a spring roll. “Okay? So why’s that killing you?”

“Well, here’s the thing …”

Colt listened while she talked, her eyes darting around, looking anywhere but at him. He wanted to smile, because she had forgotten how well he knew her, and that this motor-mouth effect was something he was very familiar with. When they were kids and got busted doing something they had no business doing, talking fast was always her tell. If they were up to no good, Sam was never the best advocate for arguing their way out of it.

“You’ll work it out,” he said, when she was done with her soliloquy.

She sighed. “I hope so. But if I’m going to do that, I’d like to do it by this afternoon. Marcus always has tons of revisions and it’s gotta be final by Wednesday, and …”

“Sam.” He silenced her with a hand over hers, to still it. “We should talk about Friday.”

She pulled in her lower lip and chewed on it for a moment. Colt watched her do it, and remembered sucking on that lip, and how it felt soft and plump between his. He looked away.

“Look,” he began. “Here’s the thing …”

“I think I get ‘the thing’,” Sam said, speaking over him. “So we don’t have to …”

“What do you get?”

“That you think it was a mistake, and we started something we shouldn’t finish, and …”

“No,” Colt said.

“No?” She looked up.

“No.”

“Then …”

Colt swallowed. “I think we should finish it,” he said.

Sam’s eyes widened slightly.

“Look, I just … it wasn’t right, the way it went down. Like you were some chick I met that night, or I was some dude you picked up for some dick …”

“Some dude I picked up?” One of her eyebrows rose. “For some …”

“You know what I mean. If we go there, we gotta do it right.”

“Do it right, like how?” She looked genuinely perplexed.

Colt swallowed hard, again. “You know … hang out for a while, see how it … then maybe … that’s if you want, then maybe …”

What the fuck? Who the hell was he right now? He was talking to Sam. Sam. And he had a case of dry-mouth like nobody’s business and couldn’t even get his sentences out straight.

“You want to date me?” The question came out loud enough that people at other tables looked around. Sam sounded incredulous. A woman nearby tittered.

“If you want to be old-fashioned about it, yeah. I mean. If we …”

Their waiter reappeared, this time with a large tray and a stand for him to set it down while he rearranged plates and set their lunches in front of them. The aroma of kung pao chicken, and Sam’s wor shu duck wafted upward. When they were alone again, and Sam reached for her chopsticks, Colt stopped her.

“You know me, right?” he said.

Sam nodded.

“So you know that on Friday, when I shut things down, that was the most mature thing I’ve ever done maybe in my entire life.” Sam smothered a smile and Colt grinned back at her, leaning in. “Am I right?”

“Maybe,” she acknowledged.

“I want to do this right,” he said.