A Brief Conversation with Nikki Giovanni

Vonnie and I attended the Virginia Festival of the Book in Charlottesville yesterday. As we meandered from table to table, a well-known lady, head high, shoulders back, eyes assessing floated through the crowd and paused next to us. I didn't hesitate to introduce myself to Nikki Giovanni. I mean, what writer would? Gracous and warm person that she is, she focused her eyes on me as if I were someone important. Me?

We talked briefly about poetry, writing and Paris. I passed her some promotional material about my book, The Phantom Lady of Paris. She smiled and said she remembered well the turmoil of Paris in 1968.

Vonnie remarked on the genius of Ms. Giovanni's poetry. I added that genius is often knowing how and when to revise, and that obviously this winner of The Langston Hughes Award knew how to revise. Ms. Giovanni smiled and patted my arm in silent agreement. I hope some of her genius rubbed off.

Thoughts on being a writer...

Sometimes I wonder if being a writer is worth it.

Don't get me wrong; I love writing, it's the other stuff that elevates my blood pressure. Thanks to changes in the publishing world, creating multi-layered characters...or an engaging story...or witty dialogue...or crafting meaty sentences isn't enough any more. No, a writer has to have an Internet presence and a fan base before a contract is offered.

Think about it, in days gone past, a writer could fill his day with what he loved: Writing. Now, the day starts with wading through emails, leaving a message on Facebook, so folks know you're still alive, checking hits on your website, blogging and tweeting or twittering or tacking a message onto the shimmering walls of the biosphere. I'm always behind with this. Why? Because I hate it. I'd rather be writing.

And while I'm venting, I'm going to take jabs at the publishing industry. A kind of "biting the hand that feeds you" rant. When I signed a contract in August, the projected date of release written on the contract was November 9th. Right. Of course there were those three little words after the date: publishing schedule permitting. Evidently the schedule hasn't been very "permitting" lately.

I received my proofs two weeks ago. A proof is like a sample book that the author must read, hunting for every error. Now, let me preface this with the fact that my agent, who once ran an editing business, had already proofed my manuscript. So had the editor at the publisher. All errors--punctuation, word choice, formatting, etc. were corrected through these two layers of editing (my agent's and editor's). So one would think the proof would be nearly error free. WRONG! Some chapter headings were centered on the page and some were left justified. Many paragraphs were not indented. Much of the punctuation, especially quotes within a quote, was wrong. Words were transposed. The word cafe needs an accent mark over the e, and although I made certain that accent mark was there, now over a dozen times, it is missing. Evidently the printer has no concept of quality. For a writer who agonizes over every word and comma he puts into his manuscript, this is especially frustrating, annoying--and, yes, disheartening. I don't exaggerate when I say out of a 312 page book, 25 pages were error free.

After I mail the proof back to the publisher, I go into the waiting mode once more as these corrections are made (hopefully) and another proof is generated (publishing schedule permitting). Then a second proof will be mailed to me, and I'll get to read my novel again, hunting for more errors. Want to make book on how many I'll find next time?

There are some days when I wonder if being a writer is worth it.

The Fighter -- Great Movie

Vonnie and I went to see Mark Wahlberg's movie, The Fighter, yesterday. Call me "strange," but I love it when a movie has a storyline. This one had it in spades. The scenery and characters were so rough, so gritty, so gawd-awful nasty that I forgot it was a movie. I truly felt transported to that run-down community.

Momma was a trip. I'd seen her a million times on the streets of Baltimore, in all shapes and colors. In this movie, Momma was white, slender and smoked like Winston's chimney. She ruled the family with her acerbic tongue and pugnacious ways. The woman had no qualms about putting Micky in a ring with zero chance of winning, just so long as he got paid and she got her generous cut of said winnings. Yet, even though she was living off Micky, she obviously preferred and catered to her older son, Dickie whose claim to fame was a fight years ago with Sugar Ray Leonard.

And then there were the sisters, categorized by whichever father they had. A meaner, rougher band of women I'd shudder to meet. I kept thinking that they couldn't be professional actresses; they had to be real women yanked off the streets of the 'hood.

Shakespeare's MacBeth had three witches. All totaled, this movie had seven--momma, sisters and girlfriend.

Expect this movie to garner awards. It's that good. Go see it.

Christmas in Paris --

Christmas in Paris is a unique experience. I'm sure you've realized by now that I carry a strong degree of partiality regarding anything Parisian. I call Paris the birthplace of my soul as a black man. I first went there in the late fifties while serving in the Army in Germany. Paris was a place where I could eat or drink at a cafe table next to a white person. A place where I was looked upon as an equal-- a rarity in that time period.

During my year in Paris, in '68-69, I spent hours with my nose pressed against the windows, taking in the bright lights and various Christmas ornaments as if the decorations were painted by Picasso's brush. I can no longer think of Christmas without thinking of Galleries Lafayette, an exclusive department store in an old opera house. Its architecture takes one's breath away. The stained glass dome rises above floors lined with gilded banisters around its balcony walkways. The day I took Vonnie there, she just stood, gazing up at the spectacle. "It's beyond beautiful," she whispered, as if in awe of the sight.

Parisians gather outside store windows to gawk and praise the artistry and imagination used. Women in long wool coats, scarves draped stylishly around their necks, wearing heels--always high heels--speak their lilting, rapid-fire French. A Frenchman or Frenchwoman would never be caught on the streets in sweatpants or baggie jeans or, God forbid, white sneakers. That's just so American, after all.

As in my beloved USA, the French President throws the switch on the Christmas lights decorating the cherished Champs-Elysees. This tradition is also hailed with cheers and clapping as is the lighting of the Nation's Christmas Tree in DC.

Christmas is the time we celebrate the birth of The Light of the World in Bethlehem so many years ago. How apt that lights are one of the most popular decorative items used. The symbolism is most effective.

Yes, Christms in Paris is an experience. For Paris is one of those cities that wears her year-round charm like a bright silk scarf. No wonder she lives up to her nickname: The City of Lights.

Men tend to forget; it's a fact of nature...

The day started like any other--hugs, smiles and kisses from my wife. A freshly brewed pot of coffee, strong just the way I like it. We watched the news, laughing at the way newscasters speed-talk as if they'd taken a double hit of speed before going on the air. All was well in Calvin-land.

Vonnie checked her emails on her laptop while I perused the morning paper. Then somehow the day started going downhill. She went to my blog to see how many visitors I've had and noticed I hadn't mentioned her book contract. Now I meant to, truly I had, but it just kind of slipped my mind. You know how it is, fellas.

She cut her eyes to me and asked, "Why haven't you mentioned my book contract? I mentioned yours on my blog. Aren't you proud of me?"

I felt my stomach tighten, the acid sarted to roll. A voice whispered, Watch what you say now. I took the well-troddened path taken by many a husband--I feigned ignorance. "Didn't I do that? I'm sure I did. I meant to, honey." I ducked behind the newspaper, sliding so low that all she could see was the top of my 'fro.

"I don't understand how you could forget my book contract." I winced. She had that tone to her voice. "It's been over two weeks since I signed it and you haven't mentioned it once." I rolled my eyes heavenward, knowing full well how this was going to end. "Are you listening to me?"

"I'm all ears, dear."

Guys, she wasn't having it. When I peeked around the edge of her paper, I could have sworn her eyes were glowing that eerie shade of red like those vampires in the movies. And I'm not positive on this, but I'm almost sure I saw fangs grow. I mean the wrinkles in my neck were trembling with fear. I leaned over, took her hand and kissed it (she's a sucker for the continental approach--throw her a little French accent and she's putty in my hands).

There was no putty to be found in Calvin-land. No peace and quiet either. My sweet angel was on a tirade. I knew in an instant the weather forecast for the remainder of the day: Silent and chilly with occasional door banging. And supper? Hunh. There'd be no pork chops tonight. Nor seafood fetticine. I'd be lucky if I got a jam sandwich. You know, two peices of bread jammed together. I was a blues-singin' man in an angry woman's world

I'D LIKE TO ANNOUNCE THAT MY TALENTED AND LOVELY WIFE RECENTLY SIGNED A BOOK CONTRACT WITH THE WILD ROSE PRESS FOR HER CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE, "STORM'S INTERLUDE."

Still waiting...

There are many personality traits a writer must have. Talent, yes. Persistence, for sure. An active imagination, a given. Thick skin, akin to an alligator's, most certainly. Huh? What does thick skin have to do with writing? Rejection, my friend. As a writer, you should expect to be rejected. In fact, you'll probably be rejected so many times that you'll need that alligator skin.

Take Stephen King (12 rejections), Margaret Mitchel (38), Ernest Hemingway (rejected by "The Saturday Evening Post") and Thomas Wolfe, for example. Great names all and yet all faced multiple rejections. Only a minute number of authors are snatched up the first time they submit. You're more likely to be struck twice by lightning while cashing your twenty-nine million dollar lottery winnings check. Catch my drift? Kurt Vonnegut, author of Slaughterhouse-Five, had a large box full of rejection letters. Thank God he never gave up. Rejection is part of a writer's life.

So is waiting. When a writer submits a query and sample of his or her writing to an agent, hoping for representation, that writer should expect to wait months for a response. Once you have an agent and your manuscript is finally being "shopped out," expect to wait some more. Editors at large publishing houses often take months. One had The Phantom Lady of Paris for ten months. Small publishers have a shorter turn-around. God bless them.

Once you've been offered a contract, expect to wait for the actual contract to arrive. The waiting continues through-out the process. Publishing dates get pushed back. The release date of November 9th as stated on my contract did not materialize. Things happened and, so, I am still waiting....

There's something about a college campus...

We have several colleges here in the Lynchburg, Virginia, area. One is Randolph College. I'd read in our local paper about "No Shame" starting on Friday evenings at Randolph. The concept sounded intriguing: artists, free-spirits performing onstage for 5 minutes. The only stipulation was you must present your own work.

I chose a scene from The Phantom Lady of Paris, a scene in which Sorbonne students rioted under the inflaming words of "Francois the Incendiary."

After 40 years of teaching grammar and Shakespeare to students who could have cared less, I knew how to captivate and hold a crowd. If I were going to give a reading, I would use various voices, put feeling and actions into it--draw the listener in.

During the hour-long "No Shame," I was drawn in, as well. Drawn in by other performers running the gambit of poetry readings, to techno music, to puppets stripping clothes off each other, to a dramatic reading about vertigo. Creativity comes in infinite forms. Thank goodness for that!

I've always loved college campuses. The encouragement of free thinking that occurs in that insular environment. Minds are expanding. Personalities forming new aspects, stronger opinions and new ways of expression. There's something special about a college campus. For this reason I've visited many ... and discovered something special at each one.