I was at Target tonight. Standard run. Toilet paper, body soap, mouthwash. And I am so tired, staying up nights writing, thinking, remembering, recording.
So, suffice it to say, I am not looking my best. Lack of sleep hit me today like a ton of bricks. And I think I only ran a comb through my hair once today, when I first left the house.
Why is it that on days like today, when I am literally hiding from every attractive man I see, men won't leave me alone?
It's odd and annoying. But I think I have figured it out. They are attracted to the confidence thing.
See, on any giving day, when confidence is low because I have convinced myself I am: ugly, fat, uninteresting, boring, fat, fat, fat, big nosed, big lipped, fat, fat, fat; I don't tend to make eye contact. In fact, I often glance right past Mr. Attractive, hoping that he doesn't notice me and certainly won't record my image to memory.
But, on days like today, when my spirit is alive and my energy is humming, I could care less how I look and who sees me. A smile on my face plastered by deliriously naughty thoughts, I strolled through Target without a care in the world. Not a thought to my "haven't been combed since this morning" bob, or the slight bags under my eyes. And the response to my grin and my swagger? a couple of offers to help with my bag - a "like your smile sister" and a stare down. Despite my self absorbed state, even I had to pay attention. At one point I started to wonder, what do men look at?
They certainly don't judge us the way we do. That is evident by all those couples you see that make you wonder - how? Men must be pulled in by something all together different. I don't know what, exactly, but for now I am placing my vote on that confident sexy thing. That swagger. If that is the case, I have to work on showing mine a little more often!!
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Streamlined Black Bookstore
APOOO recently posted an email to our Yahoo Group - how many Black Bookstores have fallen in the past year, and how many rose in their stead. It was depressing! I thought Karibu was the only chain to collapse...and let me tell you when Karibu went down the DMV (affectionate term for DC/MD/VA) was devastated. And, as many of you know, they did NOT fall apart for lack of support or business. Nope, many of us were making it our business to visit them on a regular basis, despite the major bookstores. Remember - this is the DMV and I live in Prince Georges County, where the wealthiest enclave of African American's in the country live. And there were at least three stores in PG that I can think of off the top of my head - Bowie, Forestville and PG Plaza. And the PG Plaza stores was expanding to contain a coffee shop and lounge area. Karibu had black support, their demise was internal.
So Chocolate City - the real one, by definition - has been left black storeless (correct me if I am wrong, cuz I would love to find a new black store home) until recently. Asante Books opened in Forestville Mall, Forestville, MD, which I try to visit a couple of times a month. And, in my desperate need to touch base with some semblance of what Karibu used to be, I visited Baltimore this weekend to tap into Urban Knowledge bookstores up there. It is rumored that they may be expanding to the DMV.
First of all, the "new black bookstore" doesn't really have a heritage/deep/blackness vibe. Nope - now its hardwood floors, highly polished shelves in new cherry wood. And that's it. Four walls, many shelves. In and out. It's more cost efficient, I am sure. It requires you change your expectation of the store and what purpose it serves. Karibu was a culture submersion for my children - (as if they need more blackness living in Mitchellville) but still, the books were a rich reflection of the cross section of a peoples. The clerk read books to the children on Saturday mornings - mine and several other sitting around listening. Want to find that rare chronicle of African American farmers, go to Karibu. Want the newest in erotica - from a self pub - go to Karibu. Want some romance or street lit from a small up and coming pub - go to Karibu.
That's not what the stores are now. And the dominating wall in Urban Knowledge is street lit. From the beginning of the store to the end. Think of a narrow square store - something like a Subway but not as deep or wide. So you can see the entire store at a glance. The far wall is jammed pack with every street lit cover imaginable. So much so that its hard to tell them apart. After a while all the titles just began to blend into each...one fly sister in fur, next to another naked, next to some sisters standing together looking seductive. Over and over again, ya'll. Over and over again. Other titles are in there too , some romance and regular fiction sprinkled through...but you have to search to find them around the glossier "bling" covers.
My husband said, "since when did the bookstore turn into a collection of club promos? This is ridiculous." I chuckled at first. Then, it didn't seem so funny. But they have to stock what will sell, right?
Urban has other books - a very small nonfiction/historical section on another wall, erotica hidden in the middle floating shelves - to their benefit they are very careful about keeping the erotica separate - and the teen/children's shelves by the register. And when I did a book signing there last month, the clerk kept the teens away from both the erotic and street lit titles that they had no business touching. She pointed them to the teen section - pointing out that there is teen street lit. Who knew? And I have to say that Urban has the best black teen selection I have ever seen in any bookstore (including the chains) - HANDS DOWN.
The children's fiction was disappointing, the offering was sparse. Did that stop my little Miss Queen 1 and 2 from scooping the few books and setting themselves right up at the only table in the store - which I know for a fact is for author signings - and begin reading? Nope. And the clerk didn't mind, but then again, he didn't even bother to look up when we entered. And the store was empty. On a Saturday at 2pm. In the mall.
I set about looking for Mocha Chocolate - trying to ensure good product placement, or get to moving books to better visibility, since the clerk wasn't paying enough attention to care. It took me a moment to find, most of the erotica is buried on the floating shelves in the middle. He eventually pointed them out to me - but then I was irritated because I had broken him out of his trance and couldn't move the books at my leisure.
What's the point of this post? Black literature has changed. Black clientele has changed. The economy sucks. Buyers are hitting Amazon with new fervor. Desire of Black buyers is streamlined with the majority calling for one genre. While I was there folks weren't looking for a black mecca of culture, they simply wanted Dutch 3, by Dutch or Terri Woods, depending on where that mess stands; In My Hood II, by Endy; Girls from Da Hood 2,3,4,5,6, etc.; Still Wifey, by Kiki Swinson. Wahida Clark. J. Tremble. Over and over and over again I listened to the BMore audience ask for the same books, wanting to discuss the same plots. (I am sure different regions have different demands-in DC Mocha Chocolate flew off the shelves like free candy)
But Black bookstores are in the awful position of trying to maintain some integrity and sell books. Trying to keep overhead low, while having to sell books at a higher price. And a compromise is being made for survival - can you blame them - leading to a new, streamlined store - that feels less and less like Black literary home.
So Chocolate City - the real one, by definition
First of all, the "new black bookstore" doesn't really have a heritage/deep/blackness vibe. Nope - now its hardwood floors, highly polished shelves in new cherry wood. And that's it. Four walls, many shelves. In and out. It's more cost efficient, I am sure. It requires you change your expectation of the store and what purpose it serves. Karibu was a culture submersion for my children - (as if they need more blackness living in Mitchellville) but still, the books were a rich reflection of the cross section of a peoples. The clerk read books to the children on Saturday mornings - mine and several other sitting around listening. Want to find that rare chronicle of African American farmers, go to Karibu. Want the newest in erotica - from a self pub - go to Karibu. Want some romance or street lit from a small up and coming pub - go to Karibu.
That's not what the stores are now. And the dominating wall in Urban Knowledge is street lit. From the beginning of the store to the end. Think of a narrow square store - something like a Subway but not as deep or wide. So you can see the entire store at a glance. The far wall is jammed pack with every street lit cover imaginable. So much so that its hard to tell them apart. After a while all the titles just began to blend into each...one fly sister in fur, next to another naked, next to some sisters standing together looking seductive. Over and over again, ya'll. Over and over again. Other titles are in there too , some romance and regular fiction sprinkled through...but you have to search to find them around the glossier "bling" covers.
My husband said, "since when did the bookstore turn into a collection of club promos? This is ridiculous." I chuckled at first. Then, it didn't seem so funny. But they have to stock what will sell, right?
Urban has other books - a very small nonfiction/historical section on another wall, erotica hidden in the middle floating shelves - to their benefit they are very careful about keeping the erotica separate - and the teen/children's shelves by the register. And when I did a book signing there last month, the clerk kept the teens away from both the erotic and street lit titles that they had no business touching. She pointed them to the teen section - pointing out that there is teen street lit. Who knew? And I have to say that Urban has the best black teen selection I have ever seen in any bookstore (including the chains) - HANDS DOWN.
The children's fiction was disappointing, the offering was sparse. Did that stop my little Miss Queen 1 and 2 from scooping the few books and setting themselves right up at the only table in the store - which I know for a fact is for author signings - and begin reading? Nope. And the clerk didn't mind, but then again, he didn't even bother to look up when we entered. And the store was empty. On a Saturday at 2pm. In the mall.
I set about looking for Mocha Chocolate - trying to ensure good product placement, or get to moving books to better visibility, since the clerk wasn't paying enough attention to care. It took me a moment to find, most of the erotica is buried on the floating shelves in the middle. He eventually pointed them out to me - but then I was irritated because I had broken him out of his trance and couldn't move the books at my leisure.
What's the point of this post? Black literature has changed. Black clientele has changed. The economy sucks. Buyers are hitting Amazon with new fervor. Desire of Black buyers is streamlined with the majority calling for one genre. While I was there folks weren't looking for a black mecca of culture, they simply wanted Dutch 3, by Dutch or Terri Woods, depending on where that mess stands; In My Hood II, by Endy; Girls from Da Hood 2,3,4,5,6, etc.; Still Wifey, by Kiki Swinson. Wahida Clark. J. Tremble. Over and over and over again I listened to the BMore audience ask for the same books, wanting to discuss the same plots. (I am sure different regions have different demands-in DC Mocha Chocolate flew off the shelves like free candy)
But Black bookstores are in the awful position of trying to maintain some integrity and sell books. Trying to keep overhead low, while having to sell books at a higher price. And a compromise is being made for survival - can you blame them - leading to a new, streamlined store - that feels less and less like Black literary home.
Friday, August 15, 2008
An Author?
I've been languishing. Oscillating between that space of elation and utter disgust. Its kind of an internal pout, a silent temper tantrum. I just don't understand this author thing. Well, I do understand it, but that is exactly what is making me swing the emotional pendulum between satisfied and disgruntled.
Let me back up, I guess. I always wanted to be an author. I am sure that is not news to you. Everyone always says, I used to write when I as a child, I live to write, I made up imaginary stories, etc. Well, let me tell you I had a brand new typewriter (no word processors yet) and I would sit at that thing and bang out STORIES. Serious stories. Just like my seven year old is doing now (although she is putting pen to pad). And just like her, I had already read Chronicles of Narnia and was starting on, but not completely understanding, the Hobbit. When I finished my book I made cardboard covers onto which I pasted my construction paper designs.
I was going to be an author.
Nobody told me that the author game is a hustle, dependent on your grind more than your ability to write. No one said that all those years I spent honing my craft were irrelevant, when the buying public has taken a "rap" approach to literature- the more ignorant and gully, the more likely to be bought. Nobody told me that being an author was no longer a special title bestowed upon those who transcended the literary "good" and wrote engaging "bests," rather something anyone with an idea could pay for and create.
I am disillusioned.
Was I searching for exclusivity? No. Well maybe. I guess the answer is yes. Not directly so, but I thought that being an author would consist of receiving a 100,000. check from a publisher who allowed me to dream of distant lands and places, research and create wonderfully thick works of fiction. I would tour the world and drink fine wine - experience life, write literature. How very foolish of me. That is the reality for some. But the layers of writers and hustlers between that level and myself is SOOO thick, how can I pluck through the cardboard ceiling?
The writing game is just like the music industry. Maybe worse. And who cares if its good, interesting or stimulating - the honor is that you sat down and wrote it, its real quality is insignificant.
SO I felt discourage for most of the day. Wondered, like all self absorbed indulgent writers, whether I should just tuck away my pen and put an end to writing. What is the point?
But then, at 2 in the morning, and idea hit me. And, as usual, I couldn't fight it, couldn't tuck it away to get a good nights sleep. Instead, I sit here now, typing away, writing out my angst and releasing "author" frustration. I guess there is no real answer to my dilemma, but one. Despite my cynical take and the low possibility of success, I have to write. It is buried deep within my DNA. So a writer I am. An author...well, we'll see.
Let me back up, I guess. I always wanted to be an author. I am sure that is not news to you. Everyone always says, I used to write when I as a child, I live to write, I made up imaginary stories, etc. Well, let me tell you I had a brand new typewriter (no word processors yet) and I would sit at that thing and bang out STORIES. Serious stories. Just like my seven year old is doing now (although she is putting pen to pad). And just like her, I had already read Chronicles of Narnia and was starting on, but not completely understanding, the Hobbit. When I finished my book I made cardboard covers onto which I pasted my construction paper designs.
I was going to be an author.
Nobody told me that the author game is a hustle, dependent on your grind more than your ability to write. No one said that all those years I spent honing my craft were irrelevant, when the buying public has taken a "rap" approach to literature- the more ignorant and gully, the more likely to be bought. Nobody told me that being an author was no longer a special title bestowed upon those who transcended the literary "good" and wrote engaging "bests," rather something anyone with an idea could pay for and create.
I am disillusioned.
Was I searching for exclusivity? No. Well maybe. I guess the answer is yes. Not directly so, but I thought that being an author would consist of receiving a 100,000. check from a publisher who allowed me to dream of distant lands and places, research and create wonderfully thick works of fiction. I would tour the world and drink fine wine - experience life, write literature. How very foolish of me. That is the reality for some. But the layers of writers and hustlers between that level and myself is SOOO thick, how can I pluck through the cardboard ceiling?
The writing game is just like the music industry. Maybe worse. And who cares if its good, interesting or stimulating - the honor is that you sat down and wrote it, its real quality is insignificant.
SO I felt discourage for most of the day. Wondered, like all self absorbed indulgent writers, whether I should just tuck away my pen and put an end to writing. What is the point?
But then, at 2 in the morning, and idea hit me. And, as usual, I couldn't fight it, couldn't tuck it away to get a good nights sleep. Instead, I sit here now, typing away, writing out my angst and releasing "author" frustration. I guess there is no real answer to my dilemma, but one. Despite my cynical take and the low possibility of success, I have to write. It is buried deep within my DNA. So a writer I am. An author...well, we'll see.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Beat It!
I discovered today why childcare is worth 450.00 a week. Yes, I pay $450.00 a week. Which is why I am the only non Benz driving sista in my neighborhood. That and the other expenses surrounding 5 kids. But I digress.
Where was I? Ah yes, I discovered today why childcare is worth $450.00 a week. I should say that my kids are getting the best preHarvard care imaginable and will be on their way straight to ivy league - that is if they don't get burned out and began to hate school. But that's not it. I purposely didn't put them somewhere overly academic at too a young age - been there, done that. When my eldest daughter was bringing home an hours worth of worksheets a night, not including the weekly scriptures that needed memorizing, and she was in Pre K, I decided to never go for the - "we teach Spanish and French and cursive and long division before they can spell their names" programs again.
SO now my kids are in a learning-play environment. They're talking better, motor skills are phenomenal, counting and learning and identifying some words. Potty training has finally been accomplished (they are very late): my only feasible excuse is that as twins, they just didn't seem to be in a rush to do anything that didn't suit the two of them. Making speaking to other people (because they seem to know what they are saying) and potty training and all those socially relevant things low on the priority totem pole, because all they care about is each other.
I normally pay an extra $200.00 a month for them to participate in Music learning - singing and instruments and dancing and rhythm. It seems that my extra money is either well spent, or completely unnecessary. Today I was riding home listening to Michael Baisden talk about getting his book hustle on. And I was lamenting how I am published in over 10 works at this point, but am still, in my own mind and against my own standard - which is always nearly impossible to reach, stagnant and failing.
In the midst of "everything is everything" I heard...."Beat It, Beat It . no wub gedo bedat Beat It. No dem bowdy boty, no its jut rit. It dudn't mabber who wrong or rite, just Beat It, jus tBeat it."
While my daughter sang my son bopped along, eyes closed like his sister was spittin fire - Gladys Knight/Alvin and the Chipmunks saanging.
Ya'll, I hollered laughing. There is no better moment in life than when your 3 year olds discover Michael Jackson (music only) and sings his classic like their life depends on it. It was one of the moments that I knew in an instant I would remember for the rest of my life. One of those pure indescribable joys that reminds me of how wonderful God is to send such delightful and unpredictable presents as children. Michael Jackson's Beat It? Are you kidding me? I loved it!!
And my 2 grand a month total - well, for just that experience it is worth it. But one of the teachers at their school is SOOOO busted for listening to the radio while on the job!
Where was I? Ah yes, I discovered today why childcare is worth $450.00 a week. I should say that my kids are getting the best preHarvard care imaginable and will be on their way straight to ivy league - that is if they don't get burned out and began to hate school. But that's not it. I purposely didn't put them somewhere overly academic at too a young age - been there, done that. When my eldest daughter was bringing home an hours worth of worksheets a night, not including the weekly scriptures that needed memorizing, and she was in Pre K, I decided to never go for the - "we teach Spanish and French and cursive and long division before they can spell their names" programs again.
SO now my kids are in a learning-play environment. They're talking better, motor skills are phenomenal, counting and learning and identifying some words. Potty training has finally been accomplished (they are very late): my only feasible excuse is that as twins, they just didn't seem to be in a rush to do anything that didn't suit the two of them. Making speaking to other people (because they seem to know what they are saying) and potty training and all those socially relevant things low on the priority totem pole, because all they care about is each other.
I normally pay an extra $200.00 a month for them to participate in Music learning - singing and instruments and dancing and rhythm. It seems that my extra money is either well spent, or completely unnecessary. Today I was riding home listening to Michael Baisden talk about getting his book hustle on. And I was lamenting how I am published in over 10 works at this point, but am still, in my own mind and against my own standard - which is always nearly impossible to reach, stagnant and failing.
In the midst of "everything is everything" I heard...."Beat It, Beat It . no wub gedo bedat Beat It. No dem bowdy boty, no its jut rit. It dudn't mabber who wrong or rite, just Beat It, jus tBeat it."
While my daughter sang my son bopped along, eyes closed like his sister was spittin fire - Gladys Knight/Alvin and the Chipmunks saanging.
Ya'll, I hollered laughing. There is no better moment in life than when your 3 year olds discover Michael Jackson (music only) and sings his classic like their life depends on it. It was one of the moments that I knew in an instant I would remember for the rest of my life. One of those pure indescribable joys that reminds me of how wonderful God is to send such delightful and unpredictable presents as children. Michael Jackson's Beat It? Are you kidding me? I loved it!!
And my 2 grand a month total - well, for just that experience it is worth it. But one of the teachers at their school is SOOOO busted for listening to the radio while on the job!
Saturday, August 09, 2008
The First 50 Years (Bernie Mac)
50 years. What if that's all we get. 50 years. sigh...
Bernie Mac died today. My husband told me as I was sitting at the laptop, throwing down a Chick-Fil- A salad and trying to type out the rest of this Urban Fiction tale that has overtaken my mind. He kind of said it "at" me - the way he often deals with death, just flinging the information out there. And I was startled, then saddened. Overwhelmed. Isn't it amazing how someone who never met me could have a profound affect on me.
Which got me to thinking. Should I be sad? Or should I really observe Bernie Mac's life as a testament of what a person can do in a mere 50 years" He first broke into my consciousness when he took over Def Jam. I will never forget it - he walked out with his graffitti'd sweatshirt and jeans and told the audience "I ain't scared of you muthf..." Which was saying something. The Def Jam crowd was rambunctious and raw, and could be cruel. After he took over the stage he did a skit that sexing was nothing more than 50 pumps and incorporated DJ Capris into his skit. The most magnetic performance of that night. and with that a star was made.
It reminds me of Eminem's "Lose Yourself" song. That was his moment. If he flopped, it was all over. But he not only ruled the moment, he seemed to be ready for it. Bernie Mac had a "it's about time for ya'll to see me" energy that invaded the air. And that spring boarded into an unbelievable amount of successful ventures. Kings of Comedy, The Bernie Mac Show, innumerable movies, including Mr. 3000 (which I loved), Guess Who (with Ashton Kutcher) and, of course, Oceans 11, 12 and 13. His filmography lists incredible upcoming movies- 2009 was going to be a successful year for him. There is Madagascar 2, Soul Men, Pride, The Robin Harris Story, etc... He accomplished SO MUCH in 50 years - and only an estimated 15 years in the industry.
Can any of us say the same?
If God has limited me to 50 years, what can I list? My five children, my marriage, Georgetown Law Degree, NASA employee. That's the sum of me? That's what I took the first 34 years of life to do? What about the piano, the ability to write, the seeds that God planted in me. How many of them did I nurture and grow into something that would affect lives, change lives, make a difference. Who else have I touched, have I inspired anybody?
Now I am not saying that Bernie Mac was a saint or didn't make mistakes. He just flubbed a performance at a benefit for Obama a few months ago, in which he made some "stereotypical" statement that Obama separated himself from. And some people find his comedy crass. But Bernie Mac made people laugh. After a long day, a hard day, his show could lighten your mood, his movies could draw you in, his comedy could make you forget your troubles. Even if it was for a brief moment.
And that's what I admire. Have I pushed to reach my dream, to provide someone with reliable product that allows them to lose themselves in another world, another reality, and expands their horizons? When I die will people across the world know that I existed, will they look at my life and, though sad for my departure, be amazed at what I accomplished in my first 50 years?
That is the mark of a blessed life, I think. One that leaves people stunned by positivity achieved in such a brief time period. And I am saddened that I will not be able to enjoy future Bernie Mac, hurt that he had so much more to give us and it has been cut short. But I also believe that he made his mark in a unique way, transforming the Black comedic landscape in a way never quite accomplished before. Bernie Mac worked his first 50 years, like he worked that Def Jam stage. Unafraid, energetic, ready to jump into the moment and make it count.
Can the same be said of any of us when we reach the 50 year mark? God, I hope so...
Bernie Mac died today. My husband told me as I was sitting at the laptop, throwing down a Chick-Fil- A salad and trying to type out the rest of this Urban Fiction tale that has overtaken my mind. He kind of said it "at" me - the way he often deals with death, just flinging the information out there. And I was startled, then saddened. Overwhelmed. Isn't it amazing how someone who never met me could have a profound affect on me.
Which got me to thinking. Should I be sad? Or should I really observe Bernie Mac's life as a testament of what a person can do in a mere 50 years" He first broke into my consciousness when he took over Def Jam. I will never forget it - he walked out with his graffitti'd sweatshirt and jeans and told the audience "I ain't scared of you muthf..." Which was saying something. The Def Jam crowd was rambunctious and raw, and could be cruel. After he took over the stage he did a skit that sexing was nothing more than 50 pumps and incorporated DJ Capris into his skit. The most magnetic performance of that night. and with that a star was made.
It reminds me of Eminem's "Lose Yourself" song. That was his moment. If he flopped, it was all over. But he not only ruled the moment, he seemed to be ready for it. Bernie Mac had a "it's about time for ya'll to see me" energy that invaded the air. And that spring boarded into an unbelievable amount of successful ventures. Kings of Comedy, The Bernie Mac Show, innumerable movies, including Mr. 3000 (which I loved), Guess Who (with Ashton Kutcher) and, of course, Oceans 11, 12 and 13. His filmography lists incredible upcoming movies- 2009 was going to be a successful year for him. There is Madagascar 2, Soul Men, Pride, The Robin Harris Story, etc... He accomplished SO MUCH in 50 years - and only an estimated 15 years in the industry.
Can any of us say the same?
If God has limited me to 50 years, what can I list? My five children, my marriage, Georgetown Law Degree, NASA employee. That's the sum of me? That's what I took the first 34 years of life to do? What about the piano, the ability to write, the seeds that God planted in me. How many of them did I nurture and grow into something that would affect lives, change lives, make a difference. Who else have I touched, have I inspired anybody?
Now I am not saying that Bernie Mac was a saint or didn't make mistakes. He just flubbed a performance at a benefit for Obama a few months ago, in which he made some "stereotypical" statement that Obama separated himself from. And some people find his comedy crass. But Bernie Mac made people laugh. After a long day, a hard day, his show could lighten your mood, his movies could draw you in, his comedy could make you forget your troubles. Even if it was for a brief moment.
And that's what I admire. Have I pushed to reach my dream, to provide someone with reliable product that allows them to lose themselves in another world, another reality, and expands their horizons? When I die will people across the world know that I existed, will they look at my life and, though sad for my departure, be amazed at what I accomplished in my first 50 years?
That is the mark of a blessed life, I think. One that leaves people stunned by positivity achieved in such a brief time period. And I am saddened that I will not be able to enjoy future Bernie Mac, hurt that he had so much more to give us and it has been cut short. But I also believe that he made his mark in a unique way, transforming the Black comedic landscape in a way never quite accomplished before. Bernie Mac worked his first 50 years, like he worked that Def Jam stage. Unafraid, energetic, ready to jump into the moment and make it count.
Can the same be said of any of us when we reach the 50 year mark? God, I hope so...
Friday, August 08, 2008
Reviews, again
When posting book reviews, can they all be a 4 or 5? I mean really. Lets think about this. Is EVERY author that honed in their craft and experienced with the subject matter to churn out perfect or near perfect books. It just seems impossible to me.
You have heard my rants on this topic before. I gave someone a 3.5 and they were upset. I thought it was a good review. On the other hand, I have purchased book rated 4 and 5 only to sit there in utter boredom, pushing through the dense read, adamant that I am going to complete it, if only to get my money's worth.
What is the standard. Is the English proper? Was there a plot at all? What about character development, plot consistency, writing credibility, use of creativity, etc...
To add insult to injury, how can the reviewer rate a book a 5 when her review is filled with typos, grammatically incorrect references and poor language. Similarly, what about the book reviewer who reveals the entire plot of the book, eliminating the need for the reader to buy it. If this reviewer grants it a 5, I tend to be a little bit suspect.
I have a poor review that I am drafting for a new writer. And I feel bad about it. Not the review, because I think I am being as fair as possible. But bad because she is going to be upset about a less than 5 rating, even though it is a less than 5 book. And its unfair to her because her reviewer (me) actually CARES about literature and maintaining some basic standards in written work and will not award a 5 because I have been paid to review the book or am a home girl. So, while her book is probably equivalent to some other currently rated 4 or 5, I am giving it a 3 or 3.5, because, in good conscious, I can't give it any higher. I wouldn't want the reader to spend their money without knowing the truth. That the action was predictable, the sex boring and more dry, the plot meaningless. Murder without remorse, sex without consequence, drugs without a price, partying without a burnout, a book with no layers, levels or emotions. Isn't that what separates a "person who just wrote a book," from an author. And shouldn't the author be given a fair opportunity to identify the short comings in her efforts before devoting resources promoting the book?
Either way, I am fighting the give it a 4 or 5 and one paragraph saying nothing review. I read one today that said "after getting through the beginning of this book, it was a great read." Huh? If you had to "get through" it, like it was a densely populated forest, then the book couldn't have been a 5 (which is what it was rated). I am just tired of it. Thinking of instituting a rating system so reviews can have a valid meaning and actually serve as a guide, instead of a way for authors and soon to be authors to pat each other on the back and build support for their own upcoming releases.
You have heard my rants on this topic before. I gave someone a 3.5 and they were upset. I thought it was a good review. On the other hand, I have purchased book rated 4 and 5 only to sit there in utter boredom, pushing through the dense read, adamant that I am going to complete it, if only to get my money's worth.
What is the standard. Is the English proper? Was there a plot at all? What about character development, plot consistency, writing credibility, use of creativity, etc...
To add insult to injury, how can the reviewer rate a book a 5 when her review is filled with typos, grammatically incorrect references and poor language. Similarly, what about the book reviewer who reveals the entire plot of the book, eliminating the need for the reader to buy it. If this reviewer grants it a 5, I tend to be a little bit suspect.
I have a poor review that I am drafting for a new writer. And I feel bad about it. Not the review, because I think I am being as fair as possible. But bad because she is going to be upset about a less than 5 rating, even though it is a less than 5 book. And its unfair to her because her reviewer (me) actually CARES about literature and maintaining some basic standards in written work and will not award a 5 because I have been paid to review the book or am a home girl. So, while her book is probably equivalent to some other currently rated 4 or 5, I am giving it a 3 or 3.5, because, in good conscious, I can't give it any higher. I wouldn't want the reader to spend their money without knowing the truth. That the action was predictable, the sex boring and more dry, the plot meaningless. Murder without remorse, sex without consequence, drugs without a price, partying without a burnout, a book with no layers, levels or emotions. Isn't that what separates a "person who just wrote a book," from an author. And shouldn't the author be given a fair opportunity to identify the short comings in her efforts before devoting resources promoting the book?
Either way, I am fighting the give it a 4 or 5 and one paragraph saying nothing review. I read one today that said "after getting through the beginning of this book, it was a great read." Huh? If you had to "get through" it, like it was a densely populated forest, then the book couldn't have been a 5 (which is what it was rated). I am just tired of it. Thinking of instituting a rating system so reviews can have a valid meaning and actually serve as a guide, instead of a way for authors and soon to be authors to pat each other on the back and build support for their own upcoming releases.
Monday, August 04, 2008
Social Services
Today I went to the DC Department of Health to procure birth certificates for my twins. Although the rest of the modern world knows better than to step foot in a government agency and orders these simple documents online, I thought I would spare myself the additional time and make the visit.
So, as in all things social service related, the lines were crazy. And nonsensical, stretching across the office as people tried to fill out their forms and hold on to their young ones. Then, a woman next to me, undoubtedly my age or older, whipped out her cellphone (ignoring the signs stating all phones were banned). After a few seconds she spoke loud enough for us all to hear her, because she obviously didn't have any tact.
"Ma, was you married to my father when you had me? Oh, so you never did get married. Not to Naya's dad either. I am trying to get my birth certificate. Here, in DC. Oh, I wasn't born in DC? Where I got to go then...?"
I am not making this up. It actually made me sad, she didn't even know that she should have known. And she didn't even know to lower her voice.
Once she walked past an African woman who had been filling out the form for the longest tapped me on the shoulder. "I was in line in front of you," she challenged. I grinned a little, thankful for my early thirties calm, a few years ago she and I would have had it out. But I graciously stepped back and let her lying self cut the line. 30 minutes later she tried to convince the clerk that her expired visitor visa was a valid government issued document to receive her daughters birth certificate. It was enjoyable to watch her get bounced out on her ear.
Another clerk had a sign on the wall that read - "I can only please one person a day, and today is not looking good for you. Tomorrow is looking even worse." and next to that sign she penned another one saying, "and I touched the hem of His garment and was made whole." She should be fired for so many reasons. Her attitude was just wrong wrong wrong and the Holier than thou wrong!
But, to tell the truth, the place was better some other I have experienced. I just find the entire experience dehumanizing, every single time, no matter which government it is (state or federal - have you tried to get something done at SSA lately). To pass the time I enjoyed my latest Donna Hill novel and relaxed. And tried to forget that I was sitting in a government building waiting over an hour for a birth certificate.
So, as in all things social service related, the lines were crazy. And nonsensical, stretching across the office as people tried to fill out their forms and hold on to their young ones. Then, a woman next to me, undoubtedly my age or older, whipped out her cellphone (ignoring the signs stating all phones were banned). After a few seconds she spoke loud enough for us all to hear her, because she obviously didn't have any tact.
"Ma, was you married to my father when you had me? Oh, so you never did get married. Not to Naya's dad either. I am trying to get my birth certificate. Here, in DC. Oh, I wasn't born in DC? Where I got to go then...?"
I am not making this up. It actually made me sad, she didn't even know that she should have known. And she didn't even know to lower her voice.
Once she walked past an African woman who had been filling out the form for the longest tapped me on the shoulder. "I was in line in front of you," she challenged. I grinned a little, thankful for my early thirties calm, a few years ago she and I would have had it out. But I graciously stepped back and let her lying self cut the line. 30 minutes later she tried to convince the clerk that her expired visitor visa was a valid government issued document to receive her daughters birth certificate. It was enjoyable to watch her get bounced out on her ear.
Another clerk had a sign on the wall that read - "I can only please one person a day, and today is not looking good for you. Tomorrow is looking even worse." and next to that sign she penned another one saying, "and I touched the hem of His garment and was made whole." She should be fired for so many reasons. Her attitude was just wrong wrong wrong and the Holier than thou wrong!
But, to tell the truth, the place was better some other I have experienced. I just find the entire experience dehumanizing, every single time, no matter which government it is (state or federal - have you tried to get something done at SSA lately). To pass the time I enjoyed my latest Donna Hill novel and relaxed. And tried to forget that I was sitting in a government building waiting over an hour for a birth certificate.
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