New Book - CORE

Here is the first chapter of my latest attempt at a novel! The cover art is done by my wonderful and talented husband, Nate Combs!

Core Chapter 1

If you like it, will you comment or follow on wattpad?

Becoming a Writer

“One hasn't become a writer until one has distilled writing into a habit, and that habit has been forced into an obsession. Writing has to be an obsession. It has to be something as organic, physiological and psychological as speaking or sleeping or eating.”

- Niyi Osundare

I think I’m becoming a writer.                  

And by that, I don’t mean I am becoming wise or poetic or intellectual. I mean that I spend my time, free or not, hunched over a blinding computer screen, my fingers chattering over my keyboard in desperation. My posture, which has always been pathetic, is becoming atrocious, my neck and elbows bent permanently in place. My eyesight, which has long ago sold me out, chooses now to plague me, blurring and burning and blurring.

Music is no longer art. It is my tool, and I wield it without pity, more my slave than my muse. I plug my ears with it and demand, "Sing for me. Inspire me now. Now, now."

When I am away from my pages, my mind flits through plots and characters and dialogue. When I eat a sandwich I no longer dwell on the taste of the bread. Instead, I think, “Would my character eat this? How would they hold it in their hands? Would they share a piece? Cut the crusts? What would their faces say if it fell onto the ground? If a bird snatched it away? If they knew it had been poisoned?”

When I converse with others, my thoughts are halting. I abandon casual social interactions to chase just one word, one that was used flippantly and dropped to the ground. I pick up the gem that another spat out, rub my thumb across it, and take it back to my story. I place it eagerly and intricately inside my work, nestled among my collection of similarly glittering garbage.

I cannot think anymore; I can only wonder. 

I cannot sleep; I can only dream. 

I cannot write; I can only write, write, write, write.

For God’s sake, I hope I’m worth it.

Simple As That

I believe every storyteller must be well familiar with sadness. They must have tasted it at least once. And no, not the silly, melancholy stuff. Not a little splash of it. Not a cup of sorrow dumped over their heads. They must have nearly drowned in it at least one time. It must have filled them up to the top. Sadness makes our stories thicker, fuller, more truthful.

“Tears are words that need to be written.” 
― Paulo Coelho

I also believe a true storyteller must fill their bellies with gladness. Yes, the sky is tall. Yes, the music is sweet. Yes, the book is too long and time too short. Yes, the laughter is loud and wild. Yes, and again yes. For all the moments we’ve met with sadness, we’ve indulged it only for a time. Then, we have slapped it in the face, called it pathetic, and sent it back to where it belongs, to someplace we’ll never bother to visit ourselves. We use it and tell it be gone. We master it.

We have overcome. Or else we would not tell our stories.

We have found truth. Or else we would keep our pens silent.

We are happy. Or else we would not be happy.

“You cannot protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness.” 
― Jonathan Safran Foer

Simple as that.