Maybe I should say, “swelter”. It’s pretty hot again. I found this little photo-transferred word in a pile of papers. Last night, I stitched up the little star house while watching Game of Thrones (we’re SEASONS behind), which I’ve decided is worth stomaching all the blood shed for the well-realized worlds and interesting characters.
Off to an appointment.
This week, an email with five exclamation points kinda rocked my world. Not much more to say about it except this: white makers crafting black stories can find plenty of newsworthy, interesting, combative discussions out there. The critiques can amplify doubt and make a (white) person wanna crawl away in silence. I’d avoid the discussions altogether (my doubt mechanism is already perfectly amped-up), except that doing so would mean missing some of the most vibrant and compelling conversations about race transpiring these days. Why would I do that?
But, even though the adage about ‘writing what you know’ is severely limiting, I think the next novel (if there is one) should be about a spoiled white adolescent making bad choices in an affluent suburb. I’ve already got a compelling news story in mind, and just so you know: not about my kids.