Thanking the members of The Tea Bags and Good Books Book club for supporting me and takinig the time to read my book. They're all great people.
A BOOK REVIEW FOR THE CASSANDRA COOKBOOK BY SHAWN JAMES.
Category: Writing and Poetry
Title of the Book: The Cassandra Cookbook by Shawn James
Publishing Company: Virtualbookworm
ISBN: 978 1602642294
Member Reviewer: Anicia Walker, Lisa Valadez and Chris Michael
Book Read: June Book Read
Book Rating: 3 Tea Bags and a enjoyable story
The Cassandra Cookbook is based on a character by the name of Cassadra Lee. She is a hard working individual with some big time goals of her own. She bakes up her own recipes for success. Wanting to own her parent's business located in downtown Brooklyn, she also is in the middle of planning on getting married with in days of taken over her dream job to the man of her dreams of course. She muli-tasks while keeping a level head, what else could she ask for?
She has worked very hard on her Culinary Degree to help with her parent's bakery that has been in the family ever since Cassandra was a baby. Now, that her parent's are looking to retire in the near future here is her chance to put her Degree to work, why else did she get it? Well is wasnt for to hang on the wall in a small cramp office for a home for dustmites that's for sure.
While Cassandra is called to the bakery which seem like a last minute business meeting a request by her parents. Cassandra is all to thrill, she assumes this is the big day. The day her parents will turn over the keys and she becomes the boss. She had several ideas on those new pasry donuts, the ones she dreamed of baking herself she had even included whip cream cheese as a filling. Hmmm, tasty.
However, her dreams turns into a nightmare as her parents expose the truth as to why they called Cassandra into this private family affair. She is given a hard cookie to swallow, she cant bare to hear that her parent's had plans and ideas of their own.
Who told them to start thinking about all these bigs ideas without including her! Her mother and father reveals plans on selling the bakery to a big corporate gaint once they become retire! What! She cant believe this, how did she miss this? Didnt her parents see how much she love the bakery as a child? Maybe they have been tasting to much sugar this morning!
Now devastated she goes home to find comfort in the arms of her fiance who is at home finding comfort in the arms of another man! Just days before the wedding could anything else go wrong?!
Cassandra finally is convinced life has sold her an uneven oven she can't bake in without getting lumps in the middle. What to do next? She must somehow try to get her life back on track but how?
Soon things start to turn around for Ms. Lee. She becomes the representative assigned to handle her family affairs and find some answers to her questions. She start dealings with a handsome stranger, named Simon.
Well how do Cassandra turn her apples into pies? You can find out more once you pick up this great fiction novel.
A very good book read for this group, we were not to thrill about the cover it almost turned us away from the read as well as the typo errors which made it difficult to get back on story line but when we got caught up with this tasty morsal it became a good book to eat oops I mean a good book to read.
We enjoyed Mr. James imagination into betrayal and Corporate giant power and as we continue to read, we wanted Ms. Lee to become a success in the end.
We found this novel both entertaining and enlightening we hope you can enjoy this book as well.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Monday, July 20, 2009
Lost Chapter of The Cassandra Cookbook
This short chapter was supposed to be in the back of The Cassandra Cookbook , but never made it to the published novel due to page count restrictions. For anyone who wants to know the reasons why I wrote the book, this final chapter would explain everything.
AUTHOR NOTES
A pinch of hard work. A dash of determination. The recipe for this story is very simple: Shawn James tries to create a sweet commercial fiction novel infused with tasteful bits of dark comedy. The end result of the project came out far better than I expected.
I’m not a commercial fiction writer; I’m just a guy who uses African-American fiction to explore concepts and ideas African-Americans don’t usually read about in the hopes of opening up Black people to new ideas. In my first two books, The Changing Soul and Isis, I explored the psychological effects of the ghetto and Egyptian mythology as it related to the African-American family. Having completed both a contemporary African-American novel and a fantasy novel, I was looking for a new challenge. So I decided to write one of those entertaining commercial novels I often read between writing books. With my combined decade of writing experience and reading experience I felt I was ready to try creating a story in the genre.....
The movies Strictly Business, The Apartment, and Clockwatchers and the Simpsons episode “Homer’s Enemy” were major inspirations for this project. I loved the dark satirical comedy Clockwatchers used to make comments about the workplace and how human beings interacted within it. I always got a laugh out of the clever social comments early episodes of the Simpsons made about life in America. Strictly Business was a movie I simply enjoyed watching; the performances were good and its heart was in the right place. The Apartment was an old film that had a tremendous impact on my writing and the development of this novel. After watching Billy Wilder’s great film I realized the workplace had a tremendous impact on the human condition. Watching these movies gave me ideas for a humorous novel that made social comments on the African-American experience in the workplace.
I started writing up a draft of a book called Integrity Sucks. It was a simple straightforward story about the African-American workplace with lots of commercial appeal. I copied the storytelling model of all the movies I had watched to the letter. Following that storytelling formula was my biggest mistake. Most of those movies I watched often showed the workplace from a White perspective. The White view of the workplace was often jaded and cynical; the total opposite of the point of view I experienced in the African-American world of work.
I wanted my story to say something about the human condition within the African-American experience, not be a re-hash of white stories with black characters in it. So I started thinking about my own experiences in the world of work. From what I observed in the workplace, most African-Americans aren’t angry or a bitter about their jobs. African-Americans often see employment as an opportunity for growth and change. To blacks work is a place where poor men and women often oppressed by racism and discrimination have an opportunity to find their true value and actualize their untapped potential.
Focusing on the positive experiences of the African-American workplace I began re-writing Integrity Sucks into The Cassandra Cookbook. The new story I planned would be the recipe for Cassandra Lee’s success working on a licensing deal with ITC Foods. Basically a recipe is a process of combining raw ingredients together through a series of steps to get a certain finished result. Depending upon the experience of the person, combining these raw ingredients together causes them to change chemically, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. While Cassandra had experience in the area of baking and customer service, she was inexperienced in the area of licensing. She has to combine her experience with Simon who is inexperienced with people but experienced with the business of marketing. As these two raw talents work together, romantic chemistry swirls around them. This causes them to change, some sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. However, as she and Simon learn from each other’s experiences they achieve their goals. Simon is promoted to ITC’s baked goods Product Manager and Cassandra expands her business into the Cassandra Brand name.
On the surface of the book would be about a business deal to expand the business of two companies; however the deeper story would be about the personal growth of the people working on the deal. Throughout the story the main characters learn what people are worth. On the quest to preserve the integrity of her family’s business, Cassandra learns how valuable she is. Working towards his promotion, Simon learns what makes the products his company produces valuable are the people behind them. It’s only when he discovers Cassandra’s value as a person, is he able to complete the deal.
With my plot and theme in place, I researched successful business people and their companies so the fictional black owned businesses of ITC Foods and the Cassandra Bakery could be as realistic as possible to readers. ITC Foods was inspired by the Parks Sausage Company, one of the oldest black owned food distributors in the U.S. Established in the 1950s it makes all types of sausage and meat products. The story of the Sara Lee Bakery was the inspiration for the Cassandra Bakery. In the 1950’s the owner of the Sara Lee bakery actually named the store after his daughter and sold it to a corporation. If he only knew his daughter’s name would become synonymous with a worldwide conglomerate that produces everything from cheesecake to handbags!
With the ingredients for writing the cookbook in place I got to work developing Cassandra’s recipe for success. I had a lot of fun writing this story, more fun than I had working on any other novel in my fiction writing career. I looked forward to sitting in front of the computer every day during the two years it took to write Simon and Cassandra’s story. I hope you learned something from reading it.
AUTHOR NOTES
A pinch of hard work. A dash of determination. The recipe for this story is very simple: Shawn James tries to create a sweet commercial fiction novel infused with tasteful bits of dark comedy. The end result of the project came out far better than I expected.
I’m not a commercial fiction writer; I’m just a guy who uses African-American fiction to explore concepts and ideas African-Americans don’t usually read about in the hopes of opening up Black people to new ideas. In my first two books, The Changing Soul and Isis, I explored the psychological effects of the ghetto and Egyptian mythology as it related to the African-American family. Having completed both a contemporary African-American novel and a fantasy novel, I was looking for a new challenge. So I decided to write one of those entertaining commercial novels I often read between writing books. With my combined decade of writing experience and reading experience I felt I was ready to try creating a story in the genre.....
The movies Strictly Business, The Apartment, and Clockwatchers and the Simpsons episode “Homer’s Enemy” were major inspirations for this project. I loved the dark satirical comedy Clockwatchers used to make comments about the workplace and how human beings interacted within it. I always got a laugh out of the clever social comments early episodes of the Simpsons made about life in America. Strictly Business was a movie I simply enjoyed watching; the performances were good and its heart was in the right place. The Apartment was an old film that had a tremendous impact on my writing and the development of this novel. After watching Billy Wilder’s great film I realized the workplace had a tremendous impact on the human condition. Watching these movies gave me ideas for a humorous novel that made social comments on the African-American experience in the workplace.
I started writing up a draft of a book called Integrity Sucks. It was a simple straightforward story about the African-American workplace with lots of commercial appeal. I copied the storytelling model of all the movies I had watched to the letter. Following that storytelling formula was my biggest mistake. Most of those movies I watched often showed the workplace from a White perspective. The White view of the workplace was often jaded and cynical; the total opposite of the point of view I experienced in the African-American world of work.
I wanted my story to say something about the human condition within the African-American experience, not be a re-hash of white stories with black characters in it. So I started thinking about my own experiences in the world of work. From what I observed in the workplace, most African-Americans aren’t angry or a bitter about their jobs. African-Americans often see employment as an opportunity for growth and change. To blacks work is a place where poor men and women often oppressed by racism and discrimination have an opportunity to find their true value and actualize their untapped potential.
Focusing on the positive experiences of the African-American workplace I began re-writing Integrity Sucks into The Cassandra Cookbook. The new story I planned would be the recipe for Cassandra Lee’s success working on a licensing deal with ITC Foods. Basically a recipe is a process of combining raw ingredients together through a series of steps to get a certain finished result. Depending upon the experience of the person, combining these raw ingredients together causes them to change chemically, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. While Cassandra had experience in the area of baking and customer service, she was inexperienced in the area of licensing. She has to combine her experience with Simon who is inexperienced with people but experienced with the business of marketing. As these two raw talents work together, romantic chemistry swirls around them. This causes them to change, some sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. However, as she and Simon learn from each other’s experiences they achieve their goals. Simon is promoted to ITC’s baked goods Product Manager and Cassandra expands her business into the Cassandra Brand name.
On the surface of the book would be about a business deal to expand the business of two companies; however the deeper story would be about the personal growth of the people working on the deal. Throughout the story the main characters learn what people are worth. On the quest to preserve the integrity of her family’s business, Cassandra learns how valuable she is. Working towards his promotion, Simon learns what makes the products his company produces valuable are the people behind them. It’s only when he discovers Cassandra’s value as a person, is he able to complete the deal.
With my plot and theme in place, I researched successful business people and their companies so the fictional black owned businesses of ITC Foods and the Cassandra Bakery could be as realistic as possible to readers. ITC Foods was inspired by the Parks Sausage Company, one of the oldest black owned food distributors in the U.S. Established in the 1950s it makes all types of sausage and meat products. The story of the Sara Lee Bakery was the inspiration for the Cassandra Bakery. In the 1950’s the owner of the Sara Lee bakery actually named the store after his daughter and sold it to a corporation. If he only knew his daughter’s name would become synonymous with a worldwide conglomerate that produces everything from cheesecake to handbags!
With the ingredients for writing the cookbook in place I got to work developing Cassandra’s recipe for success. I had a lot of fun writing this story, more fun than I had working on any other novel in my fiction writing career. I looked forward to sitting in front of the computer every day during the two years it took to write Simon and Cassandra’s story. I hope you learned something from reading it.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Thoughts on Attending the 2009 Harlem Book Fair
I attended the Harlem Book Fair yesterday to promote my books Isis and The Cassandra Cookbook. It was the biggest mistake of my writing career. Five months of planning and organizing for this event, Four Hundred Dollars spent on supplies and books and I only sold one book. Am I disappointed about the sales? Yeah I am. But I’m more disappointed about what the black community is calling literature now.
There was a Street lit table right next to mine. Those guys writing about gangstas, pimps, drug dealers hoes, hood rats and any other racist stereotype did brisk business with people snapping books up all day. I was deeply saddened; At the fair, it looks like black readers have come back to embrace the racist stereotypes so many fought and died for over a century to dispel with open arms. Malcolm X, Martin Luther King, Paul Robeson, Ralph Ellison, Richard Wright, Lorriane Hanesberry, Dorothy Dandridge, Thurgood Marshall and Michael Jackson are probably all looking down at the Black Masses in disgust and disappointment.
I spent six hours in the hot sun practically ignored by the black reading audience I’ve been wanting to write for since I was 16. My mission back then was to write positive stories about the Black experience. Stories about overcoming the odds, facing adversity and growing into a better person who improved the quality of life for their community. It seems no one wants to read those kinds of stories anymore. In the aftermath of the Harlem Book Fair I have to wonder if the community is committed to change or if its scared of it.
In the aftermath of Electing the First African-American President I wonder if there is any hope for the African-American reader. Instead of taking that step forward with Obama, most young brorhers and sisters on the streets are taking ten steps back when it comes to what they read. I have to wonder: Is the self-image of Black men so poor that all most think they can aspire to is drug dealing, pot smoking, pimping, and being a thug? When did Black women look in the mirror and start seeing a prostitute or a madam? Is the Black Community’s self-esteem so low that it doesn’t see itself as capable of anything but being a criminal?
A long time ago I came to the understanding that what one feeds the mind comes out of the body. As a person thinks, they will act. If the popular black literature is about drugs, crime and all sorts of debauchery today then I shudder to think what will come out of the Black Community in the next 20 years.
There was a Street lit table right next to mine. Those guys writing about gangstas, pimps, drug dealers hoes, hood rats and any other racist stereotype did brisk business with people snapping books up all day. I was deeply saddened; At the fair, it looks like black readers have come back to embrace the racist stereotypes so many fought and died for over a century to dispel with open arms. Malcolm X, Martin Luther King, Paul Robeson, Ralph Ellison, Richard Wright, Lorriane Hanesberry, Dorothy Dandridge, Thurgood Marshall and Michael Jackson are probably all looking down at the Black Masses in disgust and disappointment.
I spent six hours in the hot sun practically ignored by the black reading audience I’ve been wanting to write for since I was 16. My mission back then was to write positive stories about the Black experience. Stories about overcoming the odds, facing adversity and growing into a better person who improved the quality of life for their community. It seems no one wants to read those kinds of stories anymore. In the aftermath of the Harlem Book Fair I have to wonder if the community is committed to change or if its scared of it.
In the aftermath of Electing the First African-American President I wonder if there is any hope for the African-American reader. Instead of taking that step forward with Obama, most young brorhers and sisters on the streets are taking ten steps back when it comes to what they read. I have to wonder: Is the self-image of Black men so poor that all most think they can aspire to is drug dealing, pot smoking, pimping, and being a thug? When did Black women look in the mirror and start seeing a prostitute or a madam? Is the Black Community’s self-esteem so low that it doesn’t see itself as capable of anything but being a criminal?
A long time ago I came to the understanding that what one feeds the mind comes out of the body. As a person thinks, they will act. If the popular black literature is about drugs, crime and all sorts of debauchery today then I shudder to think what will come out of the Black Community in the next 20 years.
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
You can meet Shawn James at:
THE 2009 HARLEM BOOK FAIR
SATURDAY July 18, 2009
135th STREEET AND MALCOLM X BOULEVARD
AT BOOTH R19
FROM 11AM to 5.P.M.
LOOK FOR THE PINK TABLECLOTH!
Shawn will be autographing copies of his books THE CASSANDRA COOKBOOK and ISIS answering questions about writing, print-on-demand publishing and other writing related stuff. Check out sample chapters of his books at www.myspace.com/shawnsjames
THE 2009 HARLEM BOOK FAIR
SATURDAY July 18, 2009
135th STREEET AND MALCOLM X BOULEVARD
AT BOOTH R19
FROM 11AM to 5.P.M.
LOOK FOR THE PINK TABLECLOTH!
Shawn will be autographing copies of his books THE CASSANDRA COOKBOOK and ISIS answering questions about writing, print-on-demand publishing and other writing related stuff. Check out sample chapters of his books at www.myspace.com/shawnsjames
Monday, June 01, 2009
Isis Chapter 1
Isis Chapter 1
I'm posting the first three Chapters of my first novel Isis, a fantasy story that combines Egyptian mythology, and African-American History into an action-packed adventure. I wrote this back in 1999; it was the second novel I completed and the first I self-published in 2002 . I wasn't the greatest editor back then, so if there are any grammatical mistakes, please be understanding about it. I'm posting these chapters so readers can compare and contrast my earlier writing style to that of my recent novel The Cassandra Cookbook
(c) 2002 Shawn James
Chapter1
The blue flames of the lake of fire light my way as I descend into the dark pit of Hell. The sweet smell of brimstone and the harmonic wails of tortured souls put a smile on my face. I miss this place. As a herald I spend most of my time on Earth collecting the souls of the damned and torturing the souls of the righteous. It's a job I enjoy and wish to return to. If I had to stay in that palace one more day I think I would have snapped. There's only so much torment a soul can take.
I cross the lake of fire walking across a bridge of dead men's bones. As I approach the cave of the crocodiles, the great serpent Lord Seth slithers out to greet me. He's anxious to hear what I have to tell him. Ever since the elder gods banished him here, I have been his eyes and ears to the outside world. Without me all he'd know is darkness. Lucky for him, a lot happened during my visit to Heliopolis. Disguised as a servant, I was able to acquire some
valuable information. This time we will finally destroy the gods.
It's been a long time since I've made someone suffer. I take a seat in his throne, cross my legs, and smile at him. He gets back at me by being polite. That's just cruel.
“Greetings E'steem. Have you brought me more souls to torment?”
“I have something better than souls master.”
“What could be better than a soul?”
“Information. I've been in the palace of the gods.”
“There's no way you can enter the palace of Heliopolis-”
“There are ways. Remember my father went into Heliopolis.”
“Your father was slain by Osiris.”
“Do you want to hear what I've learned or do you want to discuss ancient history?”
He scowls at me. “What have you learned?” He barks.
“There has been a trial among the gods. The daughter of Osiris has been banished to the Island of Solitude for crimes against the gods.”
“You lie, I have no niece. My brother's only children are his bastard sons.”
“Oh but you do have a niece. This is the child of Osiris and a Nubian slave whom he sired as concubine. Her name is Isis, the same as her stepmother.”
“I watched my brother for centuries. I would have known if had left Heliopolis.”
“Perhaps not. He might have disguised himself to elude you.”
“What were the charges against her?” Seth digresses.
“She let hatred enter her heart. She betrayed the gods and went to worship another god.”
“I'm sure she was cleared on the latter charge. Osiris would have to punish ten thousand generations of Egyptians for not worshipping the gods.”
“Osiris didn't judge his daughter. Ra and the elder gods passed judgment on her. Remember, Osiris can't try a member of his own family. And you know Ra' s sentences are always harsher than Osiris'.”
“Hold on. If she has let evil into her heart why isn't she here?”
“She hasn't embraced the evil inside her as part of herself as you did. There's still hope that she can be redeemed.”
“Just like the elder gods to show mercy on one of Osiris' bastards. If she were my child she'd be rotting here.”
“What you have told me is of no use to me.” Seth continues. “So my brother has another bastard. I cannot harm a hair on his head.”
“That's where you're wrong.”
“How? I can't leave this place to extract vengeance upon-”
“You can harm Osiris in a way far worse than slicing him to pieces. Now that Osiris is aware of his daughter he will surely want a relationship with the child.”
“True, nobility was always my brother's greatest flaw.”
“Think about it. There are two sides of her family she can embrace. She's halfway here.”
He thinks abut it. “Yes, you're right. Perhaps I can harm my brother this way.”
Seth smiles in anticipation of the execution of my scheme.
“Go ahead with your plan E'steem. Go ahead and bring me the soul of Isis.”
I'm posting the first three Chapters of my first novel Isis, a fantasy story that combines Egyptian mythology, and African-American History into an action-packed adventure. I wrote this back in 1999; it was the second novel I completed and the first I self-published in 2002 . I wasn't the greatest editor back then, so if there are any grammatical mistakes, please be understanding about it. I'm posting these chapters so readers can compare and contrast my earlier writing style to that of my recent novel The Cassandra Cookbook
(c) 2002 Shawn James
Chapter1
The blue flames of the lake of fire light my way as I descend into the dark pit of Hell. The sweet smell of brimstone and the harmonic wails of tortured souls put a smile on my face. I miss this place. As a herald I spend most of my time on Earth collecting the souls of the damned and torturing the souls of the righteous. It's a job I enjoy and wish to return to. If I had to stay in that palace one more day I think I would have snapped. There's only so much torment a soul can take.
I cross the lake of fire walking across a bridge of dead men's bones. As I approach the cave of the crocodiles, the great serpent Lord Seth slithers out to greet me. He's anxious to hear what I have to tell him. Ever since the elder gods banished him here, I have been his eyes and ears to the outside world. Without me all he'd know is darkness. Lucky for him, a lot happened during my visit to Heliopolis. Disguised as a servant, I was able to acquire some
valuable information. This time we will finally destroy the gods.
It's been a long time since I've made someone suffer. I take a seat in his throne, cross my legs, and smile at him. He gets back at me by being polite. That's just cruel.
“Greetings E'steem. Have you brought me more souls to torment?”
“I have something better than souls master.”
“What could be better than a soul?”
“Information. I've been in the palace of the gods.”
“There's no way you can enter the palace of Heliopolis-”
“There are ways. Remember my father went into Heliopolis.”
“Your father was slain by Osiris.”
“Do you want to hear what I've learned or do you want to discuss ancient history?”
He scowls at me. “What have you learned?” He barks.
“There has been a trial among the gods. The daughter of Osiris has been banished to the Island of Solitude for crimes against the gods.”
“You lie, I have no niece. My brother's only children are his bastard sons.”
“Oh but you do have a niece. This is the child of Osiris and a Nubian slave whom he sired as concubine. Her name is Isis, the same as her stepmother.”
“I watched my brother for centuries. I would have known if had left Heliopolis.”
“Perhaps not. He might have disguised himself to elude you.”
“What were the charges against her?” Seth digresses.
“She let hatred enter her heart. She betrayed the gods and went to worship another god.”
“I'm sure she was cleared on the latter charge. Osiris would have to punish ten thousand generations of Egyptians for not worshipping the gods.”
“Osiris didn't judge his daughter. Ra and the elder gods passed judgment on her. Remember, Osiris can't try a member of his own family. And you know Ra' s sentences are always harsher than Osiris'.”
“Hold on. If she has let evil into her heart why isn't she here?”
“She hasn't embraced the evil inside her as part of herself as you did. There's still hope that she can be redeemed.”
“Just like the elder gods to show mercy on one of Osiris' bastards. If she were my child she'd be rotting here.”
“What you have told me is of no use to me.” Seth continues. “So my brother has another bastard. I cannot harm a hair on his head.”
“That's where you're wrong.”
“How? I can't leave this place to extract vengeance upon-”
“You can harm Osiris in a way far worse than slicing him to pieces. Now that Osiris is aware of his daughter he will surely want a relationship with the child.”
“True, nobility was always my brother's greatest flaw.”
“Think about it. There are two sides of her family she can embrace. She's halfway here.”
He thinks abut it. “Yes, you're right. Perhaps I can harm my brother this way.”
Seth smiles in anticipation of the execution of my scheme.
“Go ahead with your plan E'steem. Go ahead and bring me the soul of Isis.”
Isis Chapter 2
Chapter 2
I am a prisoner of the gods.
They say I have hatred in my heart. With all that's transpired in my life these past few years I'm inclined to agree with them. You can't experience what I've been through and even want good inside you. When everyone and everything you love and care about is destroyed all you have left is bitterness and anger.
It probably doesn't sound like much for someone to let hatred enter her heart, except I'm not an ordinary woman. I'm a goddess. We're held to a higher standard than humans; we're not supposed to give into our emotions the way humans do. My mistake was giving into my rage. I wanted to destroy a nation of people because they killed my family. I still do. So to save the world from me and me from myself, the elder gods stripped me of my powers and banished me to an uninhabited island to sort things out.
The elder gods don't call this island a prison. To them, this is an “island of solitude.” It's supposed to be a place where I can think about what I've done and why it was wrong. Personally, I’d rather be imprisoned in a traditional filthy rat-infested jail cell. At least I’d know what to expect. The first day I was here I ran right for the shore to swim off this rock. I wanted to spite the elder gods and show them they had no jurisdiction over me. I quickly learned not to challenge the power of the gods after experiencing their interpretation of iron bars. When I got close to the water, I couldn't see anything, but I felt like I slammed into a wall. A really hard wall. A really really hard wall. Strange thing is I skim rocks on the water all the time. I thought about it later on. It would be foolish to plan an escape by just swimming; where would I go? There's no land for miles. All I can see around me are the deep blue waters of the Pacific. That's when I realized I'm going to be here for a while and I better get used to it.
The elder gods say I won't be allowed to leave this island until I'm redeemed. That's not going to happen any time soon. I have a lot of unresolved affairs I have to take care of before I can even think about getting back in the elder gods good graces. Besides dealing with the death of my family, I just found out my father is Osiris, King of the gods of Heliopolis. King of the cowards is a better way to describe him. It makes me so angry to think about the way he treated me at the trial. He told me he wanted to start a relationship with me after I've been redeemed. I feel that's too little too late; I needed his help yesterday and he won't face me. If this is the way he parents his children I'm beginning to see why Egypt fell.
I'm mad at Osiris for abandoning me, but I don't hate him. He's not so bad; in his own way he
tried to help me before I was banished here. Along with that empty promise to see me, he gave me some parting gifts. The first was a pair of smooth gold gauntlet bracelets. They must be enchanted because I can't take them off no matter how hard I pull at them. They used to feel funny on my wrists, but now I'm getting used to them. He says they'll give me hope. He might be right, every time I look at my reflection in them I feel like I might have a chance of leaving this island.
The second gift was a journal and a pen. Osiris says writing will help me deal with my feelings. I don't know, seeing my emotions written down on paper scared me. I never realized how dangerous my anger was until I saw it staring me in the face. Looking back at what I wrote in my journal when I first came here I've cursed every Heliopolitan deity at least twice and called my mother a few names I wouldn't repeat in church. If I were to say the things I wrote to anyone, I'd regret it for the rest of my life.
Since I've worked through most of my anger and grief, I've been trying to make a life for myself on my new home these past few months. In the beginning it was hard living here; the gods didn't provide me with any amenities. I was banished to this island with the clothes on my back, a short white linen wrap kilt and a crop top. I had to find everything else I needed to survive on the island myself. After several days of exploring, I found food and water. On the fertile land in the center of the island, trees and bushes grow a variety of tropical fruits and vegetables. Oranges, bananas melons, that sort of thing. There's a spring on the South side of the island.
Now that I've been here awhile I've got a routine. Chores keep me busy from sunup to sundown. As soon as I get up, I say my prayers. I know it's strange for a goddess to serve God, but that's my religion. Osiris may be my father but he's not the almighty in my eyes. I've served God for over a thousand years now and I'm not about to stop now. I know he's with me and he'll help me out of this mess.
After I pray, I jot down a few thoughts in my journal. Nowadays I write about the experiences I have on the island. It's not much, just a few paragraphs about what I've done for the day. I usually spend my afternoons gathering fruit and vegetables for my meals and fresh leaves for my bed.
Around sundown I take a bath and try to rest for the next day. I don't get much sleep, most nights I just stare up at the night sky. I'm afraid to sleep because when I dream it's always a nightmare. I keep seeing what happened to my family over and over again. Those memories make me so upset; I'm afraid to face them. I know what I did; I just don't think it was the only reason why I got this evil inside me.
I am a prisoner of the gods.
They say I have hatred in my heart. With all that's transpired in my life these past few years I'm inclined to agree with them. You can't experience what I've been through and even want good inside you. When everyone and everything you love and care about is destroyed all you have left is bitterness and anger.
It probably doesn't sound like much for someone to let hatred enter her heart, except I'm not an ordinary woman. I'm a goddess. We're held to a higher standard than humans; we're not supposed to give into our emotions the way humans do. My mistake was giving into my rage. I wanted to destroy a nation of people because they killed my family. I still do. So to save the world from me and me from myself, the elder gods stripped me of my powers and banished me to an uninhabited island to sort things out.
The elder gods don't call this island a prison. To them, this is an “island of solitude.” It's supposed to be a place where I can think about what I've done and why it was wrong. Personally, I’d rather be imprisoned in a traditional filthy rat-infested jail cell. At least I’d know what to expect. The first day I was here I ran right for the shore to swim off this rock. I wanted to spite the elder gods and show them they had no jurisdiction over me. I quickly learned not to challenge the power of the gods after experiencing their interpretation of iron bars. When I got close to the water, I couldn't see anything, but I felt like I slammed into a wall. A really hard wall. A really really hard wall. Strange thing is I skim rocks on the water all the time. I thought about it later on. It would be foolish to plan an escape by just swimming; where would I go? There's no land for miles. All I can see around me are the deep blue waters of the Pacific. That's when I realized I'm going to be here for a while and I better get used to it.
The elder gods say I won't be allowed to leave this island until I'm redeemed. That's not going to happen any time soon. I have a lot of unresolved affairs I have to take care of before I can even think about getting back in the elder gods good graces. Besides dealing with the death of my family, I just found out my father is Osiris, King of the gods of Heliopolis. King of the cowards is a better way to describe him. It makes me so angry to think about the way he treated me at the trial. He told me he wanted to start a relationship with me after I've been redeemed. I feel that's too little too late; I needed his help yesterday and he won't face me. If this is the way he parents his children I'm beginning to see why Egypt fell.
I'm mad at Osiris for abandoning me, but I don't hate him. He's not so bad; in his own way he
tried to help me before I was banished here. Along with that empty promise to see me, he gave me some parting gifts. The first was a pair of smooth gold gauntlet bracelets. They must be enchanted because I can't take them off no matter how hard I pull at them. They used to feel funny on my wrists, but now I'm getting used to them. He says they'll give me hope. He might be right, every time I look at my reflection in them I feel like I might have a chance of leaving this island.
The second gift was a journal and a pen. Osiris says writing will help me deal with my feelings. I don't know, seeing my emotions written down on paper scared me. I never realized how dangerous my anger was until I saw it staring me in the face. Looking back at what I wrote in my journal when I first came here I've cursed every Heliopolitan deity at least twice and called my mother a few names I wouldn't repeat in church. If I were to say the things I wrote to anyone, I'd regret it for the rest of my life.
Since I've worked through most of my anger and grief, I've been trying to make a life for myself on my new home these past few months. In the beginning it was hard living here; the gods didn't provide me with any amenities. I was banished to this island with the clothes on my back, a short white linen wrap kilt and a crop top. I had to find everything else I needed to survive on the island myself. After several days of exploring, I found food and water. On the fertile land in the center of the island, trees and bushes grow a variety of tropical fruits and vegetables. Oranges, bananas melons, that sort of thing. There's a spring on the South side of the island.
Now that I've been here awhile I've got a routine. Chores keep me busy from sunup to sundown. As soon as I get up, I say my prayers. I know it's strange for a goddess to serve God, but that's my religion. Osiris may be my father but he's not the almighty in my eyes. I've served God for over a thousand years now and I'm not about to stop now. I know he's with me and he'll help me out of this mess.
After I pray, I jot down a few thoughts in my journal. Nowadays I write about the experiences I have on the island. It's not much, just a few paragraphs about what I've done for the day. I usually spend my afternoons gathering fruit and vegetables for my meals and fresh leaves for my bed.
Around sundown I take a bath and try to rest for the next day. I don't get much sleep, most nights I just stare up at the night sky. I'm afraid to sleep because when I dream it's always a nightmare. I keep seeing what happened to my family over and over again. Those memories make me so upset; I'm afraid to face them. I know what I did; I just don't think it was the only reason why I got this evil inside me.
Isis Chapter 3
Chapter 3
I watch Isis from my window as she writes her thoughts in the journal Osiris gave her. I still have reservations about the judgment Ra passed on her. I always felt his sentence was too harsh. She has withdrawn so much in the time since she's been imprisoned. The hatred can only grow inside her if she's left to herself again.
We made a promise to Keer-Sheba an eon ago to look out for her daughter. We haven't kept our word. We left Isis to the reprobate ways of humanity while we gods went about our business. Osiris and the elder gods are foolish to believe that he can have a relationship with Isis after she leaves the island. She'll never leave the island without our guidance.
I leave my bedchamber and head for the hall of judgment. Osiris is there judging the endless stream of souls with the balance and feather of truth. They have waited a long time to be judged, they can wait awhile longer.
“Osiris, I must speak with you. It's important.”
“I am about my business. Can this wait until later?”
“No, this can't wait.”
He takes the feather of truth off the balances. “Isis, what is this about?”
“It's about our daughter. We can't leave her alone again.”
“Ra has passed judgment on her. When the hatred is purged from her soul we will-”
“I know what Ra said. But we can't wait until then. Our daughter has gone on too long without our guidance. She'll never be redeemed without our help.”
“Isis, we're not supposed to interfere. She has to find her own way and we're supposed to go about our business.”
“What's our business Osiris? To advise and protect man. Your daughter is of mortal flesh, worthy of our aid.”
“Those are no longer our duties. Long ago in Egypt yes, but not in these godless times.”
He reaches to put his feather on the balance. I snatch it away from him. He scowls at me. I'm not going to let him do this to our family.
“I never thought you'd be a hypocrite. Who needs more help than our daughter?”
“I'm being practical. There are-”
“You can try the hearts of men but you won't try to face your own child. What kind of judge doesn't obey his own laws?”
“A fair and righteous one.”
“No. A corrupt one, and I know you aren't corrupt. Do you want Isis to be one of these unworthy souls?”
He sighs. He always does when he knows I'm right.
“Send for Horus. Tell him he is to rule in my stead until this affair is taken care of.”
I watch Isis from my window as she writes her thoughts in the journal Osiris gave her. I still have reservations about the judgment Ra passed on her. I always felt his sentence was too harsh. She has withdrawn so much in the time since she's been imprisoned. The hatred can only grow inside her if she's left to herself again.
We made a promise to Keer-Sheba an eon ago to look out for her daughter. We haven't kept our word. We left Isis to the reprobate ways of humanity while we gods went about our business. Osiris and the elder gods are foolish to believe that he can have a relationship with Isis after she leaves the island. She'll never leave the island without our guidance.
I leave my bedchamber and head for the hall of judgment. Osiris is there judging the endless stream of souls with the balance and feather of truth. They have waited a long time to be judged, they can wait awhile longer.
“Osiris, I must speak with you. It's important.”
“I am about my business. Can this wait until later?”
“No, this can't wait.”
He takes the feather of truth off the balances. “Isis, what is this about?”
“It's about our daughter. We can't leave her alone again.”
“Ra has passed judgment on her. When the hatred is purged from her soul we will-”
“I know what Ra said. But we can't wait until then. Our daughter has gone on too long without our guidance. She'll never be redeemed without our help.”
“Isis, we're not supposed to interfere. She has to find her own way and we're supposed to go about our business.”
“What's our business Osiris? To advise and protect man. Your daughter is of mortal flesh, worthy of our aid.”
“Those are no longer our duties. Long ago in Egypt yes, but not in these godless times.”
He reaches to put his feather on the balance. I snatch it away from him. He scowls at me. I'm not going to let him do this to our family.
“I never thought you'd be a hypocrite. Who needs more help than our daughter?”
“I'm being practical. There are-”
“You can try the hearts of men but you won't try to face your own child. What kind of judge doesn't obey his own laws?”
“A fair and righteous one.”
“No. A corrupt one, and I know you aren't corrupt. Do you want Isis to be one of these unworthy souls?”
He sighs. He always does when he knows I'm right.
“Send for Horus. Tell him he is to rule in my stead until this affair is taken care of.”
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
The Cassandra Cookbook Now Available From Shawn James
Now Available From Shawn James
A pinch of hard work.
A dash of determination.
A recipe for success.
Cassandra Lee’s lifelong dream is to take over the downtown Brooklyn bakery with her name on it when her parents retired. Her dream turns into a nightmare near the eve of her wedding when she learns corporate giant ITC Foods has plans for the store and her low down down low fiancé Gerald is caught in the arms of another man.
Cassandra perseveres, acting as her parents’ agent working with ITC rep Simon James to complete the deal. As their professional relationship gets personal, Simon reveals a secret that devastates Cassandra. Sending Cassandra over the edge, Simon must come up with a plan to heal her broken heart and make her dreams come true.
Read the first chapter here
The Cassandra Cookbook Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
Cassandra Lee
Six AM.
Time to make the donuts.
I spring out of bed with a smile on my face and butterflies in my stomach. This morning my parents are meeting with me to discuss Cassandra’s future. I’m tense with anticipation and I’m hoping the news is what I’ve been expecting. They’ve been talking about retiring lately and I think they’re finally going to give me the bakery.
I proudly look up at the series of family portraits displayed on the wall above the dresser before getting a change of underwear out of the top drawer. The first shows me as a fussy toddler in my father’s arms as we stand outside of a small rundown Downtown Brooklyn corner shop in 1974. As Cassandra changes, I grow from a scrawny child into an awkward teenager with huge hair, then into a proud graduate in her white high school cap and gown, to a short haired eager college student in a loose fitting culinary school uniform and finally into a confident woman leading her staff of twenty employees outside a Fulton Mall staple. Today everything they taught me will come full circle.
I choke back tears and march down the hall into the bathroom. After brushing my teeth and taking a quick shower, I streak back into the bedroom to stand in front of the full-length mirror hanging on the closet door. Once I comb my blonde colored boycut hair into place I start taking my size six uniform off the wooden valet standing between the closet and the dresser. I quickly get dressed in a neatly pressed pink broadcloth blouse, khaki twill pencil skirt, nude stockings, shined burgundy loafers, and silver digital watch. When I take the five-carat platinum and diamond engagement ring out of the jewelry tray and slip it on my finger I proudly admire the reflection of the polished professional black woman on the closet door.
Mmmmmmmmm…the sweet spicy aroma of my bakery’s warm cinnamon buns swirl in the air as I step out into the hallway and head downstairs. It looks like Gerald hasn’t left for work yet. I’ll go say good morning to my fiancé.
I walk through the living room and push the white swinging kitchen door open to find my chocolate colored man dressed in his charcoal pinstripe suit, white shirt, and lavender tie. He stands behind the green marble center island counter in front of a half eaten cinnamon bun and cup of coffee typing an e-mail on his Blackberry. Gerald gives me a kiss when I walk up to him; the creamy sugar from the traces of white icing on his lips makes him taste even sweeter.
“Good morning Cassie.” Gerald greets. “I thought this was your day off.”
“It is, but I’m supposed to meet with my parents regarding Cassandra’s future.” I say. “I think they’re going to give me the store.”
“Well, you should finally own Cassandra. It has your name on it.”
“My expansion plans for Cassandra are going to get us a whole new set of customers. The catering service I’m planning is going to be better than the bakery.”
“If they give you the store I’ll invest a little leftover money in it. I think I can persuade the senior partners to hire you to cater some of their events. All the parties they have they can give you some business.”
“Thanks.”
“Did you call the travel agent to confirm the details of our Honeymoon?” Gerald digresses.
It just pops into my head after he mentions it. “Oh-I forgot. I’ll do that today.”
Gerald rolls his eyes. “Cassie…”
“Well, the shop gets hectic. It’s hard for me to get out of there-”
“I’d think our wedding being this Sunday you’d take some time off from work to actually plan it. This is your day more than mine.”
“I know. But I just love baking. It’s in my blood like it was in my father’s blood. You cut me and I probably bleed red icing.”
“As the manager, you can delegate some of that responsibility of yours to your employees. Just something to think about.”
“I’ll take your suggestions under consideration counselor.” I flirt.
Oh no it’s 6:35. I’ve got to get going. “I’m going to see you tonight right?”
“Yeah. We have to go over the seating arrangements for the reception. Again.”
I steal another sweet kiss from Gerald’s lips before rushing out of the kitchen. I dart through the living room over to the small closet in the foyer next to the front door. I slip on my beige trench coat, sling my burgundy leather backpack over my shoulder, then bump the closet door shut with my butt. When I open the front door I smile as I inhale the sweet dew in the morning air from the trees that line the sunlit sidewalk of Pierrepont Street.
Trotting down the gray concrete stairs of the red brick brownstone, I pull the remote keyless entry out of my purse and point it directly at my pink Cadillac Escalade parked out front. After I hear the sharp sound of the alarm disabling, I walk over to the driver’s side door, open it up and ease into the smooth leather seat of the truck. The engine revs confidently as I start it up and pull out of the parking space. Anxiety builds inside me during the twenty-minute drive from the brownstones on the quiet tree-lined streets of Brooklyn Heights down to the busy shops of the Fulton Mall. I take a deep breath to relax myself as I park my truck on Hoyt Street in the spot right outside Cassandra.
I smile as I get out of the truck and see my name written in black script letters on the store’s pink canvas awning. When I open the tall polished glass door and walk onto the busy sales floor most of the regular customers waiting on line smile at me. I smile back at them and say good morning as I make my way through the crowds over to the employee entrance.
As I approach the white sales counter next to the door, I notice a stack of green flyers for Perch near the registers. The new ads for the DUMBO seafood restaurant list different lunch specials than last week. Molly is here. I definitely have to say hi to my girl before I go to work.
I look around the crowd of customers and see Molly’s purple Perch baseball cap across the sales floor by the cake display. The tall trim bronze colored woman waits while one of my workers ties red and white string around each of the six pink hexagon shaped cardboard boxes containing the order of desserts for her restaurant. Her eyes light up when I tug the sleeve of her white chef’s shirt.
“Hey Cassie.” Molly greets.
“Hey girl.” I reply. “Everything in your order the way you wanted it?”
“Yeah. Why you coming into work on your day off? I thought your father was opening up the store.”
“I have a meeting.”
“Work never ends for you.”
“That’s the way it is in the restaurant business. We never rest so the customers won’t rant.”
“I hear you. Running Perch is like that. I’m going over there to wax the floors once I finish up here.”
“Did you and Sara get your bridesmaids’ dresses?” I digress.
“Yeah, we got the ugly pink things.” Molly sighs. “Why they got to be so loud?”
“Well, you’re only going to be wearing it once. Want me to help you carry these to your car?”
“Nah, you don’t have to go out of your way. Michelle, the employee who you graciously pay ten dollars an hour to work for you can continue to help me by carrying these boxes to my car.”
“I’ll see you at the rehearsal Saturday night.” Molly says as Michelle picks up the six pink cardboard boxes and walks towards the front door.
After Molly and Michelle leave the store I walk back over to the sales counter and open the white door next to it marked employees. The wonderful aromas wafting in the air from the fresh baked goods put me in a euphoric state as I gracefully maneuver myself through the maze of baker’s racks, workstations, and mixers in the bustling kitchen. I say good morning to the members of my hardworking crew on the long journey to the front door of my office located just a few yards across from the giant silver baker’s oven in the back of the store. I overhear my parents talking on the other side and check my watch. I’m on time.
I open the white door of my pink painted office and see my parents sitting in front my glass-topped desk with anxious smiles on their faces. My raven haired almond colored Mother is dressed in a neatly pressed uniform just like mine and my gray haired stout brown egg colored Dad is dressed in his clean baker’s white. There’s a white canvas tote bag is under Dad’ s chair. Dad doesn’t usually carry a tote bag to work, so whatever is inside must have something to do with Cassandra’s future. Perhaps it’s the deed to the store.
“Good morning Mom, Dad.” I greet. “What’s up?”
“It’s big news Cassie.” Dad says. “You better sit down.”
I slide into the black leather chair behind my desk as Dad gets up to close the door. When he sits back down my Mom is so eager to share their news she’s about to burst. I try to remain calm.
“ITC FOODS IS GONNA BUY OUR BAKERY!” Mom exclaims giddily.
Hold on- did I hear that right? Did they say they’re selling Cassandra?
I let the words run through my head again and my heart stops. When it starts beating again I catch the smiles on my parents’ faces. THEY’RE SELLING CASSANDRA!
No- I’ve got to convince them that this is wrong. Ever since I was five years old I knew they built this bakery for me to take over when I got older. They wouldn’t have put my name on it and taught me everything they knew about baking if they were planning to sell it out from under me.
“When did they make us an offer?” I ask nervously.
“One of their guys called us a month ago while you were out at lunch.” Dad says. “He asked for a rundown of the business. Now a big corporation doesn’t do that unless they want to buy you out.”
“Did you send them anything?” I ask.
“I sent them everything.” Dad says smiling.
Oh God.
“They sent us a proposal saying they want to turn our cakes and pies into a brand!” Mom exclaims. “We gonna be like Entenmann’s. Our stuff is gonna be in the supermarkets!”
“You guys should have talked to me about this before you did anything.” I sigh.
“What’s to talk about?” Dad says. “When a big company offers to buy you out, you take the money.”
Take the money-I can’t believe how shortsighted they are. “Dad, they could be thinking about setting up shop and pushing us out of business. Big companies do that all the time. They get your information and then use it against you to put you out of business.”
“Cassie, that’s not the case.” Mom says. “ITC already has products like ours in stores. Now they probably want to use our recipes to make some of those products. I wouldn’t mind seeing a box of our cookies on a store shelf.”
The more I listen to my parents talk the more my heart breaks. Perhaps if I tell them about my dreams they’ll change their minds. “Mom we’re making money. We don’t need ITC to sell our products for us. I’m doing that for you.”
“Cassie, you’re getting married.” Mom continues. “You don’t need the burden of running the store in addition to taking care of Gerald-”
“Mom, it’s not a burden to me. I wanted the business.”
“Focus on your wedding baby.” Dad says. “Your life is going to change in a couple of weeks.”
“The store is as much my life as Gerald is. I thought you opened it up for me to have when I got older.”
“Cassandra was our life.” Dad continues. “We opened it up so we could take care of you. Now you’re grown and you deserve to have something of your own. With the money we get from ITC you could open up a better Cassandra in the city.”
“Why would I want to open another store someplace else? Cassandra’s customers are here. I mean I practically grew up here. This place is like my home-”
“Come on Cassie, you can do a lot better than this old place. Everything you’ve done here shows me you have what it takes to run one of those really swanky downtown coffee houses with the books and the sofas in them.”
Commuting into Manhattan and being just another baker in some tiny high-rent Upper West Side storefront selling overpriced coffee, bagels, muffins and cinnamon rolls is not my vision of a successful future. My vision of success is building on our thirty-year legacy of sharing Cassandra’s lovingly crafted baked goods with the people of Brooklyn who appreciate our products. I’ll try to explain what I want to do.
“The way I see it our business can still take care of us all. That’s why I went to culinary school and double majored in pastry arts and restaurant management. I wanted to take over the business. I want to continue selling our products here to our customers and share the profits with you.”
“We never wanted you to stay here.” Mom says shaking her head. “We wanted you to have a better life than this. You can do so much better than us.”
“Well this is the life I want for myself.” I say. “I have plans for expanding Cassandra-”
Dad shakes his head no. “Cassie, we want to sell the store to ITC. It’s too big a break to let pass.”
“Dad let me do this.” I plead. “Let me have my bakery. My name is on it. How much to buy you out? I’ve got some money saved up-”
My father laughs at me. “How are you going to pay for your wedding then?”
I glare at him. “You’re paying for my wedding. My savings and the loan I get from the bank will be more than enough money to retire on.”
“Cassie, I know you want to do right by us.” Mom says. “But this deal could be for some real money. For what ITC is probably gonna offer us for this place we can pay off the mortgage and get a house in Florida.”
I look to my father for support and realize how alone I am. “I want a Lexus to go in the driveway myself.” He chimes.
I fight back the tears in my eyes. I don’t know what’s worse having my dream taken away from me or finding out my parents who raised me right are just as greedy as everyone else when some anonymous corporation glances at them with promises of a truckload of money. I hate seeing human nature manifest itself in the people that I love. I thought they were better than that.
Since they want to sell I’m going to be a good daughter and honor my parents’ wishes. I’ll oversee the selling of the store so those fast talking suits at ITC won’t cheat them in the deal.
“If you want to sell the store let me represent you.” I sigh. “These suits can be shifty.”
“Cassie this isn’t like running the store.” Mom chides. “These are big businesspeople. You don’t have the experience working with corporations-”
“I can do this Mom.” I insist.
“Cassie can do this Helen.” Dad interjects.
“Carlton-”
“Cassie’s been to college. She knows more than we do about business.” Dad says. “With her college education I know she can get us a better deal than we could get on our own.”
Dad pulls a black binder out of the canvas tote bag sitting underneath his chair and puts it on the desk. “This is the proposal the ITC guy sent us a couple of weeks ago. You can look it over.”
“Okay. I’ll get right on it.” I say.
As my parents get up to leave the office, I hide my sadness with a fake smile. When the door closes I somberly open up the black binder and start trying to read ITC’s proposal detailing their plans for my future.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Brand name dropping leads to a generic reading experience
Manolo Blahnik.
Jimmy Choo.
Prada
Gucci.
Bergdorf Goodman.
That’s the only time you’ll ever see those designer names featured as the subject in my writing.
A lot of writers think adding the names of designers in their stories will make their writing trendy and hip. However, smart readers see through this gimmick and know it’s just another example of really bad writing.
Using designer brand names to describe what a character is wearing isn’t creative writing, it’s what a lazy writer does to avoid writing details in a story. It’s easier for a bad writer to describe a character wearing an navy Armani suit and tan Manolo Blahnik sandals than to describe them wearing a tailored navy double-breasted Italian business suit, crisp ivory cotton blouse and Bone colored Italian leather strappy sandals.
What’s the difference between the two descriptions? It’s in the readers’ imagination. In one description the reader sees the labels the character is wearing but learns next to nothing about them as a person. The opportunity to develop the character is lost.
However, the more detailed description seems vague on paper, but readers have a clearer picture of who the character is as a person in their minds. The words tailored and crisp give the reader an image of the character being a well-dressed person. These adjectives tell the reader something about who the character is, what they are what they’re doing and why they’re doing it.
Without the labels getting in the way readers can make their own story regarding the character. And in a novel, it’s the story the reader creates reading between the lines that makes what’s on the page important.
Personally I hate name-dropping and do my best to avoid it in my stories. I feel it cheats the reader out of an opportunity to use their imagination. I don’t want my readers to have their reading experience constantly interrupted by a commercial. Besides, these designers aren’t paying me royalties, so why should I give them a free endorsement?
Jimmy Choo.
Prada
Gucci.
Bergdorf Goodman.
That’s the only time you’ll ever see those designer names featured as the subject in my writing.
A lot of writers think adding the names of designers in their stories will make their writing trendy and hip. However, smart readers see through this gimmick and know it’s just another example of really bad writing.
Using designer brand names to describe what a character is wearing isn’t creative writing, it’s what a lazy writer does to avoid writing details in a story. It’s easier for a bad writer to describe a character wearing an navy Armani suit and tan Manolo Blahnik sandals than to describe them wearing a tailored navy double-breasted Italian business suit, crisp ivory cotton blouse and Bone colored Italian leather strappy sandals.
What’s the difference between the two descriptions? It’s in the readers’ imagination. In one description the reader sees the labels the character is wearing but learns next to nothing about them as a person. The opportunity to develop the character is lost.
However, the more detailed description seems vague on paper, but readers have a clearer picture of who the character is as a person in their minds. The words tailored and crisp give the reader an image of the character being a well-dressed person. These adjectives tell the reader something about who the character is, what they are what they’re doing and why they’re doing it.
Without the labels getting in the way readers can make their own story regarding the character. And in a novel, it’s the story the reader creates reading between the lines that makes what’s on the page important.
Personally I hate name-dropping and do my best to avoid it in my stories. I feel it cheats the reader out of an opportunity to use their imagination. I don’t want my readers to have their reading experience constantly interrupted by a commercial. Besides, these designers aren’t paying me royalties, so why should I give them a free endorsement?
Monday, June 16, 2008
The New Jack Bum
Ladies and Gentlemen: the face of poverty has changed.
The next individual to beg you for a dollar ore a quarter won’t be a disheveled person down on their luck the media portrays. They won’t be a poor mother looking for money to feed her kids. They’ll be young spoiled and Black.
I’ve had the misfortune of running into people wearing $1000 leather jackets, $200 sneakers $250 jeans, Bling, Bling, necklaces, watches, gold and all types of jewelry walking up to me to ask for a quarter or something to eat. Mostly they’re young Black or Latino Males, and the occasional female of color . Usually they start out with some sad story about coming out of jail, being put outdoors by their woman, coming out of the hospital before they ask for cash. Some of the more brazen ones just roll up on me and ask for cash. One brought his son with him to solicit in a supermarket. Who the hell is raising these people?
I don’t want to hear any explanations. Since when did it become okay to for an able bodied person who is dressed better than me and has no job to walk up to me and ask for money? What entitles them to my money? What happened to THEIR money? The cash they were supposed to pay for food, transportation, rent and light and gas? Oh wait, they spent it on those fly sneakers that Bling and the latest gear.
No, I don’t have it. Not for a bunch of spoiled little brats with an over exaggerated sense of entitlement. You want something to eat? Hock that gold around your neck or those diamonds on your wrist. You want a ride on the Bus? Sell that $1000 Pelle Pelle jacket or those $200 sneakers or use that cell phone you love to yak it up on to call a cab Don’t ask me for my money when yours is burning a hole through your pocket. You want money? GET A JOB.
Why do these new age bums offend me? Seven years ago I worked with the homeless population. I met people with nothing and less than nothing. I grew up poor on Section 8 and welfare. I struggled through seven years of unemployment. I’ve been poor and Black. I know what it is to do without; I haven’t bought a new anything since 2001. If it weren’t for Christmas and birthday gifts I wouldn’t have anything. It makes my blood boil to hear some spoiled brat in the latest panhandling when they have a home and enough money to buy designer clothes, sneakers and jewelry. I’m sure they have other words for people who sponge off people and make no efforts to work towards making their own living. Call them Hustlers, gangstas, pimps, ballers, thugs, rappers, Artists, poets, musicians writers: But in my book if they walk like a bum, talk like a bum then well, they’re a BUM.
Here’s my message to today’s new age bum: Life is a struggle. I’m not suffering and neither are you. Get up off your ass and do something.
The next individual to beg you for a dollar ore a quarter won’t be a disheveled person down on their luck the media portrays. They won’t be a poor mother looking for money to feed her kids. They’ll be young spoiled and Black.
I’ve had the misfortune of running into people wearing $1000 leather jackets, $200 sneakers $250 jeans, Bling, Bling, necklaces, watches, gold and all types of jewelry walking up to me to ask for a quarter or something to eat. Mostly they’re young Black or Latino Males, and the occasional female of color . Usually they start out with some sad story about coming out of jail, being put outdoors by their woman, coming out of the hospital before they ask for cash. Some of the more brazen ones just roll up on me and ask for cash. One brought his son with him to solicit in a supermarket. Who the hell is raising these people?
I don’t want to hear any explanations. Since when did it become okay to for an able bodied person who is dressed better than me and has no job to walk up to me and ask for money? What entitles them to my money? What happened to THEIR money? The cash they were supposed to pay for food, transportation, rent and light and gas? Oh wait, they spent it on those fly sneakers that Bling and the latest gear.
No, I don’t have it. Not for a bunch of spoiled little brats with an over exaggerated sense of entitlement. You want something to eat? Hock that gold around your neck or those diamonds on your wrist. You want a ride on the Bus? Sell that $1000 Pelle Pelle jacket or those $200 sneakers or use that cell phone you love to yak it up on to call a cab Don’t ask me for my money when yours is burning a hole through your pocket. You want money? GET A JOB.
Why do these new age bums offend me? Seven years ago I worked with the homeless population. I met people with nothing and less than nothing. I grew up poor on Section 8 and welfare. I struggled through seven years of unemployment. I’ve been poor and Black. I know what it is to do without; I haven’t bought a new anything since 2001. If it weren’t for Christmas and birthday gifts I wouldn’t have anything. It makes my blood boil to hear some spoiled brat in the latest panhandling when they have a home and enough money to buy designer clothes, sneakers and jewelry. I’m sure they have other words for people who sponge off people and make no efforts to work towards making their own living. Call them Hustlers, gangstas, pimps, ballers, thugs, rappers, Artists, poets, musicians writers: But in my book if they walk like a bum, talk like a bum then well, they’re a BUM.
Here’s my message to today’s new age bum: Life is a struggle. I’m not suffering and neither are you. Get up off your ass and do something.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Progress Report
Hey, everyone I'm back with another progress report.
Since I last left you a year ago (See R.I.P Dell inspiron 2500) I've been busy. Revisions, Rewrites, Reworkings. The usual writing stuff.
I'm moving over to shawnsjames.blogspot.com it's a little easier to type and easier to remember. I'll still keep this site up and cut and paste articles from there over here. All the old articles will remain here.
Later,
Shawn
Since I last left you a year ago (See R.I.P Dell inspiron 2500) I've been busy. Revisions, Rewrites, Reworkings. The usual writing stuff.
I'm moving over to shawnsjames.blogspot.com it's a little easier to type and easier to remember. I'll still keep this site up and cut and paste articles from there over here. All the old articles will remain here.
Later,
Shawn
Saturday, September 22, 2007
R.I.P Dell Inspioron 2500
R.I.P Dell Inspiron 2500
A Posthumous Eulogy for my dearly departed laptop computer. I'm writing this from a library computer
Around Late June early July, My six year old Dell Inspiron Laptop bit the dust and went to the cyber graveyard. A fried motherboard was the cause of death.
Good times I had with that computer. Lots of Good times Writing novels, screenplays, short stories, movie reviews and blog posts, DVDs on Saturday night and Mp3s.
Due to the loss of my computer I’m out of the writing game for a while. Cooling my heels until I can save up money for a replacement unit. How Long? Not Long. I hope to be back soon ,making posts and promoting POD books.
R.I.P Dell Inspiron 2500 You will be missed.
Now if someone would give me some info on how to get the information off the hard drive it would be greatly appreciated....
A Posthumous Eulogy for my dearly departed laptop computer. I'm writing this from a library computer
Around Late June early July, My six year old Dell Inspiron Laptop bit the dust and went to the cyber graveyard. A fried motherboard was the cause of death.
Good times I had with that computer. Lots of Good times Writing novels, screenplays, short stories, movie reviews and blog posts, DVDs on Saturday night and Mp3s.
Due to the loss of my computer I’m out of the writing game for a while. Cooling my heels until I can save up money for a replacement unit. How Long? Not Long. I hope to be back soon ,making posts and promoting POD books.
R.I.P Dell Inspiron 2500 You will be missed.
Now if someone would give me some info on how to get the information off the hard drive it would be greatly appreciated....
Thursday, May 10, 2007
I have recieved word from my publisher that on July 1, 2007 my book Isis will be going out of print after a five-year run. Anyone who wishes to pick up a copy before it's pulled from the Ingram distribution system can purchase one at the following websites:
Amazon.com
Barnes and Noble.com
Or directly from the publisher at virtualbookworm.com:
Synopsis (From the back cover:
A lost goddess.
A heritage found.
A greater destiny to be achieved.
In the aftermath of a horrible tragedy, Isis the long-lost daughter of Osiris, has committed a heinous crime. Because she didn't receive guidance from her father, the elder gods show mercy on the young goddess by stripping her of her powers and imprisoning her on an uncharted island in the South Pacific.
Osiris and Isis reunite with his long-lost child to begin the difficult process of establishing a familial relationship. Hoping to guide Isis towards the greater destiny she's supposed to fulfill, her parents begin teaching her the ways of the gods. However, Seth's herald E'steem lurks in the shadows offering the young goddess freedom for a price. Caught in the middle of a never-ending war between the gods, Isis must choose to either return to the troubled world she knows all too well, or take a journey down an unknown path where faith is her only guide.
Biography (as of 2007):
Shawn James is a graduate of Monroe College with an AOS in Business Administration and over twelve years of writing experience. He has written articles for The Visionary: News of Morrisania, and the STRIVE Network News newsletter in addition to two community resource directories for the national nonprft employment service. Motivated by his strong interest in Egyptian Mythology and improving his community, he decided to write a novel where the legendary gods explored many of the issues African-American families faced in modern times.
I'd like to thank everyone who bought the book for their support over these past five years. I've learned a lot about the publishing business since then and I'm working hard towards getting a new title out there as soon as possible.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Has Russell Simmons Lost his mind?
I just was watching the Oprah Winfrey Show where Black leadership discussed the whole Imus controversy. In defending the misogyny and sexism in modern day Hip-Hop, Rap mogul Russell Simmons made the following statement: “Rappers did more for race relations than the current Black Leadership has done in years.” This statement to me was more offensive than Imus calling The Rutgers team “nappy headed hos.” It shows how much Mr. Simmons and his hip-hop associates are out of touch with the Black community.
Granted I have my issues with Black political activists and pundits, but Simmons’ statement about Rappers and race relations is pure hubris. If it weren’t for Black leadership working on race relations over the past forty years there wouldn’t be a Rap industry these past twenty-five years. In the context of things, if it weren’t for all the protesting by Black leaders like Jesse Jackson and the late Shirley Chisholm for affirmative action programs, there wouldn’t be any Black employees in TV, radio, movies or the recording industry. Without those Black executives, managers, writers, directors, and producers working behind the scenes over the years Rappers wouldn’t have access to the worldwide audiences they exploit today.
What Mr. Simmons has forgotten is Black leadership isn’t just the NAACP or Al Sharpton. Black leadership is the network of Brothers and Sisters who helped him establish the forum for Rap music twenty-five years ago. His ungrateful statement was a slap in the face to everyone who worked hard over two decades to turn rap music from a local “thang” into a multibillion-dollar international industry.
Black leaders are reporters for Black-owned newspapers like the Amsterdam News who covered the early days of hip-hop when papers like the Times and the New York Daily News didn’t have time. They were people like Gil Noble and Bill McCreary who granted interviews on their local TV shows when most mainstream talk shows blew them off.
Black leaders are the publishers of magazines like Right on!, Word Up! and Black Beat that offered ad space for Rap albums and granted promotional interviews and reviews when mainstream magazines like Rolling Stone and Spin tossed tapes from rap record labels in the trash. Before the Source, these magazines were the Source for information on Rap and Hip-Hop.
Black leaders are businesspeople like Shikulu Shange who own small independent record stores like the Record Shack and the owners of the now defunct Rainbow Records in Harlem that distributed and sold Rap albums when the big chains like Tower and Sam Goody at the time wouldn’t think of stocking Rap records on their shelves.
Black leaders are the Program Directors small independent Black owned radio stations like WBLS and WRKS back in the day that gave Rap albums airplay when top rated mainstream stations like Z100 and WPLJ were playing top 40 exclusively.
Black leaders are people like VJ Ralph McDaniels who created and produced Video Music Box for PBS here in New York. Without his show, Rap videos wouldn’t have had any exposure in a major media market during the 80’s. Outside of Manhattan there was no MTV or BET; the outer boroughs weren’t even wired for cable.
Black leaders are producers like Don Cornelius whose Soul Train gave Rap stars a place to perform in front of a national TV audience back in the 80’s when they couldn’t get their videos played on broadcast shows like Friday Night Videos and New York Tracks.
Black leaders are struggling directors Spike Lee, Keenan Ivory Wayans and Robert Townsend who put Rap songs on their low-budget movie soundtracks and gave regional artists national exposure.
Seems like Black leadership has done a lot for race relations that Mr. Simmons takes for granted. The hard work of all the faceless Black employees working together towards expanding media markets for Black audiences over the years took a lot of planning, organization, courage, tenacity and risk. Each of these individuals understood they were links in a greater chain that protected and supported the whole Black community. Each knew their work was important towards maintaining the network that provides Blacks with a forum Mr. Simmons and his hip-hop associates currently exploit. Without the network of black leaders working hard in the background to keep the dialogue open about race relations in the business world, he wouldn’t be in the foreground to manage a multi-million dollar empire like Phat Farm.
Mr. Simmons needs to take a look back and do some self-reflection. He needs to take a look at Krush Groove, the low-budget feature that detailed his struggle to the top. The movie details how the mainstream producers and big-shot executives that he defends today so vigorously wouldn’t give him a break twenty-five years ago. In the film and in real life those same executives said this “Rap” thing wouldn’t sell back then. They told America it was just a passing “fad”. I remember reading stories of how most hip-hop producers back then had to beg, borrow, and steal to afford the studio time. When aspiring rap stars performed in hot sweaty clubs, house parties, and auditoriums. When producers promoted their rap stars by distributing flyers in Black-owned barbershops and hair salons. When they promoted new album releases by sticking flyers to lampposts and mailboxes in Black neighborhoods.
I don’t know whom Russell Simmons and his hip-hop associates define as Black leadership, but all those people meet the definition of a Black leader to me.
Granted I have my issues with Black political activists and pundits, but Simmons’ statement about Rappers and race relations is pure hubris. If it weren’t for Black leadership working on race relations over the past forty years there wouldn’t be a Rap industry these past twenty-five years. In the context of things, if it weren’t for all the protesting by Black leaders like Jesse Jackson and the late Shirley Chisholm for affirmative action programs, there wouldn’t be any Black employees in TV, radio, movies or the recording industry. Without those Black executives, managers, writers, directors, and producers working behind the scenes over the years Rappers wouldn’t have access to the worldwide audiences they exploit today.
What Mr. Simmons has forgotten is Black leadership isn’t just the NAACP or Al Sharpton. Black leadership is the network of Brothers and Sisters who helped him establish the forum for Rap music twenty-five years ago. His ungrateful statement was a slap in the face to everyone who worked hard over two decades to turn rap music from a local “thang” into a multibillion-dollar international industry.
Black leaders are reporters for Black-owned newspapers like the Amsterdam News who covered the early days of hip-hop when papers like the Times and the New York Daily News didn’t have time. They were people like Gil Noble and Bill McCreary who granted interviews on their local TV shows when most mainstream talk shows blew them off.
Black leaders are the publishers of magazines like Right on!, Word Up! and Black Beat that offered ad space for Rap albums and granted promotional interviews and reviews when mainstream magazines like Rolling Stone and Spin tossed tapes from rap record labels in the trash. Before the Source, these magazines were the Source for information on Rap and Hip-Hop.
Black leaders are businesspeople like Shikulu Shange who own small independent record stores like the Record Shack and the owners of the now defunct Rainbow Records in Harlem that distributed and sold Rap albums when the big chains like Tower and Sam Goody at the time wouldn’t think of stocking Rap records on their shelves.
Black leaders are the Program Directors small independent Black owned radio stations like WBLS and WRKS back in the day that gave Rap albums airplay when top rated mainstream stations like Z100 and WPLJ were playing top 40 exclusively.
Black leaders are people like VJ Ralph McDaniels who created and produced Video Music Box for PBS here in New York. Without his show, Rap videos wouldn’t have had any exposure in a major media market during the 80’s. Outside of Manhattan there was no MTV or BET; the outer boroughs weren’t even wired for cable.
Black leaders are producers like Don Cornelius whose Soul Train gave Rap stars a place to perform in front of a national TV audience back in the 80’s when they couldn’t get their videos played on broadcast shows like Friday Night Videos and New York Tracks.
Black leaders are struggling directors Spike Lee, Keenan Ivory Wayans and Robert Townsend who put Rap songs on their low-budget movie soundtracks and gave regional artists national exposure.
Seems like Black leadership has done a lot for race relations that Mr. Simmons takes for granted. The hard work of all the faceless Black employees working together towards expanding media markets for Black audiences over the years took a lot of planning, organization, courage, tenacity and risk. Each of these individuals understood they were links in a greater chain that protected and supported the whole Black community. Each knew their work was important towards maintaining the network that provides Blacks with a forum Mr. Simmons and his hip-hop associates currently exploit. Without the network of black leaders working hard in the background to keep the dialogue open about race relations in the business world, he wouldn’t be in the foreground to manage a multi-million dollar empire like Phat Farm.
Mr. Simmons needs to take a look back and do some self-reflection. He needs to take a look at Krush Groove, the low-budget feature that detailed his struggle to the top. The movie details how the mainstream producers and big-shot executives that he defends today so vigorously wouldn’t give him a break twenty-five years ago. In the film and in real life those same executives said this “Rap” thing wouldn’t sell back then. They told America it was just a passing “fad”. I remember reading stories of how most hip-hop producers back then had to beg, borrow, and steal to afford the studio time. When aspiring rap stars performed in hot sweaty clubs, house parties, and auditoriums. When producers promoted their rap stars by distributing flyers in Black-owned barbershops and hair salons. When they promoted new album releases by sticking flyers to lampposts and mailboxes in Black neighborhoods.
I don’t know whom Russell Simmons and his hip-hop associates define as Black leadership, but all those people meet the definition of a Black leader to me.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Some Thoughts on the Imus Controversy
There’s a lot of heat over Radio personality Don Imus calling members of the Rutgers Women’s basketball team “Nappy Headed Hos”. Some want him fired, Others want his head. I want Black America to wake up. Imus isn’t the problem here. We are.
Yes, that’s right Imus isn’t the problem here. He’s merely a symptom of a decades long issue Black America doesn’t want to face: The Mainstreaming and Institutionalization of misogyny and self-racism in Black America. Way before Imus or Michael Richards called Blacks Nappy headed hoes and Niggers we called ourselves Niggers and Nappy headed hoes in books, movies, and music videos and songs.
How did this happen? A cultural revolution of sorts. In the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s the older generation of Blacks whether out of pride or shame didn’t teach the younger generation of Blacks about Institutional Racism, how racism is deeply embedded and interwoven in the culture of America. As Blacks became college educated and more economically upwardly mobile, they began to blindly assimilate mainstream American values, not understanding how detrimental this way of thinking is to our community.
Thanks to this way of thinking, Blacks began to see themselves as individuals and not members of a collective minority. Because Blacks began to see themselves this way, we had little regard for our fellow brothers and sisters in the community. We couldn’t understand how our singular actions affected the entire community as a whole.
As a result of this individualized thinking, Blacks stopped seeing themselves as a singular community but enclaves of subcultures. We separated ourselves into populations of Black Elites, Black Bourgeoisie, Alphas, Intellectuals, Gangstas, Thugs, Hustlers, Pimps, Toms, Players, Macks, Scrubs Down Lows, Sistas, Sisters, and dare I say Hoes and Bitches. Each individual sub-culture is fighting the other to establish itself as the legitimate mainstream Black American culture and not seeing themselves as a part of a larger group. Each group refuses to see how its individual actions affect the entire black community. Moreover, we individuals refuse to take responsibility for educating the other parts of the community on its role in the larger picture of Black society. Divide and conquer.
Unfortunately, Blacks who adopted this segmented way of thinking today do not understand the catch-22 of Institutional Racism on the overall American culture. All Blacks in America are judged by the actions of some individuals in our group. When a Black male calls a black woman a “nappy headed ho” or a “Nigger” in mainstream media, it legitimizes the use of racial slurs in the overall American culture. When Black female entertainers openly promote themselves as sexually promiscuous it legitimizes the image of the “Nappy headed ho” as the standard for all black women to all of America. These actions not only make it justifiable for blacks to call a black woman a “nappy headed ho” but members of other races Like Mr. Imus and Mr. Richards to call our women “nappy headed ho” and to call our men “Niggers”.
Black America needs to wake up. If our community is to grow in consciousness and awareness, we can’t keep reacting to the Don Imus’ every time they make a comment. Reacting to the racists doesn’t change the response we receive from the institutions that promote self-destructive images in our communities. We have to start educating the younger generation about the overall Black culture we live in so they can have an understanding of their role in fighting the racism within the greater American society.
Yes, that’s right Imus isn’t the problem here. He’s merely a symptom of a decades long issue Black America doesn’t want to face: The Mainstreaming and Institutionalization of misogyny and self-racism in Black America. Way before Imus or Michael Richards called Blacks Nappy headed hoes and Niggers we called ourselves Niggers and Nappy headed hoes in books, movies, and music videos and songs.
How did this happen? A cultural revolution of sorts. In the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s the older generation of Blacks whether out of pride or shame didn’t teach the younger generation of Blacks about Institutional Racism, how racism is deeply embedded and interwoven in the culture of America. As Blacks became college educated and more economically upwardly mobile, they began to blindly assimilate mainstream American values, not understanding how detrimental this way of thinking is to our community.
Thanks to this way of thinking, Blacks began to see themselves as individuals and not members of a collective minority. Because Blacks began to see themselves this way, we had little regard for our fellow brothers and sisters in the community. We couldn’t understand how our singular actions affected the entire community as a whole.
As a result of this individualized thinking, Blacks stopped seeing themselves as a singular community but enclaves of subcultures. We separated ourselves into populations of Black Elites, Black Bourgeoisie, Alphas, Intellectuals, Gangstas, Thugs, Hustlers, Pimps, Toms, Players, Macks, Scrubs Down Lows, Sistas, Sisters, and dare I say Hoes and Bitches. Each individual sub-culture is fighting the other to establish itself as the legitimate mainstream Black American culture and not seeing themselves as a part of a larger group. Each group refuses to see how its individual actions affect the entire black community. Moreover, we individuals refuse to take responsibility for educating the other parts of the community on its role in the larger picture of Black society. Divide and conquer.
Unfortunately, Blacks who adopted this segmented way of thinking today do not understand the catch-22 of Institutional Racism on the overall American culture. All Blacks in America are judged by the actions of some individuals in our group. When a Black male calls a black woman a “nappy headed ho” or a “Nigger” in mainstream media, it legitimizes the use of racial slurs in the overall American culture. When Black female entertainers openly promote themselves as sexually promiscuous it legitimizes the image of the “Nappy headed ho” as the standard for all black women to all of America. These actions not only make it justifiable for blacks to call a black woman a “nappy headed ho” but members of other races Like Mr. Imus and Mr. Richards to call our women “nappy headed ho” and to call our men “Niggers”.
Black America needs to wake up. If our community is to grow in consciousness and awareness, we can’t keep reacting to the Don Imus’ every time they make a comment. Reacting to the racists doesn’t change the response we receive from the institutions that promote self-destructive images in our communities. We have to start educating the younger generation about the overall Black culture we live in so they can have an understanding of their role in fighting the racism within the greater American society.
Separate is equal in the African-American section of the Bookstore.
Recently I heard some Black leaders complaining about the African-American section of the bookstore. They stated having a separate shelf space for African-American titles is a form of discrimination. Some called for an integration of the African-American section titles with all the other mainstream titles. In this case, I have to disagree with Black leadership. When it comes to the sales of Black books, separate and equal are good business practices for all.
Last year publishers produced over 172,500 new titles. This is down from 185,000 new titles published the previous year. From a customer’s perspective, searching for a single title in a bookstore during a lunch break can be frustrating. Even with the help of an experienced sales clerk, it can be difficult for a customer to find that one title in some of the smaller bookstores let alone the multileveled superstores. Bookstore managers know time is money, and each second a customer can’t find a product on a shelf the clock is ticking on a sale.
So managers of small bookstores and large chains like Barnes and Noble and Borders separated the African-American section from the mainstream literature. This was to help customers find titles faster and get their purchases processed. Managers understood that most customers didn’t have the time to search the shelves. Customers wanted to make their purchases quickly.
So is it racist for retailers to separate books by African-American authors from the rest of the mainstream titles? No. The African-American section is extremely profitable for publishers and bookstores. It moves titles off the shelves and into reader’s hands. Finding a title in the African-American section is a lot easier for a first time customer than searching the entire store by the author’s last name first.
Those who call for the integration of the African-American section of the bookstore don’t understand the retail side of the publishing business. Most bookstores, even the big chains like Barnes and Noble and Borders operate on a razor thin profit margin. Ninety percent of all new titles published in the calendar year will not sell enough copies to make a profit for the publisher or the bookstore. Retailers welcome any change in the sales floor that allows them to target niche audiences of customers. For them, separate sections for Black literature equals more profits overall.
I’ll give you two examples of the why a separate African-American book section is equal: Here in New York there were two Barnes and Noble stores. One was in the Manhattan Mall. Another was on 34th and Seventh. When both stores had their African-American Fiction and non-fiction titles separated from the “mainstream” titles they had lots of foot traffic and lots of sales. I’d watch as Black women frequently made their purchases from the African-American section. However when management of both stores integrated the African American authors in each store with the other mainstream titles last name first, I noticed foot traffic at the store dropped off dramatically and sales plummeted. Why? It just took too much time for customers to find a title.
In each case of title integration I saw, it was a disaster. First the Barnes and Nobles on 34th and Seventh closed. Then the store in the Manhattan Mall closed. A few years later A Barnes and Noble opened on 38th and Fifth. This store also integrated its African-American titles with the mainstream ones. It closed within two years.
While these bookstores were closing, street vendors all over the city were selling African-American titles exclusively. To the chagrin of brick-and mortar retailers, they had titles by African-American authors on their tables ready for purchase. On top of it they offered discounts in some cases the equal of retailers. Because customers could quickly make their purchases, many readers of African-American literature now do business exclusively with book vendors and not bookstores.
So while integrating Black authors with mainstream titles might be politically correct, it’s just not profitable. Separate shelf space equals access to mainstream bookstores for African American authors and equals more sales of books to readers.
Last year publishers produced over 172,500 new titles. This is down from 185,000 new titles published the previous year. From a customer’s perspective, searching for a single title in a bookstore during a lunch break can be frustrating. Even with the help of an experienced sales clerk, it can be difficult for a customer to find that one title in some of the smaller bookstores let alone the multileveled superstores. Bookstore managers know time is money, and each second a customer can’t find a product on a shelf the clock is ticking on a sale.
So managers of small bookstores and large chains like Barnes and Noble and Borders separated the African-American section from the mainstream literature. This was to help customers find titles faster and get their purchases processed. Managers understood that most customers didn’t have the time to search the shelves. Customers wanted to make their purchases quickly.
So is it racist for retailers to separate books by African-American authors from the rest of the mainstream titles? No. The African-American section is extremely profitable for publishers and bookstores. It moves titles off the shelves and into reader’s hands. Finding a title in the African-American section is a lot easier for a first time customer than searching the entire store by the author’s last name first.
Those who call for the integration of the African-American section of the bookstore don’t understand the retail side of the publishing business. Most bookstores, even the big chains like Barnes and Noble and Borders operate on a razor thin profit margin. Ninety percent of all new titles published in the calendar year will not sell enough copies to make a profit for the publisher or the bookstore. Retailers welcome any change in the sales floor that allows them to target niche audiences of customers. For them, separate sections for Black literature equals more profits overall.
I’ll give you two examples of the why a separate African-American book section is equal: Here in New York there were two Barnes and Noble stores. One was in the Manhattan Mall. Another was on 34th and Seventh. When both stores had their African-American Fiction and non-fiction titles separated from the “mainstream” titles they had lots of foot traffic and lots of sales. I’d watch as Black women frequently made their purchases from the African-American section. However when management of both stores integrated the African American authors in each store with the other mainstream titles last name first, I noticed foot traffic at the store dropped off dramatically and sales plummeted. Why? It just took too much time for customers to find a title.
In each case of title integration I saw, it was a disaster. First the Barnes and Nobles on 34th and Seventh closed. Then the store in the Manhattan Mall closed. A few years later A Barnes and Noble opened on 38th and Fifth. This store also integrated its African-American titles with the mainstream ones. It closed within two years.
While these bookstores were closing, street vendors all over the city were selling African-American titles exclusively. To the chagrin of brick-and mortar retailers, they had titles by African-American authors on their tables ready for purchase. On top of it they offered discounts in some cases the equal of retailers. Because customers could quickly make their purchases, many readers of African-American literature now do business exclusively with book vendors and not bookstores.
So while integrating Black authors with mainstream titles might be politically correct, it’s just not profitable. Separate shelf space equals access to mainstream bookstores for African American authors and equals more sales of books to readers.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Book to Screenplay, Screenplay to book-Chicken or the Egg?
Recently I got through completing my first Screenplay from scratch. It was a book idea I thought wasn’t strong enough for a full novel. But guess what? I find myself writing that novel right now. Which leaves me to ask the question: Which comes first: The novel or the screenplay? The Screenplay or the novel? Is this a case of the chicken or the egg for writers?
In the past I’ve often worked like this: I’d write the manuscript first and try to adapt a screenplay out of the story later. Something I did for fun. It was hard work, trimming off details from the book so I could tell the exact same story using the fewest amounts of words in the screenplay. Condensing a 50-80,000-word story into a compact 90-120-page script that captured the spirit of the original manuscript was often a challenge. I often found myself going crazy in front of the computer some nights.
This time I’m working in reverse adapting a screenplay into a novel. My challenge now is finding a way to recreate the same picture by adding more details rather than taking away from them. The goal here is to stay true to the spirit of the story without adding so many details that it dilutes and distorts the picture presented in the screenplay.
Lately I’ve been asking myself a question. Which comes first? The screenplay or the novel? The novel or the screenplay? I guess that depends what storytelling medium the writer feels comfortable with. And the context of the content. Most movies have a novelization published of the script (Available in most bookstores) and some books have adaptations of their stories made into screenplays. (Available in most libraries) It’s fun to check both out and compare and contrast the differences between the two versions.
Over the short course of this “reverse adaptation” project I’ve learned a fun math fact. On average the chapter of a book uses 1500-2000 words to describe the action in the story. A scene in a screenplay usually uses 250-400 words to describe that exact same scene. That’s a 5:1 ratio!
This means every five to six pages of action in a chapter book leads up to one page of a screenplay. Since one page of a screenplay leads to one minute of screen time, that means every five to six pages of a chapter book (the kind I write) leads up to one minute of a movie!
Okay I’m having too much fun. I hate algebra. Let me rephrase that. I really hate algebra. When I find myself applying algebraic concepts to writing something is wrong.
In the past I’ve often worked like this: I’d write the manuscript first and try to adapt a screenplay out of the story later. Something I did for fun. It was hard work, trimming off details from the book so I could tell the exact same story using the fewest amounts of words in the screenplay. Condensing a 50-80,000-word story into a compact 90-120-page script that captured the spirit of the original manuscript was often a challenge. I often found myself going crazy in front of the computer some nights.
This time I’m working in reverse adapting a screenplay into a novel. My challenge now is finding a way to recreate the same picture by adding more details rather than taking away from them. The goal here is to stay true to the spirit of the story without adding so many details that it dilutes and distorts the picture presented in the screenplay.
Lately I’ve been asking myself a question. Which comes first? The screenplay or the novel? The novel or the screenplay? I guess that depends what storytelling medium the writer feels comfortable with. And the context of the content. Most movies have a novelization published of the script (Available in most bookstores) and some books have adaptations of their stories made into screenplays. (Available in most libraries) It’s fun to check both out and compare and contrast the differences between the two versions.
Over the short course of this “reverse adaptation” project I’ve learned a fun math fact. On average the chapter of a book uses 1500-2000 words to describe the action in the story. A scene in a screenplay usually uses 250-400 words to describe that exact same scene. That’s a 5:1 ratio!
This means every five to six pages of action in a chapter book leads up to one page of a screenplay. Since one page of a screenplay leads to one minute of screen time, that means every five to six pages of a chapter book (the kind I write) leads up to one minute of a movie!
Okay I’m having too much fun. I hate algebra. Let me rephrase that. I really hate algebra. When I find myself applying algebraic concepts to writing something is wrong.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Hey America I wrote a screenplay from scratch
Or at least I tried to.
I had this idea for a story about a thirtysomething former teen starlet festering in my head for over a year. Despite plotting an outline and sketching it up, I could never get it to work as a novel. The story just wasn’t strong enough for a full-length book. But the idea just kept coming back to me over and over again. I had to get it on paper. Since it wasn’t working as a book I opted to write the next best thing: The screenplay.
I’ve dabbled with screenwriting in the past, but nothing serious. An adaptation of Isis, and some other stories I’ve written. But this is the first time I’ve written a screenplay from scratch. The project was an attempt to see if I could write an original story within the extremely rigid format of the Writer’s Guild of America. To my surprise the finished script turned out better than I expected.
From a format standpoint I was able to get the story to fit within the WGA standards. The script is a good length fitting within the standard 90-120 pages allotted for a drama. (112 to be exact) I was also able to follow most of the rules for things like dialogue, and scene descriptions. It’s frustrating fitting a story within those parameters, but I’m getting used to it.
From a storytelling standpoint I was able to tell my story effectively. In most of my novels I use the character’s eyes like a movie camera to describe the action to the reader. So it was easy to adapt that “camera” style I use in my storytelling to the screenplay format. Even though I was writing in a Third person narrative, everyone sees what the “camera” sees. I know my descriptions are a little longish, and the dialogue’s a little rough, but it’s my first script. The more I learn the better I’ll get at screenwriting.
What’s even more of a surprise to me is how solid my writing is in this style. The spirit of my distinct style is in every page. The script still has all the irony, depth and humanity of one of my novels. From first page to last, the reader knows it’s a “Shawn James” story.
I’m very pleased with my first original screenplay came out. Now I’m just going to print it out and throw it in a box. For me, this isn’t the time to go out pitching scripts to agents. There’s a lot more for me to learn about writing. The more new projects I pursue, the better I’ll get at it.
I had this idea for a story about a thirtysomething former teen starlet festering in my head for over a year. Despite plotting an outline and sketching it up, I could never get it to work as a novel. The story just wasn’t strong enough for a full-length book. But the idea just kept coming back to me over and over again. I had to get it on paper. Since it wasn’t working as a book I opted to write the next best thing: The screenplay.
I’ve dabbled with screenwriting in the past, but nothing serious. An adaptation of Isis, and some other stories I’ve written. But this is the first time I’ve written a screenplay from scratch. The project was an attempt to see if I could write an original story within the extremely rigid format of the Writer’s Guild of America. To my surprise the finished script turned out better than I expected.
From a format standpoint I was able to get the story to fit within the WGA standards. The script is a good length fitting within the standard 90-120 pages allotted for a drama. (112 to be exact) I was also able to follow most of the rules for things like dialogue, and scene descriptions. It’s frustrating fitting a story within those parameters, but I’m getting used to it.
From a storytelling standpoint I was able to tell my story effectively. In most of my novels I use the character’s eyes like a movie camera to describe the action to the reader. So it was easy to adapt that “camera” style I use in my storytelling to the screenplay format. Even though I was writing in a Third person narrative, everyone sees what the “camera” sees. I know my descriptions are a little longish, and the dialogue’s a little rough, but it’s my first script. The more I learn the better I’ll get at screenwriting.
What’s even more of a surprise to me is how solid my writing is in this style. The spirit of my distinct style is in every page. The script still has all the irony, depth and humanity of one of my novels. From first page to last, the reader knows it’s a “Shawn James” story.
I’m very pleased with my first original screenplay came out. Now I’m just going to print it out and throw it in a box. For me, this isn’t the time to go out pitching scripts to agents. There’s a lot more for me to learn about writing. The more new projects I pursue, the better I’ll get at it.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
African-American Fiction - A Cesspool of Filth
A couple of weeks ago I walked into a Borders bookstore on 34th and Broadway. I was looking for DVDs, but I wound up taking a look at the African-American Fiction section to see what the market was currently producing. What I saw on the shelf turned my stomach. I had to look out the window to make sure I was still in Borders and not a Times Square sex shop.
The entire African-American section was nothing but “Erotica”, and “Gangsta” titles with overtly sexual themes. Most of the cover art featured half-naked and naked people in sexually titillating poses. As I flipped through some titles I became even more disappointed about how poorly written they were. Poor grammar, poor sentence structure, typos, and no semblance of a plot. It just was one graphic sex scene after another. Characters had no personalities or distinguishable traits. It was just one graphic sex scene after another.
I wouldn’t have felt too bad if these titles were self-published or Print-On-Demand; I know from experience there isn’t much one person working alone can do about quality. However big name publishers like Three Rivers Press (A subsidiary of Random House) and Kensington books have the staff to produce a professional quality book for their readers. I wondered if there was any copyediting or proofreading done at all on these titles. I also wondered if their editors had any sense of taste or style when it came to buying manuscripts for African-American audiences. The Black community is in SERIOUS trouble if these are the best manuscripts literary agents are submitting to publishers.
I left the store buying nothing and asking myself more questions: What happened to the broad pool of talented authors of the 90’s. People like Connie Briscoe, Bebe Campbell Moore (Lord rest her soul) Terry McMillan, and Sista Soulja? What happened to plots in Black fiction? What happened to themes in Black fiction? What happened to storytelling in Black Fiction? What happened to grammar in Black fiction? What happened to Vocabulary in Black fiction? What happened to the writers who wanted to give readers a unique perspective about the Black experience? What happened to the diversity on the Black fiction shelf? How did African-American Fiction turn from general reading audiences into XXX adults only? Why is every Black fiction title lately so sexually explicit?
I can’t give money to authors and publishers who are doing harm to my community. What publishers are currently producing as African-American fiction is unacceptable from a creative, educational and a professional standpoint. When publishers clean up the cesspool in the African-American Fiction section, I’ll start buying Black books again.
The entire African-American section was nothing but “Erotica”, and “Gangsta” titles with overtly sexual themes. Most of the cover art featured half-naked and naked people in sexually titillating poses. As I flipped through some titles I became even more disappointed about how poorly written they were. Poor grammar, poor sentence structure, typos, and no semblance of a plot. It just was one graphic sex scene after another. Characters had no personalities or distinguishable traits. It was just one graphic sex scene after another.
I wouldn’t have felt too bad if these titles were self-published or Print-On-Demand; I know from experience there isn’t much one person working alone can do about quality. However big name publishers like Three Rivers Press (A subsidiary of Random House) and Kensington books have the staff to produce a professional quality book for their readers. I wondered if there was any copyediting or proofreading done at all on these titles. I also wondered if their editors had any sense of taste or style when it came to buying manuscripts for African-American audiences. The Black community is in SERIOUS trouble if these are the best manuscripts literary agents are submitting to publishers.
I left the store buying nothing and asking myself more questions: What happened to the broad pool of talented authors of the 90’s. People like Connie Briscoe, Bebe Campbell Moore (Lord rest her soul) Terry McMillan, and Sista Soulja? What happened to plots in Black fiction? What happened to themes in Black fiction? What happened to storytelling in Black Fiction? What happened to grammar in Black fiction? What happened to Vocabulary in Black fiction? What happened to the writers who wanted to give readers a unique perspective about the Black experience? What happened to the diversity on the Black fiction shelf? How did African-American Fiction turn from general reading audiences into XXX adults only? Why is every Black fiction title lately so sexually explicit?
I can’t give money to authors and publishers who are doing harm to my community. What publishers are currently producing as African-American fiction is unacceptable from a creative, educational and a professional standpoint. When publishers clean up the cesspool in the African-American Fiction section, I’ll start buying Black books again.
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