Inching Towards Summer

April came in like a lion.

I know that's not the correct saying, but this year, April is behaved a little March-like if you know what I mean.

Snow. Freezing winds. Drastic temperature drop. Did I mention snow? It felt like some kind of cruel trick, an April Fool's Day joke taken a step to far. I think I only care because I'm not longer of the driving class and my subway walk is ten minutes long.

April. My birthday month. My step closer to 40 years old. Here we are and all I can do is look towards August.

At the end of March, I went down to Atlanta to speak to a class of undergraduates from Spelman and Morehouse Colleges. I spoke about writing Fiction, the African American literary community, publishing, etc. It was a fantastic experience for me and I think the students got something out of it as well.

Now we near the end of May.

I've made a public declaration to finish my novel by the end of August in this lovely (though a bit inaccurate at times) profile written of me at What Weekly.

I'm finishing my 6th (gasp) year as a high school college counselor and I've never felt more confident in the work I do (sometimes you just have to get away). And I'm hoping that this confidence leads me to more fiction writing.

Other big things:

I'll be reading at Atomic Books on June 9th at 7PM. I'll be sharing the stage with the fantastic Thea Brown and Connie Scozzaro!

I've been using my subway time wisely by knitting and reading and reading some more.

Books I've loved so far this year:

The Sellout, Paul Beatty
The Sympathizer, Viet Thanh Ngyuen
The Nest, Cynthis D'Aprix Sweeney (liked more than loved)
Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay, Elena Ferrante
The Story of a Lost Child, Elena Ferrante
We Love you Charlie Freeman, Kaitlyn Greenidge

Ever So Slowly

I'm writing again.

Not a lot.

Just a little.

And things are coming along.

Ever so slowly.

I like it this way.

I also hate it this way.

Two weeks ago I dusted off some novel pages and read them to a crowd. A few things happened that surprised me. First, I wasn't nervous. I am always nervous when I have to get up in front of an audience and say anything. My nervousness reaches its pinnacle when I have to read my own work. Last summer, when I was invited to read at Politics and Prose for Kimbilio, terror was the only thing on my mind. Family came in from Philly and Virginia to hear me. My cousin videotaped (is that a thing or do we just say recorded now?) it, Dolen Perkins Valdez was the main attraction. It was both one of the best experiences I've had as a writer but also one of the most stress-inducing. It went fine. I read. People clapped. My parents looked proud. My hands would not be still the entire time. I clutched the sides of my dress the same way I'd done when I delivered my grandfather's Eulogy, which was the last time I read something I'd written in public.

While I cannot say for sure why I wasn't nervous. I have a suspicion that it has more to do with the work than anything else.  I am, I realized, confident in the project that I've been working on for so long. Far more confident than I should be considering how long it's taking/how little time I've had to devote to it.

Starting this week--maybe tomorrow--I haven't picked a day, I'm going to attempt to write 2 pages a day for forty days. Consider this my religion.
Usually teaching Fiction inspires me to write more but that's not happening with the same kind of east as it used to.


Book Update:

Just finished reading: The Star Side of Bird Hill by Naomi Jackson (I cried on the subway reading this. That seems like endorsement enough.)
Currently reading: A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara
Listening to: Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay by Elena Ferrante

Knitting Update:

Honey Cowl--Unfinished
Fetching Gloves--Unfinished