In the third podcast of The DDIW Chronicles, I talk about my agent experience with Death at the Double Inkwell.

You can check out the podcast through my one-stop DDIW shop here on my site [link]. Definitely consider ordering YOUR copy of DDIW through Amazon.com [link].

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Not only is my mystery, DEATH AT THE DOUBLE INKWELL a featured title for June at Myst Noir [LINK] (mysteries written by African-Americans and/or featuring African-American sleuths), but also I sit down for an interview with Myst Noir founder, author Angela Henry to talk about DDIW and writing. Come check out the interview [HERE].

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This month with The DDIW Chronicles, I’m offering a juicy excerpt of my solo debut project, the mystery Death at the Double Inkwell.

This podcast features the first couple pages of chapter one. Will definitely make you want to see what happens next!

You can check out the podcast through my one-stop DDIW shop here on my site [link]. Definitely consider ordering YOUR copy of DDIW through Amazon.com [link].

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I wrote a novel, The Greyhound Chronicles, for my creative thesis back in 2003/4. The novel, kinda metafiction, has a short story in it written by the main character (Kensington Webster) called “Remnants of My Father.” These are the “memory” segments from that story–and they are, if we can truly call our memories REAL, “loose” moments from real life.

]]][[[

1984. August. It’s balmy. We’re in Atlantic City on a day bus trip. The whole fam. My cousins, aunts, uncles, peeps we’ve known for so long we think they our family. At six, I’m too happy to realize that it’s too damn hot to be wearing green polyester pants and a matching vest, with a white, long-sleeved tee beneath it. All I know is that I want to get on the horses that spin around in circles as music drops from speakers above them. As soon as the bus stops at the boardwalk and the white bus driver (who happily said we could call him Carl) announces that we’re in A.C., I jump from my seat and barrel out the bus like that big ole ocean out there is all mine.

The heat stings my brown cheeks, but I’m smiling too hard to care. Sun’s screaming in the sky it’s so bright, and something smells salty. I know it’s the water. Another bus pulls up behind ours and mingling with my family is a bunch of people who don’t appear to be as rowdy as we are. We whooping and hollering and laughing about nothing, really. We just be happy like that. Even when we not happy.

I see Pop Pop with his straw hat on, holding Grandma’s hand. Mom’s taking her good ol’ time getting down the bus’ steps with her beach ball belly. She’s 42 days away from giving me a lil sis or bro. My great aunt Margie waddles off the bus. She bigger than three bus seats—that’s why she sits in the three-seater at the back of the bus, but she prettier than any princess I’ve ever seen in the movies with her red-tinted brown skin and long black hair that hangs past her butt.

My smile starts to drop a little. I walk past Pop Pop and Grandma. Past Mom. Great Aunt Margie. Uncle Herbert. But I can’t see my daddy.

“Smile for me, Sweet Pea.”

I turn, and the sun shoots its rays into my eyes. I throw my hand up over my face and close my eyes to little slits. I don’t smile as Daddy snaps the picture, but it’s not because I’m mad; I was just scared I wouldn’t find him.

]]][[[

1984. Halloween. Daddy is sitting on the edge of his and Mom’s bed, crying. My hands grip the doorframe, my forehead and eyes the only thing around the corner into the doorway. I didn’t know daddies cried. Mom walks up behind me and strokes my hair.

“Baby,” she says in a dry voice, “go put on your black, patent-leathers, okay?”

I nod, but first I walk into the room and lean into my daddy.

“Hey there, brown sugar baby.”

“Daddy,” I say, “don’t cry. D.J. is coming back.”

Daddy looks at Mom and then back at me.

I walk around the bed to the white wicker bassinet where D.J., my baby brother sleeps, and it’s empty. Still. For the last four days.

I remember the screaming and crying and long moans. The red-blue flashing lights of the police car. The ambulance. My mom weeping into my grandmother’s arms. Pop Pop patting Daddy’s shoulder. Mom’s sisters pacing the living room, faces streaked from tears. They place me and my cuz Dani in the kitchen with ice cream, tell us that everything will be okay. Later, Mom says D.J. went to sleep and never woke up.

“Shake ‘em,” I reply. “Maybe he just really tired.”

Mom cries and leaves the room, and Daddy holds me with shaky arms.

I wear my black dress with the white lacy collar. We ride in a big black car to church and there, I stand between Mom and Daddy as people come up to us, hugging us, telling us they’re sorry.

“God has D.J. now,” one of my aunts whispers to Mom.

It hits me then. D.J. is gone. Twenty-nine days on earth, and he is gone. He is never gonna wake up. My eyes water, and I blink fast. I hold my daddy’s hand as tight as I can. Mom’s too. I straighten up and don’t cry. I push the sadness down into the soles of my patent leathers.

When we take to our seats, in front of me is a tiny white casket with pink roses around the edges. The lid is closed.

“D.J.,” my daddy groans. I pat his thigh with my right hand.

I look straight ahead at the casket, not blinking, not crying, not anything.

After the cemetery, everybody goes to my grandparents’ and eats, drinks, laughs, and talks like the world didn’t just flip over and crush us. My aunt Ann comes to me with a cup of apple juice and some cookies. I knock both from her hands. People stare.

“Why y’all laughing?” I scream. “My baby brother’s dead and y’all laughing?”

Mom makes her way to me, but it’s Daddy who reaches me first, collects me into his arms and takes me upstairs where he holds me, sings to me, and lets me cry myself to sleep. I can hear his weeping in my dreams, and it comforts me.

]]][[[

1985. Christmas morning. The sun was just breaking up over a frozen Baltimore, and I sat in front of the Christmas tree ripping wrapping from presents. I got a good haul that year. A new bike, a doll that stood as tall as me with gleaming blond hair to comb and plait (though the plaits always unraveled), clothes, a new coat, books, but my favorite toy was Jayson. He was one-month-old and by far the best gift; I mean when you get a gift that can move and drool, you kinda like that one a little bit more. I try to forget that Jayson is one day older than D.J. was when he passed away.

As soon as the last present is unwrapped, I run into my room, change into a sweat suit and slip into my new coat, ready to play in the snow. Mom stays in with Jayson, and Daddy follows me out. I trudge out into the thick snow that comes to my knees. I feel my legs moisten and then freeze. Before I can turn around, something cold smacks the back of my head and I fall face first in the white powder. Fresh snow stings my gums where my two front teeth were just the week before.

With bony arms, I manage to pull myself up out of the snow and turn to face Daddy. He’s laughing at my cold, hard face. I pat snow off me and quickly build my own ball and wheel it at him as hard as my seven-year-old arm can throw. He moves too slowly and the snowball grazes off his cheek. I’m in attack mode, ready to build another ball, but Daddy takes hold of the Polaroid camera he has around his neck and points it in my direction.

“Smile, Baby,” he coaches me, his eyes not as warm as they used to be.

In my red, white and blue Christmas coat with white fur around the hood, cuffs and hem, I smack my hands together like I’m praying and lay my tilted head upon them. I smile but don’t show teeth.

“You such a beautiful little girl, Kensington,” Daddy says as he takes the picture.

For a minute, I forget how Daddy blindsided me with snow and froze me up.

]]][[[

1989. October. You couldn’t tell me that it was weird luck how a week after learning about Helen Keller in sixth grade, I came down with scarlet fever. In my parents’ king-sized bed, I slept with four blankets piled atop me though I was running a 102 temperature.

I awoke to loud rumblings outside the door. Mom and Dad were arguing. Again. I could hear Mom telling Jayson to stop trying to come into the room while she told Daddy to keep his voice down.

“Look,” he said. “I got this. Go handle Jay and R.J., and I’ll check in on Kensington.”

For the most part, Daddy was a good doctor. On the days Mom let him take care of me, Daddy took my temperature every hour. Every six hours, I got my medicine. He spoon-fed me Campbell’s chicken noodle soup and practically funneled water and orange juice down my throat.

With Budweiser on his breath, he continued to tell me I was his beautiful brown sugar baby, despite the facts that I sounded like I had been chewing on rocks, and my body was covered in tiny bumps and welts.

Beside me, on the blankets, laid my schoolbooks.

He rubbed the palm of his hand over my forehead before asking, “So what subject do you want to work on—math, science or English?”

“English. I know we have a spelling test next week, so we can go over the words.”

Daddy ran me through the words like a drill sergeant—from A to Z, then Z to A, then K to B to Y. I became the words by the time we finished.

“We’ve raised a brilliant little girl,” Daddy said. He wiped my sweaty brow. “What you wanna be when you grow up?”

I coughed. “I dunno. Doctor, lawyer, writer, and a Baltimore Oriole.”

Daddy laughed. “All that, huh?”

“I can do it.”

He smiled at me, but it was a far away smile.

Tears dropped off his cheeks. I struggled to sit up, to hug him.

“Daddy,” I said, “I’m gonna be okay. I’m not gonna die like D.J. Don’t cry.”

With the softest grip, Daddy took me into his arms and held me.

“I know you’re going to be okay,” he whispered.

I remember falling asleep in Daddy’s arms, not sure if it was the comfort or his increasingly tight hold that eventually put me under.

]]][[[

1991. March. It’s a rainy Saturday morning, and Mom is at Cash-n-Carry with Grandma. Jayson, 6, and R.J., 4, are in the living room watching cartoons while I make cereal and toast for breakfast. Daddy sits in the dining room, a pony Miller in his hand. Every time he coughs or groans, I pause, count to five, and continue my breakfast duty.

I make sure not a crumb of toast falls on the floor or counter. When I waste sugar on the counter, I quickly wipe it up before pouring milk for three bowls of cereal.

“Jay and R.J.,” I call. “Come and eat.”

We sit in the kitchen, chomping on toasts and slurping milk from our bowls.

“Y’all need to clean up something around here,” Daddy says from the dining room.

I put my finger to my lips and look at Jayson, then R.J.

“Y’all hear me in there?”

“Daddy,” I say, “we trying to eat breakfast.”

“I don’t give a shit. Get up and do something.”

R.J.’s lip trembles. I brush her hair from her face and whisper, “Don’t cry.”

Daddy pushes his chair back and marches straight into the kitchen and stands behind me.

“I know y’all heard me in here,” he yells. “Get your asses up and do something. Now.”

“Daddy,” I say, trying hard not to cry, “just let us finish eating.”

“No.”

“Daddy.”

“Get up.”

I slam my spoon on the table and get up.

“Don’t be catching no attitude, either,” he spat.

R.J.’s and Jayson’s sniffles sound in my ear, and I face Daddy and ask, “Why you so mean? We just trying to eat breakfast.” He hits me. Right on the mouth. Hard. My back slams against my chair.

I won’t cry. I feel something wet in my mouth, and I know it’s not spit. Tastes like metal.

Jayson and R.J. are screaming, but I can’t stop staring at my Daddy. He looks so mad, and I can’t think of one thing I’ve done to make him this mad at me.

“I thought you loved me, Daddy,” I say.

I take Jayson and R.J. by the hands and leave the kitchen. On our way through the dining room, Jayson picks up a dish rag and hands it to me.

Crying, he says, “For your mouth, Kennsy.”

In my bedroom, I watch my bro and sis sit still and quiet on the floor as they watch cartoons. I lay on the bed, a dish rag smelling of Palmolive pressed against my mouth.

Later, I will tell Mom that I fell in my room and hit my mouth. Jayson and R.J. are sworn to secrecy.

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The “Everything’s Great, But…” Woman

We know her.

On the outside, she is a woman that most men want and most women envy.

She’s the “everything’s great, but…” woman.

You know.

She’s beautiful. She has a great job. She has great friends. She has a great family. She has a great home. She has a great car.

Her future is so blindingly bright your retinas can sear just trying to imagine what her future looks like.

And when she smiles that toothpaste-commercial smile, it makes her whole universe that much brighter.

But the smile is fake.

A woman like this can’t afford to let everyone know what’s really going on in her world.

Because everything’s great, but…

…she’s not happy.

And she’s usually not happy because of some man.

Sometimes, she has everything BUT the man, and she goes home to all her wonderful things and feels empty and lonely.

And sometimes, she has everything AND the man, and when the two are together, people are that much more jealous of her because she appears to have the perfect life.

Yet she goes home to all her wonderful things, including her husband, and feels empty and lonely.

Why?

In my debut novel, set to drop next month–Death at the Double Inkwell [Amazon], Jovan Parham Anderson is the “everything’s great, but…” woman. She’s a bestselling mystery novelist, has a wonderful twin that she writes great novels with–she has loving parents, and everyone in their hometown in Maryland consider Jovan and her twin Cheyenne to be just DARLING. And then there’s Cordell, Jovan’s husband. She’s loved him since college, and he her, but at some point that love began to dismantle and the facade of Jovan’s idyllic life begins to crumble.

And before she can even think about the situation clearly, her focus moves at one point away from her husband and to herself.

Is SHE the reason he’s being distant? Is SHE not doing something right?

She wonders if her curvy figure is no longer attractive to Cordell–after all, he does call her out a time or two about her weight.

She wonders if she’s not doing enough at home–considering she’s a successful businesswoman just as Cordell is a successful businessman. Is she not being Suzy Homemaker enough for him?

More WHYs cloud Jovan’s thoughts regarding her marriage and herself, especially when an event occurs that rocks the very foundation she’s built her entire world on, causing
Jovan to question everything about her life with Cordell.

How can the “everything’s great, but…” woman have EVERYTHING great in her life…with no buts?

She has to take control of her life, see the TRUTH of her life, determine what she NEEDS in her life, and act accordingly.

Will Jovan do all of those things?

You’ll have to read Death at the Double Inkwell to find out.

It drops next month–but you can by it now at Amazon.

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This month kicks off my The DDIW Chronicles series of podcasts. For the next several months, I will be offering podcasts to promote my solo debut project, the mystery Death at the Double Inkwell.

Each month, you’ll be treated to two podcasts, one that focuses on my journey of writing DDIW and getting it published and the other that allows you a sneak peek into the novel.

My first podcast is titled, “How Death at the Double Inkwell Came to Be” – check it out [link], and definitely consider ordering YOUR copy of DDIW through Amazon.com [link].

“How Death at the Double Inkwell Came to Be” is available at CLG Entertainment on Podbean [link].

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One thing kept me fairly sane throughout the month of April – a month where crunch time is in full effect and plenty of major projects are coming due: working on my script for Script Frenzy [LINK]. Although I’m nowhere near DONE with the script [and much cutting is in my future with it], I did manage to cross the 100-page mark needed to win Script Frenzy!

I’m really proud of myself because it’s the first time I’ve written creatively since November with NaNoWriMo [LINK], and it’s the first time in about 9 months in which I’ve written something that I actually want to go back to and edit and revise and submit.

Below is an excerpt for the screenplay, the screenplay of NO NAME. LOL It will have a title some day, but the one I originally had, Hell’s Angel, doesn’t really fit the story or character any more.

Remember, this is a VERY ROUGH, haven’t looked at it at ALL draft of the script. LOL Judge accordingly if you must judge.

Here’s a quick synopsis of story: A woman returns to her life after a 10-year bid for killing her husband with one thing on her mind: reuniting with the daughter who hates her.

INT. COFFEE SHOP – MORNING

Peighton, dressed up, is sitting at a small table in the corner, typing on a laptop.

She looks deep in thought.

DETECTIVE DEEKS

Good morning, Peighton.

Peighton looks up and is none too thrilled to see Detective Deeks before her.

DETECTIVE DEEKS (CONT’D)

You look nice.

Peighton doesn’t respond.

DETECTIVE DEEKS (CONT’D)

See you’re fitting into the world quickly.

Detective Deeks points at the laptop.

PEIGHTON

I used computers in prison…while I was getting my degree, Detective.

Detective Deeks looks outside the large windows and spots a motorcycle in a parking spot. He points toward it.

DETECTIVE DEEKS

Is that your cycle out there?

Peighton nods.

DETECTIVE DEEKS (CONT’D)

And you rode it here? Dressed like that?

Peighton looks up to him and nods.

There is a pause.

DETECTIVE DEEKS (CONT’D)

(clears throat) You mind if I sit here?

Peighton shrugs.

PEIGHTON

If you must.

Detective Deeks sits, stares at Peighton.

DETECTIVE DEEKS

I’ve done some research on you…

Peighton snaps her attention toward him. She’s angry.

PEIGHTON

What the hell for? I haven’t done shi…

Detective Deeks lifts his hands.

DETECTIVE DEEKS

I know you haven’t. I don’t suspect you of anything.

(softer) This is about your past. About what happened to you.

PEIGHTON

And why is that any concern of yours?

DETECTIVE DEEKS

Because my son is seeing your daughter, and I want to know everything about her. And that includes you.

Peighton returns her gaze to the laptop.

DETECTIVE DEEKS (CONT’D)

And I’m sorry.

Peighton eyes Detective Deeks.

PEIGHTON

For what?

DETECTIVE DEEKS

For seeing you just as a murderer when I didn’t know all the facts.

PEIGHTON

(shrugs) Doesn’t matter. Most of the world goes off indicting people without knowing all the facts. Why should you be any different?

DETECTIVE DEEKS

Because I work to be different. And I think you’re a good person.

PEIGHTON

And you tell me this, why?

DETECTIVE DEEKS

Because I don’t want you to get hurt.

PEIGHTON

By what?

Detective Deeks sighs.

Peighton shakes her head and points in his direction.

PEIGHTON (CONT’D)

Don’t even go there.

DETECTIVE DEEKS

I know things. Things you don’t.

Peighton closes her laptop and places it in her bag. She drops money on the table and stands.

She bends to Detective Deeks’ ear.

PEIGHTON

You just can’t believe people can change, can you?

Detective Deeks turns to face Peighton. Their faces are close. There is a pause as they stare at one another.

DETECTIVE DEEKS

I believe people can change. I don’t believe the people you hang out with have changed.

Peighton stands and takes a step back.

PEIGHTON

Well, they haven’t done nothing to prove me wrong yet.

Detective Deeks raises an eyebrow.

DETECTIVE DEEKS

Really? Nothing?

Peighton looks away.

DETECTIVE DEEKS (CONT’D)
Just protect yourself. If things start to feel funny, protect yourself and get out of the way of danger.

Peighton gives him a parting glance. Nods.

PEIGHTON

Heard you. OK.

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To All READERS of ROMANCE FICTION!

I would love your input on a pilot study I’m conducting titled “Romancing the Reader: Preferences of the Romance Fiction Reader.” With this pilot study, I seek answers to several questions, to include:

1- Why do women read romance fiction?

2- Is there a difference in the reading/purchasing habits of romance fiction readers depending on race?

3- What aspects of romance fiction do readers enjoy most?

4- What problems do readers find with romance fiction?

5- Do women read romance fiction from authors outside their race?

6- Does age of reader affect 1) reading of romance novels and 2) reading of romance novels across race?

For this pilot study, I am administering a survey, which is located on Survey Monkey [http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/romancefiction]. The survey should take no longer than 15 minutes to complete and consists of 26 questions on romance reading preferences and demographical information.

Names will not be used in the study. If you agree to participate in the study, please go to Survey Monkey [http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/romancefiction] where you will first read the consent form before completing the survey.

You can contact me at shon.bacon@ttu.edu if you have any questions.

I thank you all in advance for considering my request.

“Romancing the Reader: Preferences of the Romance Fiction Reader”

Survey ~ http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/romancefiction

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The Blood-Red Pencil: Sharp and pointed observations about good writing

Are you interested in starting a writing workshop? If so, check out my latest commentary at The Blood-Red Pencil, “Components of a Good Writing Workshop” [link].

What are those components? Well, I discuss three: a great moderator, an appropriate size for the workshop, and rules for the workshop; however, feel free to read my commentary and post your own experiences with writing workshops.

We learn by sharing with one another.

“Components of a Good Writing Workshop” [link]

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I was scouring through a blog of mine and found this piece of microfiction I wrote about five, six years ago:

Waiting

On the blue-reds. He said they were coming for me. Mom pitters through the house, cleaning. She doesn’t want them to see dishes piled up on the dining table. I sit at the table, fingers pounding on laptop keys. I, too, have cleaned. Washed my face. Threw a bra on. Socks and shoes. I wait. We wait. For the cops to come, to hear the whoop-whoop and see flashing blue-reds let the whole neighborhood know that there is trouble at our house again. I’m scared. Don’t show it. Everyone has hit him, at least once, except me. I’ve been away at school. Now I’m here and Father’s alcoholic, violent words scrap my brain. Hammer, he said as soon as he came home. We playing UNO. He walks in talking ‘bout hammers and putting one in my brother’s head. Go away, we say. I will kill every last one of you, he replies. He heads upstairs, screaming “Bring it!” Over and over. “Bring it!” he yells for the sixth time. So I did. All 18 years of anger, of remembered good times shadowed over by broken bad times. I brought it, to his bedroom, my fists clinging to his shirt as I shook him. My hand across his face. Twice. I felt liberated. Ashamed. The hits told him he didn’t have control over me anymore. Yet he is/was my father. Big me is glad I hit him, let him see the pain he’s caused me. Little me crawls in a corner and cries for what my father has become. For what, as a result, I have become. And so I wait on the blue-reds ‘cause I feel I deserve the punishment.

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