The first two weeks of writing, I wrote 10,347 words.

The last two weeks of writing, I wrote 5,280, nearly HALF. But that’s OK. I’m not beating myself over that.

For the 28-29 days I’ve been writing, I needed to cross through Friday having written 14,560-15,080 words. With my current 15,627, I beat that by 547, so I’m good.

SO, what has caused the slowing down of writing? Two things:

1) Real life – I’ve written a lot in the last week, nearly 20,000 words—but they were words for class/academic work projects. When you write that much, it’s hard to keep writing, and with my tendinitis, the ol’ hands and wrists were like, No mas.

2) Writing without an outline – I’m sorry. I LIVE for outlines, and I know now, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that I will never write another long project without an outline. Outlines gives me structure, order. They also give me freedom. I never follow them to the letter because you never know what will transpire during the writing process; however, with the outline, I feel free to move and question and explore. Without the outline, I flounder, and as a writer, I don’t like floundering. Soooooooooooooooooo, therefore, OUTLINE for me. LOL

It’s interesting. This book will be the second in the Double Inkwell mystery series, but I’m not sure it’s a mystery, yet. LOL Prologue? Screams mystery. Everything after that so far, not so much, and I think I’m beginning to see why. The first book was about a mystery within the main characters’ lives, so it was immediate. In this book, the mystery is not tangible to the characters’ lives, so we’re able to see more development of the characters’ lives and what’s going on within them and once the case goes “live”, then the main characters become more invested in solving the case–if ANY of that makes sense.

But I’m going to keep writing and then see what others say so that I can go back and rewrite. Working very hard in not letting the “What the hell is this I’m writing” thoughts crowd my mind and keep me from writing.

We’ll see how that goes.

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There have been many things to sidetrack me and my writing before the start of this journey, and I feared those things would keep me from writing. I think, in the end, writing kept me from being too sidetracked. Good ol’ writing. Always looking out for me.

The goal of this journey is to write an 80,000-word novel between now and November 25th. This comes to about 520 words a day, every day, until then. Including today, I should be coming to the table with a minimum of 7,800 words. I come to the table with a whopping 10,347 words!

I am beyond excited and happy for myself. To cross that first 10k mark is an exhilarating feeling.

Right now, because I didn’t have a fully-fleshed out outline, like I normally do, I’ve been fearing the writing is crap. Now, I do profess–and often–that writers should come to the page with editor off and realizing that the first draft will probably have a crap factor attached to it. This is a bit different. When I come to a writing project with an outline, there is a confidence that exudes from me because I have visualized the story for months, have edited in my mind too many times to count, and have a paper representation of that visualization. I know the writing will need to be tightened up, but I know also that the story is there. This go round, without the outline, I feel like I’m flailing a bit, and I so don’t like that. Once I finish this chapter I just started on, I will probably go back, read, organize what I have, see where I need to go with the next chapters, and move on.

What I am learning about this different process is that sometimes, you might just have to switch up what always works for you, and when you do, that means you need to find ways to be comfortable in that new writing situation to get some good writing done. Without a full outline, my “being comfortable” is writing a few chapters, going back to read and make sure it makes sense to me before moving on.

Before I cross the 15k mark, however, I do foresee me sitting down and outlining the rest of the story. It’s just what I do.

For now, I will revel in crossing the 10k and be ready to write my 520 words tomorrow!

Oh, and just in case you didn’t know. This book is the second in a series I hope to write called the Double Inkwell Mysteries. The first book in that series is already out, Death at the Double Inkwell, and you can read/listen to excerpts, read commentaries about the book, and get the link to buy your own copy of the book here on my site through this [LINK].

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Cordell Anderson is the love of Jovan’s life. The two met in college, and Cordell was quick to pursue her and make her his wife. He’s the founder and CEO of Anderson Technologies, a thriving technology company…or is it? So many secrets surround Cordell it’s hard to figure out just who he truly is. And as the story moves on, so many of those secrets are revealed that it takes Jovan’s memories of the good times for us to see that he wasn’t always an ass.

Timothy Anderson is Cordell’s younger brother. He and Cordell get compared to one another all the time–in looks alone. Their lives are as different as sun and moon. Whereas Cordell is a take charge, get what he wants when he wants it kind of man, Timothy is quiet, reserved, timid. He has collected some demons over the years, and in the past, he has used harmful means to eradicate those demons. He’s now trying to be on the up and up and make his life right, but a tragedy soon unravels his progress and his life.

Jimmy Devane is an associate of Cordell’s, which would be fine if he wasn’t A) an “associate” of a lot of Cordell’s competitors and B) an absolute slime ball. His allegiance is to the thing or the person that can get him the most money, damn the consequences.

Detective Ian Davenport is “the” man of the pack. He’s strong, confident, caring, and determined to right wrongs and put wrongdoers where they belong: in prison. When tragedy strikes Jovan’s life, Ian is quickly immersed into both Jovan’s and Cheyenne’s lives, much to Cheyenne’s chagrin. And despite the fact that he needs to be impartial to solve the case, Ian quickly finds himself drawn to the twins…one in particular.

Mark Brockman is a do-gooder, but when it comes to dealing with a serious situation in his life, he decides to “do him” instead of handling the situation, which leads to consequences he’s not prepared to handle. When his world is turned upside down, he finds comfort in the most unlikeliest place.

Each of these men has an agenda when it comes to Jovan, and she has to figure out which ones mean to do her harm and which ones mean to help her out of the darkness she’s cast into.

Learn more about these man by picking up Death at the Double Inkwell.

It’s available NOW at Amazon.

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Today starts a five-month journey to writing a novel. From June 25 to November 25, each of us will be writing an 80,000-word novel.

So, we have 154 days (520 words a day) to get our books done.

And I’m thinking in these small increments, too. I have so many things to do with class and research and work that I can’t think of having to write a lot every day. 520 words is a little more than two pages a day. I write more words than that just in the tweeting I do. Surely I can do it for my writing career.

And I’ve found for myself that writing these days isn’t just about passion. I’ve become pretty pragmatic since I started doctoral work, and I realized that for me, writing has to be about more than passion, just as a relationship has to have more than love/attraction. There has to be a means to an end, and I’m not just talking about finishing the book. I have several books, good books, on my computer, hoping to see the light of day. I’m not into (anymore) wanting to write for my laptop, so I need a reason to write this book, and I have one.

This book will be book two in the Double Inkwell series I have always wanted to do. Now that Death at the Double Inkwell is out [order HERE], I have a reason to write the second book — and interested publisher.

And so today I started the second book titled Into the Web.

Today, I wrote 602 words. Doesn’t sound like a lot, but it’s a start, and more importantly, I succeeded in accomplishing today’s goal.

It’s all about the baby steps.

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I really think that saying is beside every great woman is a great sister who always comes with the straight, no chaser advice, warm hugs, and a ready-to-take-on-all-challengers stance when things get a little sticky.

Every woman can recall at least that one sister—from birth or from another mother—who has been there to listen to her frustrations over a relationship, her aggravation over a job, her devastation over a loss, and her infuriation over being done wrong. And she can recall that sister railing with her over her man and then getting real to show her where she went wrong. She can recall the friend telling her to look for another job, to find something that will make her happy and keep her living well. She can recall sistergirl sharing tissues with her as they both cry over the emptiness she feels at having lost someone. She can recall sistergirl saying, “OK, where’s my Vaseline and sneakers?” when it time to crack a skull or two open on her behalf.

There are a plethora of self-help books written about how women can find the man of their dreams and keep him, but we often forget about the importance of having a great sisterfriend, that woman who can see you bare, ugly truths, lies, secrets, and all, and who will still stand beside you, like a trooper, helping you to grow into the strong woman you are destined to be. There are many components to a person, and a romantic relationship can satisfy many of those components; however, nothing can replace the relationship of sisterhood and how it, too, can feed your soul.

Jovan Parham-Anderson from Death at the Double Inkwell [Amazon] has a sister like that: her twin, Cheyenne.

These two may look alike, but their personalities are polar opposites. Whereas Jovan is often quiet, reflective, and quick to find fault with herself, Cheyenne is loud, opinionated, and always ready to put blame on the right person.

Despite their differences, the two connect in powerful ways when the other steps up to be there for her sister.

When Jovan thinks her husband Cordell is having an affair, who does she run to? Cheyenne

When Jovan suffers an unimaginable tragedy, who does she run to? Cheyenne

When Cheyenne’s temper places her in harm’s way, who comes to protect her? Jovan

When Cheyenne catches feelings for someone who seems to be her arch-nemesis, who does she spill the beans to? Jovan

Even when Jovan’s and Cheyenne’s lives are put in danger, they rely on one another to make it through.

As betrayals and lies surface and threaten to drown them and the twins find themselves in peril, will relying on their sisterhood see them through?

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

It’s available NOW at Amazon.

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This podcast features the first couple pages of chapter two. If you haven’t bought the book yet, this excerpt will surely pique your interest!

You can check out the podcast through my one-stop DDIW shop here on my site [link].

You can also order YOUR copy of DDIW through Amazon [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 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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]]][[[

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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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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