Sometimes, as a writer, the road is long and hard and super silent. There are some who are lucky enough to be at the right place at the right time early and they get agents and what not. I’ll not bore you with the infamous details about how for every one actor in Hollywood, there at least ten screenwriters. I won’t even bore you with the whole thing about how even super established screenwriters are taking rewrite work or doing television just to keep their food on the table (okay some of their food might be ahi tuna but hey, they gotta hustle to keep status quo). I wish I could say these things don’t echo in my head when I get down to my one on one time with Final Draft but I do have to work hard to move that stuff to the side and get my stories out (right now I’m outlining another script I’m writing with Scott in hopes that it’s a way to make things easier - ha!). So imagine my joy when I finally got notice that one of my scripts, which I send out in the big big big bad world regularly, got a hit at the African American Women In Cinema Film Festival a few weeks ago.

First I was told I was a selectee which elicited a happy dance on its own. Then I was notified that I won! The Brooklyn Bubble, by moi, was an official winner of the AAWIC Screenwriting competition. The AAWIC is a special one because it’s about AA women keeping doors open for all of us and not about trying to shut it down for anyone. The evening was moderated by Roxanne Shante (the ten year old me was DYING) and my sister/bestie Marcella Oliver was able to be there to accept AND make a speech on my behalf.  I have few people in my life who could swing that (and y’all know who you are) so I had no worries at all because she is definitely somebody who could hold it down for me.

I’m still on Cloud 18989789 and so now’s the time to….WRITE more! Yes, no rest for the weary. The Brooklyn Bubble is a script I’m super proud of because I wrote something that I enjoy and that makes me laugh while also showing my folks as we are - phenomenal and regular too. Below is the photo of the award which I hope I’ll be able to use to keep me going when the world of screenwriting gets a little dark and silent again (which it will because it always does).

I miss you, dad!

Like so many, New York had a pull on me even before I moved there. The benefit of growing up in the 90s meant there was SO much good music, hip hop specifically, happening there that I had to go even when I had no idea what I was going to do there. I grew up, really, in New York even though I was raised in Detroit and born in Pasadena. New York made me an adult.

If it hadn’t been for the Native Tongue movement, Jazzmataz and Digable Planets, I have no idea what kind of person I would have turned out to be. Scratch that. If that music hadn’t affected me like it did, I don’t know what I would be now. The whole idea that there was a quest for identity and a consciousness that nobody else seemed to really need except for a selected group of us, was an amazing moment to be connected to.

I get weary of docs about that time because, well, if you didn’t love it and didn’t feel like it was pulsing through your veins, then it’s hard to capture. Michael Rapaport obviously loved it as much as many because his doc “Beats Rhymes Life”, all about the journey of A Tribe Called Quest, captures it like he was taking a picture of each lyric, each loop, each crazy concert where we all nodded our heads so hard that we came away dizzy.

I can remember most of my growing up moments with this soundtrack underneath. I remember Pierre Bennu giving me a tape of a De La Soul album and playing it until it broke. I remember listening to Midnight Marauders in my Shockwave extra bass Sony Walkman, the joint vibrating, while sitting on the 4 train to Brooklyn. Bonita Applebaum set a standard for how I wanted anybody to step to me. It’s just clearly amazing to remember these moments and how they’ve built up like muscle in my whole being. Like jazz, this kind of hip hop will never leave me and I’m so grateful for that.

Every group that is formed should watch this doc. Not just hip hop groups but any time you work with people you start off caring about like family and then realize that sometimes, when you grow up, the dynamic doesn’t always keep always keep you on the same page. And that’s okay.

Hopefully folks won’t view the non-beef between Phife and Q Tip as an impetus to watch some dramatic tale unfold. It’s really about how art can be so collective and it’s process can be so dividing. At the end of the day, what lives is the music, thank whatever diety that’s over that. The group succeeded because they are still at the top of the major playlist of so many around the world. It’s just life.

This. Is. Funny..

I stan this video, this song, this choreography, this…oh just this.

thanks to Bossip

It’s fascinating because with the invention of Twitter and Facebook, blogs sometimes come to a standstill because you’ve kind of already said a bunch of stuff in a bunch of places. I’ve been trying to figure out what piece of my writing goes where. I write fiction but I’m trying to finish it! I have random thoughts so I post them to Twitter where they get lost in the ticker tape abyss. I hate Facebook because I feel like there’s far too much personal information that sometime causes you to lose friends and acquaintances (both have happened to me and I hate the feeling of finding out somebody is a bigot or a hater on other people).

So here I am today, with a little more time on my hands. And what do I get inspired to write about? That hot ass mess called “Single Ladies” on VH1. Now, let me back up. The concept isn’t so bad or original. Three women who are friends, navigating single life. I think that was called “Everything Candace Bushnell Writes” or “Any Of Those Hot Mess Reality Shows on Bravo.”  But I judge this one particularly harsh because the flaw is in the acting. It’s not always the actors’ fault, by the way. The job of the director is to Tim Gunn It (Make IT Work). If it ain’t working, fix it! Lisa Raye seems really nice but folks aren’t telling her that her reaction timing is off. The vanilla girl is not good for this show. I can’t find anything that would make me miss her acting specifically if she were replaced. They do it on the soaps all the time. Not a big deal. Stacey Dash has always been a bit of a shining star. She’s no Meryl Streep but she makes you want to watch her because she knows her marks.

In the rush to put shows about women, drama and controversy on television, networks are putting up sloppy work. Listen, I’m free if you need some script doctoring. Anything can be fixed.

In the spirit of John Legend’s new crusade “Wake Up Everybody” (though some of you from Detroit may remember this as Teddy Pendergrass on WJLB reminding you that it was time to get to school and not necessarily an anthem for grass movements), I’d like to reflect on teachers that changed my life. No I don’t think teaching is some sort of “Ghost Whisper” job you get when you can inherently talk to the natives without moving your lips. I think teaching is damn hard work for no money and you just might as well go into it without expectations and lots of Five Hour Energy Drinks.  In other words, it’s the new brick breaking.

When I was in third grade in Detroit, my teacher, Miss Bailey, read a horrible poem I wrote and proclaimed me a writer. The poem was about our visit to the Detroit Institute of Arts (not only a cultural institution but also a great place to play hooky where many of my friends stole their first kiss obviously in front of the Diego Rivera mural) and somehow I made a rhyme with ants. After that I wrote horrible stories in a notebook that got passed from friend to friend until the end of the week when I was forced to keep going.

I would love to say my high school, Renaissance (the ultimate college prep at the time - and I say that because we had no fun distractions like a football teams - only tennis, golf and helluva girls’ basketball team that had no following), had great teachers. In fact, I can say it but none of them made me feel as special as Miss Baily did. Actually, I made myself feel special back then out of sheer hormonal need puberic angst (I still don’t know how one can combat an unfresh perm, acne and a minimal clothes budget).

Eugene Lang College changed my life. One day, in Sekou Sundiata’s 1960s art social class, it all made sense to me. I realized that everything I learned was connected. There was no separating history from art, from social studies to math. Time, Sekou taught me, was the glue that held everything together and made everything a living organism that needed to be addressed. “Leave room for the ghost,” he told us several times. He and Kurt Lamkin were able to allow me to pull words out of the depth of my gut and make them wrap themselves around what I was thinking. Peter Wallace made realize I could stage all of this.

Sarah Lawrence was a joint educational process. Ed Allan Baker was the best playwrighting teacher around. He taught me timing, humor, appreciation for my working class roots and how that’s just as interesting as Shakespeare - Ed was the babysitter you prayed your parents would leave you with. Kevin Confoy taught me producing and imagination. To this day, his staging of Sophie Treadwell’s “Machinal” was the best I’d ever see and I still strive to capture the moment the main character, on the brink of her death sentence, shoots several feet up in the air just as the electric chair switch went down. I think of it and am breathless.

I don’t know what kids have people who teach them and leave them breathless anymore. I know I wasn’t the easiest kid to teach because I was a Know-It-All and incredibly defensive but did I have the sense of entitlement present today? I was too scared to. I knew my parents would kill me. I’m hoping there are still some of those parents out there who are able to peel through the onion layers of these crazy modern times and can reach their kids before the entitle themselves out of reality. So if you’re a teacher, hats off to you. Keep breaking the bricks of whatever this present state of chaos is we have surrounding us. If you want me to, I’ll email you everyday to remind you that you’re valued.

I might dead on news.

Though I consider myself fairly news oriented, since “Yes We Can” I’ve literally been on a downward spiral from what we now call news. I don’t think I was prepared for the wave of negativity, backlash, ridiculous grand standings, rush judgments and hypocrisy that was soon to follow a POTUS (President Of The United States for those of you not keen on brevity) that made history but then would have the same tasks most other POTUSes had before him: change the world as soon as you can or else people are going to hate you.

There are a couple of different things to remember here, that I literally forgot: 1) People expect the POTUS to have a wand that changes everything in record time 2) No one ever remembers when things sucked more than they do now 3) Desperate times call for desperate crazies and every crowd loves a crazy.

I was okay with these things except for the fact that I didn’t know the “news” would follow suit. I love blogging and silly me thought we could keep the lines bold between opinion and facts. Somehow news organizations found out that people don’t really check their own facts, despite how rampant this dang internet has become. They’ve feared us so that we believe whoever our respective TV comfy blankets are (mine happens to be Jon Stewart and Bill Maher but I know a bunch of people think Bill O’Reilly and Faux News are as cozy as white snow).

Call me crazy but I just want some good news every once in a while. That’s why POTUS had such a great rise to fame. Sure he was smart and personable but who doesn’t love a feel good story? I’ve been forced to cut and paste my news now. An NPR snippet here, a BBC shot there, a little bit from TheRoots.com and I’m almost happy to feel informed. But I have to work at it.

Listen, Kanye is outside of the box. We all know this. I wish I turned myself into a stampin fool when my father died but I went inward cause I don’t have that big beautiful painting of an ego that Kanye has. It’s not a diss. That ego is like a wall mural of a big city street during rush hour and sometimes we need that. What else would folks talk about if not Kanye sometimes?

But this ain’t about him or how I listen to “Flashing Lights” on repeat at the gym sometimes. This is about dude’s website with the BOMB art! How come nobody told me? He’s collected some beautiful images. Man, if you don’t have the $$ to fly to Paris or ain’t in the mood to stand by tourists NOT looking at the art at the museum, just click on this:

http://www.kanyewest.com/home/#/category/art/

No it’s not those weird bears he had in one video and it damn sure ain’t Amber Rose spread eagle (there is a sneaky image or two of the Ye and the former Bun but it’s not too bad - since you can see her for zero reason at the opening of an envelope these days). There’s a bunch of different types and styles ranging from Russian Prison tattoos, supermodels, Liberian children, Madonna and some vintage shots. Man, this dude should curate a bunch of stuff. Wait, that’s what he does already. Curate sounds awful close to create when you say it outloud, don’t it?