This is my spin on the end of the modern-day romance...

This is a eulogy for our poetry nights at the bookstore.

Remember the day when that spoken word artist shook us to the core?

You were so inspired that you bought her book and I performed her poetry for you.

The more I scowled, the more you laughed. I just couldn't master her lyrical flow, you know?


By the way, I disagree, reading poetry on your Kindle just doesn't seem the same to me.
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This is a eulogy for our conversations.

And the evening phone calls that stretched into the wee hours of the morning.

I miss that back-and-forth banter that once defined us.

Yes, you used to say tomaaaayyyyto and I used to say tomaaaahhhhto.

But it seems we don’t say much of anything anymore.

By the way, I disagree, that sweet e-mail just doesn't seem the same to me.

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This is a eulogy for our mid-afternoon check-ins.

I really miss asking you about your day.

And hearing how you planned to make our world just a little brighter.


By the way, I disagree, the Twitter updates just doesn't seem the same to me.

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This is a eulogy for our intimacy.

I really miss staring into your eyes until your random blinks and my rhythmic heartbeats would eventually fall into sync.

Your wondrous brown eyes could never lie to me, no matter what your mischievous mouth said. Like when your mouth said, yes, that you loved my Creole dirty rice, well, your eyes told me to never prepare that meal again.

By the way, I disagree, that sweet Skype video message just doesn't seem the same to me.

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This is a eulogy for our weekly golf outings.

After summers of your priceless tutoring, yes, finally, my swing is respectable enough to join you on the green alongside the real golfers.

By the way, I disagree--the Wii game version you bought just doesn't seem the same to me.
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This is a eulogy for the Build-A-Bear Workshop teddy you stuffed for me.

And the handwritten love note that was pinned to its coat.

By the way, I disagree--your constant teddy bear 'pokes' on Facebook just doesn't seem the same to me.

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The next time you visit my Facebook page, perhaps you should check my relationship status.
By the time you read this note that, too, would have changed.

By Rich Sullivan

At least once a week, I get an email from someone who has written something, and I am asked to "look it over."

I always do. Some of it is very good. Some of it is not so good.

I click on, eager to read what I have been sent. Then, a second later, the copy pops up on my screen, and my eyes glaze over.

I so often find myself staring at what I call a "brick wall": a gigantic, solid, mass of type. There are no paragraph breaks. There's no "air" in the copy, no oxygen. I feel like I can't breathe!

So instead of reading with eager anticipation, I find myself plowing through it, like I'm a dirt farmer from Kansas. Reading should be a joy, not an ordeal. Attention spans are at an all-time low. Mine gets lower with every passing day.

I read a book review the other day, and it was very good, except that it was something like fifty lines of uninterrupted type, without a pause. When I finished reading it, I had to take a nap.

I would advise any aspiring writer to not make any paragraph more then ten or twelve lines. We are no longer in Victorian England, where writers would go on for pages without a paragraph break. Writers in Victorian England were paid by the word. (Check out any novel by Charles Dickens). They had a reason for their verbosity. We don't.

If you have a twenty-seven line paragraph, you probably have more than one thought in it. Find out what those thoughts are, and give each one its own paragraph. Watch out for any sentence that you start with the word "But." If the sentence starts with a "but," it should be a new paragraph.

But I'm sure you already knew that!

It's not just what you say, it's how you say it. Dense, thick, unending words make you look like a bloviator, not a communicator, and nobody likes a windbag.

Write what you want, then go back, review it, and then make sure it looks good.

Open the windows, and get some air in there. Let the sunshine in!

8/8/2009 4:32:00 PM http://blog/?view=pLink&id=143 143
Here is an excerpt from Richard Sullivan's latest book, The Secrets of the Unadilla, coming out this month. Let is know what you think:

(From Chapter One)

Eleanor Eddowes was a very perceptive woman, and she instantly knew what was going to happen. She tried to move fast, but she wasn't quite fast enough. The visitor came rushing towards her with two bony arms outstretched, then punched her in the chest and pushed her towards the open windows.

Eleanor had the wind knocked out of her. She tried to put her arms up to defend herself, but then was hit again, and was staggered back another four feet. She tried to scream but she couldn't. She couldn't breathe.

She was hit for the third time, the hardest time, and this time she toppled out the window.
Her last thought was, "Goddamit, I can't even yell!"

She landed face down in the Unadilla's beautifully landscaped rear courtyard. Her blood splattered all over the nice flowers.

Her visitor looked out the window, saw her broken body, nodded, then scurried out of the apartment, and down the back stairs.

A very attractive, very well-built, dark-haired young woman was at the other end of the hallway, carrying a broom and a dustpan. She heard a door close and looked down the hall. She thought she saw someone going down the stairs.

I wonder what that was about, she thought. I'll find out.

Later, when Eleanor's broken body was discovered, the police came. They spent a day questioning the Unadilla's tenants, which was easy because the Unadilla was only half rented. The police concluded that Eleanor Eddowes had committed suicide. After all, it was the Depression and times were tough for everyone. C'est la vie.

The police did not have the time, nor the manpower, nor the inclination, to waste on foolish shop girls who spent money like they were Daddy Warbucks, then panicked and jumped out the window when the bills came due.

Eleanor Eddowes had no obituary written for her. No one cared to place one in The Times, or the Herald Tribune, or even the Daily News. Only one New York City newspaper, a disreputable tabloid, wrote about the sudden death of Eleanor Gladys Eddowes, a spunky young girl who had seen her chance, grabbed it, and then lost it in a matter of twenty seconds--the time it takes to fall out a window and crack your skull open in a lilac bed.



8/6/2009 4:24:00 PM http://blog/?view=pLink&id=142 142 8/6/2009 3:44:00 PM http://blog/?view=pLink&id=141 141

By Karen Hunter

I wasn't going to blog about this because there have been a glut of comments on the arrest of Henry Louis Gates, Jr. by people far more qualified than I--including the president of the United States. But I do have a few questions that I'd like some help answering.

Not knowing all of the facts (and I guess it's possible that Professor Henry Louis Gates, Jr. was strapped, had knives and actually threatened and perhaps assaulted the police), I just want to know:

1. Do robbers stand there and engage in intellectual discourse with police officers or do they run?
2. Who out there would be okay with the police coming into your living room and snatching you out of your home in handcuffs?
3. For those in law enforcement folks out there, riddle me this: Why is it necessary to handcuff someone who is unarmed, who you have vastly outnumbered, who is 59 (in September), and who walks with a cane?
4. On the wide angle the female officer actually had her hand on her gun. Why? The man was handcuffed. Was she afraid he might shoot her with what, his penis?
5. When was the last time (or the first time) a white man was shot at 41 times in the doorway of his apartment building?
6. When was the last time (or the first time) a white man and his friends were shot at 50 times in front of a strip club?
7. Do the police work for us or are we under their rule. I mean how can I be insubordinate to someone whose salary my taxes pay?
8. Are we really innocent until proven guilty?
9. Why is this country still so race conscious and race stupid?

True story:
A couple of years ago, I witnessed a drunk (or high) white man running through my Orange, NJ neighborhood. The police from West Orange chased him into Orange, but I guess couldn't arrest him across the city lines. This man was cursing and telling the police to suck this and suck that and giving them the middle finger. And to my surprise, the police were just as calm as can be.

They simply said, "Sir (yes, they called him sir!), step a couple more feet." They were trying to entice him to cross the city lines. This dummy did and they arrested him. But he wasn't thrown to the ground, he wasn't kicked, punched, beaten with a billy club (or is it bully club?), or Tasered. He was calmly handcuffed and led away--all the while still cursing and struggling against the police.
Final question: What would have happened if this perpetrator were black?


email me at: thekarenhunter@mac.com

7/23/2009 3:47:00 PM http://blog/?view=pLink&id=140 140

By Karen Hunter

Walter Cronkite died on Friday, and with him died perhaps some of the last vestiges of true journalism--ethics, fairness, balance, and a real commitment to truth and informing the people.

I don't remember some of the most memorable Cronkite moments. I didn't see him break down when Kennedy was assassinated. I didn't hear the reports where he would break from his norm and have subtle commentary on the horrors of the Vietnam War. I didn't hear his excitement upon the launch of the Apollo XI.

But what I do remember is that every week night at six o'clock in the Hunter household, the television was turned onto Walter Cronkite and the CBS Evening News. That was the way it was.

I used to groan in pain (as I'm sure any little kid would) at the prospect of having to watch the news and listen to that old man with the gravelly, strong voice talk about things I could care less about. (My father forced me to watch Cronkite).

But as I grew up, I also grew to appreciate the service that Walter Cronkite provided and almost through osmosis his style and commitment to excellence impacted my career. He was not a talking head, teleprompter reader. He wasn't a pretty face, sitting there for marketing reasons and ratings. He was a true, American journalist.

Cronkite was the model and the standard and unfortunately, in this era of shock TV, celebrity news, and "opinion" and personality journalism, his kind of energy is sorely missed. As a professor of journalism at Hunter College in New York, I instill in my students the same kind of love of finding the truth and reporting the facts that were the hallmark of a Cronkite broadcast.

It wasn't about Cronkite, it was about the news.

During his last broadcast, Cronkite said, "Old anchormen, you see, don't fade away, they just keep coming back for more. And that's the way it is."

Walter Cronkite has not really died, he has not faded away. His legacy will live on in those of us who care about this medium, who care about people and delivering to them the truth from all sides--without sensationalism and innuendo.

I, for one, am committed to carrying it forth and continuing to instill these tenets in my students.

...and that's the way it is!

email me at: thekarenhunter@mac.com

7/20/2009 11:52:00 AM http://blog/?view=pLink&id=139 139

By Rich Sullivan

In the beginning was the Word....

That's a good thing. I love words, and read them, and write them, and look up their definitions, just about every day. Words, if they can be mastered, are the most potent force on earth. The pen is mightier than the sword, and all that. You know what I mean.

But I'm beginning to think that in this day and age, we are being buried under too many vowels, and consonants, and split infinitives. I never thought I'd say this, but today, there are just too many words floating around out there in the ether.

I just checked with a friend, who is an expert at this sort of thing, and she told me that, as of this morning, there have been millions of words written about a T-shirt that little Malia Obama was wearing the other day.

Was this T-shirt horribly controversial? Did it have a swastika on it, or a motto that said "Death to America!"?

No. It had a "peace sign" on it. Egads! A "peace sign"! That sign has been around since 1958, and has never hurt anyone, as far as I know.

Someone should tell Malia's parents what their Little Darling is doing. Maybe she should be "grounded" for a month!

How inconsequential. How jejune. How--stupid. Yet many people around the world are pounding away furiously on their keyboards, outraged and offended about an 11-year-old's T-shirt, for God's sake.

Today's young people have a double challenge when it comes to words these days. When I was a kid, all I had to do was learn how to read.

Today's kids not only have to learn how to read, but, with all the bilge that is out there now, they have to learn what to read. Malia Obama's T-shirt preferences--and the millions of words written about them--is a perfect case in point.

And don't get me started about the billions of words that have been written about Michelle Obama's belts, pocketbooks, shoes, sleeveless dresses, etc., ad nauseam.

The young have to learn about this drivel as early as they can.

An eyesight is a terrible thing to waste.

7/14/2009 2:30:00 PM http://blog/?view=pLink&id=138 138 By Karen Hunter

I met this 18-year-old young man from Brooklyn recently. He came to me through a very dear friend who was teaching him in a program she started at his school. She told me that he was an incredible writer and I should see some of his work. If I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I'd have a lot of dollars.

But one of the reasons why I got into publishing was to discover and develop new writers. My goal was to create a standard and build a voice and a legacy for future generations. So having an 18-year-old writer under my wing was exciting. Even if he wasn't that talented, I figured, if he had a passion and desire to write, I could work with him.

I am halfway through his first novel, which is about a group of fallen angels trying to win their way back into the good graces of God through acts of heroism and love on earth. It's clever, insightful, spiritual and brilliantly told. I literally can't put it down. But what has impressed me about this young man's work is his work ethic.

i have worked with quite a few "authors" during my time as a publisher and a writer and a teacher and I find that most are lazy--expecting some editor to pick up the slack. Many put half-baked ideas on paper and pass them off as finished work. And even more than should don't pay attention to details--their works are full of type-os, grammatical errors and incomplete themes.

Many of today's so-called authors are bolstered by some very good editing, ghost writing and writing coaches. When Richard Simon and Max Schuster, started Simon & Schuster and Bennett Cerf, Christopher Coombes and Donald Klopfer started Random House in the 1920s, writers had to submit manuscripts in near-perfect condition. There were no total rewrites or editors who specialized in making works readable. You either were a writer or you weren't. If you could tell a story, but couldn't execute, you didn't get published.

I would like to see us go back to the good old days when people worked on their craft, cared about things like punctuation and grammar, and produced work that didn't require much work from their editors and publishers.

I want to thank 18-year-old Kyle Chais for restoring my faith in writers and give me hope that within this next generation may be quite a few superstars. I can't wait to finish this book, "Nameless," and believe me when you read it, you'll know why.

email me at: thekarenhunter@mac.com

7/11/2009 4:24:00 PM http://blog/?view=pLink&id=137 137

By Rich Sullivan

I've had two careers in my life: writing and cooking.

I still cook for a living, and my first novel is being published in August, courtesy of Karen Hunter Media. At the moment, I'm sort of living a parallel life.

One lesson I've learned from both my professions is the secret of what I call "marination." Many times, things can taste, or read, better the next day. Many times, it's better to leave things for a day or two, before you dig in.

Did you ever make a beef stew? It tastes great hot off the stove, but it tastes even better the next day, after it's been in the refrigerator overnight, where the flavors of the different ingredients can mix and mingle, and get to know each other. The same goes for soup. Most of them taste better after 24 hours in the fridge.

Technically, what I am talking about is not really "marinating." Marinating is placing something in a seasoned liquid to steep before cooking, but that's not what I mean when I say "marinate." By "marinate," I mean being patient. Please bear with me!

Marinating works well with writing, too. Everything you write can be improved if you let it stew in its own juices for a day or two. Then you go back and read it again, adjust the seasoning, and then you will have a much tastier product.

All the really big, talented writers (think: J.K. Rowling, Stephen King, Stephenie Myer) probably marinate their stuff for six months before they submit it to their publishers. Then their publishers give it to a team of six editors and proofreaders, who pore over every sentence. That's why their books read so well. Best-sellers are not solo acts. They are team efforts.

The only writer I know of who was the exception to the rule was Edgar Rice Burroughs, the guy who wrote the "Tarzan" books. Supposedly, he sat down with pen and paper, and produced a manuscript. He never went back to check it. He wrote it, then sent it off to his publisher, who printed it without changing a word.

Maybe that's just a legend, like the alligators that allegedly slither and slide way down in the New York City sewer system.

You don't have to be a professional writer to learn the wisdom of marinating. If you are angry, upset, or feeling very emotional, you might want to let that impassioned email you just wrote "marinate" for a day or two, before you hit down hard on the "send" key!

email me at: richsullivan319@aol.com

Everyone likes to speak of the Chinese and how disciplined they are. And that's because as a nation, they save more than 50 percent of their income. That alone is impressive considering that the average American struggles to save enough to receive the company match of their 401K, which is anywhere from three to five percent.

The Chinese also enjoy longer lives than Americans. But the Chinese don't just live longer, they also live healthier lives.

Before we label the Chinese a super race, however, let's get to the root of their prosperity. And before we do that understand that the definition of prosperity does not simply pertain to finances. Prosperity encompasses good health, peace in your life, and financial well-being. Having all of these things would be considered true prosperity.

Let's really look at how the Chinese live. In China, they don't have the same luxuries that many Americans consider an entitlement. Everyone doesn't have cable and flat screens and the SUV. Until very recently, a car wasn't a necessity as it is in America, where most Americans need two cars to survive! Most Chinese travel by bicycle. They are even restricted by law by the number of children they can have.

The Chinese don't have healthcare. In American, we're complaining because everyone doesn't. The Chinese don't have pensions and retirement funds. They don't have unemployment. The Chinese don't have social security and they don't have welfare.

So as a nation, they are all programmed for survival. They have nothing to fall back on. They have to work to provide for themselves in the now and in the future. Every dime they make they know has to feed, clothe and provide shelter for them and their family.

Whatever is left over, may be needed to take care of a relative because unlike Americans, the Chinese respect and take care of their elderly. It is their responsibility. And whatever is left over from there, they store away for their future. And whatever is left over from that, perhaps they can splurge on a flat screen or a car.

But those the least of their concerns when earning a living. That's why saving in the Chinese community is a way of life. It's about survival. Not a single dime is spent without careful planning, knowing full well that the family's present and future survival is at stake.

Now is the time for you to program yourself for survival mode. I don't know about you but I would rather humble myself than be humiliated. I would rather prepare for the worse and hope for the best. I would rather live like the Chinese than stand back and admire them. They're not special, they're just prepared.

Are you?

email me at: tremellmckenzie@aol.com

By Richard Sullivan

I was speaking with a dear friend yesterday, and we were having a minor disagreement. I said something to her, she listened, then said, "Rich, you're wrong. Unless you're in it, you cannot understand it."

She was right. During our discussion, I was assuming certain things. And you know that old saying about when we "assume." After she made that remark, I felt like an ass!

That's the challenge--and the responsibility--of the writer. The writer can never assume anything. The best writers are those who can come close to expressing the feelings of those who are not like them, because they don't "assume" that what they feel is what everybody else feels. Truth is not a constant, like the sun rising in the east, or a Big Mac. Truth is fluid. Truth varies.

Can a male writer ever really know what it's like to be a woman? Can a female writer ever really know what it's like to be a guy? Of course not.

Can writers hit the bulls-eye, dead on, every time? No. But the best writers are the ones who can come very close to it. The best writers are those who work as hard on their empathy as they do on their sentence structure. The conversation I had with my friend taught me that lesson--again.

(Please note that in the above paragraph, I used the word empathy, not sympathy. People often get these words mixed up. That's why I firmly believe that everybody should have a printed dictionary, and they should check it out every day, like they do their horoscope!)

President Obama got my vote when I read his commencement address at Northwestern University, delivered on June 16, 2006. I didn't vote for him because of his fiscal policy, or his foreign policy, or because he gives a great speech. My "tipping point" with the President was when I read the words he spoke (and wrote--the Prez is a great writer) at that graduation, and I quote:

"There's a lot of talk in this country about the federal deficit. But I think we should talk more about our empathy deficit--the ability to put ourselves in someone else's shoes; to see the world from those who are different than us...."

Perfecto! Bravo! Standing Ovation!

The best writers follow the President's advice. The best writers are not those hollow souls who live their entire lives associating only with those who look like them, think like them, talk like them, dress like them, act like them, and live with them in the same neighborhood, forever, like the Old Woman In The Shoe, who was so screwed up, she didn't know what to do!

A good writer tries on lots of pairs of shoes. Some will fit, and some won't, and so what?

If you want to be a good writer, take off those comfortable sneakers, and put on a pair of leather wingtips, then walk a mile in them. Your feet--and your mind--might be transformed.

Email me at richsullivan319@aol.com

By Rich Sullivan

I have a cousin who is the greatest guy in the world: He's kind, generous, and would give you the shirt off his back, to use a cliche.

But he has one big problem: He doesn't know how to use words. He doesn't know anything about words. He would have a hard time writing a grocery list, but he is not a stupid person. He is an ignorant person, because he was never taught how to express himself, either verbally, or in writing. Not being able to do that can lead to incredible frustration.

He is married to a wonderful, educated woman. And like all married couples, they have their occasional dramas. When they are going toe-to-toe, and having some typical "married couple" argument, my cousin cannot match his wife's verbal prowess. She wins the war of words, every time. That drives him crazy. He cannot communicate with her on her level.

So what does he do? He can't fight back with his mouth. So he rips the kitchen cabinets off the wall, he breaks dishes, he kicks the dog, then he goes down to the local pub, and drowns his sorrows in a glass (or three) of Johnny Walker Red.

He acts this way because he cannot express himself. He knows what he wants to say, but he doesn't know the words. If he could say what he wanted to say, his blood pressure would not be so high, and he would not be so self-destructive--to himself, his family, and his interior decorations.

That is why writing is so important. You don't have to aspire to be Stephen King, but learning how to write--learning how to say exactly what you want to say, and not have to fish around for the words to say--can be the ket to whether you are a happy, content person, or a frustrated, unhappy man, like my cousin.

You learn words from the dictionary, a printed dictionary, not that "dictionary dot com" stuff.

The online dictionaries just tell you the definition of the word you are looking up.

But if you have a real dictionary, you will look up a word, and then perhaps see three or four other words on the same page, which you had no idea what they meant. You'll read those definitions and learn them, too. That's how you get educated. That's how you build a vocabulary. Reading a dictionary is incredible fun.

I just bought two dictionaries for a friend who is expecting, and who will shortly have a son. One is a child's dictionary, something I hope he will read and enjoy when he is four or five years old. But I also got him a Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, something he won't read for ten years. I like to plan ahead!

That dictionary will be there for him, and he will learn from it, even if printed "books" are obsolete in ten years. If you want to buy a child a present, don't bother with cute stuff. Forget the Vermont Teddy Bears, or the little knitted shirts that say "I Love Mommy and Daddy." (They outgrow that stuff in weeks. It's a waste of money.)

Buy a kid a dictionary. You'll be buying them something that money can't buy. Buy them power.

Those who master the world first learn how to master words.

By Rich Sullivan

I have always admired natural extroverts, people who look forward to entering a roomful of strangers, and "meeting new people." My friend Joelle is like that, and so is my daughter, Leslie. (Where Leslie got that trait is beyond me. She certainly didn't get it from me or her mother!)

Now, don't get me wrong: I'm not a total introvert. I am not someone who lurks in a corner, sucking his thumb. I don't live in a little cabin with no electricity, like the Unibomber. I don't sit on the toilet for eight hours a day, like Howard Hughes. I am not like Greta Garbo, who "vants to be alone."

Actually, I love people. I just have don't have that natural ability to reach out, and touch someone. It takes a lot of effort for me to do that. Do I have a fear of rejection? I don't know. Maybe I should go to Vienna, and get my head shrunk.

The hardest part of writing my book was not the actual writing process. Writing is difficult, but to me, it is not "hard." I sit down at the computer, and then go into my dreamworld. Sometimes, I sip a glass of cheap wine to help my imagination get going. It's a lot of fun.

The hardest part of writing my first book was not writing it, but, now that it is about to be published, I have to sell it. That does not come easy to me, but it has turned out to be a very enriching experience.

I am amazed how kind so many people are. I tell them about my book, and they say, "Hey! Great! Let me know how to order it, and I'll buy three copies!" (And these people are not my kids, or my elderly aunts. These folks are virtual strangers.)

If you are a basically shy person like me, it is so difficult to ask for help. But I am learning every day that asking for help is not a sign of weakness, but a sign of strength.

Maybe you need to ask for help, too--not necessarily for a book, but for a personal problem, an addiction, a way to deal with an abusive relationship, advice on how to deal with a problem child. No matter what you are going through, someone else has gone through the same thing, too. Find them. They are out there.

Take it from me: If you need help in any way, ask for it. Eventually, you will get it--please, trust me on this. I cannot emphasize enough how many people--people I don't really know--have helped me with promoting my book. It's like magic. And that magic is out there waiting for you, too.

There is a quote from the writer Anais Nin that goes: And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. Truer words have never been spoken.

I will never get to the point where I will attend a party, jump up on a table, and start singing Viva Las Vegas, like Elvis. I'll always remain the reserved person that I am.

But I have become a better person--a stronger person--since I have started asking for help. If you are like me, why not take a walk on the wild side, and try it, too? You won't regret it--promise!

email: richsullivan319@aol.com.

6/4/2009 5:26:00 PM http://blog/?view=pLink&id=126 126

By Zondra Hughes

You know, this Diva Feminista can only take so much open sexism from the conservative wing.

Here I am, languishing on the outskirts of the Sonia Sotomayor debacle as the conservative bulldogs rip her work record and reputation to shreds. I've been waiting patiently, for someone to just stand up and call bullsh*t!

Where's my favorite Latina judge, Marilyn Milian of The People's Court? I'm sure she has a word or two for those blueblood bad boys. Does Judge Milian know that the legion of Diva Feministas are waiting on her fire-and-brimstone rebuttal?

Did she get our e-mail?

Now, if I am to believe the talking radio gods on the far right of the dial, Judge Sonia Sotomayor is racist against the disenfranchised, genteel white man. And she wants to take away their guns, or to be more specific, their right to bear the two sticks on a chain--aka Nunchuks--on the pristine, peaceful, crime-free streets of New York.
(I'm not too familiar, but can a set of rapid fire Nunchuks stop a stray New York bullet, anyway? Just asking.)

Not to mention she's stuck up. I mean who does Judge Sonia soh-toh-my-YORZ think she is, requiring that her name be pronounced correctly? What in the hell is this conservative White man's world coming to? Are we expected to speak in an unnatural dialect just to please her?

Okay, enough already. Can I call bullsh*t now?

My dearest level-headed, pure-as-a-baby's-first-breath Rush Limbaughers, please call off the hounds, and give Judge Sotomayor the opportunity to put her life's experiences and mastery of the law--overwhelmingly the laws created by your fair and balanced brethren--to work in the highest court in the land.

What's blocking you, anyway?

Is it that Judge Sotomayor doesn't resemble the Supreme Court Justice nominee that you had in mind? Is it that she could quite possibly become the first Hispanic female justice, nominated by the country's first black president, further cementing the notion that a truly post-race America is inevitable?

How can we get past this fork in the road?
I have an idea:

If it will help you, please ignore that President Barack Obama nominated her.

If it will help you, please forget that behind that infectious smile lies empathy. As we all know, the U.S. Supreme Court is no place for empathy to be practiced. The travesty!

If it will help you, please ignore that she is a woman who, against all odds,
made her own way in your world.

If it will help you, please ignore her ethnicity, and what a historical appointment this would be, for that matter.

And because it will help Diva Feminstas like myself, we will learn to ignore you.

email me at:zondrahughes@yahoo.com

By Tremell McKenzie

I woke up financially about eight years ago. But I was stirred a few times prior to that. The first time I remember saying, "I'm not doing something right," was when I was in college. I was standing in the lobby of my dorm and I had just gone on an exhausting shopping spree with my work-study check. It was an unnecessary trip because I was wearing brand new clothes as I carried my bags in.

I was never so thrilled with myself as when I saw my friend Tara and she complimented the clothes I was wearing. She went on to say she wanted the shoes I had on but couldn't afford them.

She hugged me good-bye and said she didn't know how I could afford such nice new stuff all the time and that she was on her way to a local bar, because she had landed a job as a waitress and would start that weekend. She said she didn't want the job but she had no money.

"Tremell, I'm down to my last thousand dollars!" she told me.

You can close your mouth now. But know that a cold bewildering chill ran through my mind and body the day she said that. When I said I was broke, I meant I was really broke. I had nothing. If I had ten dollars left, I considered myself ahead of the game.

I knew then that I was missing something and this girl let me know, whether she meant to do so or not. Tara set off alarms and thoughts that never crossed my mind before. The first thought was that different people had different perspectives, standards and definitions as it pertained to having money.

It seemed that all the poor people (me and my family) thought about money one way and all the rich (or people with means) thought about it another way. But I knew then and there that the only difference between the haves and the haves not started in the mind.

So I'd like to say thank you to Tara, wherever you are. Your lesson was the most valuable thing I learned in school. Learning to understand money and grow wealth is the single most important and valuable lesson any of us can ever learn.

email me at: tremellmckenzie@aol.com

One of the great things about being a writer is that, like Mary Tyler Moore, you can "take a nothing day, and suddenly make it seem all worthwhile."

For example, I like to observe people when I ride the subway. (I do it very discreetly. Nobody knows what I'm doing. I don't give people the up-and-down. I just--observe.) It is amazing what I've seen, and these people often give me ideas for characters in my writing.

The other day, I was riding the No. 2 train, and a very attractive, very well-dressed woman sat in a seat across from me. She took out The New York Times, folded the pages to the crossword puzzle, and began doing it, in ink. I was very impressed!

Then I noticed that one of her hands--the left one--was beautifully manicured, with very nice colors. But her other hand--the one she was writing with--was completely bare, and the nails were bitten down to the quick. I found that very strange, and made a mental note of it. One of these days, I will think of a reason why a woman would have one beautiful hand, and one ugly hand, and work that into a story.

If you have any ideas or explanations, please pass them on to me!

If you love to write, and if you discipline yourself to write, then even a mundane ride on the subway to Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn can be a very interesting experience. I once saw a woman on the subway clad in a head-to-toe black burqa--it only had two rectangular eye slits. She had a toddler in a stroller with her. I have no idea what the woman looked like, or what she was thinking. But her child had a big grin on her face, and was singing "Jingle Bells" in a loud, happy voice. I wonder if Mom knew what her Little Darling was doing! I'm going to use that in something some day, too.

If you love to write, then you are never really alone, because you can always spend time with yourself, and do something productive. Two people can't sit and type on the same keyboard, so if nobody is around, you can still have fun. Television is fine as a diversion, but too much TV rots the brain. That is a scientific fact, I think.

If you love to write, you don't have to wait for the cell to ring, or for an e-mail to arrive. You can go into your own world, and do whatever you want. Hate your boss? Make him or her a character in a book, then have them eaten alive by Killer Ants. You get the idea. Writing can be very therapeutic, and it's free. You don't have to wonder if you're "covered." Be your own therapist. Who knows you better than yourself?

This is the beginning of the long Memorial Day Weekend. If you've got no plans, or you're only doing something on one day, then why not sit down at the computer, and start that book or story? You never know. This weekend, you could be starting a masterpiece.

Good luck. I'm rooting for you!

email me at: richsullivan319@aol.com

I can't tell you how many people I have met in my life who want to be "writers."

And why not? Everybody's got a story to tell.

But the difference between those who "someday" want to write a book, and those who actually wind up with a hardcover copy of their efforts in their sweaty hands, is that a true writer does not sit around waiting for inspiration, or for the perfect circumstances where he or she can sit down with a hot cup of tea, all the bills are paid, the kids are in bed, there's no drama in their lives, and so now, finally, they can unleash their inner genius, and be "creative."

Sorry, but that ain't never going to happen, unless you are independently wealthy, and have no other people in your life. And who would want to read a book about someone like that?

Creativity does not knock on the door, and bestow his blessings on you. Ceativity is the result of perseverance, and hard work. You go to creativity. Creativity doesn't come to you.

Don't wait to be "inspired" to write, or wait until you are "in the mood," because that may be once a month, if you're lucky. At that rate, you'll finish your first book in about seventeen years. Do you want to wait that long?

To be a writer, you don't have to be sitting in a log cabin in Vermont, wearing a tweed jacket, smoking a pipe, with a fire roaring in the hearth, as the snow gently blankets the rooftop. You can be just s creative in your apartment, with the kids making a racket in the background, a pile of unopened credit card bills on the kitchen counter, and a headache from your pain-in-the-ass supervisor.

What you must do is put all that aside while you are writing (the kids and the bills and the supervisor will still be there tomorrow, believe me), and just pound away at the keyboard. A lot of what you do will be edited out. Much of what you do will not wind up in the finished manuscript.

But you will be amazed at what you will accomplish, even if you devote just an hour a day to your writing. If you want to write, one lousy hour a day is not going to disrupt your life, even if you would rather die than miss an episode of Watching a Bunch of Assholes Dance.

Trust me on this: Some of the best ideas you will get while you are writing will be on those days when you didn't feel like writing. It is a paradox, but it is true. When you don't want to write, then write. I guarantee, that's when you will churn out some of your best stuff!

If you have Microsoft Word, you can see a word count as you type. At first, you may have 500 words. Big deal. But keep going. Pretty soon, you'll have 20,000 words, and then you'll say "Damn! I got a book going here!"

Then the wind is under your wings, and you'll be on your way. Do it. Do it now.

Email: richsullivan319@aol.com

By Zondra Hughes

The print media have been very thorough in reporting our own dwindling newsrooms, but the story that isn't told as often concerns The Monster that awaits those left behind. Thus, here's the backstory and the scoop.

The New Politics of Print
The mayhem going on behind the mastheads of some of your favorite magazines and newspapers is unprecedented.

Suddenly, the reporter who covers one beat must now cover two, or perhaps four. In addition to the increased workload and concurrent deadlines, you'd better be blogging and Twittering your tired tail off or you may be labeled as a dinosaur.

And we all know what happens to dinosaurs of the newsroom--they become tell-all authors or ornery drunks, and not necessarily in that order.

The perks of print journalism, aka the poor man's profession, have faded. The lavish junkets just don't happen the way they used to and if you should ask for meager travel expenses to attend a professional workshop or annual conference you'd better brace yourself for a blank, icy stare. Speaking of ice, if you cough at your desk--in the age of swine flu--and you may receive a pink slip before lunch. Speaking of lunch, expect a shouting match to occur in the breakroom between stressed out journos over stolen--or missing--cheese curls.

As editor of N'Digo, http://www.ndigo.com a weekly, we are profile-driven and historically, we have not known the woes of the bustling daily newsroom. I can tell you quite frankly that in this unprecedented age of print's power struggle, we have become well-acquainted with the ugly side of print.
And the ugliness is unsettling.

Enter The Monster.

The Monster is the fusion of entitlement and desperation that results in some very ugly acts by otherwise professional people. The Monster has totally caught me off guard, and I've asked several colleagues about their experiences, and YES, they have also seen The Monster.

Monster #1: The New Age Job Seeker

Generally speaking, our office receives up to 20 resumes a week, mostly from college students seeking internships and broadcast professionals electing to delve into writing as a second career. These resumes are often quite good, and we incorporate the most promising contributors whenever we can.

And then The Monster appeared: A young, working journalist for another suburban weekly, sent his resume, which was good. I shot him an e-mail to inform him that he's on the radar of potential contributors and I will definitely reach out if an opportunity presented itself. The Monster replied, "your offer to contribute was unsatisfactory" being that he "wanted a full-time job with benefits and dental." Well, I surely didn't meet his requirements, so I responded, "I understand. Good luck with your search."
And then The Monster called. Before I could tell him again that we didn't have a position, he told me that he tried to add me as a friend on Facebook and I hadn't responded.
Okay.
Oh, and that he's following me on Twitter, did I get the e-mail about that?
Oh, dear.
To put it mildly, I was shocked.

As I was slowly returning the phone to the receiver, I could hear The Monster confirming an in-the-flesh interview. "So, I'll be downtown on Monday, so how about I stop by and discuss what you have available."

That's when I nipped it in the bud, or so I thought. "We don't have full-time position," I replied, and added firmly, "FOR YOU."

"Oh," he says. "And you're completely satisfied with the assistant you're working with now? I'm surely more qualified. I'm a go-getter."

"Well, go-get em, Tiger," I said as I hung up the phone. That was two weeks ago. The Monster has sent three follow-up emails confirming an in-the-flesh interview that was never offered for a full-time position that didn't exist and thus was also never offered.

Monster #2: The Publicity Hound
On the flip side of the aggressive job seeker is the publicity hound, that happens to be blessed with unmitigated gall.

In this case, a contributor wrote a fashion column on accessories and it was slated to run the following week. Lo and behold, an advertiser increased his one-page ad to two full pages on press night, and thus the accessories column had to be held over. We placed the column online and set to revise and update it for the following issue.
The contributor was informed of our editorial decision and less than five minutes later, The Publicity Hound Monster appeared.

This monster was one of the new local designers featured in the column. Here's the text from her email: "[The reporter] told me that the feature on me and my accessories would not appear in this week's paper. You have caused me great cost to my reputation and my business because I told my growing clientele base that the article would appear and it will not."
Ok.

I shot the designer an email explaining that the fashion column was published online, and that we were contractually obligated to place the paid advertisement. I also added that we would revise it and publish it immediately. [Not to mention that because news is fluid, print media do not generally guarantee editorial coverage, only paid advertisements.]

The Publicity Hound Monster retorted: "I understand that you had to print the ad. But from where I'm standing, you could have cut something else out."

You know what? On this one point, The Publicity Hound Monster and I are on the same page.

The fashion column on accessories will run--after I make a few editorial cuts, of course.

email me at: zondrahughes@yahoo.com

Some people want to scale Mt. Everest. Some people want to play the violin. Some people, God knows why, want to be politicians, or morticians, or mathematicians. Some people want to get married, have kids, and then live calm, uneventful lives. To each his own, and bless them all.

I always wanted to write a book, a book that I could hold in my hands, and see my name on the cover. I didn't care if it had my picture on the back. It didn't need a glowing review in The Times, or sell a million copies--though that would have been very nice, of course. Writing a book was near the top of my personal best-seller list. I believed that writing a book--a real book, not a journal, or a diary, or some random scribblings in a spiral notepad--would be quite an accomplishment, something that would make me proud, whether anyone else liked it or not.

For the longest time--for years--I kept saying to myself, I'm gonna write that book some day, but I had no idea what kind of book I wanted to write. I had no magnificent vision that would change the world. I had no desire to write a biography (I have enough trouble with my own life), or something on a serious subject that would require years of research. I'm not a fan of science fiction, fantasies, or westerns. Sizzling, salacious erotica was not an option, either. I have two daughters, and if I ever wrote something stuffed with lots of thrusting, moaning, and earth-shattering climaxes, well--I just couldn't do that. I'd die of embarrassment, knowing that my kids would read it. (I can hear them now: "Dad, we had no idea you knew anything about sex!")

Then, one day, I was sort of half-listening to the radio, and this very soft, very sweet song was playing. I heard one line of it quite clearly, though, and it touched something in me. The line went:

Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans.

Yup, that was me. "Other plans" had always gotten in the way of writing my book. And these "other plans" were not something noble and worthwhile, like I was searching relentlessly for a cancer cure. They were much more mundane affairs, like watching Larry King Live, or reading the New York Daily News online, or deciding which topping to put on my pizza: pepperoni, extra cheese, or both? Ah, yes, I was far too busy to write!

Words have immense power. Words can change people. The words from that song changed me. The moment I heard them, I decided to start my book. Finally, I was going to park my backside in front of a computer screen, and do it. Then I got an idea for the book. God helps those who help themselves!

The first "grown up" book I ever read was a Pocket Book murder mystery by Agatha Christie, titled Murder in Retrospect. (I was a kid, and had no idea what the word "retrospect" meant. I had to look it up.) It was a classic "whodunit," and the plot twist was that the crime had been committed sixteen years previously, so now it was a "cold case," like they say on NYPD Blue. The detective, Hercule Poirot, had to perform some very clever deducing to unmask the long-ago perpetrator.

The book also had a nice little surprise ending. I was very impressed!

Murder in Retrospect gave me the idea for the book--my book--that I at last wrote. Its title is The Secrets of the Unadilla. The Unadilla is the name of an Art Deco-style apartment building in Manhattan. In 1930, a young woman was murdered there, viciously pushed out a window. Then, in 1965--thirty-five years later--the murderer strikes again, this time throwing an elderly woman down a flight of stairs, breaking her neck. A long-dormant killer is again at work. Why?

It is up to Robert Knight, a hack reporter for a sleazy tabloid newspaper, to discover the truth. He has an advantage: He is close to the killer. Knight, too, lives at the Unadilla.

As he investigates, Knight uncovers other evils that hide in the hallways of this once-regal building, which has now become a fetid honeycomb of urban decay. In the end, he uncovers the Unadilla's ultimate secret--or does he?

Writing is fun, but writing is hard work, too--but believe me, it's worth it.

Next time, I'd like to share some tips with all you aspiring writers who, like me, never had the time to write a book. I'll spill one secret now: Yes, you do. Yes, you can. Your book is waiting for you. Go and get it.

You can hold down a job, raise a family, visit your friends, watch American Idol, and still have the time to write a book--your book.

Have a blessed day. Til we meet again!

Email: richsullivan319@aol.com

I remember curling up with a good book. While on vacation, I would head to the beach, paperback in hand and get lost in the world of Stephen King or Judith Krantz, or more recently, David Bach.

But lately, when I read it's not from a book, per se. I bought a Sony Reader two years ago and I can't imagine not having it. I was one of those people who swore that I could never read a book from a device. After all, part of the thrill of reading is turning the pages, dog-earing them, and watching my progress as I trudge through the several hundred pages. There is something sacred about a book, from the smell of the paper to how it's bound.

But for convenience and even readability--with the ability to be able make the text larger and bookmark pages electronically and have more than 160 books in a device that's as small and thin as a daily planner--you can't beat the electronic readers.

Amazon released its Kindle and it was sold out through the holidays last year. This year, it released its next generation, The Kindle 2, and this too is selling like hotcakes. This week, Amazon announced yet another version of the Kindle for students, which will allow them to view charts and graphs and it comes with a PDF reader installed. In addition you can receive email and print documents that are sent to your device. Ingenious.

Are "real" books becoming obsolete? Will this generation of readers not know what it feels like to crack open a brand new hard cover and delve in? If so, I am saddened by this evolution. But as an author and a publisher, I'm encouraged.

As a rule, I never read a book I've written after it's published because I will invariably find something wrong that I can't fix. I'm a little anal (okay, a lot anal), and the inability to make something perfect drives me nuts. With the ereaders and ebooks, I can fix things immediately. As a publisher, I can introduce new authors electronically and send their work out into the public immediately--I don't have the cost and time of printing a book.

But as an avid reader, I will miss the good old-fashioned book. Here's praying it won't go the way of the typewriter.

When The Twilight series hit with such a splash it was good news for LA Banks. The best-selling author of vampire thrillers, dark fantasies and paranormal romance fiction, saw the buying frenzy of Twilight, Eclipse, New Moon and Breaking Dawn, not as competition, but rather as an opportunity.

"Any time there is a rise in our genre that means that even more doors will open for me," said the Philly-bred writer of more than 15 best-selling books, including a 12-book series, which kicked off in 2003 with Minion. Her latest book, The Thirteenth, which came out last month, hit the New York Times list.

Despite the success of her books, LA Banks is still a relatively unknown author in the black community. She, along with other writers like Stephen Barnes, Tananarive Due and E.V. Rose have seen success but not the breakout successes of a Stephen King, an Ann Rice or a Stephenie Meyer. They have had to fight not just publishers and booksellers who want to throw them in the African-American section simply because they happen to be black, but also the black readers, many of whom feel that reading about vampires and demons and the paranormal is against God.

"I can't tell you how many people have told me, 'Oh, no, I can't read about that because my pastor said we can't dabble in that dark stuff.' " said Banks, who reads everything from Q'wan to Deepak Chopra. "But believe me, my heroes and heroines are putting it down. They know their scriptures; they are using the power of the Word to cast out demons and prayers to battle these vampires. If anything, my books can arm you."

The stark reality of who was buying her books came a few years ago while attending DragonCon, the largest convention in the country focusing on science fiction, horror, gaming and
comics.

"We were in the heart of Atlanta, where the majority of the population is black, but at this convention center it was about 99 percent white," said Banks, who graduated from University of Pennsylvania with a degree in business and from Temple with a master in filmmaking. "I had about 300 people in my room for a book signing and all but maybe five of them were black. I had so many white fans complaining about how hard it was to find my books and asking me why it was in the black section. I didn't have an answer. I went back and told my publisher that they had to do something. They needed to get me into the mainstream section of the stores."

To the credit of her publisher, St. Martin's Press, they fought the booksellers and won. LA Banks was moved to the same section featuring King, Rice and Meyer.

"And from that point on, my career took off," she said.

LA Banks has more than a million of her Vampire Huntress Legends in circulation and recently signed a major deal for a series of graphic novels using her characters. She is also doing a prequel to her first book, Minion and is writing a screenplay for film adaptation.

"My dream is to see my books on the big screen," said Banks. "But I also want to see more writers get into this genre. It's 2009, and I can count on one hand the number of African-American writers in this market, which has grown exponentially over the years."

Banks uses the vampires and the demons in her books as a metaphor for the things she sees in society. Along with the romance, the action-packed scenes and the sheer drama, Banks delivers
some social messages.

"Vampires and demons are mere metaphors for drug dealers and gang bangers," she said. "In our communities the drug dealers seem to have it all--the money, the jewelry, the cars and the women. They entice our young people that this is the only way to gain true wealth. These kids never see the ugly side until they're too deep to get out and then it's too late. Vampires seem to have it all--money, eternal life. But there is a price to pay for that. That's really what my books are about.

In addition to touching on social issues, Banks also has cultural diversity in her books. Her characters range from an Hispanic hero, who gets caught up in the drug/vampire game only to be rescued by this black sister who has powers (powers she got from ancient Kemet (or Egypt). There is an Asian warrior who kicks it like Jet Li while vanquishing the enemy. There is the militant, revolutionary brother, and a white boy from Tennessee. But they all have something in common--they want to defeat the evildoers.

"The message: there is a mess out here and you better put aside any petty differences and take a stand!" Banks said. "I love the diversity of my characters because that's what I see around me. You may see a Cambodian in West Philly, rocking cornrows and greeting you with a 'What up?!' or you may see a Hispanic young lady on the arm of an African-American man strolling down the street. It's a new world and my books reflect that. My thing is that people need to open their minds, and broaden their experiences. That's what I do in my books."

In honor of Women's History Month, we celebrate exceptional, hard-to-find, (or overlooked) timeless works of literature. These are our stories as only these natural born storytellers could tell it. Some authors are well-known institutions, others, regretfully are fading memories, yet all are among the most gifted novelists of all time.

Five Books to Engage You

1. The Living is Easy (Fiction) by Dorothy West
The Feminist Press at CUNY (July, 1995)
In this ludicrous tale of social climbing and the Boston middle class elite, Cleo Judson is a scandalous woman who uses what she has to get what she wants. And what does Cleo want? Everything, of course; and just when you thought Cleo has done it all, she pulls another fast one on her unsuspecting husband, devoted sisters or anyone else that crosses her crooked path.This book was originally published in the 40s, and author West still brings the high drama to make your jaws drop.



2. Thirty Years a Slave and Four Years in the White House (Nonfiction) by Lizzie Keckley
University of Illinois Press (December, 2001)
By most historical accounts, Abe Lincoln's wife, Mary Todd, was anything but kind and cool tempered. Nevertheless, the wicked woman loved a fine-looking dress. The First Lady befriended Elizabeth Keckley, a slave that became a popular African-American dressmaker. For years the two women shared a friendship that mimicked sisterhood. And Lizzie told all about it in this tawdry little tell-all! And girlfriend, Lizzie tells it all--Mary Todd was in debt and had to sell her fashionables after Lincoln's death. Speaking of Lincoln's assassination, Lizzie comes thisclose to naming a suspected insider to the deadly plot! Of course, Lizzie and Mary's friendship was over and Mary Todd's brother even banned the tome from the bookshelves.



3. My Man, Bovanne (Fiction, published in Gorilla, My Love) by Toni Cade Bambara Vintage (June, 1992)
This poignant short story is published in Bambara's Gorilla, My Love. Narrator Miss Hazel sets the story straight early, although they shared a dance at a function, old, blind, Bovanne is not her man. Miss Hazel calls it like she sees it, as Bovanne, a sorry soul, is mistreated and manipulated by everyone in the neighborhood. Ageism--the youth ignoring the wisdom and preciousness of their elders--is the backdrop. Miss Hazel is 60, herself, and that old Bovanne, well, finally, he finds a home--with Miss Hazel! This short story makes a great read for the lunch hour. And should mandatory for any wayward teen!

4. The Street (Fiction) by Ann Petry Mariner Books (March, 1998)
This book is often compared to Native Son, but with a twist: A female protagonist. Follow Lutie Johnson as this tender young single mom escapes a bad marriage and aims to rebuild her life in Harlem. Pretty edgy stuff for 1946 when it was first published, but not gratuitous; author Petry delivers an intelligent, vivid portrayal of the rose determined to grow from concrete.

5. Daddy Was A Numbers Runner (Fiction) by Louise Meriwether
The Feminist Press at CUNY (December, 2002)
Meet Francie Coffin, 12 years old and on the fast track to womanhood--and not in a good way. Francie coexists with violence and poverty, but she has a weapon: Her mind. This young woman uses her wit to survive and rise above her surroundings--and then some. Unlike most coming of age novels, this one is gritty, set in 1930s Harlem, during The Depression.

Five Books to Empower You:

1. In Love & Trouble: Stories of Black Women (Fiction) by Alice Walker
Harvest Books (May, 2003)