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Over a thousand words in a minute?? Oh, yeah, that would make me SUPER WRITER!! However, I'm not, I'm just a goofy writer who hit the wrong button at the right time. I believe this word count is for 40 minutes.

Happy Writing!

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This past weekend was very productive. I spent most of the time editing and planning for future chapters. I'm rather surprised at the effort that is going into this process. I mean, I know how the book begins and I've already figured out an explosive ending, right? So, one would think the middle would be relatively simple. NOT.

So, I have, not lowered my expectations, just made them more realistic. I will continue with my Lenten plan to free-write, just so I can get as much done as possible in as timely a manner as I can, but I also need to factor in developing my "road map".

Anyway, I am pleased to announce that I have written over 23,000 words so far; I expect the book will be complete somewhere between 80,000 and 90,000 words. I managed to write three more chapters, however, I did not use the word count program. You can see I've still got quite a ways to go. But after this weekend, my view is much clearer.

Happy Writing!

Writing Challenge update

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I didn't free write tonight. Instead I spent two hours or so, writing long hand, trying to work out a plot detail with one of my favorite characters, David. I like to work the details out in advance of actually writing a scene; it just makes the process run more smoothly.

I'm now ready to write this scene for Wednesday's challenge.

Happy writing!!

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This has been a very productive weekend. I am on target with my goal of writing 5 days a week, free hand, free thought, no editing. The weekend was spent editing chapters and working through a couple tricky plot points that had been driving me MAD!! But I finally figured them out, which should make things much easier now during my free writing times.

Happy Writing!!

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The Runaway - Emma's escape

Today, I am introducing the final in my series of character studies from my up and coming novel, The Runaway. Allow me to introduce to you, Emma. Now, you may be wondering how she fits in with the other characters you've met so far, given that she lives and functions in 1864, but I'm going to have to ask you to extend to me a little trust. Her story touches and influences the lives of several of the present day characters in very significant ways. You will find out how when the novel is completed.

Story premise:

A young woman is found unconscious and bleeding from a gunshot in an alley. She has no identification and there are no witnesses to her assault. She is taken to the hospital where she eventually regains consciousness but has no memory for her identity.

With the help of a police detective and her neurologist, she works to regain the pieces of her missing life. Over time, memories begin to surface, leading to clues about her identity. The clock is ticking, however, for buried within her locked subconscious are the clues not only to the murder attempt on her life, but the details of an assassination plot on an African American candidate for the presidency of the United States.

Emma’s Escape

Good afternoon. My name is Emma. I am nineteen years old. I am owned by massa Horace and Letitia Kramer-George. We live on the George plantation in Montgomery County, Georgia. My early childhood was good and was fairly comfortable, despite the fact I was a slave. That is, until I reached my fourteenth year. That was about the time that ole massa George took notice of me and began to whisper foul things in my ear. I did not fully understand all of the things he said to me, but I knew enough to know they should not be said to a well-brought up young lady.

As you might have guessed, I was not fully aware that I was a slave before then. My grandmother had earned a certain degree of respect in our community, even amongst the white folk. She was given a house set apart from slave quarters. I never knew my mother; I believe that she may have been sold away to another plantation but no one has ever actually spoken to me about it. My Nana is the only mother I’ve ever known. I was allowed to attend school and learned how to read and write; indeed, I attended lessons right along sides of Ms. Laura. That is, until my ninth year when I was put to work full time in the kitchens. My lessons continued however for several years longer, as Ms Laura would sneak down to the kitchen and teach me things she had learned that day. As I look back now though, I could guess that she did it, not so much for me, but to spite her parents.

As I said, despite my status, I would say that my early childhood was a happy one until my fourteenth year. Massa George continued to look and talk to me in ways that made me extremely uncomfortable. He would ever offer the occasional present, but it remained just that, talk. I did my best to avoid being around him and would always run away if he came upon me suddenly. It was not until much later that I understood that he allowed me to run from him; that at any point, he had the right to demand my complete obedience, as I was nothing more to him than his property. I would dare say that it was his “respect” for my Nana that stayed his hands all those years. I am fairly certain that my age had little to do with it, you see, I was familiar with the rumors about girls as young as twelve having children or being sold away suddenly or under mysterious circumstances.

Things changed, however, in my sixteenth year. I suppose, Massa George figured he had no further need to wait and he took me. That day seemed but as yesterday, so well I remember it. I could look for no protection from my Nana or from anyone else, for that matter. I implored him to reconsider but it was for naught. When I continued to resist, he grabbed me and told me that I belonged to him, I was his property, and therefore subject to his will in all things. I was obliged to do whatever he told me to do, whenever I was told to do it.

That day, I lost more than my physical innocence. That day, I fully understood what it meant to be owned by another person, to be nothing more than a piece of merchandise, to be a slave. To have no say in what happened to my body; to have no one willing or able to intervene on my behalf. That was the day I realized there was no such thing as justice. I figured out that day that Nana and all those other ole slaves had it wrong. That white God they prayed to and cast all their cares upon, cared only for free white folk. The slave had only themselves and that was only a paltry little bit.

I was eventually with child. I had, at least initially, no particular feel about it one way or another. I had become immune to all feeling, dealing as I was with constant debasement and humiliation. The day the mid-wife placed this white, red-faced, screaming babe in my arms, I looked at it and her in confusion. How could this blue eyed-blond child emerge from my loins? The child and I looked at each other for the longest time, both of us appearing to come to terms with the other. He closed his eyes and then rested trustingly in my arms, and it was then I knew that he truly belonged to me.

He brought me back to life, my blue-eyed baby boy. Nothing could touch me, not even the debased and foul acts that the ole massa continued to inflict upon me daily. I endured it all because I knew that in the evenings, my baby boy would fill me with a joy that nothing in this evil world could ever taint.

I should have known that this would not last; that joy and happiness is a luxury not bestowed upon slaves. Children born to slaves are still slaves. I should have realized that. They are trusted to their parents only for safekeeping and liable to be demanded at any point. Ms Lettie got sight of my baby boy one afternoon as she drove past headed into town. She knew immediately how my child came to be. Anyone with eyes to see would know that babe was begat by Massa George, what with the blond hair and bright blues eyes. Those same eyes possessed by every male in the George family clan.

Ms. Lettie devised a plan more evil than anything the old massa had done to that point. The consequences of which will be felt for generations to come.

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For those of you who have followed this series, thank you so much for you reading and for offering your comments and feedback. They have been very helpful in refining the original idea I had for this novel.

I have completed Act One, which is the first 6 chapters, and I know how it will end, so Act Three is also nearly complete. Act Two will be the most difficult and time intensive, and so, bear with me.

I'll let you know when it's done.

Thanks again!!

The Runaway - David's Drama

Today, I am introducing Dr. David Cole, the fourth in a series of character studies from my up and coming novel, The Runaway.

Story premise:

A young woman is found unconscious and bleeding from a gunshot in an alley. She has no identification and there are no witnesses to her assault. She is taken to the hospital where she eventually regains consciousness but has no memory for her identity.

With the help of a police detective and her neurologist, she works to regain the pieces of her missing life. Over time, memories begin to surface, leading to clues about her identity. The clock is ticking, however, for buried within her locked subconscious are the clues not only to the murder attempt on her life, but the details of an assassination plot on an African American candidate for the presidency of the United States.

Dr. David Cole

I really don’t have a lot of time, so let’s just get to it. My job takes up all the time I want to spend on people. I’ve got way more important things to do than sit around answering a bunch of asinine questions about myself. In fact, I’ve just been assigned a new one; it’s a Jane Doe who came in through the emergency room. She has a gunshot wound to the shoulder and mild force trauma to her head. For some reason, though, she has not yet regained consciousness and it’s been nearly 48 hours now.

O-kaaaayyy. She’s insisting that I talk to you. Well, all right then. And just to let you know, I’m not going to make this pretty. You will soon come to learn that I am physically incapable of being polite! I’m going to send it straight up, without lubricant, because, that’s how I deliver it.

And you love it.

Okay, I’m going to take this seriously.

So, I’m a 45 year old neurologic surgeon. I like saying that. Okay, for you laymen types, basically, what that means is that I’m a neurologist. I provide a wide range of patient services ranging from diagnosing an illness to the management of chronic neurological disorders. I am also actively engaged in clinical and basic science research.

I’m divorced, Columbia and John Hopkins educated, and currently, I live alone. I used to be married. In fact, my wife, that is, my ex-wife, is one of the reasons I’m here in Memphis. She felt like she needed to come back here to take care of her mother; we were living in Boston at the time. Anyway, her mother was dying of cancer and she wanted to be here for her. I never did understand that. Muriel was going to be just as dead whether we were here or in Boston, so why did we have to up-end our lives?

Well, to make a short story shorter, we moved here, I started working for Methodist Hospital Systems. My ex started complaining that she couldn’t get my attention and that I left her alone too much; I worked harder. The next thing I knew, she was humping my best friend, the lawyer.

. . . they did leave me the gold fish.

I feel like I got the better part of that deal.

There’s a funny story about the divorce settlement. My wife, eh-hem, my ex-wife and her new boyfriend, were a little surprised to learn that my net worth fell a little short of what our lavish lifestyle would suggest. See, my family wealth has survived for generations due in large part to the machinigans of my robber baron great-great grandfather. The Cole family money is held in trust; while it may be administered by the first born son or surviving eldest male, the money belongs to the trust, heh-heh, untouchable in a divorce settlement. For some reason, they were both a little disappointed to find my personal net worth was just over $300,000. I guess I could’ve mentioned that during the pre-nup, huh?

When I get a quiet moment, I still crack up over that one!

Anyway, at that point, there didn’t seem much point in up-rooting myself again. Besides, I was in the middle of some really interesting and challenging cases, and moving would’ve taken time away from my work.

I do have some interests outside of work. I am a history buff and the informal historian of our family. Over time, I’ve been able to collect documents and records spanning nearly two hundred years including birth certificates, marriage licenses and journals, among other things.

My favorite time in our family history is the Civil War; I enjoy the different accounts of events of the various men and women who were eyewitnesses to historic events.

I have one ancestor, Mrs. Leticia Kramer George, or “Ms Lettie” for short. Her journals started when she was twelve years old and she meticulously maintained a journal each year until her death, at age 40. Up til about age 19, following her marriage to Herman George, her entries were mindless pre-teen and teenaged drivel. But she seemed to really get her panties in a wad over one of the slave women.

Apparently, Mr. George was spending a bit more time in the slave quarters than what was warranted and Ms. Lettie took exception to that. Her anger and bitterness is even now dripping off the pages when she discovered that the slave, Emma, became pregnant and bore Mr. George a son. As soon as the child was weaned, though, Ms. Lettie arranged to have it sold to another plantation.

The thing that really gets me about this story is that the slave Emma eventually runs away from the plantation and was never heard of again. But before she left, she apparently took Ms. Lettie’s necklace that had been given to her by Mr. George. I figure he was trying to make up for that baby thing.

According to Ms. Lettie’s journal, this necklace was very special and unique. Not only did it carry an inscription of her husband’s undying love, but Ms. Lettie believed that it held special powers.

Man, you can’t make this kinda stuff up. This is better than anything you see on tv these days! LOL!!

Ok, can I go back to work now?

The Runaway - Jake's Dilemma

This is the third of my character studies for my new novel, The Runaway. I would like to introduce John Henry "Jake" Phillips. For those of you who've been following this series, I need to make a correction. Jake was formerly called Tyler in Ima's Musings. That name just wouldn't settle with me and when I started telling his story, Jake seemed a much better fit.

Story premise:

A young woman is found unconscious and bleeding from a gunshot in an alley. She has no identification and there are no witnesses to her assault. She is taken to the hospital where she eventually regains consciousness but has no memory for her identity.

With the help of a police detective and her neurologist, she works to regain the pieces of her missing life. Over time, memories begin to surface, leading to clues about her identity. The clock is ticking, however, for buried within her locked subconscious are the clues not only to the murder attempt on her life, but the details of an assassination plot on an African American candidate for the presidency of the United States.

Jake's Dilemma

My life is quickly spiraling out of control and I have no idea how to stop it. Life seemed so much easier three years ago; my purpose was clear and I knew exactly where I was heading. I fear that whatever, or whichever way I go from here, I am traveling down the road to destruction.

I’m 30 years old now. I ain’t had the best life. I was raised by a drunken and abusive father along with my brother Kyle, who was four years older than me. My ma skedaddled right around the time I was 6. I figure she’d had enough of pa’s mean and ornery ways. I mean, I can still hear her screaming and hollering in my dreams. Sometimes, I wish she’d’ve took us with her, wherever she went. Maybe things wouldn’t be so crazy right now.

Pa weren’t much of a parent to either of us boys; without ma around to beat on, he looked around and I guess decided that I’d do as well as any. Kyle was more of a father to me than Pa ever was, and he tried to protect me best he could, but he weren’t more’n a kid hisself, so sometimes, I got it pretty bad. I learnt pretty quick though, how to stay outta pa’s way, ‘specially when he been drinkin’.

Things changed when I was ‘bout 14 and Kyle was 18. I weren’t fast enough when pa came lookin’ for me and he laid into me real good. I actually thought this was the day he was finally gonna kill me, ‘cept that Kyle came in and stabbed him dead. We knew for sure that we was going to jail, but Kyle came up with an idea for us to just leave. We were living out in the country in Mena, Arkansas and sometimes it could be months afore someone came out to the farm to pay a visit.

So, we packed our stuff and just left; leaving pa on the kitchen floor where he fell. It was a few weeks later that we saw a newspaper story about his death. I honestly can’t say that either of us was sad that he was gone. We sorta drifted from place to place for awhile; Kyle would do odd jobs to make some money and we usually only stayed long enough to get enough money to keep moving. Eventually, we found somebody to give us some new ID, and then we found ourselves right at the junction of I-20 and Highway 59 and in the city of Marshall, Texas, just south of Dallas.

I enrolled back in school and Kyle found a full time job at one of the oil rigs outside of town. For the first time in our lives, we had found peace and stability. We’d been living in Marshall ‘bout 4 years, yeah, I remember cause, it was just before my graduation from high school. Kyle had started spending more and more time away from the house. I’d been teasing him about finding a girl, but he angrily denied it and refused to tell me about where he’d been. He was increasingly absent in the following months, more touchy than usual, barking at just about anything I said to him. He was also leaving the house for longer periods of time. It started to remind me of living with our pa and I worried that maybe he was drinkin’ or doin’ drugs.

I wish it had been that simple. Turns out he had been recruited by this group calling themselves White Nationalists. They were wreaking havoc on the blacks and Mexicans in town, robbin’ businesses and raping their women, threatening folk who tried to vote certain ways. They believed they was doing a public service and was trying to halt the demise of the white man.

I told him I thought he was stupid and for the first time in our life, he beat the tar out of me. He continued what were now, his weekly excursions into the night, but I could look at him and knew that something was terribly wrong.

The Sheriff came by the house and told me that my brother was dead.

He said Kyle’d been found on the other side of town, beaten to death. He was also castrated and had his penis forced down his throat. Talk around town was that the Carter boys did it. They were a group of colored boys, who weren’t blood kin but hung together and called themselves a family. Supposedly, Kyle and some of them ‘nationalists, raped a couple of their girls and they, the Carters that is, killed him for it.

I knew what Kyle ‘nem was doing was wrong, but he didn’t deserve that! I didn’t deserve to have the only kin available to me snatched away like that. It didn’t help that no one was arrested for his death, even though the whole community knew who did it.

I was a bomb waiting to explode when those same nationalists showed up at the house. They brought food and comfort and embraced me as a brother. They started talking to me about how the coloreds had killed Kyle and started talking about all the other injustices that were laid on the white man because of those coloreds. They gave me a focus for my grief and a target for my rage . . . and we planned.

I eventually moved away from Marshall. I was accepted into Texas A&M and then was offered a job in Chicago. I took it, eager to put the crimes of my past behind me. I’m 30 years old now, almost 31 and I work in marketing and am relatively happy with my current circumstance. I have tried severing ties with my associates in Texas, but unfortunately, that’s been easier to say than do. I hadn’t heard from anyone is nearly 10 years and had just started to breathe again. However, about 2 years ago, I was contacted again, and was told that my services may be required again. Of course, I immediately refused. My life was threatened, the lives of my friends were threatened and exposure of my past misdeeds, including my old identity and the death of my pa, were threatened to be made public. They had pictures of everything and everyone, so that told me they had been watching and monitoring me. It seemed easier to play along than to overtly defy them.

You see, I’ve been dating this woman, a black woman, of all people. The irony of my past hits me every time she smiles at me. She is the reason for my happiness and my reason for living. In a way that she will never understand, she has redeemed me.

She is my twin soul. We both come from pretty fucked up childhoods, and, like me, she’s a survivor. Her name is Ima.

‘Course, she don’t know nothing about my past and now I must make certain that she remains in ignorance. Because, if I fail to do what I’ve been tasked to do, she will be the first to die.

The Runaway -Micah's Tale

I am presenting the second in a series of character studies for my up and coming novel, The Runaway.

These studies are a way for me to get to know the characters that are yammering away in my head. They have been very helpful both in terms of the story line and plot development.

This week, I am introducing Sgt Micah Langston Hughes. I have yet to meet the man who could provide an adequate response when asked to describe themselves. Sorry for the generalization, fellas, but in this area, y'all tend to just speak the facts. Women, we like some additional color, so, I've allowed Keisha to tell part of his story. At this point, Keisha is not written into "The Runaway" storyline (but she's kinda growing on me); I've just allowed her to help you understand Micah a little better.

So, to refresh your memory, here's the premise of the novel:

A young woman is found unconscious and bleeding from a gunshot in an alley. She has no identification and there are no witnesses to her assault. She is taken to the hospital where she eventually regains consciousness but has no memory for her identity.

With the help of a police detective and her neurologist, she works to regain the pieces of her missing life. Over time, memories begin to surface, leading to clues about her identity. The clock is ticking, however, for buried within her locked subconscious are the clues not only to the murder attempt on her life, but the details of an assassination plot on an African American candidate for the presidency of the United States.

Sgt. Micah Langston Hughes

I’m Sgt Micah Langston Hughes with the Memphis Police Department. I’m 38 years old and am a 10 year veteran of the police department. I’m currently assigned to the Missing Person’s Bureau, but I’ve also worked Homicide and Burglary. I’ve recently completed a temporary assignment in homicide, helping with the apprehension of a serial killer who had been active in the mid-south for nearly 5 years.

I’m a dedicated member of law enforcement, but I haven’t always been a cop.

My parents raised me in a secure loving and nurturing environment. Despite this, I can remember from a very early age having problems controlling my anger and rebelling against authority. When I reached puberty, unfortunately, I went the way of many African American young men, and started acting in ways against the teachings and inclinations of my family. I got caught up and then just caught right before my 17^th birthday. At that point, I was completely out of control at home and in the community; my parents were at their wits end on how to help me.

I drifted towards some very bad people in high school. And as is typical of me even today, I threw myself into that lifestyle wholeheartedly. One by one, I rejected each of the values and standards that had been instilled in me from birth and fully adopted the values of the street. I did my best to minimize all evidence of my privileged upbringing; not one of my new “friends” knew anything about my parent’s home in Central Gardens or my mother’s administrative position in the city school district or even my father’s corporate position in one of the largest transportation industries in the country.

I stood before a judge, a stern faced, no-nonsense man. I was the epitome of the angry black man, staring at him in defiance and disdain, almost daring him to try and stop me from doing whatever the hell I wanted to do. It’s ironic, it would be years later when Judge Thompson reached out to me again and became pivotal in guiding me not only professional but personally.

So, at my court hearing that day, knowing that most of my associates had either gotten suspended sentences or had received two or three month confinements, I was pretty arrogant about the outcome and more than willing to take the brief vacation to come, knowing full well I’d be back on the block as soon as I was released.

What I hadn’t counted on was the longstanding friendship between Judge Thompson and my father. That stern, old man looked me dead in my eye and spoke softly and yet clearly, as I stood before him, “you’re one we’re not losing.”

And in a louder voice announced my confinement of 11 months and 29 days, with no possibility of early release.

The first couple weeks of my confinement at the Criminal Justice Center, I was a little pissed. No, I was a LOT pissed. I fought anything and anybody who moved. I think I literally lost my mind for awhile. I refused all visitations from my parents and other family; you no doubt have guessed that I suddenly had an absence of friends. But, one of the traits I have inherited directly from my mother is her stubbornness, and despite my refusal to see her, that woman persisted in her weekly visits to me.

Ok, so as not to belabor this point, because this really is not one of the high points of my life, but yes, I experienced the clichéd jail house conversion. Fortunately for me, it stuck.

The day I walked out of jail, my father picked me up and drove me straight to the Army recruiting office and I enlisted. Ironically, my aptitude tests scores suggested that I was best suited for a career with the Military Police. Go figure.

Anyway, so this was the beginning of my career in law enforcement. I excelled during my 4 years in the Army. I believe that the structure and discipline helped to bring me back to myself and get comfortable with the man I was destined to become.

During my enlistment, I earned a Bachelors Degree in Criminal Justice. I quit active duty and joined the reserves after being accepted and enrolling into law school. I realize after that first year, however, that I was better suited to the apprehend and capture side of the legal system and so, I dropped out and joined the Memphis Police Academy.

Ok, now, that’s enough of that. Tell them the real story.

Hmmm. What are you doing here Keisha?

I knew you weren’t going to tell them about the real you.

Keisha!

That’s fine. I’ll do it. Hey everybody! **waves enthusiastically**. My name is Keisha Martin and I just turned 18 years old. I just started my first year at the University of Memphis and I’ve got the big, bad Sgt Hughes to thank for it.

Micah shakes his head and leaves the room.

Okay, let me tell y’all the real story about this 6’2”, caramel complected, broad shouldered, hunk of fineness. Ladies, he’s got dimples deep enough to swim in. I mean, he’s all old and stuff, but trust me, for an old man, he still got it going on.

For real though, I met Sgt Hughes the first time when I was 15 years old. My mother had put me out to work when I was 12. I approached him for a ‘date’, not knowing he was a cop. Anyway, he busted me but good. However, at the court hearing, he stood up for me before the judge and told me he would take responsibility for me from that point forward, and would keep me out of trouble.

Well, I figured that just meant that he had figured out how to get a teenaged hooker on standby, so I kept doing the do, y’know?

But he was serious. He kept showing up on the street where I was, really cutting in on my business. Mama started to get mad cuz I wasn’t bring it in like I used to. I don’t know what he said to her or nothing, but after awhile, she just left me alone. I figure he must’ve started paying her.

He made sure I went to school everyday. That part wasn’t so hard, though of course, I wasn’t gonna tell him that. It turns out I was all right in school and I started making really good grades. He made sure I got involved in school social activities and clubs.

He came by the ‘partment one night unexpectedly and tole me to get dressed and to come with him. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had always known that he wasn’t doing all this nice stuff for me for nothing! So, I assumed that he figured it was time that I paid up.

He stopped the car at a club, got out and invited me to follow. He took me to a side room where I could see the stage and told me to stay there since technically, I wasn’t s’pose to be there since I was all under age and stuff.

After awhile, the band got up to play and to my surprise, there was Sgt Hughes, front and center, seated at the piano! They played mostly that ol’ fogey jazz stuff, but, just between me and you, it was the most beautiful music I had ever heard.

I never would have expected someone as hard as Sgt Hughes could do something like that. For the next hour, I was transported to a place I had never been before. Afterwards, he explained that he wanted me to start taking music lessons and told me to pick an instrument because the club owner’s wife, who walked over to us as we were speaking, had agreed to teach me.

Sgt Hughes has been my life saver, although he really doesn’t like to hear me say that. I didn’t know it at the time, but my life ended the day my mother put me out on the streets. He saw something in me, still don’t know what that is, that made him take a chance on me. And look at how things turned out!

He has not once put his hands on me or said or done anything inappropriate. Most of the time, he treats me like an irritating little sister, but he quickly adopts a parental attitude when he thinks I’m stepping out of line. Mama died last year of an overdose; he took care of everything. His mama, Mz. Hughes, just moved me in with no question and life has just proceeded.

I love him; he’s the father I never had or knew. I want him happy, but I don’t think he is.

Did I mention that for an old dude, he was pretty fine? Well, women be pulling at him left and right. And don’t get me wrong, he ain’t turning all of them down; he’s a man, after all.

But, me and Mz Hughes was talking, and we agree that he always keep women at a distance; they can only get so close to him. We just ain’t sure why? None of them know about his music or his piano, or even about me. He just tells most folk that his parents adopted me or something like that. And, well, ok, I’ll guess I can tell you, also very few people know that he’s also a published author; he writes poetry, y’all, can you believe that? He keeps that side of him real private and heavily guarded. And talk or discussions about commitment or getting more in-ti-mate, typically signals the beginning of the end of that relationship.

So we, me and Mz Hughes, that is, have decided that we’re gonna find him a wife.

The Runaway - Ima's Musings

Some of you know that I am working on my first novel; it is genre fiction, a mystery/thriller. One of the ways I am preparing this story is to develop character studies for each of the main characters. For the next several weeks, I will introduce you to the people talking and yammering inside my head. I welcome any thoughts you have as you meet each person.

Here's the premise of the novel:

A young woman is found unconscious and bleeding from a gunshot in an alley. She has no identification and there are no witnesses to her assault. She is taken to the hospital where she eventually regains consciousness but has no memory for her identity.

With the help of a police detective and her neurologist, she works to regain the pieces of her missing life. Over time, memories begin to surface, leading to clues about her identity. The clock is ticking, however, for buried within her locked subconscious are the clues not only to the murder attempt on her life, but the details of an assassination plot on an African American candidate for the presidency of the United States.

Ima’s Musings

Hi, I’m Ima DeCostas. I am 35 years old, single, with no kids and I live and work around Chicago. I’m a lawyer by training, but for the past 5 years, I have worked as a political consultant for various federal, state and local campaigns. I’ve been working for the Obamas for the past two years.

Don’t be impressed. This job is a lot of work. Barack and Michelle are dedicated workaholics. They work hard and expect nothing less of the people around them. I don’t think I even know what a 10 hour work day looks like anymore.

I’m not complaining. I love my job, I love my career.

It’s the rest of my life that sucks.

I was raised, if you can call it that, by my mother; I don’t even know who my father is; mom refuses to talk about him or my creation. She remained bitter about him though throughout my childhood. She let a lot of her anger towards him spill over to me. She says I’m his spitting image.

Well, let’s see. I’m a mocha chocolate sista, about 5’9”, it’s not your business how much I weigh, but I usually wear a size 12, if any of you feel the need to go shopping. I stopped chemically processing my hair years ago. While working, I tame my afro hair into either a low pony or a high afro puff. But, during my time? All restraints are off and the ‘fro is free to ‘do what it do, baby.’ LOL.

I work in politics, so you know my wardrobe is made up of lots of greys, blacks, and creams. But at work, I prefer bold jewel tones; purple is my color of choice to reflect my internal royal badness!

I sometimes find myself walking down the streets looking at tall dark skin older men and wondering if THIS is the one, my father. All chances of getting my mother to open up are pretty much lost now. I’ve just put her in an assisted living facility due to early Alzeimer’s. Half the time, she doesn’t even recognize me as her daughter; although truth to be told, this is kinda the way it’s always been. My father’s abandonment broke something in her that she was never able to fix.

Ok, I know that I said my life sucked outside of work. Well, that’s not the complete truth. There are parts of it that are more than satisfying.

I like sex.

No, scratch that. I love sex. I want to do it all the time, in all the ways humanly possible. The problem I’m having is trying to figure out how to have lots of sex all the time, without having a man around. I know that sounds weird but I don’t really know what to do with a man once the orgasm has passed.

See, I love sex and, as tends to happen when you do something you love doing and do it often enough, you become pretty good at it. So, I don’t suffer for a lack of partners. I’m good at sex, I’m terrible at relationships.

I used to think how nice it would be if I were attracted to women. I figured I might have a better chance at finding companionship and compatibility. I was even looking at women on the street or at work trying to drum up some semblance of attraction that I feel when I look at men.

While attending an art gallery opening once, a woman approached me and complemented me on my outfit and then engaged me in conversation. It took me a minute but I finally figured out that she was hitting on me. I was a little taken off guard by the long extended eye contact and light touches on my hand and arms. She was gorgeous; a small woman with an oval face and smooth porcelain skin. Her eyes took over her entire face and put one in the mind of a precocious child. However, all resemblances to a child ended once your eyes travelled along the contours of her well rounded body.

She invited me out for a drink as we were leaving the gallery. Let’s see, I think her name was Noemi. At that point, I was curious enough to wonder where this could go. We walked a couple blocks from the gallery to an upscale bar/restaurant that catered to the nouveaux riche crowd. While at the bar, she flirted with me, complimented and admired me. Once I relaxed I actually experienced a sexual charge when she ‘accidently’ brushed the back of her hand across my breast.

At one point, I got up to excuse myself to go to the bathroom and she offered to accompany me. On the surface, this suggestion was no different that countless other times when I’ve had been out with female acquaintances; women go to public bathrooms in pack. I don’t know why, but we just do. So, on the surface, there was nothing significant about her offer. But I knew, from the way her look caressed me and the way her mouth communicated the pleasures of the universe, that this encounter was likely to be a little different from the others.

Once inside, she did not give me any opportunity to retreat or to think. She locked the door behind us, turned and pulled me into an embrace. Her lips were soft and full and increasingly insistent, demanding a response from me. Her hands hungrily tugged my hair, pulling me closer and closer to her. She rose up on her toes to ground her pelvis in to mine.

I have to admit, I pushed back. For just a brief moment, it seemed that here, this tiny woman would finally be able to give me the release that I had sought in the arms of countless men. She pushed me against the wall and then shoved her hands under my skirt. She pushed aside my panties and lightly caressed me.

I went cold.

She was just as beautiful, passionate and sexy as ever, but the feel of her tiny hands on my girl was like a splash of cold water. They were too soft and smooth, without calluses; no roughness. Where was that ‘man’ scent that I was familiar with? C’mon ladies, some of you know what I’m talking about. That scent that your man has, that’s different for every man, but also vastly different from any woman. Where was the hardness? The truth is, the chill had actually started when I ground my hips into hers and failed to find that familiar pole that calls to me so often.

She was none too happy with me when I pulled back and explained that I had changed my mind. How do you explain to someone who has still your wetness on their fingers that you don’t want them? That they don’t have what you needed after all?

So, I’m not a lesbian, I thought about it. But, my life is increasingly empty now; I find myself longing for intimacy, a connection. It’s funny that I long for something I’ve never had, not even during my childhood.

And then I met Tyler. We saw each other and there was an instant connection. Despite frequent attempts on my part, it was several weeks before we were even sexually intimate. He talked about how much he enjoyed talking to me; and we seemed to have so much in common; he told me that he also worked in politics.

When he wasn’t taking up my actual time, he took my concentration away so much that people even started commenting on it at work. I was distracted all the time.

But something is going wrong now. It’s been more than a week since I’ve seen him and when I call, he only has a few words for me. He seems so distant and cold. I’ve gone over and over in my mind what I could have done to offend him, but. . . nothing.

I’m telling you all this personal information because I really don’t have anyone else to talk to. I don’t have any girlfriends and all of my relationships with men have been all sexual, so there’s no help there either.

So, can anyone offer any advice on what I can do?