Sometimes things are better than they seem. When I arrived at the checkout at my neighborhood Fresh Market recently, for instance, I was a little disappointed that there was no offering of samples to taste.

“What? I missed the samples?” I asked the two women at the register. “You always have a sample of something at check-out. I count on it,” I added.  I realized a while ago it’s the company’s way of providing a memorable, pleasant shopping experience to ensure my return.

“You have samples all over the store,” the seasoned clerk explained.

“Not today. I had the orange juice and lemonade,” I told her. “But there was nothing else out.”

Usually, around the store, tables are set with chips and dip to sample, bites of cake or something from the deli counter. But not this day.

“If you want something at one of the counters, just ask,” the clerk said.

I paid for the bags of cashews I made the special trip for, then circled back for the full shopping experience. At the snack bin I sampled a handful of Craisin-pistachio trail mix, a few chocolate-covered banana chips, some three-chocolate pecan mix, and blueberry yogurt covered pretzels.

At the cheese counter I considered requesting a sample of blueberry cheese or cranberry cheese. (Growing up, gub’ment cheese had made the best grilled cheese sandwiches. But my tastes have evolved.) I looked over at the deli counter, then the bakery behind me, and was delighted just thinking about all that was available to sample just for the asking. I sampled apple pie and blueberry coffee, and left the store with my appetites sufficiently satisfied. I thought I had missed the usual sample at the check-out counter, but was instead invited to a mini-feast of sorts.

Later I considered: What if God was showing me something through this experience? What if life has more than a small taste of something sweet at the end? What if it’s o.k. to sample what life has to offer in all departments?

As part of my career exploration these days, I sometimes ask individuals about their job, why they do it, how long they’ve been doing it, whether they like it. I was speaking with a library clerk, who mentioned that she is retired from a career in management analysis and enjoying working part-time at a library because she had always wanted to work around books, when I realized I have cheated myself.

I asked her what did she do as a management analyst. She said she had been assigned to go into companies or departments within companies, analyze what they were doing wrong and offer suggestions for how to fix it.

“How did you end up in that job?” I had asked, a moment in time standing still between us.

“I always had a knack for being able to look at something and see exactly what was wrong. I could look at a process and tell you how to make it better.”

I left thinking that if I had gotten paid for all the bosses and companies I worked for and criticized, paid for all my suggestions to improve processes, I could be working part-time, enjoying a retirement pension for all that hard work. I gave it away for free! Never again. My criticism will have to be earned, paid for. Otherwise I’m keeping it to myself.

I headed to the beach one Sunday morning to enjoy group yoga, planning to meditate then do some journaling. Turns out I had mis-read the sign. It was scheduled for 10 a.m., not 11, and it was held at a school near the beach, not actually on the beach. So, I ended up alone on my yoga mat at the beach. Perfect for deep reflection and uninterrupted observation.

On my knees in a yoga pose, I realized there were dents and pockets in the ground.  What, from a standing position, had looked like a smooth, welcoming carpet of grass, was not so smooth when I got right down to it.  I also noticed that the water looked particularly muddy this morning with sheets of film, twigs and other plant parts floating on it. Yuck.

I was enjoying my little observations when the excited squeals of a small boy running toward the water startled me.  The boy splashed and laughed, bobbing up and down in pure bliss of the liquid playground.  He found unadulterated delight in the same river I had just condemned. I did not bother to tell the little boy’s father about the snakes in the water because I have warned people about snakes and jelly fish in this river before but they went in anyway.  Beside, I looked up water snakes on the internet and found that they are harmless. They avoid human contact.

The little boy ran up and down the sand bank, in and out of the water. He called his little sister to join him and she did for a while, squealing, running behind him.  He waded into the water up to his waist then waded further, up to his neck.

“Hey Dad, com eon in!” he yelled to his father.

“No! It’s uh, too wet!” his dad yelled back.

The little boy’s sister didn’t stay in the muddy water long, but he had himself a good time.  He ran to the area where I was sitting, discovering something in the sand.

“Don’t disturb the lady,” his dad told him.

“He’s inspiring me,” I said, smiling at the boy. “How old is he?” I asked.

Little Henry was six. He ran back in the water and played until his mother joined his Dad a few minutes later and it was time to go. He left the water, obviously refreshed.  As he bounced away with his family, a couple of birds flying low near the water caught my attention.  I got up and went to where I had tossed a portion of my breakfast – pieces of fresh star fruit I had bought for the first time, thinking I would try something exotic, and pieces of my blueberry muffin offered to keep me from consuming all the calories.  I was delighted to find that the birds had eaten it all.  Now, I was feeling as joyful as Little Henry.

I looked further down the stretch and noticed three women friends sunbathing.  I figured they probably would not be getting in the water either, but they would be refreshed by the sun and each other’s companionship.

I looked out to the water again and noticed a snake in the area where Little Henry had just been. I thought, “God’s protection is amazing.”

I looked around and noticed a man reclining on his sun deck, reading a newspaper. I thought, “It must be nice to live right here at the beach.” It would be nice, I guess, until the tide rises, too high.  But what if I could have a beach house, and a condo in a high-rise someplace where I could retreat at the first warning of a high tide.  A range of possibilities flowed.

I enjoyed journaling, observing nature and the people who soon filled the beach and park all around me. I did not get in the water, but left feeling refreshed none-the-less.

How does the water inspire you? Some of my friends like to jog around a lake, read on a pool deck, meditate on a beach. What do you like?

I write because I must. Writing for me is like breathing, like thinking. It has been a saving grace since I was eight-years-old writing plays where characters said and did all the things my religion deprived me of enjoying. Writing, as a young woman, saved my sanity.

All my life, all I’ve wanted to be was a writer. I’ve wanted to share my passion for literature, share my observations and analysis of common experiences, and share my unique experiences, but if self-promoting is essential to this, forget it.

I mulled this over as I went out for an afternoon power-walk. I was walking home from the bank when it suddenly occurred to me that the God had sent me to train with a master self-promoter. My last supervisor was a pain in the ass because she insisted on writing her own press releases while I insisted on doing the work I was allegedly paid to do. She knew what she wanted to say and found it quicker to write her promotions her way than to answer my questions and wait for me to pen a press release. I hated this. I had, after all, by then published hundreds of newspaper articles and two books. As much as possible I tried to beat her to the punch, anticipating news and drafting press releases before she could get started, but we often ended up with her doing her own thing.

Yesterday, it occurred to me that it was training for work I would need to do for myself until I can afford to hire a p.r. expert.

Penning my own press releases may even force me to break a life-long habit of self-deprecation. It will train my brain on what is best about me and the literary gifts I pen.

I recently completed my first novel, and felt transformed from bitter to neutral to soon-to-be-all-out-grateful for what had felt like two years of hell. Writing about the experience helped me detach and see incidents as just that – incidents. It helped me put the incidences in context. It helped me see the “enemy” as just a character, an antagonist. It helped me see myself as just a character, a protagonist, who had to mature by the end of the experience.

Figuring out how to promote this story promises to be rewarding, as well. Already market research has showed me my experiences, as challenging and tragic as they felt, are much more common that I knew. I am looking forward to the other many rewards from this process.

Posted on March 30, 2011 by sonsyrea

What’s the difference between a writer and an author?

I was delighted to consider myself a writer, having published hundreds of newspaper articles and two books with major publishers. Then I heard Zane’s opinion that the difference between a writer and an author is the personality quotient. An author has to have a marketable personality, she says. Now, coming from a woman who publishes books and has sold her own books to the tune of NY Times best seller status, that struck me as instructive.

There is a reason why so many great, well-researched, well-written books never even get published. A reason why many great books never make best seller lists. Half of the job is selling the book and, yes, it takes personality, charm, and a whole lot of other things to sell the book. I have picked up books from bargain bins, books I never saw reviewed, books I had not heard of on the internet, books that were great because they offered some novel perspective I had not considered, offered something that solved an internal conflict for me.

Now I’m inclined to get a good old fashioned dictionary and compare the definitions of writer and author. Thinking of the definitions, I am considering that a writer is one who writes and an author is one who has gained a level of authority on a subject or an experience. In fact, speaking of authority, just this morning I was thinking about how important it is for me as a writer to seek more authority of my characters and their internal conflicts and high hopes. That would mean more research and interviews.

It occurred to me this morning that in my first memoir, when I wrote about losing my beloved granddad, and the impact that had on me, I had not explored the emotional impact it had on my grandmother, who had lost her husband of 20-plus years. That came to mind this morning as I considered how my current experience of loss and grief will help inform my writing in the future. As a writer, I wrote the basic details of the experience: who died, when, why, how it made me feel. As an author I can establish more authority of that experience by exploring – and sharing – the emotional and psychological ramifications of the experience.

What do you think?

on March 24, 2011 by sonsyrea

We discussed social media best practices for authors during a conference call yesterday. It was one of the weekly calls Strebor authors have where we exchange information, encourage each others, and get a chance to ask the publisher and our publicist questions as a group. Something said during the conversation resonated long after I hung up. The publicist talked about the necessity for authors to self-promote. No, this was not news to me. I knew it. I tried it. I concluded after more than ten years that I simply was not good at it. Since this is what it takes to succeed as an author, I considered, I may as well die.

I write because I must. Writing for me is like breathing, like thinking. It has been a saving grace since I was eight-years-old writing plays where characters said and did all the things my religion deprived me of enjoying. Writing, as a young woman, saved my sanity.

All my life, all I’ve wanted to be was a writer. I’ve wanted to share my passion for literature, share my observations and analysis of common experiences, and share my unique experiences, but if self-promoting is essential to this, forget it.

I mulled this over as I went out for an afternoon power-walk. I was walking home from the bank when it suddenly occurred to me that the God had sent me to train with a master self-promoter. My last supervisor was a pain in the ass because she insisted on writing her own press releases while I insisted on doing the work I was allegedly paid to do. She knew what she wanted to say and found it quicker to write her promotions her way than to answer my questions and wait for me to pen a press release. I hated this. I had, after all, by then published hundreds of newspaper articles and two books. As much as possible I tried to beat her to the punch, anticipating news and drafting press releases before she could get started, but we often ended up with her doing her own thing.

Yesterday, it occurred to me that it was training for work I would need to do for myself until I can afford to hire a p.r. expert.

Penning my own press releases may even force me to break a life-long habit of self-deprecation. It will train my brain on what is best about me and the literary gifts I pen.

I recently completed my first novel, and felt transformed from bitter to neutral to soon-to-be-all-out-grateful for what had felt like two years of hell. Writing about the experience helped me detach and see incidents as just that – incidents. It helped me put the incidences in context. It helped me see the “enemy” as just a character, an antagonist. It helped me see myself as just a character, a protagonist, who had to mature by the end of the experience.

Figuring out how to promote this story promises to be rewarding, as well. Already market research has showed me my experiences, as challenging and tragic as they felt, are much more common that I knew. I am looking forward to the other many rewards from this process.

I went to a Christian Family bookstore to buy a copy of “The Purpose Driven Life” leather bound journal on sale. As usual, I came away with much more than I bargained for.

While standing at the counter to pay for the journal, impatiently awaiting a store clerk’s attention, I noticed Juanita Bynum’s newest book and began browsing through it.  I grew more impatient, however, as the clerk continued chatting with a customer on the other side of the sales counter. A customer was asking about books and movies to reach her friends who were not Christian. She wanted to give them her beliefs in a way they might accept them. It didn’t sound like they would be ending their chat anytime soon, so I rudely interrupted them.

“Um, excuse me. Is anyone working the register?” I yelled across the counter.

I realized I was being rude, but I had half a dozen tasks on my to-do list, and I needed to complete my errands and be home in time for a scheduled call. The clerk explained that his colleague was handling a UPS delivery and would return to the counter to ring me up soon. I sighed in frustration, but decided to make the best use of that time waiting by reading a couple pages in Bynum’s book.

By the time the store clerk arrived to ring up my purchase, I had calmed down. She smiled and apologized for the delay. She explained that the book I was browsing was on sale for $5, and the books and movies on the table behind me were $5, too.  I grabbed a movie I had wanted to give as a gift.

“Five dollars?” I asked, holding up a copy of the movie, “Fire Proof.” I remembered that most sales like this have limits, though.

“How many can I get?” I asked the clerk.

“As many as you want,” she answered, still smiling.

I bought the journal I went in for, paid $5 for Juanita Bynum’s new book, and $5 for the movie I had wanted but thought I could not afford.

“Have a blessed day,” the woman said as I turned to leave.

“I already am,” I told her, returning her smile. “You just blessed me in more ways than you know.”

As I was leaving I noticed a small child standing in line with her mother. The child couldn’t have been older than three or four.

“Look at her! She’s so… patient!” I said to the mother, who also was standing their patiently waiting her turn, holding a baby in her arms.

As I walked back to my car I thought about when I became so impatient. I certainly had not been born that way – or raised that way. I had worked in rush-rush-deadline-driven professions.  As a news reporter everything had to be done in a hurry. As a Congressional communications director media requests had to be acknowledged, processed, scheduled, and completed quickly. My paycheck – livelihood – depended on it. Rush. Rush. Now. Now.

My days don’t have to be rushed right now. Could it have been God’s divine order to slow me down and bring me back to my senses? Perhaps. Rush-rush-do-it-now…or not!

Are you the one in line in a hurry, or the one standing waiting patiently? Is your rushing a force of habit? Are you trying to do too much in too little time? Can you get off the treadmill? Have you stopped to think of what you might be missing in the rush of it all?

Initially published early September 2011

I returned to my favorite local beach last weekend to make sure it was still in tact after a mild earthquake, a near-historic hurricane, and a week of flooding rains hit. Yep. It was still there, its adjoining park freshly manicured, greener and more lush than during the dogged days of August. I watched a dozen children frolicking in the river.

“It feels good!” one boy of about eleven reported, welcoming his friend.

A butterfly fluttering by caught my attention and I considered that in a couple of weeks summer will end and the butterflies and other summer pleasures will be gone. I enjoyed this beach, Hillsmere Beach, a community beach located in Anne Arundel.

Swoosh…

The swoosh…swoosh of the river licking the shore, the tweets and intermittent squawks of the birds mingled with the children’s delight, sounding off a perfect concert bidding farewell to the season.

A boy, who appeared to be a pre-teen, rode up on his bike and was greeted with a dare by his friends. He had gone home to change into swim trunks, and returned ready to take on the river. He rode his bike to the rockiest edge, and his friends dared him to jump off the rocks.

I noticed a slimy film in one area and wondered how the children could have so much fun in such obviously filthy water. They were careless and carefree.  Watching them, I was reminded of the joys of youthful oblivion. They did not care about foul fish, possibly dead fish in the water or water snakes or dangerous sea creatures.

The boy on the bike looked over the rocks debating only how he would enter the water – off the rocks on off the smooth sands.

“We saw a jelly fish this big,” one of the friends said. The boy on the bike seemed undaunted.  “My sister will give you $25 if you jump in,” the friend added.

Privately, I bet the boy on the bike would take the dare. I was happy when he thought better of it. He parked his bike, pulled on his goggles and waded safely in off the sand.

After a rather stressful week in a new job, I felt refreshed just watching the children splash and swim and pull and tug on each other in the water. I wished the Anacostia River in my hometown, D.C., was clean enough to refresh a community. I can do more than wish for this, thanks to organizations currently working to clean and restore the Anacostia River. I can join – and invite you all to join – upcoming clean-up campaigns.

A few weeks ago I was rushing back from the store to catch a Joel Osteen sermon on TV, but my little patch of yard in front of the townhouse caught my attention.  I decided to stop and pull weeds before going into the house. In the next hour, as I pulled weeds, so many thoughts crossed my mind I found myself in prayer right there in the dirt. Certain thoughts occurred.

“It’s best to pull weeds up from the roots so they don’t grow back,” I thought as I pulled carefully. Then I wondered, “What beliefs are my problems rooted in? Isn’t it time to uproot some of those old beliefs?”

I grew up in the 70s when Black power nationalist rhetoric had us not only questioning “The System,” but challenging it. This was necessary at the time. It afforded me opportunities to work, live, shop, and eat in places that otherwise would have remained off limits to me and other non-whites. But it is time I release some of that suspicion that everything about and everyone in “the system” is designed for my exploitation and early demise.

I considered beliefs I had about marriage that probably need to be uprooted. Beliefs I have about organized religion. It’s time to plant new seeds.

As I was pulling weeds, I remembered something someone told me about weeds: weeds can spring from seeds blown into your garden by the wind. I realized, too, that in my life new problems will occur, some of my own making and some brought in from influences, comments, and actions beyond my control. “Just be prepared to pull the weeds again,” I thought.

I stuffed weeds and the roots into a garbage bag, and stepped back to survey my handy work. I decided to plant pretty flowers around the bushes so weeds won’t be the only things catching my attention. I stood there in the silence of the Sunday morning and in my heart I prayed:

“God I thank You for making me aware that I must, as often as necessary, weed the garden of my life, pulling out the weeds of doubt (self-doubt and doubt blown into my consciousness by others).  Thank You for helping me weed out despair and disappointment so they do not choke the life out of my field of faith.

“God thank You for making me aware that I must intentionally plant the colorful flowers I prefer (the flowers of success in family relations, finances, professional pursuits). Thank You for reminding me to water and weed and fully appreciate the garden of my life.”