Why I Write
Shonell Bacon
A few years ago, I had to write an essay in which I
had to answer the question, “Why is writing important to your life?” It's a
question I had to think deeply about because they expected no more than five
pages, but surely more than one sentence. My response was a simple one, “I
write to breathe.” Eventually, after some brainstorming and a little cajoling,
I was able to expand upon that one sentence, but everything I wrote came back
to that one sentence: “I write to breathe.”
I always found it hard to say aloud to people what I
always felt in my soul: “I was born to write. God told me this is what I was to
do with my life.” I didn't want people to think I thought I was ALL THAT or
high on myself. So, I kept it to myself and diligently wrote, waiting for the
day when the truth would come to light. Slowly, now, light trickles upon the
truth though I am still on my journey to the full flooding of light.
Developing Into
the Web was an illustration of that needing writing to breathe. Jovan and
Cheyenne Parham, the main characters of ITW and the first book of the series, Death at the Double Inkwell, endeared
themselves to me. Here, I had two characters that I could follow throughout the
course of several books and watch them grow, learn, change, develop. In the
midst of writing DDIW, I assumed it would be the only book about these women,
but as soon as I wrote the final words, I knew there would be another. Their
stories were not done, and I was the only one that could pen their stories and
bring them to live.
At the end of the day, I know
that my major goal in life is to tell stories, stories that cover an array of
black experiences, stories that allow others to see a part of themselves and
hopefully, to see a part of me reflected within the words. I write to smile, I write to cry, I write to
laugh, I write to understand, but ultimately, I write to breathe. Without my words, without my ability to
translate what bothers me, excites me, annoys me, hurts me, I'm not really sure
how I would survive. Words are my truth,
and the truth will set me free.
About The Author
Shonell Bacon is an author, doctoral candidate, editor,
educator–everywoman. She
has published both creatively and academically–novels, short stories,
essays, and textbooks.
She has had an essay of
hers developed as part of a live theatre documentary production. In addition to
her love of writing and what the future holds in her literary life, she is also
an editor who loves helping writers hone their literary craft. Since 2001, she
has edited for hundreds of writers who have gone on to pursue self-publishing
careers and have been published within the traditional publishing arena. Her
love for helping writers also moved her to begin writing articles and
commentaries regarding the writing life and craft, and she publishes these
articles on various websites. She is an educator, having taught English and mass
communication courses in addition to fiction writing and other courses related
to creative writing. And while taking part in all of those things, Shonell also
finds the time to pursue her Ph.D. in Technical Communication and Rhetoric at
Texas Tech University. Now a doctoral candidate, she is conducting research and
writing her dissertation.
Excerpt
October 21
Take down.
Those words rang in Jovan Parham’s mind as she danced around the ring,
staring into the eyes of Derryck, her kickboxing trainer.
“Come on, Jo,” Derryck said while holding up his padded hands. “Pay
attention. Jab left, cross right, jab right.”
“I’m doing it,” she said, her voice nearing a whine.
“You look lazy.” Derryck’s left hand made its way to Jovan’s headgear.
She just managed to move, but heard the sound of his fist whizzing by her face.
“I haven’t tagged your face in nearly four months.”
Jovan smiled and took two jabs to the side of Derryck’s face; the
second one connected.
“And you didn’t get me this time either,” she replied.
The two continued to spar, sharing words and punches and kicks, but
Jovan’s mind was still stuck on two words: take down.
She woke up in the middle of the night after a horrific nightmare, one
she had almost every month since she moved into her new condo a year ago. The
nightmare was always the same: she watching as a host of characters took part
in killing her. She lay, shackled to a metal table, dressed in a white loose
gown that had been ripped to shreds. Every few minutes, someone would come into
the dimly lit room and cut her with a sharp, curved blade. No words were ever exchanged.
She screamed with each flick of the blade, begged for her life, but it was all
for naught. Cordell came in and took a chunk of her. As did his mother. As did
his brother. Alisha took her share as well, as did Sarah, which broke Jovan’s
heart more than Cordell wanting to kill her. She had thought Sarah was her best
friend. Finding out she had slept with Cordell and carried his child tore at
her heart. To know that even in her nightmares Sarah wanted to hurt her more
nearly broke her.
The last person to come in was always Linda Hayes. And unlike the
others, who were more like automatons, coming to do their robotic bidding,
Linda had a sparkle in her eyes, a curl of her lip, an extra dig of her cut
when she took her swipe of Jovan. She had hoped that her time at the altar
during service that morning, where she begged God, begged him to remove the nightmares,
might give her a night of respite, but it wasn’t to be. If she actually took
time to think about it, she’d realize that her continuous thinking about the
nightmares would only create more of them.
When she woke up last night from the nightmare, Jovan rushed to her
office—a place that held warm, soft thoughts for her as it was the place where
words took to life. She reached for the small blue bible she kept on the desk
and rifled through the pages before landing her finger on Luke 10:19, I have
given you authority …to overcome all the power of the enemy; nothing will harm
you.
The words brought her peace, but she had an even better way of using
her authority to overcome her enemies. She took out a pad and pen, and spent a
good hour creating a list of people she needed to take down.
Linda Hayes was at the top of that list. For going on two years, the
Trés Chic head reporter-now executive producer had been relentless in her
pursuit to find something bad to report about Jovan. Even after everyone else
had put the murder of Jovan’s husband and the fallout of it behind them, Linda
was determined to continue to bring up Jovan’s painful story: Cordell’s murder.
Cordell’s affair with Alisha. Cordell’s affair with Sarah. The baby Sarah carried.
The complex scheming and plotting that revealed Cordell’s drugged-out brother
was supposed to kill Jovan but instead killed Cordell. Jovan’s reaching out to
Mark, Sarah’s husband, in a time of need and the subsequent relationship that
continued long after Cordell was buried. The justice (though not peace) that
was brought to Jovan and her family.
In all parts of the world, Jovan’s soap opera of a life had come and
gone as new, crazier stories unfolded. But in Baltimore, where she and her twin
Cheyenne were deemed stars for their bestselling-authors status and their
charities, Jovan’s story continued to live—mostly thanks to Linda Hayes.
And somehow, she had managed to overcome her anger at Linda and this
ferocious, tenacious need Linda had to break her down.
But then yesterday arrived, and Jovan became undone.
She had tried to go about her day. She went to a speaking engagement
for her solo inspirational non-fiction, Picking up the Pieces, a book that
detailed the story of her life with Cordell and the aftermath. She met with
Cheyenne to work on the outline of their next mystery, Vanishing Keys. She even
got ready to meet Mark for a dinner date down at the Inner Harbor. Not once did
anyone in her inner circle mention the significance of the day: the second anniversary
of Cordell’s death. They knew it wasn’t needed. They knew Jovan would have stayed
up the entire night prior, still crying over the loss, still angry over the
betrayal, still unsteady on what to do with her life. She was still fragile
from the coming and going of Cordell’s birthday nearly three weeks ago. She had
spent that day in quiet reflection, wondering why, yet again, she couldn’t find
out about Cordell’s lies before anyone had to die. She still felt like an idiot
over believing Sarah was her friend. She had spent hours talking to Sarah,
telling her about the decline in her marriage—never realizing that her supposed
friend was sleeping with her husband.
Any normal person, knowing what she’d been through, would have given
Jovan this day to grieve, to feel, to think in her own personal space.
But not Linda Hayes.
Jovan had expected to hear from her. After all, she saw commercials
regarding Linda’s anniversary special. Linda had her assistant call her earlier
in the month, trying to get her to talk about Cordell on the day of his
birthday. Jovan had told her to “Go read Picking up the Pieces if you’re so
damn interested in learning what I’m willing to say about Cordell. Other than
that, leave me the hell alone, Miss Hayes.”
It was only a matter of time that Linda would call her again, trying to
get some comment to use for her latest special.
Linda’s assistant called. Six, seven, eight times. Every time, Jovan
would hang up.
On the ninth time, as she slipped her feet into her black stilettos,
Jovan finally relented.
She picked up the phone and yelled, “Let me speak to Linda.” She
quickly raced into the office and picked up her digital recorder, turning it on
and setting her phone on speakerphone. Linda came on to the phone, her voice
warm and soft as she said, “I’m so sorry for your loss, Jovan.”
“If you’re so sorry, why are you harassing me? Obviously, I have
nothing to say to you.”
Welcome to TBR, Shonell!
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Thank you for having me! :-D
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