A lot of people use to come to our cut area to borrow his fictional thrash. I didn’t like it because our privacy was already limited. I did see how many people like reading those types of books. I thought to myself that is a way to educate the people. It would be like sneaking castor oil in orange juice. I came up with the concept of writing urban political street thrillers. As I wrote I let him read it.
He was like are you going to get this publish while you in here. I was like no. A lot publishers of that genre were robbing people; giving them like 500 dollars for a manuscript. I rather let my work die than to be cheated. Money never moved me, and I was never going to mortgage my self-worth or integrity for it.
I continue to work on it and my short sci-fi stories. Writing was my refuge. I would throw on my Paul Taylor cd it was a compilation of his songs and zone out. I could write for hours in the worlds I was creating. The visual I would see when writing was so vivid in my mind it was like I was there. I had transplanted my soul to the paper. This was the strongest creative outlet I had. It was saving my life, but I didn’t know it. By creating emotions for different characters, it was allowing human traits in me to stay alive. My pen was the conduit to trapped sentiment. Writing wasn’t no hustle for me it was a lifeline to sanity. I was pouring my essence into my creation, fashioning new worlds. And loved it.
I thought back, what if that racist teacher never kicked me out of my 8th-grade creative writing class. I realized every element in my life was interwoven. I was a tapestry of good and bad experiences. I had a reservoir of water to share. The only blind spot was would I be able to share my creation with the masses. But for the moment it was my dingy in a sea of chaos.
Prison Survival & Urban Refinement ( Coming Soon)
The Hidden Hand:Duality of Self ( still available)