Author of the Month; “Erick Gray…From a Man’s Perspective””

Erick Gray’s first book, Booty Call published in 2003 has him in the literary game for nine years. “Living life, especially coming from South Jamaica, Queens, and I’ve seen enough hardship and pain growing up that I felt it needed to be told in some fashion. I love to tell a story and I like to entertain and bring people into a world, sometimes a world different from your own, or sometimes it’s a world that people can relate to. For me, writing is therapeutic and relaxing. I have such a vivid imagination that I’m able to lose myself in a book and writing. I have so many stories that I want to tell but, sometimes, there aren’t enough hours in the day to tell it.”

Erick never thought about being a published author. He never even looked for a publishing company. He kind of stumbled into it. “I was a good friend of Carl Weber many years ago and we began talking. And by us talking and getting the encouragement from my daughter’s mother to pursue writing as a career, I thought about it and decided, why not? And from that first day of signing my first deal, I never looked back. I fell in love with this genre and this business. It became a passion for me. There isn’t a day that goes by where I take my position, the hard work, accomplishments and this genre for granted. Even with the ups and downs I’ve experienced, among other things, I still love what I do.”

Read the full article at: http://www.fromawriterspovmagazine.com/authorofthemonth.htm

Signing Off,

Dominique

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AAMBC Blog Tours with My Mind’s Eye By Kire Senoj

My Mind’s Eye is a collection of poetic works inspired by what I see, hear, and feel throughout everyday life.

I use words to express the passion and pain of love; the struggles of race; the self-conflicts between sexual orientation and religious freedom; and the ever consistent delirium of genocide within the African American community.

In order to bridge the gap between people of diverse backgrounds, my words have been penned to provoke thought, provide insight, inspire change, and prove that struggles have no respect of person.

Excerpt: Sik MuthaFuka

It’s sick’nin… Reading a newspaper or turning on the news

afterwards feeling the Miles Davis kind of blues. Everyday

someone is killing their child or molesting a baby. Babies havin babies, Mother’s throwing their babies away; such an awful price 2 pay when WE lay. Damn! Why are things turning out 2B this way? GOD R U Lis’nin 2 the wordz I say? A fellow lyricist wrote “I believe the children are our future, teach them well”…but all we’re doing is sending them 2 a mental hell, holding their mindz, heartz, body and soul hostage in a locked Unpadded cell.

How can a parent kill their child? Sik MuthaFuka! telling the judge it was a build up of stress because your husband left and you feel your life’s a mess? Uuh Uuh Uuh…U Sik MuthaFuka I guess. U killed your child because your husband went bucwild, Gave his time, money and lovin’ 2 anotha chick

You’re a sik demented little witch. I hope hell has a seat waiting while you’re sitting in jail contemplating on what U should do Sik MuthaFuka I’ve had enuff ov U and the so called king of R&B who has a fetish for urine and teenage girls, U know the 1 who says he has the best of both worlds. Sik MuthaFuka got a wife and children ov your own, No longer can U command respect when U step 2 the microphone. Singing your song I believe I can fly Sik MuthaFuka Y U Lie? U don’t see nuthin wrong with a lil bump n’ grind? It is when it fucks with the mind of a girl under developed and underage because U had her lay center stage While U took the time to degrade her body and yourself, Risking your own and her health. Everyone’s bringing the noize because you’re famous and U sing, but didn’t father so-n-so do the Xact same thing? Now the Cardinal wants trust restored into the catholic priests, My GOD when will this madness cease? For centuries, decades, and years little boys have gone home crying so many tears; afraid 2 tell and ashamed 2 say that a sik muthafuka touched them the wrong way. Saying:”U must never tell, or your soul will surely go to hell”. Help me understand; is this apart of GOD’s divine plan?  4 my life? Is filled with much pain and strife. All this has caused major confusion; I don’t know if my life is real or an illusion. 2 much shit 4 a young mans’ mind, 2 much shit 4 a mental rewind. Going back 2 the day when momma asked, R U gay? Where did I go wrong? I didn’t raise U that way! Get the fuck out, and find some other place 2 stay!

(ahahhahahaha)I have 2 laugh 2 keep from crying because inside momma I am surely dying. My mind nor my heart can conceive that it was a sik muthafuka U chose 2 believe instead of ….me…

The 1 U nursed, nourished and carried for 9 months, but later pushed me aside 4 some alcohol, a dick, and some blunts. Your boyfriend took sumthin from me I can never get back, but I was the 1 U choose 2 attack? He stole my purity, my innocence, and my childhood

I was only 10 so I never understood how 1 could or why 1 would do that 2 a child, momma your man is nothing more than a pedophile!

This poem is dedicated to the sik muthafuka’s who have killed or wounded their children sittin in jail awaiting their final sentence 2 Hell. This is a shout out 2 that R&B singer, songwriter and producer who used his lyrics, his voice and his status 2 seduce a slew of little girls robbing them of their virginity and stealing their precious pearls. This goes out 2 every minister; mother’s boyfriend, teacher, and priest living or deceased that have used a little boy for their favorite past time sexual toy. Children are supposed to be handled with care they’re not put here to have so many burdens 2 bare. Children are a gift from GOD above they are to be kissed and embraced only with LOVE; because LOVE is what GOD is all about!

Born and raised in Cincinnati, OH; Kire Senoj discovered his gift for writing while attending Wilberforce University. His writing talent has afforded him the opportunity to present on various platforms throughout the nation and has garnered mass appeal.

His direct and in your face writing about uncomfortable situations such as homophobia, racial prejudice, HIV/AIDS, religion, and the absence of positive role models for youth has been applauded by all that have had the privelage of hearing his writings.

Kire has a desire to share his message with the world and bring light to some very dark situations. He believes that his voice has been created to aid in bringing about change by any means necessary and will not stop until he has witnessed a transformation in the attitude and thought of those he targets. He is passionate about his work and the impact that it can have on a person’s psyche and will continue to ignite flames of change from every microphone he utilizes.

In order to bridge the gap between people of diverse backgrounds, my words have been penned to provoke thought, provide insight, inspire change, and prove that struggles have no respect of person.

Getting to know Kire:

1.  How long have you been writing?

“I’ve been writing since childhood; writing song lyrics and short stories, but I never took writing seriously until 2002 when I was entered into a spoken word class project without my permission by a close friend. Reciting my words, seeing the reaction from the audience and the comments made afterwards pushed me to into for real.

2. What inspires you to write?

“I’m inspired by GOD, family, LOVE, music, people, places and all things beautiful. Also, by what I see every day outside my window or on the news and what I and others around me go through.”

3. Who are some of your writing influences?

“Nikki Giovanni, Langston Hughes, Dianne Warren, Lalah Hathaway, Deana Dean, T.D.Jakes, E. Lynn Harris, Ledisi, Carl Webber, Rahsaan Patterson Jean Toomer and so many others; I love writers who write straight from the heart.”

4. Is My Mind’s Eye vol.1 autobiographically written?

“Not entirely. The short stories are purely fiction, but only a few of the poems are about me or involve me.”

5. With the poems about or involving you, was it easy to be so open about yourself and the things you’ve been through?

“Well, yes and no. It surely made me think and rethink about revealing myself, my insecurities, failures and some of my weaknesses to the world, but thinking about the reactions and comments I receive after reciting some of my poetry made it an easier task. If I can help anyone with my words then it’s all worth it.

6. What is your goal or objective with this book?

“My goal and objective is to inspire, motivate, encourage, and provoke thought”

7. What future projects do you have in store and are you working on anything else at the moment?

“Currently I am working on an as of yet untitled novel. The last short story of My Mind’s Eye vol.1 titled One More Chance is the prequel to this upcoming novel. I’m looking to release it the last quarter of 2012 or the first quarter of 2013.

Find the Author:

http://www.facebook.com/kire.senoj

http://www.twitter.com/kire_senoj

kire_sennoj@yahoo.com

lifepainlove@gmail.com

Find the Book:

www.amazon.com

www.barnesandnobles.com

www.lifepainandlove.blogspot.com

Hot Topic; My Pet Peeve as a Professional

Happy Hot Topic Monday!

As a professional I have a lot of pet peeves about authors. I’ve had the opportunity to see the other side of the publishing field and there are many things that bother me about authors. Yeah writing a book is hard but authors don’t make it easy especially on themselves.

Veterans are the worse. Veterans are people who have published at least two books. They’ve been in the game a few years and have published numerous times. The most exciting to work with are the newbies because they have such excitement and motivation. They do have issues with being too excited and making mistakes like walking before they crawl. But overall they are the best.

What bothers me about veterns are the minor mistakes they should know better about. Most authors venture off into other fields in the publishing industry, publishing, editing, graphic design etc. If we plan to venture off we must remember we lead by example.

Being an author is hard work, there are many things to keep up with, events, signings, deadlines, meetings, emails, calls etc but as “the” author it’s your responsibility to make sure you are at these things and complete these tasks. I don’t like a too busy author, forgetful author. If this is the case hire someone to remind you. If you’ve got all this attention and appointments they must have funds behind them cause someone knows about you right? Don’t be a lazy author, don’t be forgetful. Get the right people around you to help you move forward with your busy life.

It’s your credibility people. If you don’t care then why should those that work with you care?

So Hot Topic Monday, What’s your pet peeve?

Speak!

Signing Off,

Dominique

Curling up with a Page Turner; “Author and Legend P.D James”

I normally don’t do articles about specific authors, unless you’re James Patterson of course. But I was recently introduced to a new author, P.D. James. I wasn’t introduced to her face to face. My strong interest in Mystery and Suspense books in my two days of book shopping a few months ago helped me discover this author.

Why am I writing this article about her? Let me first say, she’s 91 years old. Born August 3rd, 1920….and she’s still writing and releasing books. I was fascinated to see a woman of her age still having the creativity to write and publish books. How motivating!

I told the President of From A Writer’s POV about her and he laughed saying, “That will be you one day.” Funny, I can see myself doing that too, an old woman still writing books. Still giving my fans what they love.

But it wasn’t just her age that drew me into knowing more about her, it was after I read just a few pages of her book The Private Patient.

Read the rest of article at http://fromawriterspovmagazine.webs.com/oldschoolreader.htm

Winter Authors Campaign; Zion’s Road: Imani Wisdom

Short story written by Imani Wisdom for the Winter Authors Campaign!

At eighty-two I’ve lived a long life. I was a long time Mississippian who loved to keep a cigar dangling on the side of my mouth, and it didn’t have to be lit. I just kept it comfortably on my tongue to taste the raw cedar. In Tulla Springs, a small town toward the west of Mississippi, I was known for having the best lawn. I would be outdoors making sure my yard was the best among all of my neighbors. My perfect white, two story house had a white picket fence and was one hundred percent pure American. Best of all was my favorite sitting place underneath the oak tree that stood in my beautiful yard. Feeling the breeze tap against my wrinkly, old skin was almost as good as Heaven.

So far I was living the perfect life and it felt so good and peaceful to live in a remote location on the outskirts of town. All of a sudden in 2006 Tulla Springs drastically changed its color landscape. Once it was primarily a white area where we ran all of the city offices, school boards, and businesses but now the town is full of coloreds. There’s a colored sheriff, deputy mayor, school superintendent. There are even a few so called black owned businesses. I mean the whole thing made me sick! Why I remembered years ago before that Civil Rights Movement, Coloreds knew how to stay in their place. It was simple. They kept to themselves and we whites kept to ours.

From generation to generation of my family we firmly believed whites were the superior race. We were put here by God to take care of this world, and the Coloreds and everyone else were meant to work in it. My daddy told me this was a fact because according to him it was written in black and white in the Bible.

Inside my house were pictures and plaques during my days of rallying with the Ku Klux Klan. As a matter of fact, I still have my white garb and the hat hanging freely upstairs in my bedroom next to a few of my late wife’s things. Abigail and I were together for fifty-five years although she passed on five years ago. I hoped I would someday pass it to my children, but unfortunately she couldn’t bear any.

On a warm fall afternoon I was sitting at my favorite spot under the oak tree with my brother’s oldest son, Billy. The wind was just right while the sun was peeking softly from behind the clouds.

“Yep, I did live a good life,” I said as I slowly lit my cigar. “You know every liberal folk out there who’s sayin’ segregation or Jim Crow’s Law was wrong is a damn fool! It happened ‘cause it was good for this country. And if it wasn’t for that Martin Luther King and all of those other Coloreds in this country we would still be number one!”

Even though my nephew gave me one of his sorry stares I was still proud of him. He served his country well by fighting those Iraqis and taking care of those enemies before they tried to come in our backyard and kill us. Remember 9-11? That tragedy summed it up. Get them before they get us!

As I rocked in my mahogany chair that was handed by down by my daddy, I glanced at my nephew wearing a gray Army t-shirt and jean shorts. With a receding hairline and brunette hair like my momma’s, Billy continued to shake his head.

“Hey Unc,” he asked in his Mississippian accent. “What about that black soldier when you were in World War II? Was he bad for the country too?”

I rolled my eyes and sucked my teeth at his foolish question. The solider he’d referred to was this massively tall colored man named Jeremiah Johnson. With perfect teeth that were whiter than snow and a big bald head, he was known as Preacher Man because he gave sermons and prayed for fallen soldiers. Actually, I don’t know too much about his personal life. I just remembered Jeremiah telling the other Coloreds that he had a wife and two children back in Tennessee. He still should’ve stayed in his place. If he were in my shoes I doubt I’d take a grenade for him.

After my nephew shook his head in disgust at my rants he went to work at the local Post Office leaving me alone under the oak tree. “That damn liberal,” I said about him as he drove away in his late model truck.

Then I closed my eyes to enjoy the rest of that beautiful day. The only thing I heard was the soft whistling of the wind and an occasional car driving passed my yard. Other than that, I was living in my own world. As I leaned further back in my chair to catch a quick nap, I suddenly developed the worst headache I’d ever had in my life. It throbbed from the top of my head to back of my neck. I tried to get up to go get some pain medicine out of the house but I fell to the ground with paralyzing numbness on one side of my body. Even though I felt I had the strength within my other limbs I couldn’t scoot or scream. It was as if I became camouflaged in the grass because no neighbor or passerby could see me. It seemed my suffering was meant to be.

As I tried to cry for help once more the pain in my head grew worse. Then strangely I felt a weird sensation as though my body wanted to drift away. Darkness slowly came like a window shade and everything faded to black.

“Mista,” said a child’s voice as I returned to consciousness. “Mista?  You’re okay now!”

When my eyes focused I was stunned to see this light skinned colored boy with sandy brown hair standing on my property. The boy appeared to be about six or seven wearing clothes my nephew’s son would normally wear. Yes, the same colorful t-shirt with blue jeans. In his eyes I noticed a familiarity as if I’d seen him somewhere before.

I amazingly was able to get up off the grass but still wondered who this child was. “Boy, where you come from,” I firmly asked.

The boy laughed ignoring my seething intimidation. So I tried again, but this time I stepped closer to him. Looking down onto his tiny body and squinting my eyes I approached him with a firmer tone. “Boy, you got five seconds to get off from my land,” I snapped.

Again this strange boy ignored my daunting words by laughing them off. ‘Where did he come from,’ I wondered. Then that kid did something weird. He extended his hand asking me to come with him. I was stunned and didn’t know what to make of him. ‘Is this boy connected to some of my enemies in town? Is he lost? Or is he just mental?’ 

Then I tried to scare him once more. “Look boy, didn’t I say get off my land,” I yelled.  The boy didn’t move. He only chuckled.

“That does it,” I huffed as I stomped to my house to get my shotgun to scare him for good but when I tried to open my screen door the strangest thing happened. The front door disappeared and the screen door was nailed shut. I pulled and shook the screen until I thought of running to the backdoor. As I continued my mission to get inside I noticed from the reflection in the window that something was different. My whitish gray hair had converted back to its original brunette color and my wrinkly face was ironed out to a youthful glow. Even my limbs were limber as it felt like I was in my twenties. “What the hell,” I gasped as I felt on my face. “What’s going on here?”

Out of confusion I looked at the little boy wondering was this some sort of dream. Next, I looked beyond my white picket fence to discover the neighborhood I’d known for over fifty years was gone. There were no cars driving down the street, no houses, or paved roads. There was only a dirt road framed with an abundance of trees lining the pathway. Being puzzled was an understatement because I was petrified.

“Where am I,” I asked the boy. “And who are you, boy?”

The boy extended his hand again and answered in his tiny voice, “You’re earthly life is over. It’s time for you to begin your journey.”

© 2011, Imani Wisdom, All rights are reserved.

view more about Imani wisdom on our website www.fromawriterspovmagazine.com