Chesya in Toronto

I had applied for a passport to attend WHC in Toronto this year, about two months before the convention. But it didn’t arrive. Now, the state assures you that you can get through, as long as you also have your birth certificate. However, what they don’t tell you is that they send that along with your passport. So, here I was with only a driver’s license and my wit and overly abundant charm to get me through. I drove to Detroit where Maurice Broaddus, Debbie Kuhn, Lauren David, and Carrie Rapp picked me up.

On the way, Maurice assured me that he would leave me at the border, and pick me up on the way out if I couldn’t get through. I then assure him, that I would find the only gun shop in Canada, purchase a riffle and shoot out his tires, just so that I would not be stuck alone on the border. You see, I’m self absorbed that way.

However, when we got to the border, we sailed through without any hassle. She didn’t even ask for the passports. Of course, I was happy, I didn’t have one.

At the convention, I had a blast. I had dinner with my agent, and we talked a bit about things. I also got to meet up with Jenny Rappaport, who I will be working with on another project. She has a good grasp of where I’d like to go with this, so I’m looking forward to working with her on it.

Got to see many many friends, including Cullen and Cindy Bunn, John and Becca Hay, Jenny Orsel, Simon Wood, Eunice Magill, Wrath White and Michelle Mellon. And all those folks who make a convention worth attending.

The entire weekend, I was reminded that I not only didn’t I have a passport, but that it is much harder getting back into the country than it had been to get out of it. My dear friends relished in the idea that I would be stuck a whole country away from them. Some friends they are, eh.

On the way back, I took over before we reached the boarder. By the time we arrived, I had about forty five minutes until my plane flew. We sat in the long line watching the boarder guard stopping all the other cars, and searching them. He even stopped and nearly strip-searched a man on a motorcycle, who they were convinced had hidden something somewhere, obviously in plain sight.

I pulled up to the guard and he asked where we all were from. I answered a few questions, then he asked for our paper work. I handed him all of the passports and my ID. He scanned them all and then looked at mine. “Do you have you birth certificate?” he asked.

“No, I had to send it in to apply for my passport,” I said. “But it came in the day after I left, so I had my husband fax a copy.” Now, the picture on the copy looked like the silhouette of something that once may have been a person, but it could just have likely been a very hairy dog. He looked at the picture and back at me, and I smile the most innocent smile I can muster. Yeah, I know, imagine that.

“Well, this doesn’t look much like you, does it?”

I shook my head, “No, it doesn’t.”

He smiled, “But I trust you.”

Thus, I got back into the country on my wit and overly abundant charm. Just as I said I would. Maurice, sorry darlin’. He really wanted to be able to title his blog, “why we left Chesya at the border.”

The guard wished us a nice day, and assured me that I wouldn’t make my flight. However, he underestimated me. I drove that big bus of a van, dodging in and out of traffic, while behind me the others moaned, fearing, no doubt for their lives. As the van reached ninety five miles per hour, it rocked back and forth in the Detroit winds.

I got to the airport, jumped out, wished everyone well and ran inside. At the counter I realized I had left my wallet with my ID in the van. I called Maurice, and he had to circle back around and bring it back to me. By the time he had brought the license, I had two minutes to get on the plane.

Ok, I can do this, right?

No.

The line to get through the check through was wrapped around the corner. I walked pass everyone, went up to one of the agents and told him my flight left in two minutes. He said, there was nothing he could do.

“Fine.” I said. I turned to the crowd and scream. “LOOK! MY FIGHT LEAVES IN TWO MINTUES, WHO WILL LET ME IN FRONT OF THEM? TWO MINTUES. MY FLIGHT LEAVES…”

People stared at me as if I had lost my mind. But I didn’t care. I had a plane to catch… in two minutes as I kept reminding them. Then, one by one, they urged me onward until I got to the front. After passing the check through, I didn’t bother putting back on my shoes. I ran through the corridor without them, my stocking feet sliding on the linoleum. By the time I got to the gate everyone in the airport was watching this big, black woman run—fast—and even the cashier behind one of the food counters was cheering me on.

I caught the flight, and as I got on the plane, the passengers and crew clapped for me, probably just happy to be able to leave.

But, I had a wonderful time, and I look forward to seeing all again soon.

Special thanks to the following people:

Lucien Soulban, for the beer. My husband loved it.

Brian Keene. Thanks for the long talk and helping me make a decision that I had been putting off.

Jenny Rappaport, for the shopping adventure. I had a blast.

Don't Think Small

There’s nothing wrong with dreaming big. In fact I think it’s a must for writers. I know you’ve heard differently. I’ve heard it too. Writers shouldn’t want money. Nobody who’s a writer really wants money anyway. It’s about the art. No one who really cares about being an artist should want money.

Much of that is true.

You probably won’t make much money as a writer. Most people don’t. That doesn’t mean you should sell yourself short, which is simply the excuse that many writers use for not giving themselves the best opportunity.

I plan to be in this for the long haul.

I believe in my writing enough that I won’t give it away. I also expect someone to pay me to do it. Why? Because I think it’s good. If I didn’t, then I wouldn’t be doing it. Right? So why do many people think that they should “start at the bottom” or “just get their name out there?”

Don’t think small. Don’t give your hard work away for nothing. Don’t pay someone to publish work that you believe has merit—don’t put work out there that you know doesn’t.

These things don’t prove you’re a writer, just that you’re desperate. I’ve said before that writers should sit back, relax, because this may take a while, and it’s true. It takes a long time, many years for most people. Sure, some writers get lucky and get a deal right away. It can happen. But it hasn’t happened to me or anyone else I know. And I know a LOT of writers—good ones.

I suppose it could happen to you, or someone you know.

But more than likely, it won’t. Not simply because you’re not good enough, but because there are thousands of writers out there just like us. Those writers may be luckier. They may even be better.

If you take your time, write, hone your craft, read, and write some more, you’ll wait a long time. But in the end, it’ll be more satisfying than simply starting at the bottom.

Once you get that first check it’s all worth it—mine was a whopping $34.12, but it was pro rate (3 cent a word at the time) and it brought me dinner at Red Lobster to celebrate.

Boy, was it worth it.

Even Before I Have A Book…

Recently my agent started a blog. She has been talking about marketing and promoting and the things that writers should do even before they get that first book deal. Lori is damn good and this is a must read for any would-be writer.

But it’s started me to thinking about promoting and my writing career. The truth is, I’ve been thinking about it for a LONG time.

I edit for a publishing company and recently had dinner with a client whose manuscript I edited. While we were talking I asked him what he planned to do for promotion. He said, “Well, I haven’t thought about that yet. The book doesn’t come out until 2008.”

I think I may have scared him a bit as I looked at him as if he’d just jumped the 723 feet to his death from the Sundial, where we had dinner. I said simply, “You should promote yourself first. There will be other books, perhaps even other genres, but you will be the one thing that remains the same.”

I think that may be an important thing to remember for all us writers. We spend lots of time and many years thinking about one book. Working on it, honing it until it’s just right, and this is good, but the one thing we forget is that the book will not be on the shelves forever. There will be other books, hopefully better, more important books, but we will be the one constant thing throughout our career.

I may be strange, but I have several different documents in my computer reminding me about things that I’ll need to do for myself, much of it even before my book’s published.

One of them is called ‘Tour for Sylvia’s Sun.’ It’s thirty six pages long, and talks about all the cities I plan to tour promoting my NAME (100--all of which I will be staking out friends and families couches, and many which plan to have a book release party for me. More than one? you say. Hell, yes!), the names of all the books clubs who have asked ME to speak even before I have a book, the type of book trailer I want, complete with black and white pictures of a young girl giving birth to a dead baby and ending with something more sinister. I have a list of the colleges and schools who have shone interested in Sylvia’s Sun (before Lori even talked about it, so this made me feel good), and things that other writers say have worked for them. The list goes on and on.

You could say that I’m just anxious about my turn, but the truth is, I want to get it right. I never want to say that I didn’t do the best I could. I want to be able to do this for a long time. I’m not just promoting my book, Sylvia’s Sun, but myself as a writer for a long time to come.

Really, I want to be the best …but this, my friends, is a post for another day.

No Means No

This also means you, writer. You know, the one who thinks he’s the exception.

It is never acceptable to send a story to an anthology market, get rejected and then send the SAME story back, to a different editor. We’re both going to read the stories, and even if one of us likes it, the one who rejected you before will call foul and your shame will be known.

Learn how to read the submission guidelines, learn how to be a professional writer, and then read the guidelines again, because you probably didn’t get them right the first time.

This is immature and reeks of unprofessionalism. It also says things about you that aren’t flattering. Such as, you can’t accept rejection and you think that you’re slicker than you are. It also says that you have no respect for either of us and you think we’re idiots.

You’re wasting our time.

There’s no playing editor against editor here. We are trying to get the best stories, and if we think yours isn’t it, then it ISN’T it. Accept it and move on. There are other markets; find one.

Writers: You are NOT the exception

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Last year is finally a thing of the past...let's just hope things go smoother for all this year.

***

I don’t know what it is about writers that make them think that the rules—whatever they are—don’t apply to them.

Recently, a seemingly nice and decent writer, wrote me and asked me what we actually meant by “reprints.” Maybe he thought we were vague about it. We weren’t. But he wondered if his reprints would be acceptable because he had published them in an online zine. He maintained that since they weren’t “printed” in a magazine, and since it had been way back in “2005” (you know, that yesteryear of our distant memory) then it should be acceptable.

Of course he never mentioned anything about the hordes of other writers who had published in online zines. Should we accept all of those too? Maybe he thought that he was the only writer to publish a story online in all of 2005. Maybe he was just the only person to publish a “hooker” story online.

I also get several emails a week saying something like this: “I’m sending you this story, it’s not about a hooker per se, but…”

But what? But the writer thought I didn’t have anything better to do than to read his 5000 word story that won’t even fit our anthology? But…if I just read it, I’ll fall so hopelessly in love with it that I won’t even care that it DOESN’T EVEN FIT OUR ANTHOLOGY.

I spend a lot of time reading various blogs and online writers’ sites. Many newbies come to these sites asking questions about their manuscripts or their query letters. It never fails that when the newbies don’t get the answers they want—meaning praise—they tell the writers, they have just asked for help, how wrong they are. They scream and yell about how unfair the writing business is, and how editors and agents don’t really want “good” writing. Because, you see, if they wanted good writing then they would publish the newbie’s stuff. They don’t seem to understand, or they choose not to see, that learning how to write takes a long time. And getting published can take even longer.

I’ve heard every excuse.

If they have too many misspelling in their manuscript then they say, “well, I read mistakes in published books all the time.”

If they have grammar problems, then it’s, “well, the editor should fix that. I’m a writer, I can’t be expected to know all the rules.”

If they’ve had a rejection from an agent or publisher: “but she didn’t read past page 2 or 3. She didn’t get to the really good part.”

Writers, we don’t get to make excuses for our writing. Tess Garrison has a really good post about writer’s expectations. And this one is a must read.

Read it.

And then sit down, take off your shoes…this writing thing may take a while.

Me and Alice Walker

On Tuesday Shannan Palma invited me to Emory University to see Alice Walker, the author of the Color Purple. If you know me at all, then you know that the Color Purple is one of my favorite books of all-time. I think it’s brilliantly written—and despite all the controversy, I also think the movie was well done and beautiful.

Ms. Walker herself is a thing of beauty. She is charming and speaks well in front of a crowd. We are the ones we have been waiting for she said to the crowd. And by this she means, there is no one else coming to save the world. That we can only expect ourselves to change things and make them better.

I can subscribe to that.

For those who don’t know, I pitched my novel, Sylvia’s Sun, as a cross between The Color Purple and Beloved. Which shows you how much this book influenced me. Of course my agent says it’s more like a cross between To Kill A Mockingbird and Beloved, but I’ll take that too.

After the reading and signing, she signed my book, wished me luck with my writing career and we took this picture.

I dedicate this photo to Maurice Broaddus, for whom my writing rivalry would not be possible. Thanks, darlin’.

But seriously, I had a wonderful time, and simply listening to her made me think all things are possible. I admire her.

10 Things NOT to do When Submitting

In the past, I’ve used this blog and my Myspace blog simultaneously. From now on, I will post about my writing and editing related things here and my family and personal drama here. Of course, I hope that most readers will continue to read both. But there are those who only care about the writing and editing side of things and those who love to laugh at all those dysfunctional people who seem hook themselves to me as if I had the only working life jacket on the Titanic.

Previously, I wrote about The Ten Things NOT to do at a Funeral. It was a little funny, a little pathetic and down right comical for those of us who were there. (Guess I should have mentioned that it’s a bad idea to sit on the front row and laugh at the idiots around you.)

With that in mind, I think a similar post about the “10 Things NOT to do When Submitting” will be a fitting start for my new blog direction. (yes, I know there are more than 10, but most of it had to be said.)

First a little bit about myself. I’ve been writing for several years, and I’ve been published many times. Now, I’m editing the anthology, The Red Light District. I’ve had a few emails with questions and I’ve gotten some, shall we say, interesting submissions so far. So, I think that this is a good time to address several things:

No bees coming from dead bodies for NO apparent reason. This includes flies, ants, roaches or any other insects. And if the suspect screams his guilt due to the sight (or attack) of these bugs, it is NOT a bonus point.

Please no more stories of transplant recipients where the dead donors come back for their missing body parts.

Serial killers—and, no, we will not be surprised if after setting up the story for the hooker to buy it in the end the “tables are suddenly turned” and she becomes the killer—vampire—werewolf—or any other monster.

I can’t tell you how many times Satan has made an actual appearance in stories. This is funny, but NOT in the way you meant.

Do not send us cover letters over 1000 words (especially if your story is only 2000 words), or 500 words or 200 words.

When we said “do not give us a synopsis of the story” we actually meant it.

Bad hooker/john/cop dialogue.

“quotation marks” are your friend.

So are commas.

Bad speech tags are NOT.

Yes, hookers are mandatory. Hookers. Street walkers. Call girls. Prostitutes.

And, despite recent post otherwise, you should probably NOT refer to me as your “chocolate muse.” That will be an instant rejection, as it will be for this particular writer. And, yes, I’m being mostly facetious.

If anyone has any questions, I’ll be more than happy to answer them. Send them to chesya@comcast.net. And if you’d like to know about my night at the Dirty Awards, go here.

10 things NOT to do at a funeral

Well I attended my sister’s funeral a few weeks ago. And in classic Chesya style, I found enough humor in it to write about. (But let me say, that this is not anything my family would ever do. No siree—not MY family.) So, with no further ado, I have for you the 10 things NOT to do at a funeral.

10. Don’t weight three hundred and fifty pounds, wear a five foot wide, three feet tall hat and push your way to the front of the line so that you can sit on the front row and be seen.

9. You haven’t been to a proper funeral until someone falls out—especially when cameras are around. So don't dive out of your seats and roll around just for the fun of it.

8. Don’t sit around talking about who will be the next to die—or better yet, who SHOULD be the next to die.

7. Don’t tell one of the four remaining sibling “you shole is a pretty nigga”—especially if it’s simply because she’s three shades lighter than the others.

6. When someone has been selected to do a solo, it’s NOT your queue for your American Idol audition.

5. During the wake, when people are allowed to speak, and they say, “I wish it was me.” The proper response is not, “We do too.”

4. Don’t write a speech for the news cameras, on a napkin, in the limo, on the way to the funeral.

3. Don’t fall asleep—especially if you’re sitting on the front row wearing a wide rim, five foot tall, three foot wide, hat.

2. Don’t bring your brand new girlfriend who keep staring at the monitors just to see herself on the big screen. And don’t let her point and say, “Look, Star, we on TV.”

And the number one thing NOT to do at a funeral:

When the minister ask all the young people to stand if they want to follow in the foot steps of the dead person, because they are mighty big shoes to fill, DON’T look at the dead girl’s twin and say, “See how many people aren’t going to hell because of your sister.”

I’m just sayin’.

How will I fill shoes like that?

As many of you know, I’ve been away dealing with the death of my sixteen year old sister. It was pretty hard; and being the oldest, I was supposed to be the strong one. And I think I did a pretty good job at it.

We’ve had the wake and funeral. They were really nice—I guess. At the wake, I spoke about Shadvina, and asked anyone else who had anything to say about my sister, to feel free to speak too. Man, did that open the flood gates.

She was a unique person, my sister. She was the kind of person who changed lives. One girl said how my sister would run behind her during track practice yelling “Pick up the pace. Come on you can do it.” She said everyday, Shadvina would do this, until the girl got her time down by a full minute, which was good enough to get the girl a scholarship.

Another kid said that she would talk to my sister often about faith. But the girl said she didn’t have time for that, and she didn’t want to think about it. The day my sister died, she said she went home, dropped to her knees and prayed. I think that girl cried more than we did.

Teacher after teacher talked about the kind of person Shadvina was—the person that we, as her family, didn’t know.

And to think, she looked up to me. She once told me that it would be hard to fill my shoes. She was a writer, a poet and an inspiration.

How will I fill shoes like that?

SHE WAS DESTINED TO BE GREAT

She was my sister:

Shadvina Leavell

No witty antidotes or insightful views on life. I simply want to say she was a special girl who touched many, many people. She planned to attend Emory University and become a neuropathologist. She wanted to help people; I’ll make sure she keeps that wish.

Chesya

How Screwed Up Is Your Family: V

This guest blog is from Jon. He’s a fellow Kentuckian.


My family is fairly normal, at least the part that came north from Kentucky. The Kentucky half though can look and act like they just appeared on the trailer park edition of "Cops". From meth labs to moonshine we got a piece of all that hillbilly lowlife action. Trailers, mullets, and corn squeezings, oh my. My mom was the youngest of nine, she was the only one not to marry a cousin. No first cousins mind you, but some seconds. I have seen an uncle catch a snake and hold it with his boot while teasing it to try and bite his hand, just for entertainment at the family reunion, which always starts with an area wide visit to the graveyard. Honestly though, we aren't that unusual. My dad's side is the strange one. Lots of serial killer candidates. Strange quiet types who seem to be nice right up until they snap. The lasting memory of them is my ex-wife meeting them at a Christmas event for the first time and getting toilet paper in the gift exchange. It wasn't intended as a joke, I had a cousin who thought it a good and practical gift.


Gotta love a man from Kentucky—the heart of…some place.

And toilet paper, huh?

I would reply to this one, but it seems that our very own Harlequin from Cheshire UK has done it already: “soft toilet paper [is the best]... not that stuff like baking parchment that has a high gloss one side, a fine abrasive texture on the other and edges that you could slice parma ham with... you don't know pain until you've had a paper cut where the sun don't shine....”

Ha! ‘Nough said.

***

As always, if you have a "How Screwed Up Is Your Family" story, feel free to sent it to me. I will credit you, or if you're wiser than me, you can go anonymous.

The Life of a Con

Prison, per se, seems to be many things for many people. I’m sure there are scores of people out there that have gone to prison, served the time allotted to them and gotten out to become productive, responsible people. I just haven’t met them. In fact, I’ve never even known one of them.

More so, I’ve known people who have searched for God, found him, just to loose him again once they were out. I’ve known the ones who have “learned how to do good” and can’t wait to get out to just “show everyone the truth” as they have learned it in jail. And I have known the ones who would “rather kill” themselves, than to “go back to that place.”

Of course, within months of being out, they’re all back in again.

You see, Cons have learned one fundamental thing while engaging in their life of crime. And that is how to con people. They con people and the system and anything else that comes to mind.

I’ve learned some stuff over the years dealing with them. Forgive me while I ponder a few things.

1) No one in jail is guilty. No one; ever. It doesn’t matter if they were caught in the act of committing the crime or if their finger prints and DNA were found at the scene. You see the government has it out for the little man, and has plans to get rid of everyone of them. And fingerprints can be planted and DNA, well, that’s just bullshit. There just ain’t no such thang. Oh, this also works for paternity.
2) They WILL pay you back. Every single penny that you give them, either from accepting phone calls or sending packages. You see, there must be some kind of government work system when you’re behind bars that pays them ungodly amounts of money just to pay back the loans that they owe on the outside. This covers the collect calls, putting money on their books—you know, a con has to have funds—and paying off bills.
3) Pictures. They need them, and they need you to send them tons and tons of them. This is to keep a link with the outside world. Being behind bars is madding—of course they knew this from the first few times they were in jail; they just forgot—and they need something to keep them sane. So you must be the one to supply it to them.
4) God speaks to jailbirds. Period.
5) It’s not their fault—now this one goes back to number one, but it deserves it’s own acknowledgement because, well, people just don’t understand. They have had hard lives and IF—and I mean if—they killed someone, it was because they were misunderstood. Jesus, can’t you give a con a break? Yes He can.



You can’t blame the Con really. They’re just doing what comes naturally. Lying. We’re the ones who believe them. They know that most people WANT to believe that people can change, they want to believe that there is something good and worthy inside everyone, even the most egregious person.

Of course before the second or third time someone goes to jail, you can’t tell whether you’re dealing with a simple con or the other one—the one you’ve eliminated from the family tree.

So if you ever go to someone’s home, and you notice there are holes in many of the pictures, where they have cut out whole people, don’t assume they’re a serial killer. They may simply have a lying, penny stealing, picture hog of a con in the family.

The Story of Fool and Hopeless

To find out how all this started, go here and scroll down to “The Beginning of a Nightmare.”

You know, I have learned that no matter how much you think it isn’t true, or how much someone tells you that it isn’t so, you never want to know what’s going on in someone else’s house. Not only is it none of your business, but it may just drive you insane.

Such is the story of Hopeless and Fool.

I’m going to take you on a journey that will cover time and space, and over a dozen children. A trip that I had to take, so bare with me, I’ll bring you along.

It’s around 1990 the best I can figure, and we’re in a project on the Southside of Atlanta. It’s a small housing project, with somewhere around 150 or 200 apartments. The grass is dying and brown, what little there is of it. Mostly there’s dirt for as far as the eyes can see. In the summer, when the wind picks up, the air is gritty, dusty and full of hatred and contempt.

This is where Hopeless and Fool meet. He was a maintenance man there, reported to be stealing stuff out of people’s apartments to support his drug habit. I guess she took one look at him and realized her Prince Charming had arrived.

Her mother, Mrs. Debra, said she warned her to “stay away from that man.” Fool was a short, “light-skinned” man, with three children of his own, who lived with his mother (yep, for those of you keeping count at home, that’s 14 children between the two of them). Of course, Hopeless herself had two children at this point, by two different men, who also stayed with her mother. Guess they were a match made…somewhere.

Fool wooed her, taking her into peoples homes, when they weren’t there, showing her the neighbor’s most private things. In fact, that was considered a night out for them. They would sit in his car and wait for someone to leave their apartment and the two would sneak into it, and watch movies and do other things—personal things—in their beds.

That’s when the fighting started. Fool has been known throw Hopeless down the stairs and kick her in the stomach. He’s pulled her down the road by her hair and punched her. Oh, don’t fret, it was never “that hard,” just ask him. But don’t you worry about Hopeless, she can hold her own. She has cut Fool’s face so hard, he’s needed stitches—with a spoon. And once she stabbed him in the back with a stake knife, and left it there for him to pull out.

Ah, a couple in love.

Sometime after this, Hopeless got pregnant—and she didn’t stop for another fifteen years. In fact, we aren’t sure that she’s stopped now. It’s rumored that she’s two months along.

Fool can’t read (M-O-O-N spells Fool). He can’t fill out a job application without having someone go with him, and he can’t even read his children a bed time story. He’s told them that real men don’t need to know how to read. That real men can get what they want.

Fool’s three older children haven’t faired well along the way with that advice. His daughter is the better of the three; she’s only been arrested once. However, she’s been known to shoot up with her father, and prostitutes herself for drug money. One son simply disappeared. No one has seen or heard from him in more than five years. I would congratulate him, but it’s rumored that he owed some drug dealers money when he went on the run. It’s said that they found him, and well, lets just say that…he’s paid in full.

His oldest son is in prison for murder. He shot a man during a robbery with a sawed-off shot gun, and walked away with a whopping fifty-five dollars. Afterward, he said that the man took too long to give him “his” money from the register.

What can you say about family? Can’t live with ‘em; can’t kill ‘em. Well, maybe you can. I wouldn’t put anything pass this family.

How Screwed Up Is Your Family: IV

I’m beginning to think that families are all the same, everywhere. Nuts. They screw you up and then let you loose on the world. It’s inevitable; families love you…to death.

This one’s from Crystal:


I have sister-cousins. Does that count as screwed up?

I can never answer the question "How many brothers and sisters do you have" without feeling like I'm dumping baggage. "Well, I have three older half-brothers whom I didn't grow up with because they were a product of my father's first marriage. I have one older sister who is autistic, one younger half-brother from my mother's second marriage, two ex-step-sister-cousins because when my father left my mother he ran off with his dead brother's widow and her two daughters, which was his third marriage, and then I have two step-sisters which are from his fourth marriage. ...beyond that, we're not really sure."

But we don't really have any terribly good stories, aside from the ones from my brother Wil's wedding, which included his crazy mother flirting with my father (who divorced her almost thirty years ago) in front of my current step-mother. And then there was of course the story that SHE (my brothers' mother) told me when I was fourteen about finding my Dad and Mom in bed together while he was still married to HER (which, oddly, I don't actually believe... I mean, the woman IS crazy. And I don't think my Mom would pull something like that. She's better than that. No words for my Dad though...), and then pulling out pictures of a man she thinks might have been my oldest brother's father.

She's not really sure, but since she couldn't find the other guy she settled for a shot-gun wedding (literally--her father actually brought a shotgun to the wedding) to my father. Sometimes my 80 year old grandma tells us stories about the effect of gravity on her boobs. That's a big hit at family reunions. And she pretends to forget people's names so that she doesn't have to talk to them. She always remembers mine though! =) I like my grandma.

And that's all just on my Dad's side. There's more redneck fun on my Mom's side.

And we can't wait to hear it, Crystal.

SUPERSTAR

As always, if you're just joining us, go here and scroll down to “The Beginning of a Nightmare.”

I have used this blog to talk about my life. As of late that just happens to be my husband and his family drama. But I just realized recently that this wasn’t fair. Hey, I have plenty of whack-jobs and religious zealots in my family too. Why haven’t I talked about them?

Ok, it may be because I never see them. All of them live in other states, and lets be honest, they aren’t nearly as entertaining as my husband’s. But I thought I’d give it a whirl.

I have many, many people I could talk about here, and I may do so later, but right now, I will confine it to one person: Star.

Star is my uncle. Have you ever heard the term ghetto-fabulous? Well Star made up the term. He’s a man who thinks every highly of himself, and isn’t afraid to tell the word. SUPERSTAR!

The first time I met my uncle, I was about ten years old. Everyone was at my grandmothers house waiting his return from (wanna guess…that’s right) prison. It seems that he had been in there for my entire life, and that’s why I had never met him.

He arrives there in grand style: loud and flamboyant. If you know my family, you know this is not strange. Hell, if you’ve ever met me, I think you can imagine. He started his act. I say it’s an act, but it’s really just Star being Star. He enjoys talking and likes when people are listening—though he doesn’t always wait for the latter.

Then he started telling his story, he doesn’t bother sitting down. No, he stands, using his arms and his obnoxious voice to spin the tell.

Here goes:

It seems Star was in Detroit (don’t all crooks go to Detroit?) and he and one of his buddies decided to rob a house. Well, they get the gear and stuff they need: guns and sky mask, and head into the house—forgetting to put on the mask.

All the lights are off, and Star gets a bad vibe (Ok, at this point I wish I could have named him Fool, but even after this, I think we have the right man in the role), but they go on in anyway. When they get into the house everything is going fine. They’re getting lots of expensive stuff, and even found some stashed cash. Everything is good.

Then something happens (doesn’t always?) and his partner either falls or drops something, and makes a loud ruckus. To Star everything seems to happen at once: his partner screams, several simultaneous light in the house come on—in several different rooms, and the owner comes out shooting. Star dives behind the couch while his partner gets shot in the gut. Star, in way over his head, shot back, misses and then runs out the door. He trips and falls, twice, but makes it out of the house and down the block before anyone can catch him.

He slows down only when he’s a good distance away and then he hears the police and ambulance sirens. For some reason, Fool, oh, sorry, Star decides to go back. By this time there is a whole slew of people outside in the street watching. He stands in the crowd as if this idiot (shit, this name is taken too) didn’t know what the hell was happening. Of course someone notices him and points him out to the cops and they arrest him right there. He’s charged with the murder of his own partner, because as it turns out, if someone dies during the commission of a crime, then that person is charged—even if they weren’t the shooter.

He laughed and made jokes about it then, in that humbly small living room in my grandmother’s house. My mother just stared at him. My grandmother, never one to suffer fools, told him to shut up and get on in the kitchen and eat some real food for a change.

Me and my sisters stared at each other wondering if this person could really be related to us. Little did we know…

…Oh, the tales I could tell you…

Just How Screwed Up Is Your Family: Part III

Ever been sued by family?

Then you have one up on this guy. Though I wouldn’t worry about him too much, I have it under good authority that he’s a Republican. Sheesh.

My mother is like the godfather. She'll do you a favor, make you a loan, but you have to pay her back (with the vig) or else it's a trip to court. You can't borrow a quarter from her without having to sign a promissary note.

Money is how she controls the people around her. Even if you aren't interested in going to her for a favor, she'll come to you if she thinks she can get her hooks into you. She has sued me more than a couple of times, my sister, my brother–one time me and her brother had the same court date:"I see here that the defendant and the plaintiff have the same lastname. Are you related?" the judge asked.

"She's my mother."

"Your own mother is suing you?"

"Yes, and if you look behind me, you'll see her brother. He's next on your docket."

"She's suing her son and then her brother? Ma'am, I'm scared of you."And the best part is that after court, she'll fix us dinner. Why? Because "business is business, but family is family."


Ah, see, a nice family dinner after a public suing. All you need to round off your evening is for the government to bring back public executions, and you could have your desert and entertainment too.

The World Is Full Of Fools

For those new folk, go here and scroll down to “The Beginning of a Nightmare.”

For you to understand Fool, I’ll have to remind you about a little conversation that I had with him. Hopeless had just gone to jail, and he called my house wanting to speak with his daughter, Pray-To God–She-Won’t-Be-Hopeless. This is what happened:

After a week, Fool called the oldest girl (lets call her Pray-To-God-She-Won’t-Be-Hopeless). He told her that he had gone home to his mother, and that he was damn mad that he couldn’t get to work, and asked if she knew where the “God-damn van was because he was just gonna do something really, really bad if he didn’t find it.” Aren’t ya just trembling in your boots now? Yeah, I was too.

Pray-To-God-She-Won’t-Be-Hopeless handed me the phone. “I ain’t been to work in days, and I want that damn van right now.”

“I thought you’d quit that job.” I took a gamble. The boys had told me this and I wasn’t quite sure it was true, but then too, I wasn’t dealing with the sharpest knife in the drawer either. In fact, if he had been a knife, he probably would have been equipped to cut cottage cheese. Maybe.

“Oh…I got another one two days ago, I told that damn Pray-To-God-She-Won’t-Be-Hopeless that already, shit. I need that damn van. Jerome gets to work; see that’s what I need to be doing right there. You know what I mean? I take care of my kids. Don’t no body take care of them kids but me, and I got to GET TO WORK TO DO IT.”

Talking to this man was like getting kicked in the head with a steal-bunny-slipper, if ya know what I mean. “Well, since you take care of them. The baby needs some more milk and diapers.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. I take care of my kids. I gotta wait for the next bus. It comes in like 20 minutes and I’ll bring some, ‘cause I take care of them kids. Ya know? Them kids don’t want for nothing. What size diapers does she wear? Ok, ok, yeah, like a medium or something?” I told him no, a size 4. “Yeah, yeah, a 4, I remember. I get them all the time. I’ll be right there.”

Yeah, the world is full of Fools. Of course he didn’t come that day. But he did “do something really, really bad” because he couldn’t get the van.

We had gotten the kids together and brought them to my house to give them baths. It was almost all of them. The only ones that didn’t come was Don and Jon. They probably needed it the worst, but hell, who was I to say. OK, they stank.

Even doubling and tripling them up, it took a good long time to finish up. My brother-in-law gave them all hair cuts, and Pray-to-God-She-Won’t-Be-Hopeless did the girls hair. It took us about three or four hours or so.

When we finished, we loaded them back up and took them home. They don’t live far, (yes, I want to kick myself in the ass for that one everyday. My husband and I moved away from Atlanta almost eight years ago, one reason was his family. Within a couple of years, they all had followed. But, alas, that is another tale for another day.) a few blocks, so the drive wasn’t long. Thank god…again. By the time this is over, I think I’m gonna own Him big.

As soon as we pull up into the driveway, I know there something wrong. But I can’t quite put my finger on it. Then one of the kids shout, “What happened to the door?”

That’s when I see it. There’s a big hole in the garage door—one of the panels is completely missing. My first thought is that the boys got to fighting again, and have broken it.

Beside me, Miss Debra, says, “Oh, shit.” Guess she was thinking the same thing. We all rush into the house, and up the stairs. The master bedroom was completely empty. There had been a bed, dresser, and a floor model TV in there, but all of it was gone. Again, I thought of the boys. I didn’t know what they had done with it, but to be honest I had completely forgotten about Fool.

While I’m standing there, not really able to say or do anything, Don comes up to me and Miss Debra. Don says that while he and Jon were gone, Fool broke the panel in garage door, opened it, snuck into the house and took the furniture. Let me also remind you, that the house is empty except for the bedroom furniture. Miss Debra kept the baby on that bed, changed her and everything.

Don and Jon said that one of the neighbors told them that “that man’s just broke the door to your house.” By the time they got there, Fool was pulling off in a truck with everything. Jon said he ran after the truck, and when he couldn’t catch it, he threw a big rock, and it cracked the window. Yeah, guess I can imagine him doing that, with his illness and all.

Fool threw all of his daughter’s clothes on the floor, leaving the room in a mess. But hey, he left the comforter. So they spread that out, for the baby.

Parenthood, it’s hard knowing the right things to do for your children. Of course it gets easer when you don’t break down doors to steal from them and their mother.

When Hopeless called, I told her what happened. She told me not to worry about it, that she would put out a warrant for him…FROM JAIL.

Can someone even do that? Shit, why am I asking, I’m just getting the hang of this, I might as well sit back and enjoy the ride.

#

Last time I had a contest. The person who guessed correctly what Fool stole out of that house, gets a copy of Dark Dreams, with features stories by yours truly, Zane, Tananarive Due, and L.A. Banks.

So, with no further ado, the winner is Sally Broaddus. Mrs. Broaddus, please send me your address, so that I can mail your signed (by me at least) copy.

NOT KIDDING!

So, the electric bill is almost a thousand dollars too. I’ve decided to forgo any more drama, and just shoot myself in the head. Then I think, no, this is my husband’s fault for letting me marry into this family, and I decide, “Hey, I’ve got a .22 and a shovel, why not?” What do you think? Should I?

Hopeless was let out of jail, and everyone was awaiting her call so that we could pick her up. The girls were at my home for the weekend, and we all waited patiently by the phone hoping for the call from her. Every time the phone rang, they’d jump and run to it. I’d answer and it wouldn’t be her. Then finally she called. I nodded to the girls that it was their mother (calling collect—but I didn’t even care—she was getting out), then I noticed that the operator said Atlanta.

What?

As it turns out, Hopeless was released from our county jail, but was immediately transferred to Atlanta, where she had a warrant for her arrest for stabbing Fool in the back. Not kidding!

I had to tell the kids that their mother would not be coming home to them. That didn’t go over so well. I would have rather stabbed myself in the eye with a spoon, than tell them that their mother was not only still in jail, but she was now further away then she had been an hour ago.

Not funny.

#

So, Mrs. Debra decided to pay the electric bill. I suppose the kids can go without food, or water, but the lights, uh uh, no way. That’s an abomination.

Where does she get the money, you ask?

Well, let me tell you about another little scam.

It seems that if your child is deemed crazy, then you can get all kinds of money for it. Not kidding. Schizophrenia, ADD, breaking bottles over your siblings heads…that all counts.

So, Hopeless keeps having these children, and then has them declared mentally ill, and racks up the dough. Just like the food stamps, they give you this neat, little debt card with all kinds of money on it. Guess, they don’t want people to be embarrassed by cashing a check or having food stamps. And the card is welcome in thousands of locations around the world. Un huh.

So, just as we get that problem solved—the lights will remain on—another one comes up... Isn’t that always how it happens?

Fool decides all of a sudden that he’s been wronged—has he ever been right?—and breaks into the house while we’re giving HIS kids a bath. Never guess what he wants. Come on. Guess.

Okay, we’re gonna make this a game—someone might as well get something out of it. The person who guesses correctly what Fool steals out of that house, gets a copy of Dark Dreams, with features stories by yours truly, Zane , Tananarive Due , L.A. Banks and many more. Send your entries to me at chesyaburke@chesyaburke.com

#


Remember everyone, keep sending in those “How Screwed Up Is Your Family” stories. I’ll post them. If you like, you can remain anonymous, while still getting things off your chest. Let me know that I’m not alone.

I Had Just Missed the Paramedics and a Rush of Cops...

If you’re just joining me, go here and scroll down to “The Beginning of a Nightmare.”

My mother in law tires of Hopeless’ children real fast. It seems that they have some serous problems. Who knew? So she sends them back to their house, with their oldest brother, Don. A few days later, she realizes that children probably shouldn’t be there alone—neighbors are complaining—and goes to the house to watch over them.

I also need a break, so I take them back home, with Miss Debra, too. I feel really bad about this at first. But then, that night, I got decent sleep, for the first time in over a month, and I got over it. Real quick.

The next day she calls me and asked if I could come over, ASAP. When I get there, the guy from the water company is there, bent down doing something to the meter. I ask him, “Are you shutting it off.”

He stares at me with this expression that says, ‘are you kidding?’ but he said, “I removing it.”

Removing it? Removing what? I find out later that there’s a meter in there that they remove only in extreme cases (this, I think, was an extreme case). I walk back up to the house, looking back every couple of feet, making sure that I wasn’t what the guy was hoping to remove. Seriously, I felt like I had been caught doing something wrong, by just being there…but it got a hell of a lot worse when I went in the house.

Don is standing there, a big, white bandage wrapped around his head, over and over again, blood was seeping through the cloth. His eye was completely covered with the dressing, which binded half the boy’s head.

“What in the world happened to you?” He just kind of stands there looking stupid.

Mrs. Debra runs—I mean runs; you have never seen a large, old woman run like this—down the stairs, toward me. “It was Jon. He’s crazy.”

Well, as it turns out, Don and Jon had gotten into a fight, and when Jon started loosing—as all creeps are wont to do—he got mad and broke a glass bottle over his brother’s head. Evidently, I had just missed the paramedics and a rush of cops asking all kinds of questions. Jon had left the house and no one knew where he was.

Just what you’d do in that situation, right? I mean think about it; your mom’s in jail, your grandmother’s sick, there’s no water in the house, and the police has, only a few weeks before, threatened to take you away. And what do you do? You break a bottle across you brother’s face, because you don’t like what he said. Yeah.

I don’t know how they managed to get out of that one. If you could package luck in the bottle, they would own the paten. I swear…

So, Miss Debra asked me to take her to the water company—as if I’d say no—and so Don got the bill. I took one look and almost passed out. $1049.62.

“What?” I could have had a baby right there on that floor, and not only wouldn’t they have noticed there was one more child, but I wouldn’t have been more surprised.

The water company refused to take anything less than what they were owed. It seems that ol’ Hopeless and Fool had been in that house for six months and hadn’t paid a single water bill. Not only that, but they hadn’t paid a bill from their previous house, and somehow it all caught up with them. Right now; while I have to try and figure out what in the hell to do.

So, what did we do? We started carting water, from my house to theirs. We brought lots of water, too; in gallons, bottles, jugs. All kinds of water. But water’s one of those things that you just don’t realize how much you use it, until it’s gone. Doing dishes, the clothes, brushing your teeth, washing your ass, flushing the toilets!

Also, just so you get the idea: there were 11 children and one adult in that house.

So, then we started carting children over to my house for baths.

But no worries, it gets better, because, just as I think it can’t get any worse, the electric bill arrives.

Just How Screwed Up Is Your Family: Part II

Now I have a little something from our friend Harlequin from Cheshire UK:

My dad could build and use nunchuku. He was a scary individual when it came to MacGuyvering stuff, and being exceptionally good at using it. Spent a little to long 'up country' in what became Yugoslavia to be classed as 'normal' and too long escorting prisoners at Nuremberg not to be a little stir crazy. But I love him anyway.When his mind started going, it did make him a dangerous man to know. He took apart three policemen with a disassembled radiator in the evaluation home I put him in. I did warn the owners. They didn't listen. 76 year old man, quietly spoken who smiled a lot and looked frail... nothing to worry about. WRONG!!! They were lucky there wasn't a death, and Dad wouldn't have been the fatality. That was why I signed on off on them drugging him most of the time, which aggravated his condition. Then signed off on 'By any means necessary' when he started refusing the meds. Otherwise, they could have been liable for assault. Before they REALLY kicked in it was taking four 'non lethal restraint' trained nurses to administer an injection.
Most of his family seemed to die that way... earliest onset is 50. I'm 41. I watch my brother (who's 49) and he watches me. Our mother watches us both. My continuing depressive illness has been a real cause for concern to them for some time, but they cope. The reason neither my brother or I have had kids is because we wouldn't gamble with another person's life. If it was normal odds, then yes, but those who don't learn the lessons of history WILL be doomed to relive them. Statistically, looking at the metabolic oddities that characterized my dad, neither Lance nor I will have a 'good' death (if there is such a thing) And I have to try and avoid morbid fear every time I have a minor lapse of short term memory...

I think we were written by Poe...



Well, Harlequin from Cheshire UK, let me tell you, don’t take your eyes off that brother of yours. And tell your mother…to MOVE, quickly. But on the bright side, it could be worse than being written by Poe. You could have been written by me. Then no one would have ever read about you.

So, what about you? Join the fray, it can be quite therapeutic. Send your stories to me here.