What A Character!
It's May 1st, time for the final guest blogger of my upcoming mainstream novel, If These Walls Could Talk, which goes on sale on May 29th. Enjoy!
Character: Veronica Lee of Washington Heights, New York
Novel: If These Walls Could Talk, coming May 29th from Dafina Books
Setting: Washington Heights, October 2001
I find myself moving slowly as I push the shopping cart along Amsterdam Avenue. I have it upright because I’m also balancing a plastic basket full of clean clothes on top of the thick black plastic bag full of clothes that’s inside it already. Fortunately, my shopping cart has two small wheels on each side in the front, so it will roll without me having to tilt it on back wheels only.
I’m Veronica Lee, and I’m tired. Walking a block-and-a-half with laundry for a family of four is no picnic. I do it every single weekend.
My husband, Norman, helps me get the clothes from home to the Laundromat. It’s a real pain in the ass getting all that down the stairs from our third-floor walk-up. It's a weekly ritual for us. He walks me to the Laundromat and then runs back home, where our two girls, Lorinda and Simone, are just waking up. Sometimes when I’m finished I’ll call him, and he and the girls will come and walk me home. But today it’s raining, and Norman was coughing this morning. I told him to go home and get back in bed. I’m hoping I’ll be able to get somebody in the building to help me carry the clothes upstairs. If not, I’ll just do it myself and make two trips, as women in these walk-up apartments have been doing for the last hundred years.
As I continue my slow walk, keeping my umbrella poised over my basket rather than myself, I can’t help thinking about those houses Norman and I looked at last year up in Northern Westchester County, in a Hudson River town called Peekskill. We saw one in particular that was really nice, with good-sized bedrooms and a great yard for the girls, and even for Norman and I to hold barbecues in. The price wasn’t bad, either. We made an offer for less, hoping the seller would come down a little bit.
The moment our offer was in I started having second thoughts. What would we do all the way up in Peekskill? We didn’t know a soul who lived there. All our families and friends live here, in the city. I kept my fears to myself, not saying anything to Norman until the sellers rejected our offer in favor of one that was higher.
Norman was disappointed when we didn’t get the house. He said he definitely wants us to get out of the city. He’s been real gung-ho about it ever since last year, when he was mugged at gunpoint right here on Amsterdam Avenue, in broad daylight. I could have become a widow that day, and my daughters fatherless. Yeah, I’d like to get out of here myself. I know no place on earth is completely safe, but New York has become a lot less so since September 11th. Norman and I both work as nurses up at the Presbyterian Medical Center here in Washington Heights, well away from the Towers, but that lockdown they put on the city’s bridges and tunnels caused a whole lot of grief. You have to remember, Manhattan is an island. There’s no way to get off it without taking a bridge or a tunnel. A whole bunch of folks couldn’t get home ... or get to work.
Sure, I’d love to live in the suburbs someplace, where it’s all green and leafy, and where kids can ride bicycles on the sidewalks. I can’t even send Lorinda and Simone outside to play because there is no place to play. No wonder kids are getting fat. In the city it’ll soon be an epidemic.
One more thing about having a house. We'd be able to buy a washing machine and a dryer, and I wouldn't have to schlep in the rain, the snow, and the humidity to wash our family's clothes and linens.
That's a beautiful thought, but Norman and I have a better chance of winning the big Lotto jackpot than we do of being able to buy a house in the general vicinity. New York may be the world’s most exciting city, but damned if it ain’t one of the most expensive. Everyplace that’s not too far, like Jersey or Southern Westchester or Long Island, is priced way beyond our means. I mean, four hundred thousand dollars for a house older than we are, and with one lousy bathroom. And the neighborhoods aren’t all that fabulous, either. The one in Peekskill sure wasn't. Of course, we're probably priced out of there by now. But on TV or in the movies, I'm always seeing black people living in neighborhoods that look like they’re no more than three years old, with two cars in every driveway, sometimes three, if they have kids old enough to drive. Whenever we see that, somebody always says with a loud suck of their teeth, “Black people don’t live like that.”
From what I’ve seen in those black lifestyle magazines that I read at the bookstore, I don’t think that’s true. I’ve seen everyday people, not movie stars or people like that, featured living in gorgeous houses. Sometimes they’re even single women with homes of their own. But none of them live in New York.
When I see that it makes me think if leaving New York isn’t the answer. Because my kids deserve better than what they’ve got.
And, I think as I park my shopping cart in a corner of the vestibule and begin the long trek upstairs with the basket, so do Norman and I.
Keeping House
I'm in what I call the home stretch of writing my next mainstream (for a 2008 release). This is the time when I'm supposed to cross all the Is and dot all the Ts. And when I have to get everything organized.
I don't write in sequence. Never have. Sometimes a scene niggles and nags at me until I get it written. So I write it and get it out of the way. I do try to keep the scenes organized in my manuscript as I work on it, but this doesn't always work out. What's more likely is that the end of my manuscript file is a jumble of unrelated scenes, sometimes single lines of dialogue that I decided will have a place in my finished manuscript . . . I'm just not sure where. I'm always glad I wrote them, but trying to decide where to put them is frustrating.
How about you? Do you write your novels or works in progress in sequence?
I'm in what I call the home stretch of writing my next mainstream (for a 2008 release). This is the time when I'm supposed to cross all the Is and dot all the Ts. And when I have to get everything organized.
I don't write in sequence. Never have. Sometimes a scene niggles and nags at me until I get it written. So I write it and get it out of the way. I do try to keep the scenes organized in my manuscript as I work on it, but this doesn't always work out. What's more likely is that the end of my manuscript file is a jumble of unrelated scenes, sometimes single lines of dialogue that I decided will have a place in my finished manuscript . . . I'm just not sure where. I'm always glad I wrote them, but trying to decide where to put them is frustrating.
How about you? Do you write your novels or works in progress in sequence?
Ask A Simple Question . . . Again and Again
Today, right on schedule, I followed up with a bookstore in the Chicago train station whose manager wanted me to come in for a pre-Mother's Day signing, when she is expecting an inflated number of shoppers. The manager wanted to make sure she'd be able to get my book, a May release, in on time (I've been screwed before when new releases didn't arrive on time, but that's a column for another day). After that was confirmed I looked up train schedules on the Internet, then called the train station to find out about parking, since I've been up here long enough to know that it probably isn't free. I'd prefer not to get hung up arranging for where to leave my car and possibly miss my train in the process.
"I'm sorry," the woman who answered the phone told me. "I know our number is on the Metra website, but the parking lot is actually owned by the city of North Chicago." She apologetically added that she had no information to give me, not even a telephone number to call.
Thoroughly unimpressed, I looked up the number of the City of North Chicago. It took a full three minutes for someone to pick up once I said I needed information on parking at the Great Lakes Train Station. I asked if the parking was metered, or if there was someplace I could purchase a card for my windshield.
"I'm sorry," the woman said. "I don't know why those Metra people keep referring people here. I really don't know about how the parking works." She politely suggested that I go down there in person before my trip and check things out.
By now I was feeling fed up with being tossed about like a rubber ball by people who don't know shit. But since the station is right around the corner from where I work, I drove there after I got off. The station consisted of a parking lot and a building that looked like it contained a couple of vending machines and not much else. I didn't go in; it was set up in a convoluted fashion that required a hike to the end of the platform to go up the ramp to get to that side. I'm sure all those daily commuters curse whoever designed this on mornings when it's raining, snowing, cold, or just plain windy, which, considering the station is very close to Lake Michigan, is probably pretty damn often.
I got back into my car and drove home, deciding that my next effort at solving the riddle will be a call to the North Chicago Police Department. Since they're the ones who will undoubtedly give me a ticket if my car is without the proper authorization, they ought to be able to tell me the information I need to know.
But, you know what? It shouldn't be this damn hard.
Today, right on schedule, I followed up with a bookstore in the Chicago train station whose manager wanted me to come in for a pre-Mother's Day signing, when she is expecting an inflated number of shoppers. The manager wanted to make sure she'd be able to get my book, a May release, in on time (I've been screwed before when new releases didn't arrive on time, but that's a column for another day). After that was confirmed I looked up train schedules on the Internet, then called the train station to find out about parking, since I've been up here long enough to know that it probably isn't free. I'd prefer not to get hung up arranging for where to leave my car and possibly miss my train in the process.
"I'm sorry," the woman who answered the phone told me. "I know our number is on the Metra website, but the parking lot is actually owned by the city of North Chicago." She apologetically added that she had no information to give me, not even a telephone number to call.
Thoroughly unimpressed, I looked up the number of the City of North Chicago. It took a full three minutes for someone to pick up once I said I needed information on parking at the Great Lakes Train Station. I asked if the parking was metered, or if there was someplace I could purchase a card for my windshield.
"I'm sorry," the woman said. "I don't know why those Metra people keep referring people here. I really don't know about how the parking works." She politely suggested that I go down there in person before my trip and check things out.
By now I was feeling fed up with being tossed about like a rubber ball by people who don't know shit. But since the station is right around the corner from where I work, I drove there after I got off. The station consisted of a parking lot and a building that looked like it contained a couple of vending machines and not much else. I didn't go in; it was set up in a convoluted fashion that required a hike to the end of the platform to go up the ramp to get to that side. I'm sure all those daily commuters curse whoever designed this on mornings when it's raining, snowing, cold, or just plain windy, which, considering the station is very close to Lake Michigan, is probably pretty damn often.
I got back into my car and drove home, deciding that my next effort at solving the riddle will be a call to the North Chicago Police Department. Since they're the ones who will undoubtedly give me a ticket if my car is without the proper authorization, they ought to be able to tell me the information I need to know.
But, you know what? It shouldn't be this damn hard.
There's More To Writing a Book Than Just Writing
My writing output has been a little ragged lately.
I give myself plenty of time to complete a book. I also keep myself on an easy schedule – produce 1,000 words a day, seven days a week. Once I get going, it's pretty easy to surpass 1,000 words. If I miss a day or two here and there, I don't worry about it. I have enough days where my output tops 3,000 words to make up for it.
But lately I've missed A LOT of days.
There are the usual interruptions when you write more than one book a year. The copyedited manuscripts to look at. No sooner do I get one completed when the next one comes in. These have a knack for being delivered just as I am preparing to go on vacation. I worked with the copyedits for If These Walls Could Talk while on my Florida vacation over the holidays, punching holes in the manuscript pages and putting them in a large binder that I carried with me. A few weeks later, the galleys for A Love For All Seasons arrived. Then there are interviews, promo material to send to conferences, a couple of signings during Black History Month . . . all of which take time.
With all that behind me now, it's nearly May and the books will be out soon (A Love For All Seasons is already on sale in many areas), so it's time to get the word out. Over the years I've amassed quite a mailing list, which has been rather haphazard, at least until now (many names are on the small forms people have filled out at my book signings.) As I inform everyone who has e-mailed me over the years about my new releases I am finally getting the list unified and in order, to prevent me from sending out duplicate notices and annoying people (okay, if any of these people also belong to my website mailing list they might get two, but hey, nothing's perfect.) This is such a huge undertaking that some days go by without me writing a word. But hey, what's the point in writing a book if I'm not going to tell anybody about it?
Fortunately, even with all that's going on, I'm still on schedule with the mainstream project I'm calling The First Fifty Years. It's due in New York on July 1st, which by coincidence is the day I wrap up my own first fifty years. My 50th birthday is July 2nd.
This business is definitely not for the easily fatigued.
My writing output has been a little ragged lately.
I give myself plenty of time to complete a book. I also keep myself on an easy schedule – produce 1,000 words a day, seven days a week. Once I get going, it's pretty easy to surpass 1,000 words. If I miss a day or two here and there, I don't worry about it. I have enough days where my output tops 3,000 words to make up for it.
But lately I've missed A LOT of days.
There are the usual interruptions when you write more than one book a year. The copyedited manuscripts to look at. No sooner do I get one completed when the next one comes in. These have a knack for being delivered just as I am preparing to go on vacation. I worked with the copyedits for If These Walls Could Talk while on my Florida vacation over the holidays, punching holes in the manuscript pages and putting them in a large binder that I carried with me. A few weeks later, the galleys for A Love For All Seasons arrived. Then there are interviews, promo material to send to conferences, a couple of signings during Black History Month . . . all of which take time.
With all that behind me now, it's nearly May and the books will be out soon (A Love For All Seasons is already on sale in many areas), so it's time to get the word out. Over the years I've amassed quite a mailing list, which has been rather haphazard, at least until now (many names are on the small forms people have filled out at my book signings.) As I inform everyone who has e-mailed me over the years about my new releases I am finally getting the list unified and in order, to prevent me from sending out duplicate notices and annoying people (okay, if any of these people also belong to my website mailing list they might get two, but hey, nothing's perfect.) This is such a huge undertaking that some days go by without me writing a word. But hey, what's the point in writing a book if I'm not going to tell anybody about it?
Fortunately, even with all that's going on, I'm still on schedule with the mainstream project I'm calling The First Fifty Years. It's due in New York on July 1st, which by coincidence is the day I wrap up my own first fifty years. My 50th birthday is July 2nd.
This business is definitely not for the easily fatigued.
Movin' On
Last weekend I saw my 10th romance novel, A Love For All Seasons, at a Barnes & Noble in a nearby town.
I always get a rush when I see a new book I’ve authored on the shelves for the first time. It’s one thing that still thrills, even after 13 novels (technically 12; the 13th doesn’t come out until the end of May). This one is rather bittersweet.
This is my 10th Arabesque romance, and also my last.
I’ve been dropped by my publisher like a proverbial hot potato.
The reasons have not been explained to me, at least not yet. I’ve known about this for some time now, and at this point I’m not holding my breath waiting for an explanation, although I feel I deserve one, just for courtesy's sake. In all honesty, even if I did know the reasons I wouldn’t announce them. There’s a fine line between being open and honest about their dropping me (because, after all, I really don’t have to prove anything to anybody) and putting out my personal “bizness.”
But, forthcoming explanation or not, the end result is still the same.
Time to move on.
Last weekend I saw my 10th romance novel, A Love For All Seasons, at a Barnes & Noble in a nearby town.
I always get a rush when I see a new book I’ve authored on the shelves for the first time. It’s one thing that still thrills, even after 13 novels (technically 12; the 13th doesn’t come out until the end of May). This one is rather bittersweet.
This is my 10th Arabesque romance, and also my last.
I’ve been dropped by my publisher like a proverbial hot potato.
The reasons have not been explained to me, at least not yet. I’ve known about this for some time now, and at this point I’m not holding my breath waiting for an explanation, although I feel I deserve one, just for courtesy's sake. In all honesty, even if I did know the reasons I wouldn’t announce them. There’s a fine line between being open and honest about their dropping me (because, after all, I really don’t have to prove anything to anybody) and putting out my personal “bizness.”
But, forthcoming explanation or not, the end result is still the same.
Time to move on.
The Critics Have Spoken (at least some of them)
Here's what Booklist magazine had to say about If These Walls Could Talk:
Following the tragedy of 9/11, three African American families contemplate moving from New York City to the suburbs. As different as they are, when all three families see an ad on television promising affordable new homes 100 miles away in Pennsylvania, it seems like an answer to their prayers. Milo and Dawn Young have good jobs, and they jump at the salesman’s pitch to upgrade their dream home without investigating anything regarding construction, financing, or the commute. After inheriting money, Reuben and Camille Curry also succumb to the persuasive salesman, but Norman and Veronica Lee take their time, looking into the job situation and financing. After moving, all three families meet on the bus, having discovered the harsh realities of their long commutes. Griffin offers a cautionary tale about the pitfalls of hasty home ownership in a compelling drama about three families striving for the American dream. —Patty Engelmann
And here's what RT (Romantic Times) Bookclub magazine had to say about If These Walls Could Talk:
The pace of Griffin's latest is slow for the first half of the book. Fortunately, the second half shows more spice, complicity, dysfunction and perseverance as we follow three couples who leap from renting in the inner city to owning in the suburbs. Once the uniqueness of each family's situation becomes more notable, this evolves into an enjoyable novel.
Summary: While paying rent for apartments in New York City, Reuben and Camille, Milo and Dawn, and Norman and Veronica see the same commercial for affordable homes in the Poconos and decide to buy. But all is not paradise. Hours of commuting takes a toll on their finances and marriages. The cracks that quickly surface in Milo and Dawn's backyard spread to their home. How prepared each of the three couples is to face the nightmare that sometimes accompanies the American dream determines whether they move up or just out. (Dafina, Jun., 320 pp., $14.00) ‹Robin R. Pendleton
I'm feeling pretty good about these. Now I'm off to see how I can master the art of establishing "the uniqueness of each family's situation" without slowing down the pace!
Writing. It's an ongoing evolution.
I love it.
I Still Believe People Are Good at Heart
Some years ago, my father, who passed away eight years ago this week just shy of 88, watched a news story and remarked that he was glad he wouldn't be around to see the next generation.
I remembered those words of his when I heard about the shootings on the campus of Virginia Tech. It's too tragic for words. Every one of those victims, as well as the perpetrator, had family and friends who loved them and are surely devastated and baffled about this murderous rampage. That adds up to a lot of shattered lives.
Maybe it's not right for me, as a strict bystander to this carnage and not affected by it personally, to paraphrase Anne Frank's famous words near the end of her diary, expressing hope for mankind before she succumbed to an evil extermination, but, like her, I believe that most people try to live their lives under a shroud of decency and within the limits of the law.
My condolences to the loved ones of all the victims.
Some years ago, my father, who passed away eight years ago this week just shy of 88, watched a news story and remarked that he was glad he wouldn't be around to see the next generation.
I remembered those words of his when I heard about the shootings on the campus of Virginia Tech. It's too tragic for words. Every one of those victims, as well as the perpetrator, had family and friends who loved them and are surely devastated and baffled about this murderous rampage. That adds up to a lot of shattered lives.
Maybe it's not right for me, as a strict bystander to this carnage and not affected by it personally, to paraphrase Anne Frank's famous words near the end of her diary, expressing hope for mankind before she succumbed to an evil extermination, but, like her, I believe that most people try to live their lives under a shroud of decency and within the limits of the law.
My condolences to the loved ones of all the victims.
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