I remember tying a shoestring around a flashlight, hanging it on the bar in my closet, and sitting in there reading encyclopedias. After that I wrote songs, poems, plays, and short stories. It felt powerful to create characters, places, and stories that began and ended the way I wanted them to. But I do remember what it felt like when I finished and read it. I think it was about a group of stray dogs trekking across the country to find a magic bone or something. My first attempt at writing a real story was in the fifth grade. I was raised in a single parent household by my mother, the lovely Miss Catherine Barnes, along with my big brother, Anthony, in Kansas City, MO. I wanted to be a football player, the next Sean Combs, or a rapper anything that would instantly provide me with the riches I would need to “move my mama off of the block”. I didn’t actually meet one until I attended college. I didn’t know any famous African American male authors.
Where I come from, no one dreams of becoming an author.
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