Why I Write.
My great-grandfather wrote poetry, I’m told. Me, I sort of stumbled into writing. In college, I changed majors every day, it seemed. Somehow, I settled on English writing as a major. Taking a class here and there, I discovered I was pretty, darn good at it. And I loved it, besides.
I was born in the inner city, which is where most of my novels are set. I loved growing up on my small block, where I knew everyone and they knew me. The half hasn’t been told about the people who inhabit such spaces. That’s another reason I write, to breathe life into stories and characters that people think they know based on their zip code, skin color, habits or jobs.
As a kid, I learned early that our neck of the woods was something pretty darn special. That much was expected of us. School superintents came from our neighborhood; doctors; world travelers; teachers; plumbers; truck drivers; women who scrubbed floors like my Mom; police officers; entrepreneurs; number runners; nurses and more. It was, is, a rich, wide world, no matter what others see or think. It shaped me and my novels. And because I grew up there, both my neighborhood and I have touched the world, touched millions of young people as well.
We carry our stories with us, no matter where we go. It’s up to us to tell our story in our own way, in our own time, be they written or spoken.
