The absolute worst place to find yourself as a writer is in bed at ten pm suddenly realizing you didn’t turn in that thing you absolutely had to get in that evening. Here we are in that exact moment. This is being written but shall not be published till the morning because I am not anywhere that I have password access to the site. I’m just trying to get through ten minutes on the basic tech I have available to me. Sometimes it is just that way.
I want to talk about American Fiction without really digging into the acting or anything like that too deeply. It is definitely worth the watch. I do want to discuss the premise in which a black author is pre categorized as someone who must write the black experience and his work is decried because it is not seen as such.
I took that personally. I don’t write that stereotype but for the first time I feel like in these works that are bubbling up inside of me I am writing some version of the oppressed character. It might not always be a black man with a white boot on his throat, but that dichotomy that has and still exists in some form in my life is present. I suppose I am getting around to telling my story on the page.
I don’t know how these next few tales will perform but I don’t entirely care. I’ve been given the chance to be honest and tell narratives I think are necessary and help me grow and undergo catharsis, so I’m putting this stuff out there. I think moving forward every story I make will be some version of the truth, because an authentic author is the best author I can be.