[Writer’s Rant] What fucking formula?

fucko'clock

When you love what you do, you don’t do work you just do you. And when you do you, there is no sequence or order to make your passion successful, you just go until it is. Sure, you’re motions might seem similar to others but your footprint is unlike anything that anyone has seen before.

As a long-time writer, but new self-published author, I love when my words hit just right. You know, when the words are so syncopated that it feels like you just took your first breathe all over again. Like your heart was restarted from an impending death just to read those words together. But those moments sometime seem to come slower than I want.

Since publishing my book, I’ve been moving, in search of that next step. So maybe I should just keep promoting. Oh no, I have to keep socializing and networking to build a following. What, but I’ve got to get these next books out that I’ve already started. But wait, when the hell can I do all this with a full family and still a full-time, attention-keeping job? I’ve gotten so lost trying to keep up with writing Joneses — caught up in searching for a formula for success in a world full of amazing authors. I’ve reviewed writer’s guides/guilds, industry articles and author testimonials, seeking to figure out this life-altering “formula”. This mysterious equation that has made good writers great and the okay authors amazing.

But to be honest with you, there is no fucking equation. I believe it comes down to just this; greatness is unimaginable and immeasurable so there is nothing you have to do but be your greatest you.

Stop trying to figure things out and start being who you were made to be. So I’m letting this post start this engine back up, ready to pouring out those pieces that I’ve held back or tried to work around in order to stay in line with others. Let you, the person who took a moment to read this, learn something new about a starving but dedicated artist, not just a writer.

I’m going to give you the best me. It will be raw at times, but honest to who I’ve grown to be as a black woman living in the United States of American — through the tragedies and triumphs that I’ve seen, listen to and studied.

Please continue with me on this journey and thanks for reading my rant — a needed personal rant — that has let the words start pouring again from my soul.

Fuck a formula!

-DNC

“Untraditional” is now available!

I want to thank all my readers for stopping by and taking time out your day to read my words. I am ecstatic to share with you that my first book, Untraditional: A Collection of Passion-Fy Short Stories, is now available!

If you’ve been following my blog, you’ve probably ran into a couple of the book’s excerpts like:Untraditional

And now it’s available on Createspace, Amazon, Amazon Kindle and Lulu (if you want to read it in your iBooks library). If you want an autographed, personalize copy just email me at midwyfecrisis@gmail.com.

I am so excited about this moment and I plan to live in it as long as I can. I hope that this piece makes you feel something whether it’s excitement, enticement, passion, anger, frustration or any emotion.

Thank you for coming with me on this journey, and there is so much more to come…

With passion, DNC

[SAMPLE ALERT] Book: Untraditional

It’s time again to share another excerpt from my book Untraditional, from a new chapter “The Pleasure Principle”. I would love your feedback and as always…have fun! #PassionFY #beUntraditional #UntraditionalVday #DNC

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. THIS BOOK OR ANY PORTION THEREOF MAY NOT BE REPRODUCED OR USED IN ANY MANNER WHATSOEVER WITHOUT THE EXPRESS WRITTEN PERMISSION OF THE PUBLISHER EXCEPT FOR THE USE OF BRIEF QUOTATIONS IN A BOOK REVIEW.


I walked into the neighborhood McMike’s Grocery to pick up drinks and snacks. Dressed in my relaxed, hood-chic outfit with loose grey sweatpants, a white wife-beater and my Yankee’s hat, I entered the produce section. I was gliding toward the tomatoes in search of the ripest specimen, when a tantalizing, chocolate-skinned champion caught my eye. I knew as soon as we locked eyes that the “poison” was starting to make its way to him.

If he stepped one foot closer, it would be over for him. And so, he took that step.

I immediately felt bad for him. I glanced down to the floor, trying my best to guide him from my clutches, but it was too late.

Almost as if magnetized to each other, we met in front of the tomatoes. I could feel his eyes blazing through my clothes, dying to see what was hiding underneath. I did my best to ignore his presence, but his scent was exotic and soothing.

My urges were beginning to grow.

I quickly reached for a ripe tomato at the top of the stack. As I touched the tomato I felt his arm graze my chest, reaching under me for a lower tomato. As innocent as his movement was, I knew that it was a direct message to my body.

“Excuse me,” we both chimed.

I turned to look at his face; his white, shining smile and deep brown eyes flicked with amber: a complement to God’s work. Even his lips were juicy enough to bite. I turned from him again and proceeded to put the veggie in my arm basket.

“It’s ok.” I reassured him.

I turned and walked away as quickly as I could, trying again to release him from my trap.  I even slowed my walk, hoping he wouldn’t notice my wide hips and finely-tuned ass. My attempts to save him from my web were strong, but his efforts were stronger.

I continued my walk through the store stopping in the pasta aisle, then the juice aisle, then the liquor aisle. I don’t know if it was by chance or strategic planning on his end, but we just so happened to end up meeting down the same aisles.

I passed another short, fair-skinned man on the way to the check-out counter.

“Hey, Beautiful!” he threw at me as I swiftly passed him.

I smiled because I didn’t want to be rude, but became frustrated that I couldn’t do something as simple as shopping without unwanted attention. I rushed to the shortest line. As I waited for the three people ahead of me, I heard the same “Excuse me” that had so gently grazed me in produce.

I turned to see my chocolate champion standing behind me.

“I really want to apologize about that incident earlier. I hope I didn’t offend you,” he said.

“No. It’s ok. I know it was an accident,” I answered knowing perfectly well it wasn’t.

“My name is Mason…Mason Alexander.” He held out his hand.

Dare I touch it? I guess if he is asking for it, I must please.

“My name is Taylor.”

I took a step closer to the register. Two more people to go. Can he be saved?

“I know this is a little awkward,” he persisted, “but I think you are gorgeous and would love to take you out. Will you allow me to do so? It would be a pleasure to learn more about you.”

Pleasure. . .how could I not?

I obliged his request and gave him my number. Even though I knew the outcome was going to leave him breathless and addicted, at least he would enjoy it. I finally made it to the register and he assisted me by placing my groceries on the belt. He was kind and did what he needed to get my attention. He pleased me, and this intrigued me to see more. I waved good-bye to him as I walked out the door.

As I crossed the street, a blacked-out Range Rover parked next to my car caught my attention.  Women from across the street took their time slowly walking into the store, biding their time, waiting for the driver to exit.  A six-four, fair-skinned stallion stepped out of the driver’s side and his much shorter, less-attractive friend jumped out the passenger side.

Again, I did my best not to look directly at him.  I rushed past him only to have him stop and stare me down as I moved to my trunk.

I popped the trunk and immediately heard his door close and some steps get closer and louder.

“Thank you,” A raspy voice spoke to me, much deeper than I expected.

I stopped to think about what he’d said exactly. Thank you for what?

Untraditional is now on SALE!

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