“There is no excuse for anyone to write fiction for public consumption unless he has been called to do so by the presence of a gift.” —Flannery O’ConnorSo, I walk into this mall bookstore, ask the manager if he has any classic African American Literature titles (This is a game I like to play, albeit a not too funny one) and follow him to the front…near the magazines…bright colors…great big ole…butts…I mean sign…Big Black letters…African Ameri…He’s smiling…response… “Sure, we’ve got Stringer, Zane, Weber…Your choice.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah, here I go again. Lambasting the murderati and their oversexed baby mama’s. As much as folks get upset at the slightest bit of criticism, the reality is if they’d achieved only a modicum of their success, I wouldn’t be talking about them at all. I mean come on, if Zane wasn’t famous, and Urban Books and Urban Soul (I betcha Urban Love is next) weren’t making more money than ALL INDEPENDENT BLACK PUBLISHERS put together, over the past ten years (With the possible exception of Third World Press in 2006—The Covenant), then I’d be talking about someone else, and they wouldn’t be famous. Or rich. So, I say take the good with the bad. Truth is, I respect Carl’s business acumen. I marvel at Strebor’s marketing genius (Didn’t expect that word, did you). However, it’s a bit unnerving to be escorted to the “African American Literature” section in a major book retailer, and see the top four shelves well-stocked with the likes of Riding Dirty on I-95, Bitch, The Sisters of APF, G-Spot, and Every Thug Needs A Lady, and on the bottom shelf, one to two copies of Zora, Toni, Edward P., J. California, Walter, and damn, even Terry (Didn’t she start this mess?). Correction, it’s not unnerving. It’s wrong, plain wrong.
