“I love you baby, but I just don’t wanna do this no more. You’re always on the road, traveling, writing, and I’m here in Albuquerque all alone.”
“Look, babe, it’s gonna be ok. Everything is gon’ be alright. When I finish up with my research here, I’ll be home, and I can finish the book from there. I’m not going anywhere for a long time. Matter-of-fact, I won’t have to return to Detroit until next fall, to do promotional stuff for the book.” The tone of Zach’s voice is eager and desperate.
“Yeah, but you been tellin’ me that.”
“I know, babe, but this is real sh*t. I’m coming home to stay. My editor gave me until June to finish the book, so I got a long time before I leave again, and that ain’t gon’ be ‘til next year, baby.”
Zach knew that he had taken Bernice on an emotional and economic rollercoaster of upsets, disappointments, and let-downs since he had decided to “take a break” from graduate school to write his first book. Yet, for Bernice, the issue was never really about finances as much as it was about her feeling abandoned, lonely, frightened, and unprotected every night. Now, the inevitable confrontation of the matter, its harbinger of which Zach had both consistently ignored and feared, had finally demanded his full attention. Bernice was no longer willing to wait for the day when Zach would become a successful writer and work from his office at home, and sleep in his own bed every night. She was tired of Zach’s empty promises that he would return to Albuquerque, finish his Masters degree, and take that job offer at the local community college. Instead of conforming to Bernice’s request Zach would always conjure up any excuse to hit the road insearch of adventure, new horizons, and new experiences.
“Then I’ll be left here all alone, once again, Zach. And I just can’t do it no more, baby. I just can’t do it no more.”
“Bern, baby, look-”
“Zach, listen to me. There’s something that I gotta tell you.”
“Ok,” Zach said, nervous, but expectant of what Bernice was going to say next. Bernice started to cry and a strange voice from the distant background tries to comfort her. “Cuelga el teléfono, mi amor. Permítale ir. El no es bueno para usted.” Bernice covers the mouthpiece of her phone and softly whispers, “Se queda afuera de esto, Rico. Permita que mí manejar esto.”
“What’s going on, Bernice!? Who the hell is that!?
“Zach, I’ve met someone.”
***
“Sinnerman where you gunna run to…Sinnerman where you gunna run to…Where you gunna run to…All on that day.”
Zach Madison awoke to the dissonant ghetto rhythms of early morning rain, rowdy city buses, Nina Simone, and anxious automobiles hurrying along the tragically littered streets which have long been the invisible testaments to the inadequate political circus that unjustifiably call themselves the City Council of Detroit. The parking lot where he had spent the night is located Downtown near the corner of Riopelle and Franklin, in the general vicinity of the GM building, and walking distance to Tom’s Oyster Bar.
He irritably turned off Nina, lifted his trembling body up from an uncomfortably reclined position and looked across the dank and sullen car lot to see if anyone was out there. After a long night of unscrupulous drinking and dancing at Andrea’s birthday party, everything seemed blurry when he panned his crusty eyes across the discordant panorama of an enigmatic morning-after. He pulled his glasses from the passenger overhead visor, fastened them to his face and took another 360 degree sweep across the Eliot-like wastelands of the place he once called home.
Zach lit a cigarette and started to think about the conversation he’d had with his girlfriend last night after he’d taken Muriel and Leonard home. She’s leaving him for another man. “Perhaps I should have seen it coming,” he mumbled to himself. He flipped open his cell-phone and called his best-friend, Costa, to see if they could meet for breakfast. He wanted to call Andrea but he really didn’t want to hear a woman’s perspective on this matter. Costa would be able to relate to his calamitous situation and help him to make sense of it. Besides, he assumed that Andrea would probably have a hangover from last night because she had drunk just as much Hennessey and apple martinis as he had.
Costa Denman doesn’t drink, doesn’t do birthday parties, loves Andrea, hates Tom’s Oyster Bar, is a very successful journalist, writes a popular weekly column for a Chicago newspaper, and does freelance work for a black magazine based in Washington D.C. He fancies himself a renaissance man, with Donna Karan, Sean John, and Neiman Marcus accounts, “eleven pairs of Salvatore Ferragamo shoes,” a Harbor Town condo, Hamptons aspirations, Idlewild memories, a Morehouse degree, a BMW, a white fiancé and Dolce & Gabbanna cologne. And he doesn’t understand why Zach is not using his degree to get paid.
***
Zach rolled his Isuzu out of the dangerous autobahn of Jefferson traffic, into the Big Boys restaurant parking lot and circled around to find a spot near the front entrance. He was somewhat unsure of whether to go inside and upset himself with the wonderful aroma of the breakfast buffet which was always loaded up with smoked bacon, ham steaks, crispy hash browns, big biscuits, sausage gravy, French toast and English muffins. But, he stuck with the routine which was to go in, move quietly by the waitress, hopefully undetected by the manager, get a good sniff of the country buffet, and navigate his way on towards the bathroom to brush his teeth, wash his face and pick the lint from his scraggly and untrimmed beard.
Push was a maverick of sorts and wasn’t the self-conscious type when it came to his appearance, but he didn’t want Costa to see him looking scruffy because Costa would lecture him on why he needed to “stop this novel-writing sh*t and get a real writing job.” And every time the two old college buddies would meet up, Costa hated to see Zach wearing the same Walmart black-blazer, green Marygrove College t-shirt, beige baseball cap, Old Navy blue jeans, and brown, suede, ankle-high, Hippopotamus buckle-boots. Zach would jokingly say to his arrogant friend, “You don’t understand, Cos, this is my super-hero uniform.” Costa once condescendingly commented on Zach’s unconscionable dress habits: “only clinically depressed people wore the same clothes everyday.” To which Zach replied, “Then that would mean that the Enlightenment Thinkers and the Greek philosophers were all clinically depressed.”
The short, frumpy, hostess always stared at Zach whenever he walked into the restaurant. But Zach, with his shaving case of cologne, toothbrush, and toothpaste tucked under his arm, politely smiled and walked on past the chubby hostess on to the bathroom to handle his business. “He prolly just wanna get some coffee, or sit in one of the booths and bum cigarettes all day,” she says to her manager, a white boy who looked like he could’ve been Big Boy. While she stood at the front counter essentially explaining to the white boy that Zach was safe and harmless – assuaging any guilt the white boy may’ve felt for silently wanting to “call the cops on this bum,” Zach pretended to be on his cell-phone so they wouldn’t talk to him or try to ask him any questions.
He left the restaurant and headed downtown for Lodge freeway. He wanted to go down to Wayne State University and check his email to see if Bernice had left some type of indication that last night’s conversation had been a bad dream…or at least a bad decision on her part. “Nevermind,” he thought. He was not in any mood to deal with his reality. Then he flipped open his cell-phone to view the call log, and his fears had been confirmed. It wasn’t a bad dream; he had spoken to her….for thirty-four minutes. “Shit.”
There were three text messages from “Creole Pu**y.” Creole Pu**y was a code name for Denicio Barbier, a pretty, professional, forty-five year old Creole from New Orleans who moved to Michigan to avoid Katrina. She’d landed a job “running the Detroit Medical Center,” as she liked to say, and spent most of her leisure time volunteering for the Detroit Institute of Arts, the Charles Wright African American Museum, and the Society of Orchestra Hall. She lives in Bloomfield Hills and has an apartment in Harbor Town “for when I come down to the city to party and get too drunk to drive all the way back to Bloomfield,” as she once explained to Zach.
Costa had introduced Zach to Denicio when Zach stopped in Detroit during a book tour and ever since, the tempestuous Denicio has been trying to seduce the traveling writer into a long-distance love affair. It did not matter to her that he lived in New Mexico, so long as he agreed to see her whenever he visited Detroit. Whenever the free-spirited writer visited Detroit, the two would often meet at Duvallon’s for a sumptuous Creole dinner of Oysters Rockefeller, Shrimp Remoulade, with Bananas Foster for dessert. Sometimes, they would skip dinner and go to a movie or meet at The Whitney for Sunday morning brunch. Occasionally, on Saturdays Denicio would invite Zach over for breakfast or dinner. She loves Filet Mignon and is always delighted to cook it for him whenever he is in town.
***
Last night, while Zach, Andrea, Muriel, and Leonard partied, danced and drank apple martinis and Hennessey shots at Andrea’s birthday party, Denicio, upset that Zach hadn’t invited her, spent most of the evening sending distracting text messages to Zach. While Zach was trying to have a good time with his friends, Denicio annoyed him with trite, bothersome messages. She was hoping that after the party Zach would come and spend the night with her, but she didn’t know how to just come on out and ask. Zachary came off the dance-floor with Andrea and noticed he’d gotten another message from Denicio and excused himself to the restroom to read the message:
From: 13138267732 Sent: Friday, October 31, 2008 11:16:09 PM
Can I ask you a question? Are you afraid of me, Zachary? Why are you avoiding me? Why wont you come and spend the night with me? You should be taking advantage of my advances. You know I got the sweetest Creole pu**y baby.
Zachary replied:
From: 13139299022 Sent: Friday, October 31, 2008 11:29:02 PM
lol. I don’t know whether or not you have the sweetest creole pu**y because I’ve never fucked it or licked it. Matter-of-fact, I find it quite boring to listen to 45 year old women talk about how good, great and wonderful their pu**ies are. No 45 year old pu**y is gonna dazzle me. She may be able to suck a d*ck good, but she will not blow my mind with her 45 year old pu**y, and trying to convince me otherwise is a waste of time – time that would be better spent titillating my taste-buds with vivid descriptions of a good meal you plan on cooking me, or a good movie you’d like to watch with me, quite frankly. I’m not rigid, prudish, or sexless, but, really, any pu**y beyond the age of 30 isn’t dazzling anymore. I know better. And deep down, 45 year old women know better. So, I don’t wanna ever again have a discussion about your 45 year old “sweet creole pu**y.” Please.
Zach pissed, washed his hands and returned to the party. He and Sparkle danced to Jay Z and Beyoncé’s ‘Déjà Vu’ song while BJ and Andrea drunkenly laughed at the way Sparkle and Zach clowned around on the dance-floor. Zach received another text message from Denicio. He coolly flipped open his phone and read the message while Sparkle continuously twirled around him on the dance-floor.
From: 13138267732 Sent: Saturday, November 1, 2008 12:55:07 AM
lol. You are so mean to me. lol
***
He sat in his truck staring straight ahead thinking about his decadent predicament, letting it all sink in. Nina Simone’s deep, sultry contralto rescues him from the brink of an eternal daydream, she, angrily protesting those mystical and bittersweet proclamations of which Zach now knew all too well: “I love you anyhow…and I don’t care…If you don’t want me…I’m yours right now. You hear me…I put a spell on you…. Because you’re mine….” “Damn,” he thought, “How could I have let this happen. Shit. Bernice is gone.” And the graphic thought of his girl getting f**ked by some other dude was too overwhelming for Zach. It kept rotating around in his mind with the vicious precision of a bright flashing neon sign in Atlantic City:
BERNICE IS F**KING RICO~*~BERNICE IS F**KING RICO~*~BERNICE IS F**KING RICO~*~
The torturous imagery swirled round and round like a world globe spinning in constant slow circular motion. “And they’re probably laying in my bed right this moment eating enchiladas and burritos and sh*t…and f**king. Damn,” he thought to himself.
Zach turned Nina off, put another unlit cigarette in his mouth, got out of his truck and stood in front of Coney Island staring inside the window as though he were some crazy man. The place was getting crowded. He really didn’t want to be bothered with anyone he knew, and certainly didn’t want to run into Bernice’s best friend, Yah Digga. Every time he visited Coney Island, he would run into Yah Digga, and she always asked the same question: “how’s my girl doing?” Only this time, Zach didn’t want to place her in the embarrassing position of having to pretend as though she doesn’t know that he and her girl were splitting up. Best friends were always the first to know. Chico De Barge wrote a song about it. But Zach had no beef with Yah Digga and he didn’t want her to feel as though she had to avoid him, lie to him, or dread the possibility of having to confront him and forcibly discuss the ‘Zach and Bernice’ drama. Besides, he understood that Yah Digga was Bernice’s friend and would ultimately view him as the bad guy. Regardless, it was better for both to just not run into each other. His cell phone vibrated with another text message from Denicio:
From: 13138267732 Sent: Saturday, November 1, 2008 10:13:09 AM
Can I expect you for dinner tonight, baby? I’ll cook whatever you want.
Denicio’s text messages always remind Zach of Linda Loman in Death of A Salesman. “Whatever, Denicio,” Zach typed. He pushed the send button and momentarily thought about whether or not Verizon would end his service for non-payment today or tomorrow. Then he thought about Denicio again, and how after all the bi-polar roller-coasters he’d casually and flippantly subjected her to, she’d continued to pursue him. It wasn’t that he hadn’t planned on f**king her – she did have a nice figure, beautiful skin, and Angela Bassett lips that certainly made his imagination spin hot delicious thoughts of how prudential a d*ck-licker she must be. But, he wanted to f**k her when he got good and ready, not because she’d pestered him into it.
He slid his cell phone back into his pocket and placed his hands around his eyes in crescent fashion, pressed his forehead against the cold glass, and looked in the window to see if he could recognize anyone. Maybe Fajr’s fine a** is up in here…..maybe Duchess is up in here….is…hold up….is that Dietrich and Sugar Bear…..naw….wait a minute….is that Michelle…..oh, ok…..wait, is that Carmen? Nope. That’s not Carmen. Carmen never ventures too far beyond her cozy and coveted “five mile radius” of Oak Park. And she definitely would not drive down to Woodward, where the little people resided, just to have eggs and toast. Besides, she wouldn’t want to see Zach anyway. Since the publication of Zach’s last book, she made it perfectly clear to him that, “I don’t wanna see yo a** for at least five years.”
***
Zach noticed Costa when he walked in, but Zach didn’t see him. He was dressed in a Hugo Boss Black “Pasolini” Suit and, as usual, women turned and lushed over his polished good looks, Denzel Washington walk, toned physique, and professional poise. Costa stopped at a table to chat with some people who’d recognized him from a CNN interview he’d done on the Obama/Mc Cain debate.
“Yo, dude,” Zach yelled out to him, “Over here!” Costa signed another autograph, shook hands then excused himself and moved on through the Saturday morning breakfast crowd of hungry and impatient patrons – mostly Wayne State University students – on to Zach’s table near the far end of the restaurant where they preferred to sit out of sight.
“Zach, what’s up, dude? It sounded urgent on the phone. You ok, man? You need money?” Zach took a deep sigh and reached for a cigarette – his Linus-security-blanket. He thought about the money statement but didn’t run with it. He did need the money but hated accepting money from Costa. It wasn’t really an issue of pride. To Zach, all pride is dangerous because it is falsely associated with something that ultimately conflicts with the more relevant and urgent instinct of human survival. He hated taking Costa’s money because he was never in a position to give it back. And whenever he would hang out with Costa and Barbara, she would always give him that “youbrokebummymotherf**keryouowemymanmoneyandyouhavenotpaidhimback” look. Zach hated that look. But, regardless, He thought about how much he would ask him for later, and kept with the issue at hand.
“Bernice is leaving me, man. For some Tex-Mex mutha f**ka,” he mumbled, trying to light his cigarette. “She said she don’t wanna do the long-distance relationship thing anymore.” Zach took a long, deep puff of the cigarette, rested back into the booth, and blew smoke into the air. Costa shook his head.
“I told you that sh*t was going to happen, man. Your ass is running all over the place trying to be Jack Kerouac and sh*t. Now look; you’re going to lose Bernice.” We both paused to stare at a sista’s a** as she walked by our table.
“Can you blame her? I mean, come on, dude,” he says, unbuttoning his expensive suit jacket, “You take her way down to Julio Eglesias-ville, far away from her friends and family, and then you leave her. What the f*ck you expect? Bernice is a good woman. You were lucky to even have a woman like that.”
“Yeah, man, I know,” said Zach, puffing on his cigarette.
“Then you get mad because she’s f**king some other guy!? Costa looked at Zach as though Zach had been foolish to actually expect for Bernice to remain content and faithful with the unpredictable lifestyle he’d seduced her into accepting. Costa flags the waitress before returning to Zach for one last strike at his ego.
“You need your a** kicked, that’s all.”
“Yep, I do,” Zach said, simultaneously daydreaming, listening to Costa, and blowing smoking-rings into the air. Costa waved his hand to fan away the smoke.
“And stop smoking!”
The waitress interrupted them to take their breakfast order. Costa ordered a Greek salad, fat-free dressing, no pita bread, and water, rather than his trademark bacon and cheese omelette, buttered wheat toast, coffee with extra cream and sugar, and grape jelly. Zach had commented that he’d never known his friend to eat healthy like that. That ever since he’d known Costa he’s been fanatical about lifting weights, keeping his abs tight, and staying toned and fit, but he’s always eaten whatever he wanted. Now he’s eating salads.
“Must be that white broad you’re dating. That’s the first thing they want to do to a brotha. Change him with subtle, silent insinuations that black women aren’t healthy for us; that our black momma’s didn’t raise us right, so it’s up to them and their superior civility to come along – like a spider – and fix us. That’s how white b*tches are,” said Zach in a matter-of-factly tone of voice.
“I always try to eat healthy, dude, you tripping out,” replied an indignant Costa.
The truth is that before Costa hooked up with the white broad, he couldn’t get enough of bacon and cheese omelettes and black women. But the minute he got that job with CNN he just stopped dating sistas all together. He believed that white women were vital necessities for any progressive brotha trying to make it in white corporate America. He believed that in order for white corporate America to ever really accept a brotha into their world he had to at least have a white woman on his side. One time, when Costa and Zach were at a Thornetta Davis show, Costa watched as WJBK-Detroit news anchor Huel Perkins walked into the bar with three white b*tches hanging off him. It was at that point that something in Costa’s mind had clicked. But, deep down, Costa longed for a sista. Every time he went out to D.C., he couldn’t stop talking about how good they looked and how much fun he’d had. He said he could never trust a sista to remain faithful while he was traveling, though. He said that where a brotha could mesmerize and tame a white broad with good d*ck, on the other hand, sistas were used to it because they had been getting good d*ck all there lives, so they were more likely to stray and cheat.
Zach was not hungry, and really didn’t have a taste for anything, but Costa urged him to order something. He knew Zach was broke and would later regret having not eaten when he had the chance so Zach ordered a bacon and cheese omelette with buttered wheat toast, more coffee with extra cream and sugar, and grape jelly, and lit another cigarette.
“Look, Zach, maybe there are things you could’ve done to keep it together. I mean, I believe it is possible for long-distance relationships to work. I really do!”
“I don’t know, Cos, she say she just got tired of not having me there. You know how women are; it matters for women, but not for men. Actually, I was rather shocked when she told me she wanted out of the relationship. Men are the ones who usually buckle in a long distance relationship. Or, what I mean is, we’re the first ones to cheat in a long-distance relationship.”
“And you did! Don’t act like you forgot!”
“What?”
“Oh, now you’ve got amnesia?! Denicio, my next door neighbor, have you forgotten?”
“I didn’t f*ck her, though.”
“Ok. Well what about that one from Dwayne’s bachelor party, remember?”
“Who?”
“Some dancer named Buttah, she works at that strip club over on Eight Mile? You said she used to massage your c*ck with butter and then suck it off?” They both laugh.
“Oh, snap! Yeah, but that’s different. A man has to have variety. Even women get tired of sucking the same ole d*ck, but they will still be faithful longer than we will. That’s just the way it is. Besides, it’s a buyer’s market out there you know that, Cos. Pu**y is everywhere. I might have cheated, but, I didn’t leave Bernice!” Costa chuckled at the arrogance of such a self-righteous statement.
The waitress soon returned with their meal and poured more coffee and water. Costa complained to the waitress that he had not ordered chicken with his Greek salad and she took it back to the kitchen.
“Damn,” said Zach, “the brotha has given up chicken, too!? Now that’s a bad white bitch.”
Costa laughed and asked Zach how his omelette was – a Costa synonymic way of asking for a bite of that bacon and cheese omelette.
“Fine,” said Zach, “but hungry folks don’t have taste buds anyway.” Zach ate the omelette while Costa rancorously resumed his pontifical lecture on the theory of long distance relationships.
“I don’t know, Zach. I believe that a long distance relationship can be maintained without fidelity being compromised. Look, you know that Barbara lives way up in Grand Blanc, dude. Plus, I travel a lot with my job, as you know, and sometimes I spend a lot of time in Atlanta and especially D.C., Chocolate City baby! In D.C., sistas got it going on, they fine as hell, single, fat a**es, and looking to get their Stella-groove on. And, man, sometimes it’s hard for me to resist. Barbara cool, but she’s white, and the sistas be looking good, sh*t. I’m not going to lie. But, I really don’t want to cheat on Barbara, so I don’t put myself in situations that I know I’m too weak to handle. [Costa laughs.] Sometimes, when I travel to D.C. or Atlanta, I take Barbara with me. But it’s hard because sometimes I might have a client who’ll invite me to a nightclub or something, and it’s always a spot where there are beautiful, educated, classy, sophisticated sistas. And Barbara will want to go – for that reason! But I don’t want her a** hanging off me, cock-blocking, and I definitely don’t want to be the successful-brotha-with-the-white-girl cliché, tired of hearing that sh*t. And I can’t leave her at the hotel because then she’ll accuse me of trying to cheat on her. She already knows what’s going on at the club. You know how paranoid white b*tches get about a brotha when he around fine a**, got-it-going-on-sistas?”
“Yep, I already know.”
“And, I certainly don’t want her at the club with me blowing up my spot!”
“Right.”
“But, I really want to honor my love, fidelity, and commitment to Barbara, dude. Really. And distance is only one of many possibly adverse circumstances. Intimacy and love is about choosing to be close at heart, loving your mate, and not being vulnerable to the sins of the flesh. Of course, even in the presence of these parameters, lust is probable: a man, as you stated earlier, is going to want all the pussy he can get. But, women aren’t ant different! Some people might say it’s a matter of commitment. Women will certainly say that. But, guys like you and me, the ones who are actually put to the test, well we know how difficult it really is.”
The waitress returns with a new salad for Costa. She apologizes for the wait, pours fresh coffee and water, and walks away. Costa glances at her ass then at Zach and says, “yep…..it’s rough trying to do the right thing, man.”
What do you think? Is it possible for a traveling writer to maintain a long-distance relationship?
10 Responses to “BERNICE IS F**KING RICO (a writer’s tale) by Push Nevahda”
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You have given a lot of new reading material…Thanks!
I have to 2nd Costa's vote that a long-distance relationship is possible. BUT you have to put in the extra work that it takes(on top of the work it takes to maintain a relationship) in order for it to work. You can't just WISH something into existence! Zach appears to be riding the fence..he's saying he wants a relationship, yet he's doing everything possible to sabotage his potential relationships. In his own words he admits he took Bernice and Denicio on bi-polar rollercoaster rides..I don't know about those two women, but this Sista won't stay on the ride long(no matter how good the 'loving' is ) for that type of mistreatment. And last but not least..I'd find it a total turn off for any man(even Denzel! lol) to tell me (for I am over 30..) that any physical part of my body wasn't "dazzling" to him. I could appreciate his candor, IF he were just my friend and not my lover…But I daresay that any brother over 30 would find it appealing if his lover told him the same in return.(especially with as over-sensitive as men are about their physical 'manhood') There is a difference between being honest and open; and being cocky and brutal.(which I found Zach to be both) Its no wonder that Bernice found a man that would treat her with respect and appreciation..I'm just surprised she didn't do it much sooner.
I think that most people are bi-polar! lol. Really. At least the people hang around are anywayz… lol. So, let's not make Zach the poster child for the cause. But, I think that most men ride that fence in those types of situations where he is away from his lady. Even Costa was tempted by the DC sistas! And I dont think that Bernice stay with Zach because of "the ride", women stay with no-good men for different reasons, that rarely have anything to do with "good lovin'". And as for the 'dazzling puccy' thingy, I've gotten so many emails about that blurp. Certainly, I knew that it would be something that would raise an eyebrow or two, but – as a writer – it was just a way to move the dialogue towards a goal (not sure if I achieved it or not). That's all. Otherwise, the focus of the piece is whether or not long-distance relationships – FOR WRITERS – work or not. I merely tried to create a dramatic context in which to discuss the issue. Whether or not 30 year old snatches are dazzling or not really aint the issue.
Before I respond in full I'd like to pose a question…Why is it that you feel a long-distance relationship for the average Joe Blow differs from one of a writer?
Because a writer – the goods ones…..the Woolfs..the Capotes.the Baldwins…Hemingways…Poes…Morrison…etc. – are not "average Joe Blows." That's why Jeffrey Meyers wrote the book, Married to Genius: A Fascinating Insight Into the Married Lives of Nine Modern Writers, for instance. So, on with response, please…and keep it clean; there are church-ladies on board…
LOL I could never be as vulgar in my response…as the content of your original piece. But thanks for answering my question. That has sufficiently cleared up my curiosity. Peace
Wel, Ms. Berna, what exactly was vulgar about the original piece? And, I take it that it must've been something that really struck you to the core because you refuse to deal with the issue of the piece…which is about long distance relationships. So, g'won and speak your peace, my precious virgin dove. Get free.
Reference to: Push Nevahda Reviews
Push, I recently have come across your blogs and I must say I have enjoyed reading them immensely. You have pushed the p in pizzazz and n in nerves all to make the reading and thought provoking. I like your honesty, character in judgment and your charisma in writing. I am writing my first novel and I only hope to find someone to review my work that is as pushy, persuasive, insightful, and profound in their criticism as you. I would have a masterpiece if you reviewed my manuscript before it is publish.
Keep doing what you are doing.
With love,
Linda Moses
http://wildsunpublishers.blogspot.com
a balance of sorts is needed for a writer and their personal lives. we don't have to always sacrifice one for the other.
yeah Mr. Chumo…shame on Jack Kerouac (On The Road), Lorraine Hannsberry (Raising in the Sun), Truman Capote (Other Voices, Other Rooms, In Cold Blood, 'La Cote Basque' from the posthumously released Answered Prayers – the antithesis to your argument, btw), Harper Lee (To Kill A Mockingbird…which won a Pulitzer), James Baldwin (Go Tell it on The Mountain, Giovanni's Room, Another Country, The Fire Next Time), and all the countless other writers who've "sacrificed" that balance between those two (inseparable) elements for the sake of writing. What were they thinking…