1. bbw: bitches be weird. i’m using the word bitch in the colloquial + pejorative simultaneously, lmao. i’ve been lucky that for the majority of my career i’ve avoided a lot of public-facing drama. but behind the scenes i’ve definitely seen the effects of professional jealousy on relationships with folks i thought were friends. there’s a bitch i owe either an ass whooping or an invoice. the choice is hers should she ever appear in the wild again. like, without going into detail, i will say that newer authors in this space should make sure your third, fourth, and fifth eyes are open because some folks will deflee try to be in your space to get as much as they can from it before they hit the retro spectro + peace out.

2. you cannot please everyone. so don’t even attempt. stay true to yourself + the reasons you began writing in this space. don’t try to be what you think the audience wants in order to gain popularity because they don’t want that from you, my baby. they want that from the people they already consuming it from.

3. most other authors want to see us all win. don’t be afraid of a lil DM slide to ask a question. most times we are johnny on the spot with an answer, + if we’re unsure, we’re tapping into our network to find you the exact answer you need. i say most because… well, refer to number one LMFAO. but those are few + far between in my experience. stop tryna be too cool for school + hit up those who have been in this industry longer than you. there are so many gems to be uncovered from their experiences.

4. readers are some FREAKS. complimentary, of course. but whew, the looks i get when i reference the one book in my catalog that doesn’t have an on page sex scene as one of my favorites be having me weak. i get it. writing the sex is actually one of the fun parts of all this for me. but some of y’all i be wanting to send down to blktouch for a subscription! LMFAOOOOOOO

5. one bad review should not make or break your feelings around your work. as a matter of fact, why in the everlasting gobstopper fuck are you even over there reading reviews anyway? there is nothing to learn there because they are based in OTHERS’ OPINIONS about what they’ve synthesized from what they read. there are no literary critics in them amazon reviews, baby. people who engage in critical review don’t do it for free for shits and giggles. there is a skill + level of subject matter expertise that they want to be compensated for, okay? now… if you want a pulse on how folks receive your work, encourage direct lines of communication within your reader base. but there ain’t a goddamn thing for you in amz reviews or on goodreads, storygraph, paiges, fable, whatever the fuck else folks be using to track their reads.

6. the minute you think you need to clap back, log the fuck off. the moment you call yourself an author, you have entered into a professional position. mark twain once said “never argue with a fool; onlookers will not be able to tell the difference.” y’all should listen to that nigga, honestly. nothing good ever comes of the online back + forth except for fodder for those onlookers who like the drama. (note: i’m not above the mess, i actually love engaging in the watching of the mess from behind closed doors coz y’all mfs be comedians on the low!) + with the number of opportunities that are available within this space growing damn near every day, some folks are not gonna want somebody they consider to be a liability associated with their brand. so… is calling that lady who didn’t like your book a peg-legged bitch with a grey tooth + a crooked wig more important than professional connections that can help you ascend in the space? i’ll let you decide.

7. if you’re a reader in this space who’s transitioned to being an author…your friends’ and/or pre-existing followers’ glowing opinions of your work don’t count anymore. this one is gonna hurt a little, but i wouldn’t be me if i ain’t keep it all the way funky. they’re biased. they already love you real bad, so naturally that translates into the way they show up with regard to your work. never let that be the end all be all of how you gauge whether or not you did your job. every book should come with some sort of expansion. new faces in the space. don’t get caught up in the hallelujah chorus of those closest to you as proof of concept, you feel me?

8. GET A FUCKING PROFESSIONAL EDITOR. actually, lowkey, this shoulda been number one, but i ain’t zelle so idk y’alls financial lives like that. but what i do know is that a lot of writers aren’t as strong grammatically or even thematically as they think they are. it’s okay to recognize + get that help as necessary. but… it is not cheap. it will cost, but it will also pay dividends. especially if you consistently see things like “loved this story but whew the errors almost took me out”. folks aren’t saying that to be an asshole, they’re saying it because they see potential in you + want to see you at your very best. but i will say, buyer beware, right? not everyone purporting to be an editor actually is. a lot of folks think coz they were amazing in ENG101 that means they can be an editor. there’s far more to it than that. please, please, please vet anyone you’re giving money to. if the pricing feels too good to be true, do not be afraid to question the person behind it. ask for credentials. if they ain’t got nan, haven’t even taken a course or two on how to edit fiction specifically… don’t give them your money, babe. trust me.

9. invest in craft books. there should never be a point in your authoring career where you think you know everything. some of the best writers i know repeatedly speak on how they are open to learning at every juncture. take heed. the moment you think you know it all is when you sign your literary death certificate. because from that point on you will be a one-trick pony. your writing will never elevate. you’ll be in a stagnant position with little to no growth, which will lead to frustration + possibly lashing out at folks who don’t deserve it because YOU got too big for ya britches + assumed folks wouldn’t challenge you writing the same story in different fonts over and over again. your bad. LMFAO.

10. have fun. this shit is not critical, g. your words do not determine anyone’s life or death. there will be more good days than bad, so don’t let the bad ones take you under. after all, what we’re doing is a source of entertainment. while there may be times where we’re more impactful than others, all of it should spark some sort of positivity within you during the process. if you find yourself laboring more than enjoying, maybe you need to take a step back and reassess what you’ve got going on.

aight, i think that’s all i’ve got. if you made it this far, congratulations. you should reward yourself by going to grab a copy of my new release, back to you.

xo,

nic

Today’s her wake, but I will not be there. I will attend the funeral (not the burial or repast) tomorrow and even that feels like a heavy lift. I hate funerals. Like real bad. Coming to terms with someone’s death and the subsequent grief are already enough of a heaviness to bear, but the finality of a funeral service never sits right with me. I can’t do the sitting around checking out a body in the casket to the watching the dirt being shuffled onto someone in their final resting place of it all. It sends me into a spiral of emotion that is sometimes inescapable. And not being able to properly process that also fills me with an overflow of guilt for being unable to stand in the gap for those grieving harder than me for myriad reasons. I just feel inept and ill-equipped during these times.

The last… hell, three funerals I attended (I think) I was responsible for reading the dead person’s obit at the service, after having written it as well. Each of these family members I was way closer to and I barely made it through. Hell, I broke all the way down during one and my father had to come comfort me in the midst until I gathered myself enough to forge on.

I can’t do it anymore. I’m no longer placing myself in that position to alleviate someone else’s pain and forsaking my own. Call it selfish, but I call it preservation.

Yesterday was my paternal grandmother’s birthday and today’s the anniversary of when I learned my brother-cousin had been murdered. I haven’t cried since June first, but today I woke up out of sorts, eyes misty as I type this. And to be honest, it’s kind of relieving. Crying is a catharsis for me. A natural reaction to any wave of overwhelming feelings, be they positive or negative. Hell, sometimes just seeing someone else cry will set me off.

A week ago, I stood in a hospital as my cousin prepared to ring the bell signaling her last treatment for breast cancer. She gave an impassioned speech, thanking the twenty-some odd of us who gathered to celebrate her at this momentous occasion. Before she could get all of her words together, she broke, crying unabashedly, allowing herself to expel the all of the pent up emotions she’d felt during the early stages of her battle. A few days after that, I got a call from my uncle, his voice hitching as he asked for my assistance to craft the “right” final words to say to his beloved wife in her obit. A man I’d witnessed be mad stoic for the majority of my life wept in my ear like a baby as I consoled him and offered my assistance without second thought.

On both of these occasions, it’s notable that my eyes remained dry. I was fully dialed in, recognized that I felt twin sad emotions right alongside them, but my tried and true release was MIA. Not a trickle of saline dotted my cheeks. I pointed this out to a friend as a foreign emotion swirled within me. I felt unrecognizable to myself with my reactions or lack thereof.

Part of it was relief, but another part felt bereft. Crying had become so much of a constant companion over the last half decade of my life that I felt upended without it. There’s a reason there were no tears, but that’s a story for another day. Even now, the tears are still gently resting pon di bottom of my lids, but have yet to spill over. It’s so fucking weird, man.

But I also have to say it’s slightly comforting.

Conflicting emotions, thy name is Nicole. LMFAO.

Baby, I didn’t quite hit the note in Atlanta, and for me, that wasn’t such a good time.

But lemme back up because that’s not the entirety of the truth. I had a lot of great moments. I got to see my industry-given mom and sisters (LOL). I got to hang out with some of my favorite people off the clock. I met industry titans. I met some of my favorite people who live inside my iPhone and iMac for the first time IRL. I had words I’d written after not having given much to fiction in quite some time performed by Wesleigh “mothafucking golden throak” Siobhan and Emmanuel “needs to come with a mf warning label live” Ingram. There were certainly highs.

However, once in my car after flying home, I sobbed the entire way from ORD to the side street near my apartment where I had to park since my block was full up.

i don’t share this for sympathy or head pats, but to give you a bit of context about where nicole falls’ the authorladybitch’s head has been lately.

you see, i had so many people coming to my table to buy the (scant amount of) merch i had there and/or asking about t-shirts as my books lay there unlooked at, uncared about, damn near unseen. and i truly have no one to blame for any of that but myself. i’m not the best at marketing, but i’m tryna get better. i haven’t released anything since D&A (august 2025…and my last release before that seems like damn near two years ago atp) and i even let that go DOA not long after release because well to be perfectly frank, i was burnt out.

have been for a while, but was reluctant to admit it.

instead i told myself, i was taking my time. giving the stories space to breathe. not forcing the work.

and inside i was slowly dying. (hyperbole, as is my leonine nature.) writing is my everything. my best form of communication. my safe space. the one place where everything makes sense because i’m the one in control.

but the more i stayed away, the more it became untenable. a space to which i constantly questioned if i’d ever return because i’d let the practice fall to the wayside despite my brain (and group chats and notes app) teeming with ideas.

in an after the event postmortem phone yap sesh while i waited for my flight on monday, i spoke with a trusted homegirl and she hit me with some harsh realities. the fact that the space has expanded so rapidly within the last few years and well… people don’t know nicole falls the writer. they know her as the BRU lady. maybe the editor lady. or maybe the lady who just be chatting shit and at-ing famous authors on threads who always seem to reply to her.

and if that wasn’t a bludgeoning of my ego, idk what the hell it was.

but it was needed. and that’s why she is a trusted homegirl. i don’t keep yesbitches around. i need ones who gon’ always come with that real. even if it stings.

and yes, it absolutely hurt my feelings.

because goddamnit i love this Black romance shit. this is my only job. my life’s work. a venerated space i inhabit that i do not take for granted.

but i ain’t been treating it like that and i had to reflect.

so… going forward a few things had to change and some sacrifices must be made.

i announced one today on threads. i won’t be editing for any new clients going forward. i’m thankful for the people who value my work and trust me to help trim and polish theirs to the highest possible end product. but the work is tiresome, time consuming, and does not really feed me in any creative way. therefore, it’s gotta take up less space in my life.

another thing i’m cutting back on is attending in-person events. the large, cattle call style event is no longer my feng shui. it hasn’t been for years, but i’ve been forcing it. i do not feel connected to my audience in these spaces because there’s no time for us to really forge connections. it’s all transactional and i don’t like it. i pulled out of every event i was attached to for 2027 (barring one if i get a yes lmfao). i need to get back to basics. touch some grass. meet the people where they’re at. so i’m considering and pondering on how to pull off some smaller, more intimate experiences where i can connect with my reader base.

i have a couple more things in mind, but they’re not fleshed out yet, so no grand pronouncements of them here.

i do wanna say though. thank you to everybody who fucks with nicole the writer. i appreciate you sticking with me through this period of uncertainty and transition, but know her time is not over. we’re coming up on ten years of nicole falls and though it may not have some big, splashy celebration attached, i need each and every one of you to know that i’m fighting my hardest to remain here for more than just that. i just need you to have a lil patience with me.

aight, my gs, this is far longer than i anticipated it would be, so here’s where i leave you.

xo,

nic

To be clear, this isn’t a complaint. I’m very grateful to be part of the village that has raised and is ways is still raising this young man. He’s one of my favorite people to ever exist and stepping in when his mama took flight gave my life a new purpose I wouldn’t have otherwise had since I’d made it up in my mind that I’d never have any babies.

But can I tell y’all something? Mother’s Day brings out some weird ass feelings with me. Like, people be telling me “happy Mother’s Day” and I recoil. Because sometimes your girl can be super literal. So like… my brain goes “you are not a mother. TELL THEM.”

In the beginning, it felt like stolen valor. Like, I’ve done nothing to solicit or earn this title, so why are you celebrating me??? And in a way, it felt like claiming such would usurp my aunt’s place. Coz like, if it weren’t for that whore cancer, SHE would be here parenting her baby and I wouldn’t be the poor substitute in over her head when it came to raising a child back in 2013.

It took this kid growing up and us having a real life conversation about something or another that led to us talking about him being grown and having kids of his own. In said conversation he said something like, “you know my kids would see you as their grandma, right?” And I’m not gonna yieeeeee, that stopped me dead in my tracks. I didn’t let it play out though, just stayed in my head about it but continued the conversation with him regularly.

Online, I refer to him as my kid because I got tired of having to explain it all, but in real life he’s legit my kid. All of the best parts of me are sowed into him. He makes me immensely proud to have had a hand in shepherding him through life so far and cannot wait to see the rest of his undoubtedly bright future unfurl.

So happy Mother’s Day, Nic. The honor wasn’t stolen but beautifully bestowed. Trust and believe, Tee would be so grateful for the way you’ve loved and nurtured her baby boy in her absence. 🩷

Today I finally said the thing aloud to a friend & I expected a certain emotion (relief) to be tied to it. Instead, what I felt/feel is, like… three-fold. (Is that word?)

Sure, there is relief in finally having brought this thought outside of my brain into the real world. But alongside that relief is unexpected grief coupled with a bit of anger.

Twin emotions in my house, tbh, because my response to both is tears. (Spoiler alert: my response to everything is tears.)

These tears, however, feel heavier, with no relief in sight. Because the weight of not only saying the words aloud but also having to follow through on having said those things weighs heavily on my shoulders when I just want to be able to snap my fingers and be through it.

Imagine thinking my load would be lightened by finally saying some shit aloud. Ha!

I’m being awfully vague here because the thing I said isn’t really the focus as much as my emotions tied to it are. The freedom and release I thought would be an instant salve seem far out of reach, damn near out of sight, and I’m trying to contend with not only how that makes me feel, but what I need to do so it doesn’t feel like an albatross.

And just the thought of everything that can entail? Baby, I’m bout ready to take them words back. Sadly, I cannot. Because, well… I meant them. I mean them. And despite the uncertainty of coming to terms with all of that, I simply cannot un-say them.

And therein lies the rub. Because in my world, thoughts live in that nebulous space where, if gone unspoken, they are not necessarily tied to further dissection nor action.

But once those aspirated vowels and consonants combine with them chords to produce sound that leaves the mouth?

Oh that’s when shit gets real to me.

So fucking real, it’s nearly unbearable at times.

Which is why there’s so much safety, for me, in overthinking over speaking. When speaking, mostly, my words come slower. Are given time to properly come together to ensure that not only am I perfectly understood but that I don’t sound idiotic while making whatever point. Now, when it’s joke time? All that carefully modulated and monitored shit is out the window. But in moments of seriousness, I rarely speak off the cuff because being not only heard but understood means something to me in those moments.

I won’t even get into purposeful misunderstandings and words being twisted because none of us are immune to that.

Anyway. I’m rambling.

TL;DR: my life is in a blender and my dumb ass was the one who not only loaded the ingredients, but hopped my ass in to get to’ up by these blades as well. If you’re the praying type, send one up to King Jesus and his deddy to let them know one of Their favorite children would like the nonsense to cease and things to make sense again.

xo,

nic

For the uninitiated, these three women are not only colleagues writing romance but also close personal friends.

What a treat it was to watch friends in conversation about books they’ve written. Particularly, Black women friends who are in conversation about books they’ve written. In the forty-five minutes that the formal discussion occurred, there were so many moments of sisterhood shared/witnessed by the audience and it was abundantly honest that these women care deeply about their art, the Black romance community at-large, and its future. Not only that, but they championed each other’s work as well. It was a masterclass in what a supportive friend group looks like and honestly made me yearn for something…we’lll come back to that though coz I gotta get into the audience.

Because it wasn’t only these women who showed up and showed out, the audience did their biggest! If I had to guess based on waiting around near the end and peeping the scene, attendance was 99% Black women. And they packed that space OUT. Sistas of all hues, shapes, sizes, and ages waiting in a line stretching down 53rd St. in Hyde Park—on a beautiful, sunny day that had everybody in the streets—pulled the attention of many passersby, one in particular asking what we were waiting for. “It’s a book talk/signing for a Black author,” one of the folks in line ahead of me informed the person, going into great details about who the authors were and the kinds of books they wrote.

Entering the gallery, the energy was immediately palpable, excitement damn near tangible. I ended up sitting near a few women who had me cracking up as we awaited the authors to come out. Eventually I realized one of them was a creator, I never got her name, a pity as I was interested in checking out her content because I loved her energy when she was just talking about books in general, not because I was on some “lemme cozy up to a creator for leverage type math”. After all, I was in there as [real name] but that didn’t last long as someone walked up and immediately called me out. LMFAO. It’s all good though, tbh. I mighta needed that.

The chat and subsequent Q&A were all great. Mind you, I asked a question because if nothing else, if I see my writer acquaintances I’mma troll. But I was curious, since witnessing their obvious synergy, of whether they’d collaborate in the future because I think they all bring a different vibe to the space, but it would eat in a cute lil crossover jawn. Plus I’m just a greedy reader who be wanting more from the pens I enjoy, ha! That damn Asia gon’ get on the mic talmbout “a famous author is asking this question”, which was nuts, but the way the entire room honed their attention in on me, including the first three rows literally turning in their chairs, had me so weak. A few kind readers who know/are familiar with me chatted me up as books were being signed and it’s always great being in conversation/community with my readership.

Okay, so back to what I was talmbout earlier, regarding me yearning for something.

It’s what I witnessed last night. To be in an intimate-ish setting, filled with my target audience, discussing me and my sistafrans books’, feeling the love, laughing til our eyes sweat, smiling til our cheeks hurt, giving that good ol’, tight squeeze, rockin’ side to side hug that’s emblematic of Black women. And I truly love that Asia, JL, & Natasha were able to feel and bask in that cloud of positivity after the many hours of toiling they put in to create their art.

I haven’t felt that energy in quite some time, if I’m being honest. (& unfortunately I am to a fault in some aspects.) And that’s no shade to the events I’ve done recently or anything like that, last night just hit… differently. In the best of ways. Reminded me of the old days when I first started doing there. Where I was able to know/see/connect with my audience in a more intimate manner. Something I am desperately longing to get back to.

So if you no longer see my name on event flyers for massive events, know this plays a major role in why. I don’t want to turn into a transactional author. I didn’t start sharing my art with the world to commodify it. I did so because like the Hamilton created by Lin-Manuel, I have been obsessed with the written word all of my life (minus those first three years) and eventually garnered the courage to share mine with the world in hopes that it would land with someone…anyone. I write for the girls who get it, and not all of them do, but that’s cool. I know the power in my pen and that I am a damn good writer. Now it’s just about getting back in touch with the folks who also know that and undoubtedly will touch and agree.

xo,

Nic

The Gamecocks are coached by one of my personal basketball goats, Dawn Staley. North Philadelphia born and bred, this lady was cold with the rock for a very long time and has managed to become even colder in the space she inhabits now, head coach but also—in her own words—”a dream merchant” for young women coming through the South Carolina program. I’d argue Staley’s meant more to the game at large than just her impact at SC, but that’s not even why I’m here right now.

So boom, last night was the Final Four game—Gamecocks vs. UConn Huskies. The Huskies are led by storied, hall of fame coach Geno Auriemma. Hailed as the goat in collegiate women’s basketball coaching for a reason, Auriemma is no stranger to the Final Four. I think it was said that of his thirty-plus years of coaching he’s taken a team to this stage of the tournament more than twenty-five times. Staley and Auriemma have had professional courtesy for one another over the years having faced each other when Staley played, coached against one another, and Staley being an assistant coach on Auriemma’s staff when he coached USA Basketball for The Olympics.

We’d never seen the two have any contentious moments…until last night. The Huskies were the favorite going into the game. Riding the high of an undefeated season, it was assumed they’d cruise right past the Gamecocks on the way to a back-to-back title. Me, personally? I never bought into that. In fact, very early on in the game, I sent the following text message to my homegirl:

This was no delusional fan talk, but me seeing what would eventually come to light. The Gamecocks actively worked to make the Huskies uncomfortable in the game all night and they didn’t know how to combat it. Y’all know that saying about a Chrysler 300 and Phantom, right? LMFAO. Anyway, between the third and fourth quarters there was an interview with Auriemma wherein he slandered Staley a little while also accusing the players of doing more than just defending ardently. This is a recurring issue when teams from other conferences play SEC squads. They don’t be in the weight room enough and balk at the physicality. This was the beginning of Auriemma’s bullshit.

Game concludes with a 14-point South Carolina victory and, as is custom, the handshake lines begin with the head coaches. Instead of the customary “good game” Auriemma comes at Staley crazy, talking about she didn’t shake his hand at the beginning of the game. (Video evidence clearly debunks this. I’ll give ESPN their twos for making sure we saw that.) The back and and forth escalated—atypical for Staley’s behavior—with assistants eventually separating the two. Then Auriemma stormed off looking like Carl Frederickson, not even completing the handshake line and congratulating the South Carolina players on a game well played. Afterward, we saw Staley (humorously, imo) stating she’d “beat Geno’s ass”. Shoutout to the intrepid boots on the ground reporter who caught the footage of that, tee hee.

You know what though? I FELT HER. This whole thing left me SO ANGRY last night. Like, no shade, I mighta raised my ire a lil bit recapping this for y’all. Because that lady doesn’t do SHIT to anybody. Her team is constantly referred to as thugs, bar fighters, all kinds of untoward shit, and in the face of it all, Staley remains poised, urges her players to keep the main thing the main thing and to block out the noisy chatter of others seeking to tear them down. The way she speaks positivity and light over her team when time and time again they’re either discounted or spoken of in a disparaging light is quite honestly one of my favorite things to witness. Because the way Black women receive shit from EVERYBODY for just existing, counterbalancing that with love, care, and support is the only way to combat those young ladies internalizing the bullshit.

In a post-kerfuffle interview with ESPN’s Holly Rowe, Dawn Staley is visibly shaken. You can see the sheen of unshed tears in her gaze as she explains the interaction from her point of view, but I loved that she redirected any questions about Auriemma’s motivation, saying he should be asked to explain himself. Later in the night, ESPN analyst Chiney Ogwumike said that Dawn is “constantly put in the position where she has to take the high road” and whew, that right there will preach. Hell, it happened during the interview with Chiney’s colleague about an hour prior! This thing of constantly having to temper ourselves, watch our words, make sure we’re saying, doing, expressing the right image is something we Black women face entirely too often in every space we occupy. The necessity to compartmentalize in order to not be painted as the “angry Black woman” stereotype. People can disrespect us seven ways to Sunday, but God forbid we finally have enough and let a motherfucker have it right back.

This was about more than a handshake. This was a pouty old motherfucker wanting to steal a moment. As stated above, the two are not adversarial nor are they strangers. If he felt a way about a phantom missed handshake, he could have comported himself in all of his seventy something years in a much better fashion. Instead he needled Staley, pushing her into a moment he knew would supersede the real story of the night. The golden goose was knocked outta their nest and he got outcoached. Plain and simple, those are the facts.

Male fragility, misogynoir, plain ol’ bitchassness… however you want to classify it, that behavior last night was deplorable. Especially since when confronted with the truth of his assertions, he doubled down. Folks are calling for an apology to Staley and quite frankly I think it’ll never come. However, he owes not only Staley and her staff an apology but also that team of young women.

Last night was their time to shine and instead there is a sheen of nastiness hovering like a dark cloud over the victory. But if I know Staley as well as I think I do from afar, she’d already turned the page and has encouraged her team to do the same, to look forward at the next game ahead. After all, there’s a championship to be won and the actions of one disgruntled septuagenarian don’t stop no show.

BIG COCKS! BALL UP TOPPPPPPPPPPPP!

1. What I eat shouldn’t make anyone else shit. You may be saying to yourself, what is this lady talmbout? Well, the other day down to the bobbin app, I said how I didn’t like the word smut. I haven’t fully delved into why it peeves me so, but one of the responses asked what word they should use instead. I sat for a bit before I responded too flippantly, but honestly my preferences shouldn’t dictate anyone’s output/content unless I’m directly involved. Otherwise, in the words of some great philosophers, now you just do you & imma do me.

2. The internet in its current iteration is a mistake. Everyone is so hostile and knows everything yet nothing. Grand proclamations are made without an iota of ruhsearch. Context means next to nothing when addressing others about their posts. It’s just… I know Al Gore ain’t have this in mind when he thought up the information superhighway, my niggas in Christ.

3. Global warming is actually quite frightening. Because why the fuck was it seventy-five african american degrees in the Chicagoland area yesterday and it “feels like” twenty-five today. but yes, by all means let’s build a super data center in joliet and keep asking chatlmnop shit you can google.

4. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m deep in the throes of burnout. But guess what doesn’t stop? These bills. This work. And all the rest of this shit. Gotta figure it out before…well, just before. :)

5. Folks really believe the internet isn’t real. Kinda in line with point two up there, but the way people talk to folks, whether it’s the hostility or the blatant objectification, really makes me quite sad. It’s like humans have forgotten how to properly interface with one another bc too much time is spent in virtual insanity (aka social media). It’s skewed society in a way that feels dark sided and I hate it real bad.

6. I miss writing. Like real bad. It don’t miss me though. At least that’s how it feels every time I opened one of these fiddy’lebum works in process and try to add to them. The disrespect is quite crazy.

Aight, I think that’s all for now. Y’all be EZ.

xo,

Nic

Not to sound all ominous but like…my niggas in Christ I need y’all to lean on more than your own understanding if you’re seeking to not only make your mark in the literary space, but remain relevant.

There are a lot of charlatans in our midst. Their penchant for chicanery and tomfoolery is often hidden behind immense enthusiasm and effusive praise. It starts with loving your work, then claiming to be able to help you elevate in some manner, which ultimately ends in money changing hands. And because they oversold their actual capacity, the letdown is imminent.

I say this not from a high horse, but from the front seat, looking in my rear view.

When you are a true talent, that shit is like a beacon for succubi. Remember how desperately Ursula coveted Ariel’s voice in The Little Mermaid? These folks do not be far off.

Before signing any contracts, making any handshake agreements, entering into any verbal agreements, vet these folks. Do not be afraid to reach out to folks who have been in the space longer to do a reputation check. Even if who you reach out to directly doesn’t know, I can damn near guarantee that they’ll know somebody who knows somebody who knows somebody…you get my point.

There’s money to be made in this space and scammers abound.

Don’t fall for the banana in the tailpipe, my babies.

Now mind you (we finna go on a journey, but I’ll get y’all back to my point, pinky promise!), my first time listening to this album was because her fans acted a donkey because the Creole Cowwitch won AOTY. I needed to know what had them so feral. I used to be a huuuuge pop music girlie but my most recent fave pop sangah decided she wanted to be Kelly Couric Winfrey, so I’ve been out of touch with who was giving the girlies what we needed on the scene now…the Eyelashes and Woodworkers of them all, yanno? Nevertheless, I searched up the album down to my Apple Mursic and was pleasantly surprised at what Yung Eyelash had going on. Played the album incessantly for a week, then went back to my normal routine.

I’m currently attempting to write something. I say attempting because it is giving I wanna write them but they don’t want me to write them and I’m growing frustrated because it’s kinda time bound. But earlier this week, whilst learning more about these two individuals playing hide and seek in my mind, “Chihiro” x Miss Eyelash popped into my brain and it would not let go until I played HMHaS. I let the record roll, having a grand ol’ time, then I got to track four, “Birds of a Feather”, which I’m certain y’all all know because it was everywhere and I kept hitting the back button once it ended. I’m talmbout, I must’ve listened to that bitch like twenty times in a row before I decided to turn the procrastinatory musical exploration off and get my ass in my doc.

And you know what happened shortly thereafter? I wrote a whole ass chapter. Imagine that.

Then I had to switch POVs and get into this man’s head. So the very next day I sat down to write and that nigga said to me, “I haven’t a mumbling word for you, madame. I bid you good day!” I don’t give up easily nor do I take the first no my characters give me as a hard stop, so I kept pushing. And I sat at this desk for many hours and managed to produce maybe two hundred words that just felt…wrong. But I left them there because I’d be damned if I lost any progress at this point, yanno?

Fast forward to me taking a lil day trip to Nashville. Thought I was gonna be cute and add a few words to Mr. Man’s chapter at the airport before I took off. Even built time in to get there early enough to find myself a good space to hunker down and get to work. And do you know this motherfucker still didn’t have nary a word for me? I mulled it over and sulked about it internally while traveling to Nashville, but tucked away the discontent once the plane touched down, hellbent on being in the moment and enjoying my sixteen and a half hour, or so, jaunt. Had a fuckin’ blast, didn’t oversleep my early flight home, and was vibing on the airplane, playing one of my stupid little games when all of a sudden…

“I want you to stay, til we’re old and gray…” pops into my mind.

Miss Eyelash, sister what are you doing here?! Internally I’m driven to listen to the goddamn song yet again. This time, though, my brain says, “check out the lyrics”. Not only did I have the opening lines wrong—the second half is til I’m in the grave, which…whoa sister—but I had never fully committed the words to memory (an anomaly for me when I love a song) so it was like a whole new world as I read these lyrics.

My eyes lit on “Nothin’ left to lose without my baby…” and wouldn’t you know it. This impudent negro whose chapter I’d been struggling with decided to open his mouth and download all this shit (most of it not even pertinent for where he is when I’m writing him) into my mind.

Laptop stowed, phone battery on critical levels.

Ain’t this boutta bitch.

I managed to at least get the first line of his chapter transcribed in my Notes app and now have a roadmap for where/how I think things will go. But the truth of the matter is? I can’t go anywhere he doesn’t lead for the next however many words. And instead of trying to impose my will, I’m opening my mind.

It’s been a while since I’ve been here, so I’m feeling a little rusty, but I’m also quite thrilled at the prospect of like, finally getting back into a semblance of a writing groove. I need all the good juju I can get, so y’all send one up to Big Sandals for the girl if that’s your vibe.

xo.

I’m a sucker for a song with clever lyrics, word choices that speak of an expansive vocabulary only born of well-readness. Or the ones in which songwriters take a concept we’re all familiar with and use their words to flip one’s understanding of what it all truly means. All of my favorite songwriters are word geniuses. And not because they use the fanciest or biggest words, but simply because the combinations of the words they use hit much deeper than most. I spend so much of my time listening to music paying keen attention to the words because that’s just the kind of nerd I am.

So when I saw Kema’s brief mention of Sara, I knew immediately I wanted to shift what I’d been listening to and indulge in some of my favorite Sara songs.

So I’m bopping along, driving back from the warehouse, when “Uncharted” shifts on. The jauntiness of the piano really belies the fact that this song is both lamentation and inspiration fighting against one another as she ultimately comes to the conclusion that instead of trying to follow someone else’s ascribed path, she chooses to chart her own. We’re all welcome to go on the journey with her if we so choose, but she’s taking off with or without us.

My absolute favorite part of this song is the bridge:

Jump start my kaleidoscope heart
Love to watch the colors fade
They may not make sense
But they sure as hell made me

I won’t go as a passenger, no
Waiting for the road to be laid
Though I may be going down
I’m taking flame over burning out

Compare
Where you are to where you want to be
And you’ll get nowhere

The last few lines always rock my entire being every time I heard them sung.

We’ve all heard the phrase “comparison is the thief of joy” a million and one times. Hell, I feel like I even talk about this a lot. Folks letting the demon of comparison distract them from… well, everything, if we’re keeping it a bean. Comparing yourself to others around you in whatever sphere you inhabit keeps you from putting the proper amount of focus on progression—of your skill, talent, journey, etc. Comparing someone else’s journey to your own as a means of inspiration is certainly a thing, but like…that shouldn’t be your sole driving force. We can have the same starting point, tools at our disposal, etc. etc. etc. but our outcomes can ultimately be vastly different simply because none of us were put on this earth for our lives to be an exact replication of someone else’s.

But the comparison that Sara is talking about is slightly different. It’s that thing where you find yourself stuck in a pattern of sameness because you’re too worried about where you’re trying to go instead of being present where you are, chasing the ghost of what you think is to come, making rash decisions in hopes of speeding the undetermined timeline along. All of that shit is nothing but a detriment.

One of the most underrated parts of success, imo, is the journey to get there, right? I’m a girl who is fascinated with how the sausage is made when it comes to any process. So I love learning about, reading, and/or listening to folks detail their processes and journeys to success. And I’m not there seeking any ideas or shortcuts or aspects to emulate. For me, it’s more about contextualizing it all.

Success—true, lasting, bedrock-level success—isn’t fleeting. It isn’t built overnight. The process ain’t always pretty. The work isn’t always transparent. But the glow inhabited by a successful individual always emanates brightly from their being. It brings with it a level of contentment indescribable by simplistic language, but is instantaneously recognizable.

Knowing and remembering this, however, are two separate things. As an impatient mere mortal, I get real J.G. Wentworth when I think about where I am in regard to the success I’d love to attain—I want my success and I want it now.

And “Uncharted” every time I hear it, brings me right back down to earth and reminds me. In order to get the things I aspire to in life, I must buckle down, do the work, chart my path, remain true to who I am, and then…

That’s when the magic begins.

I spend x amount of dollars on stock photo. Spend x more dollars for cover designer. Publish the book. Only for someone to take my cover that has a woman minding her business lookin’ fly to turn her into a sentient version of this bitch…

Like, not only do you not have any rights as copyright holder, but to top it off, them shits look weird and creepy because AI videos make everything and everyone in them look soulless. Not to mention the irreparable harm being done in Black communities where they house the data centers these companies need to function efficiently. Just ask anybody from Memphis who knows a lil somethin’ how they feel about AI data centers.

More than anything, this automation/shift to relying on robots shit don’t freak y’all out? Like I’m not entertained by the shit as much as I am deeply horrified bc it all looks like these muhfuckas finna walk off that cover and eat me like a zombie attack. Y’all not scared? Shit, I ain’t even gon’ hold you, I’m scared shitless of the impending robot takeover where they start sacrificing humans for sport. Coz I ain’t got survivalist skills and will most certainly be one of the first ones that the clankers take out.

Remember me fondly…

So here’s the rules…

I’m giving myself five minutes with each prompt. No overthinking, no preworking, no editing or editorializing. Just letting whatever the combination of the requested items evoked in my brain come through my fingers…

Red, NYC, Eric Benet

“You ready, BrookieCookie?” my baby sister Denver asked.

I looked over to see her beaming as she peeked her head into the private suite that had been designated as my place to get ready. All of the other bridesmaids had left already to line up for the processional. I’d taken an extra moment of time to myself before gearing up to head out myself.

I couldn’t believe we’d gotten to this day. Finally.

It felt like I’d been planning my nuptials—sans a groom—for more than twenty years now. It was something that Denny and I did with our mom often during quite times in our home growing up. I couldn’t remember for the life of me who’d started the conversation, but it was one we’d revisited numerous times as the years passed.

Nearly nothing that I’d said to her in those conversations had actually come to pass in the planning of this wedding, something bittersweet as she was no longer here with us to see this version.

One thing I knew would scandalize her was the fact that I’d chosen red as the color for the bridal party to wear. Not bright Elmo red, but more of a subdued crimson that looked delightful against every shade of brown that made up my party.

The venue was in Brooklyn, that irony not being lost upon me as me and the borough share a name. Ma had never even stepped foot in the city, but she had an obsession with geography, thusly naming her children after cities she hoped to one day visit—Brooklyn, Denver, and Phoenix. Prior to her death, I’d never stepped foot in Brooklyn either. But in the midst of grief Phee decided that each of us needed to take a solo trip to the places that inspired our names, in mama’s honor. Never would have guessed that would lead to meeting and falling in love with a Brooklyn boy.

Since my sisters and I were all the family we had left, it was nothing for us to be folded into EJ’s family, spaces left vacant by our prior losses plugged in ways I could have never predicted.

I gave Denny a nod, checking myself in the mirror once more before heading into the hall before my descent down the aisle.

As my maid of honor, Denver was the last face I saw before she disappeared around the corner and headed through the double doors. I took one last breath, skimming a hand down my tailored-to-perfection dress, then clutching my bouquet, awaiting my queue via the one thing that never changed in all of those wedding fantasies of my youth.

The moment I heard Eric Benet’s smooth tenor glide through opening riff of “Spend My Life With You”, a smile bloomed on my face instantly. Perfectly timed, the doors opened right as the lyrics “I never knew such a day could come and I never knew such a love could be inside of one…” flowed through the speakers. The most apropos sentiment as I was far enough along in life where I thought marriage would never be on my menu.

Merry Chrysler and Happy Hondadays to all who celebrate.

Nic out.

I’m giving myself five minutes with each prompt. No overthinking, no preworking, no editing or editorializing. Just letting whatever the combination of the requested items evoked in my brain come through my fingers…

orange, new orleans, jill scott

“Oh shit, excuse me,” a rumbly baritone said at the same time I felt my entire body headed toward the floor thanks to a collision that would have been totally preventable had I been paying attention to where I was going instead of burying my nose into my phone once again as I went through checking off the items I’d amassed in the basket dangling from my wrist.

How I’d been the one assigned to grab all of the last minute items Mama needed to make her world-famous—read, our family adored it so naturally that meant the world approved—cranberry sauce. I’d just come from grabbing vanilla extract from the baking aisle, headed toward the produce section to grab a couple oranges when I made contact with a sentient brick wall.

A firm grip on my forearm kept me from taking a tumble like Scarlett. The tiny frisson of heat that shot through me at the skin to skin contact made me look up into a pair of very familiar eyes.

Dalton Raynard Harrington the Fourth.

My god, it felt like I’d conjured him up as I’d quite literally been thinking about him on the way to the grocery store. His parents owned this shop, one that somehow remained family-owned in our little town in Louisiana, just outside of New Orleans.

“Ray,” I said breathlessly. “I was just thinking about you.”

I lowered my head with a slight giggle, thinking I sounded like Jill Scott on the intro of “Cross My Mind”. And considering this man in front of me was one of those exes who’d make a girl reminisce just like Jill used those four or so minutes to do on that song, it felt mighty apropos.

I’m giving myself five minutes with each prompt. No overthinking, no preworking, no editing or editorializing. Just letting whatever the combination of the requested items evoked in my brain come through my fingers…

Black, Pickens, MS, Phyllis Hyman

“Tonight I give in to the feeling…” I sang offkey, loud and proud.

“Wrong!” Chase called out, laughing loud as hell. “That’s Angie Bofill.”

“You are my friendddd,” I tried again, garnering the exact same response.

“You’re getting closer geographically, but baby that’s Patti LaBelle.”

“Okay, so tell me. Since you got your degree and you know everything,” I huffed, crossing my arms over my chest.

She couldn’t wait to get up and use the remote as a fake microphone, shimmying her shoulders as she sang, “You know how to love me, you know how to make it right…”

“You’re just making that up.”

“Nah, baby. That is Phyllis Hyman. I can’t believe you lied and said you were familiar. Look it up.”

“I don’t have to look shit up. I am familiar…maybe not with that song but like… don’t be tryna pull my Black card over this shit. Sorry not all of us spent summers in Pickens, Mississippi listening to their grandmother’s records.”

“It was my auntie’s records, thank you very much,” Chase quipped, sticking her tongue between her teeth. “Just admit, my music knowledge runs laps around yours…”

“I will do no such thing!” I said indignantly, resting my hands on my hips.

I’m giving myself five minutes with each prompt. No overthinking, no preworking, no editing or editorializing. Just letting whatever the combination of the requested items evoked in my brain come through my fingers…

Purple, Charlotte, Raheem DeVaughn

“Hey, so like… how do you think this came about?” Leon said, leaning over to speak into my ear as a man stood center court wearing a suit in the same purple as the secondary color of the Charlotte Hornets.

“And now, singing the national anthem, r&b superstar Raheem DeVaughn.”

“Superstar?” Leon asked in askance and I stifled a giggle as I tried to look at him with a hint of sternness in my gaze.

“Leon, please…” I groaned.

How we’d gone from this being a lovely holiday surprise for my pseudopapa to now being barely able to contain ourselves as Rah started saying if we could see was beyond me. Leon and I had flown into town to surprise the only dad I’ve known, my foster mother Sheila’s long-term boyfriend Darrell.

I hadn’t been home to Charlotte in ages, preferring to leave it all behind once I was of age and had gotten accepted to Howard for undergrad. Life for me in Charlotte had been one of immense struggle and pain, its only bright spot being Sheila and Darrell.

“You think Raheem DeVaughn is LaMelo’s favorite singer? That’s why they got him for the anthem? Wait…is he a hometown hero? Babe, you been holding out. You know ‘Customer’ is my muhfuggin’ cut…”

I’m giving myself five minutes with each prompt. No overthinking, no preworking, no editing or editorializing. Just letting whatever the combination of the requested items evoked in my brain come through my fingers…

Navy Blue, Portland Oregon, Brandy

“Are you kidding me? Brandy, easily. The Full Moon album alone went quintuple platinum in my teenage bedroom,” I said after being asked which of the nineties r&b sweethearts were my favorite.

It was such a random question, from the most random man, that I felt compelled to lob one just as random right back.

“Okay….” I said, tapping my chin. “Favorite city in the lower forty-eight?”

“Portland,” Micah responded instantly.

My brow furrowed. “Oregon or Maine?”

He gave me a broad grin, pride filling his expression.

“First off, let me say I’m impressed by your geographic knowledge.”

“Well, I just need to know how badly I’m judging you based on that answer. Mind you, the judgement is going to come either way from you picking the whitest fucking city possible, but I’ll let you cook.”

“Damn,” Micah said, laughter bubbling up from deep within him. “It’s like that? You’ve known me…what forty-five minutes and you already coming for a brotha, like that?”

“Well, it was your bright idea to ask each other twenty-one questions, Curtis Jackson. Nowhere in those rules did you bar judgement,” I quipped.

He removed the navy blue baseball cap that’d been perched upon his head ever so, tipping it in my direction. “Touche,” he demurred.

“So…you gonna answer my question?”

“Oregon.”

“Okay, so did you have an affinity for the trail or…”

“Ayo!” he said loudly with a crack of laughter that had others in the airport lounge we were currently stuck in turning to look in our direction.

I put on my best MYOB expression, giving anyone who dared to make eye contact with me the stink eye as I awaited his response.

“It’s where my paternal lineage is from. It’s home,” he replied simply.

I’m giving myself five minutes with each prompt. No overthinking, no preworking, no editing or editorializing. Just letting whatever the combination of the requested items evoked in my brain come through my fingers…

Olive Green, Tibee, MS, Jazmine Sullivan

I was so thankful for today, thankful for this moment, blessed to be here once again with my family after the year of…well to be quite frank, godawfulness I’d experienced this year. Before getting officially diagnosed with MS, I’d been going through it something terrible physically—endless fatigue, numbness in my limbs, vision issues, and the mood swings, whew shawty, I could write a book about it.

“Knock knock,” my mother called out, peeking her head into my childhood bedroom, which looked exactly how it had when I’d permanently inhabited it. I turned to see her wearing a big grin, decked out in an outfit that looked like it came straight from the North Pole. In comparison, the olive green silk jumpsuit I’d chosen for tonight’s festivities looked downright drab.

“Hey, mommy.”

“Hey, my baby, you about ready? You know Mama is ready to tell us all about her Christmases as a little girl in Tibbee like she does every year,” she said with a goodnatured eye roll.

“One day she won’t be here to tell us these stories, mama. We gotta be grateful that we still have her here with us…”

“You’re right, my love. But she always starts right as my Christmas playlist is getting good and you know I love that Pentatonix and Jazmine Sullivan version of Joyful Joyful like I wrote it…”

I shook my head, giggling at her obsession with the acapella group that’d risen to fame via one of those modern day versions of Star Search.

“I know, mommy. I know…”

I’m giving myself five minutes with each prompt. No overthinking, no preworking, no editing or editorializing. Just letting whatever the combination of the requested items evoked in my brain come through my fingers…

Purple, Sedona, SZA

“C’mon, sis. It’ll be nice to get away… Lord knows you need it,” Debra said, looking at me from the corner of her eye.

I released a sigh, slowly, allowing myself to feel every particle of air that rushed between my lips. We’d been at this for over an hour, sitting on her comfy, oversized cloud sofa on opposite sides, listening to music, each curled up with plush blankets. Her fireplace roared as our hands greedily clutched wine glasses filled damn near to the brim. She’d just topped us off once more, finishing our individual bottles—mine a shiraz, hers merlot.

I let my eyes drift upward as I mulled over her proposal. Five days, four nights in Sedona, Arizona at a swanky hotel, Ambiante Sedona. Cliff—her on-again, off-again, could be, would be—had offered to foot the bill and all I had to do was say yes. The plan was lux dining, pampering, and all of the wine we could charge to the room on Cliff’s dime.

“Oh shit, turn that up,” I said instead of responding as “Kill Bill” by SZA shuffled onto her Sonos system.

Perfect timing and the perfect tune to reflect my state of mind. Because killing my ex and his new bitch sounded like the perfect plan…