The other day, I had one of those moments from the 1995 movie ‘Waiting to Exhale’ where Whitney Houston’s character, Savannah, cursed at her mother and hung up the phone during a very frustrating conversation.

After hearing the now popular phrase “He’s a good man, Savannah, a good man!” from her mother, pretty much encouraging her to continue an affair with a married man for the sake of having a man, Savannah retorted “Mama, I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you fuckin’ marry him then?!”

After a few moments and a deep breath; an exhale, if you will, Savannah called back and apologized to her mother but let her know that she deserves better than empty promises from a married man who will leave his wife ‘when the time is right.’

In my own unexpected Savannah moment, I lashed out at my mother during a random grocery store run a few days ago. While heading home, she randomly said, “It’s too bad you didn’t pursue a career in news, you have a good speaking voice.”

I felt my left eye twitch, kind of like Ren from Ren & Stimpy right before he went ballistic on Stimpy, and before I knew it, the words “Well, I tried but I’m sorry I’m such a fuckin’ loser” escaped my mouth. In that moment, I couldn’t hold back.

For reference, I had been in the news space for over six years as a reporter and managing editor up until November 2025. However, things took a turn for the worse when I accepted a new job at another newsroom during that time and found myself in a workplace nightmare.

Within six months of taking that job, my mental health declined, my paycheck dwindled, my writing sucked, and my love for community dissipated.

To make matters even worse, many of my writer friends were being laid off left and right. The articles I read and shared weekly for years from writers I looked up to were disappearing, and national publications were (and still are) frequently reporting on the latest company downsizing their journalism departments or completely letting them go altogether.

In April of this year, I ended up walking away from that job to save my sanity but didn’t have a real backup plan. I soon had to let go of my dream apartment and move in with my parents to avoid homelessness. I took so much pride in my work and was devastated when things went downhill so fast.

My mother knew this, which is why her statement took me by surprise and triggered the shame I had been dealing with internally since moving back. It felt like she was poking a sore spot that was nowhere close to healing.

Like Savannah, I quickly regrouped myself and took a deep breath before apologizing to my mother. But…the apology felt hollow. It was mainly out of respect for my mother but not exactly for my outburst. The words that came out of my mouth were visceral and real, and made me realize just how hurt I am from that situation.

After I apologized, my mother tried to further explain her statement, saying that she meant I should have tried to be a news anchor because of how well I speak. But even that felt like a gut punch because I’ve been a writer for the majority of my life.

I had been expressing myself through writing since my first journal prompt in the 5th grade from an amazing young teacher named Mrs. Lowe at Bunche Elementary School in Flint, Michigan. It was there where I was encouraged to keep writing; that my writing could take me places.

And it did take me places.

Writing helped me meet other writers who helped me hone my craft. Writing helped me meet and interview celebrities and notable figures. Writing helped me start blogs and magazines and grow news publications. Writing helped me publish books, helped me connect with supportive people and communities, helped me pay rent and bills, helped feed myself and my daughter, helped me take trips and see and experience so many great things in my life. Writing also helped me stay sane through all the pain and uncertainty life brings.

I thought about all of these things during the rest of our silent drive home.

When we got home and put the groceries away, we talked it out and came to the conclusion that I’m still sensitive about my situation and still trying to put myself back together again like Mr. Humpty Dumpty himself.

She told me that she loved me, that I’m not a loser, and that everything will work out fine. These things happen. And although I didn’t quite believe it in that moment, I thanked her.

I have a lot more growing to do, even in my 40s, even in my forever.

We all do, especially after we have a great fall.

Until next time, peace.

It’s well after 2 a.m., and you’re in bed tossing and turning. A sentence keeps trying to form in your head for a story you’ve been trying to start all week.

It’s a good sentence. Too good, actually, but it’s so late, and you’re so tired, and you have to get up in a few hours…

But…the sentence turns into another, and another, and you need to get this shit down before you lose it because right now, the baby is coming.

You grab your phone off the nightstand, open up a draft in your email, and start typing away for a few minutes.

When you’re done, you read the paragraph back and decide to go all in on it in the morning. It’s the perfect opening for your story, and you feel relieved that the words finally came.

Where were these words when you were at Starbucks earlier that day, while you were sipping an overpriced espresso and eating a surprisingly tasty cheese danish?

Instead of seamlessly flowing out in that productive environment, why did the perfect words decide to emerge in the middle of the night?

Well, quite often, like a baby awaiting to be born, the words come when they are ready.

And it’s not just a night thing. Many times in my life, I’ve experienced having to hurry up and jot down words and ideas during everyday activities like preparing dinner, pushing through a sweaty gym session, and even while enjoying a night on the town.

What I’ve learned in my journey as a writer is that the writing process is similar to the birthing process, and that stories let you know when it’s time to be born, no matter where you are or what you’re doing.

Like the contractions that jumpstart labor and delivery, the words come when it’s time to “push” through and bring the story to life.

However, I sometimes confuse the writing process with the writing routine, and that’s when I end up staring lifelessly at my laptop screen, coffee in hand, feeling motivated yet uninspired.

Walk with me.

The writing routine is the framework for when and where you do the work. The writing process, however, is how you shape, execute, and complete your work. Both routine and process go hand in hand, but they’re different, and for a long time, I thought of them as the same.

Even this very story that you’re reading had me waiting a week after I planned to write it because it just wasn’t ready to be born.

Last week, I attempted several times to sit down and write to my heart’s content, but the words for this piece never came.

Instead, an idea for a new YouTube video materialized. And then my mom asked me to accompany her to bingo. And then my daughter asked me to part her hair. And then, and then, and then.

I was in a routine, expecting the results of a process.

In the past, when I was a younger writer without an understanding of the process, I forced the words out of my mind. I powered through writer’s block when I should have just walked away from the laptop for a while and lived my life.

I would tell myself that good writers keep writing no matter what, even when my writing was clearly sloppy and all over the place.

At least the words were there. Right?

It took several years and countless hours of research to learn that it’s okay to step away and let your brain rest. You’ll be surprised how much more you have to say on a particular topic after your mind gets a chance to chill out and process what you’ve been working on.

In other words, let that baby grow!

In those moments of stepping away, I try to include an activity in my life that keeps my mind stimulated without necessarily focusing on the story, like reading, watching a movie, listening to music, having a good conversation with a friend, or simply enjoying a walk and taking in the world around me.

It’s also in those moments when the words quite often begin to appear, letting me know that the story is ready to come into this world.

Maybe that’s why I’ve never been afraid to let a story take its time. I know now that no amount of staring at my laptop screen can force a birth that isn’t ready to happen.

My job isn’t to decide when the story arrives. My job is to pay attention when I feel those first contractions, clear everything else away, and make room for it to enter the world.

Tonight, this story finally decided it was time. And just like that, another one of my sons was born.

I hope you enjoyed my little bundle of joy.

And until next time, peace.

Picture it: Flint, Michigan, July 30, 1989. A modest blue two-bedroom home on Stewart Street is adorned in wedding decorations, awaiting a celebration of love, life, and Jheri curl juice. 

It’s a warm and sunny day that’s just perfect for an outdoor summer wedding.

A white stretch limo pulls up and parks on the front lawn, and a golden-brown, heavyset male chauffeur exits and opens the door for the men inside to get out and take pictures for the big day. 

As Mtume’s “Juicy Fruit” softly plays from inside the house, the groom and groomsmen step out of the limo sporting some of the juiciest Jheri curls this side of Genesee County has ever seen.

Their various shades of beautiful brown skin mesh well in their all-white tuxedos with baby blue cummerbunds and ties as they all smile from ear to ear. Today’s the big day.

My soon-to-be stepdad, Charles, also known as Erkie, is due to wed my mother, Renee, today at the home they have been sharing for the past year with a daughter from a previous situationship (me) and their one-year-old daughter, Charleea. 

Today’s the day that they make it official and lock it down for life. I remember that day like it was yesterday.

I was seven years old and excited by the festivities that were happening right in my own backyard.

Yes, my mom got married in the backyard of our home, and it was and still is the only wedding I’ve ever been to like that.

Growing up, I used to feel bad that she didn’t have the big wedding she deserved, complete with an immaculate chapel, elegant reception, and exotic honeymoon destination.

She told me that most people get married in churches, but she didn’t feel comfortable doing so since she didn’t attend church on a regular basis.

This was true. We never had a church home and only really went to church when it was other people’s weddings or for funerals.

With that in mind, she opted for a chapel, but it wasn’t in their budget at the time.

Since our home had always been the spot where everyone in the family gathered for birthday parties, anniversary celebrations, and game days, she figured it would be great to have the wedding there. 

I was floored. All this time, I was feeling a way about her wedding when she, in fact, did it her way — their way.

They planned everything out from paycheck to paycheck, with any spare time they could find to have the wedding of their dreams within reason and budget.

Looking back, I remember all of the hard work she and Charles put into making the wedding happen.

I remember the wedding rehearsals in the backyard with their close friends and family members. I remember the '80s R&B jams blasting from our home stereo in the kitchen. 

I remember the pepperoni pizzas my mom would order for everyone after the rehearsals wrapped up. I remember the laughter, the dancing, the joy.

On the big day, they were surrounded and supported by family and friends in the comfort of their own home.

I honestly admire them for making those sacrifices for the most important day of their lives.

Now that I know the true origin of my mom’s wedding, I feel blessed to have experienced their labor of love. 

No longer do I feel down when I think about how much better the wedding could have been.

I’m honored to come from a woman who was strong and ambitious enough to make things happen on her and her boo’s terms.

For the love of my mom, I’m inspired to do things my way — me and my fiancé’s way — no matter how off the beaten path it is. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Until next time, peace.

A few weeks ago, I opened an old folder on my computer and found something I had completely forgotten about.

It was an ebook I had written in 2019 about creating community events that I planned to release in March 2020.

Then the pandemic happened.

And as the world reluctantly shut down, I quickly realized that a book about bringing people together felt a little out of place.

So I did what a lot of us do with creative projects when life suddenly changes: I put it away and lowkey forgot about it.

But recently, as I noticed more and more people online talk about the need for community-building and bringing the village back, I remembered my ebook and the reason I wrote it in the first place.

From 2015 to 2017, I hosted a recurring artist showcase series in Flint, Michigan called The Dope Show (LIVE!).

At the time, I was running a music blog called The Dope Show and wanted to bring the blog to life by having local musicians perform live at an art gallery in downtown Flint.

Before I knew it, I had created a space where local artists could perform, small businesses could connect with new customers, and the community could gather around something cool and positive.

I held the event monthly from November 2015 to August 2016 until I moved to Los Angeles in September 2016. I returned to Michigan a few times in 2017 to have a couple of pop-up events before eventually calling it quits later that year.

During that time, I learned many lessons and connected with people who wanted to learn the ins and outs of event planning.

I always told myself I would put it all in a book one day, and that’s exactly what I did in 2019, right before the world changed forever.

Well, everything didn’t change forever.

People still want to feel connected to others in their community. They still want something fun to do, even if they have to create it themselves, even if they’re in a small city, even if they’re on a tight budget.

One of the biggest lessons I learned while producing my shows is that community-building will never go away or go out of style, even after a global crisis, because let’s face it, we need each other.

So, after years of slowly returning to normalcy, I present to you my ebook, How To Throw A Dope Show: A Step-by-Step Guide to Creating Cool Community Events, now available as a digital PDF download.

And just in case you don’t want to read all of that, I also created a printable checklist for event planners on the go. It covers all 31 steps from the book, with the key actions bolded so you can scan it at a glance.

If you’ve ever wanted to create a community event, artist showcase, open mic, networking mixer, or gathering of your own, I hope this guide helps you take that first step.

And I just want to say thank you to everyone who ever supported The Dope Show (LIVE!), attended an event, performed on stage, volunteered, sponsored a show, or encouraged me along the way. This book exists because of you.

Until next time, peace.

Since we all have collectively discovered the wonders of Ai (artificial intelligence) and how it can make our lives simpler in terms of gathering and organizing our thoughts, I’ve noticed a pattern of language in almost everything I read.

It’s the recognition of Ai writing that’s showing up in everything from Facebook posts to YouTube videos, and even major award shows as presenters read from an Ai-generated script on the teleprompter. 

“This is more than a club, it’s a movement.”

“That’s not a mistake, it’s a knowing.”

“It’s not just a steak dinner, it’s an experience.”

I myself am guilty of using Ai in my writing, especially in news pieces I wasn’t really interested in just to meet a deadline.

But when those news pieces started to look and sound very similar each time I used ChatGPT, I started to feel less like a writer and more like an imposter, especially when I began to recognize the Ai language that everybody and their mama was also using in their work.

It got worse when I started using Ai in my personal writing and my original idea just wasn’t landing because it was being regenerated by a souless system, made to make my life “easier.”

When I first discovered ChatGPT about a year ago, I was excited to explore the new technology that could help speed up the writing process.

However, as I used it more in my writing, I started noticing how my voice wasn’t showing up anymore; the voice I used to yearn for and spend countless hours on developing, in hopes of being half as good as the greats.

I was leaving my personality out in the cold and letting Ai take the lead, only to end up sounding like many others who were using the same exact system.

And like a bad news editor turning a heartwarming story into a basic brief, I was missing the damn point.

So one night in March, I sat down at my desk with a glass of Chardonnay, and said the hell with it. I threw on some Phyllis Hyman and started writing from the heart again.

Then, something surprising happened. 

I pumped out a story that had been stirring in me for months with absolutely no Ai involved. The process took about 20 minutes and I enjoyed every one of them.

After scheduling my article for the morning, I closed my laptop and smiled. I had that feeling when you haven’t gotten any in a while and someone gives you their all.

I was satisfied.

Once that article posted, followers started pouring in on Substack and I even gained 2 paid subscribers that month.

I forgot I had even turned the paid subscription option on, but here they were, ready and willing to give me $5 a month for my random thoughts on a Saturday night. 

That article had my personality all on it and I said what I wanted to say as if you and I were having an intimate conversation over coffee or cocktails. I even let a couple of curse words fly because why the hell not, right? 

I started writing the way I always wanted to write without worrying about how professional it was or if it was good enough.

I realized that I had been leaning on Ai a little too much lately, and it was time to get back to me.

I also pondered why I even wanted to speed up the writing process in the first place. The process is why I fell in love with writing. It’s how I found my way of connecting with others.

The process is where I find solace while Sade plays in the background, pulling more thoughts and emotions out of me than any Ai prompt ever could.

The intimacy of the process is why I even put pen to pad, or fingers to keys, in the first place and I was trying to eliminate that for the sake of efficiency. 

Now, don’t get me wrong, I still use the hell out of ChatGPT, but more so for organizing ideas and developing marketing strategies.

It’s still an amazing tool for everyday life. But I won’t be using it in my personal writing going forward because I still need these words to hit in a way only I can deliver. 

Ai is great, but it will never replace what makes me great. It’ll never have that secret sauce that God cooked up specifically for me. 

And if you’re reading this and feel a little seen, my intention isn’t to call you out, but to guide you back to the basics; back to your own thoughts. It’s never too late to get back to your authentic self.

I want to see more of what’s really going on in our minds and hearts versus what a software program presents as the cleanest, tightest version of it.

Even if you feel you’re not the most well-versed, that’s fine. Show your work anyway. Someone will connect with those words because they’re real and from another human.

In a time where we can’t tell what’s ai or not, we are craving human connection more than ever. 

So, be messy, be true, be yourself. We need more of that, not this —>🤖

Peace. 

If you enjoyed this piece, consider sending a dollar or two my way for a nice cup of coffee because writers love coffee.

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Thanks for reading!

Growing up as a tomboy in the mid-90s, I always had guy friends. I was the “cool” girl in the neighborhood who played football in the street and skipped school to go buy the latest rap album.

As girls around me began to like the boys in our neighborhood and at school, I looked at those same boys as the homies to shoot the shit with.

As I moved into my 20s, I found myself forming real friendship bonds with several guys who would go on to be in my life for years.

I even found a way to become genuine friends with a few men I dated after the relationship didn’t work out, mainly because I knew how to separate a man’s friendship side from his loverboy side.

I just understood men, and that was something I prided myself on throughout my 30s until life started to change for all of us.

Many of these friendships were formed through the love of Hip-Hop, but unlike the 2002 movie Brown Sugar, the music wasn’t enough to sustain those ‘ships forever.

Some factors got in the way, like the subtle and blatant differences in our genders, and how we often can’t fit into each others worlds without gender being a hindrance.

For example, I had a homie who got engaged and, in an attempt to still fit me into his life, told his soon to be bride that I would still be an active friend because I was pretty much one of the guys. Damn-near a man, even.

When he told me what he told his fiancée, I chuckled a little bit, but later, it didn’t sit right with me.

Yes, I was cool as hell (still am) but I was still a woman, and that’s something he never really saw me as, which was disheartening because I always acknowledged and respected his manhood.

From his perspective, he was trying to keep our bond intact while letting his fiancée know that I wouldn’t be a threat, but there were better ways to go about it without downplaying my womanhood.

It made me question myself because I couldn’t make sense of his reasoning. I dressed like a feminine woman, had healthy friendships with other women which he knew about, sustained romantic relationships with men, and yet, he saw me as being ‘damn-near a man.’

I couldn’t wrap my head around it…until I could. I wasn’t masculine at all. It was just how he viewed me because we weren’t sexually involved.

It was his way of compartmentalizing women he was cool with versus the ones he was attracted to, which I get, but there’s a flaw in that way of thinking.

The flaw was the lack of common respect for the women he wasn’t attracted to — the ones he deemed so cool that he equated them to his equals: men.

But I’m not a man, not a lesbian, not trans (not that there’s anything wrong with that). I was a young attractive straight woman who wasn’t sleeping with him and that narrative often doesn’t fly in scenarios like relationships, engagements and marriages.

I myself have been in relationships where I questioned the presence of a young attractive straight woman in my man’s life.

And yes, I did see her as a threat and wondered if he kept her around because of an underlying attraction to her or because their friendship was unmatched compared to our bond.

Honestly, the latter hits different because you want your friendship with your partner to be unmatched, and knowing another woman can light up parts of him that you can’t is unnerving, even if she’s “just a friend.”

But if I’m truly being honest, my opposite sex friendships really shifted when I began to decenter men in my 40s.

This was only really supposed to be for men in my love life, but the experience made me look at conversations and scenarios with male friends over the years differently.

As my perspective changed on how I wanted to be treated by men, love-wise, I also started looking at how I wanted to be treated in my platonic friendships as well.

The one-sided late-night phone calls had to end.

The hyper-masculine jokes at women’s expense had to end.

The conversations that revealed way too much about a relationship or marriage had to end.

The casual use of the words “bitch” or “hoe” to describe women most certainly had to end.

And I’m embarrassed that I even allowed those things to happen in the first place.

I was done being the “cool” girl who was just “one of the guys.” I was a woman the whole time, and wanted to be treated as such.

So two years ago, I let go of the homies. All of them. Every single one.

I explained my decision to one homie and he respected me for it. He understood that not all friendships fit into every space you enter in this lifetime.

He was now married at this point and I could tell that I wasn’t on the approved friends list his wife silently created when she and I met.

He left the door open for me in case I wanted to come back and shoot the shit for old times sake.

Another homie of mine, however, didn’t take it well and we ended on a sour note. Ironically, this homie was an ex that I befriended after the breakup who was still harboring a couple of romantic feelings for me.

That situation helped me understand that what we had wasn’t really a friendship, but an extension of a romance that ended badly years ago.

We were just holding on to memories of the past and the possibility of going there again one day.

Other homies didn’t even get a farewell conversation from me. I just stopped calling and responding one day, and that was that. They went on with their lives and so did I, helping me realize how people come and go, but the one’s meant to stay will stay.

I still have one good male friend, though. And I don’t refer to him as a homie at all. He’s a good friend who will show up for me when he can, and treats me with respect.

But one day, I know some lucky woman is going to snatch him up and look me up and down with the stank face. And on that day, I will quietly honor our friendship and close that chapter of our book.

What I’ve learned in my 40+ years of life on Earth is that nothing lasts forever, people come and go, and men and women can indeed be friends…until they can’t be anymore.

Peace.❤️

For as long as I can remember, I dreamt of being as dope as Maya Angelou, Nikki Giovanni, Alice Walker, Terry McMillan and the great Toni Morrison.

However, through my 20’s and 30’s, I struggled to write that gritty shit, witty shit, downright shitty shit. Mainly because I was so cautious of keeping my image in tact. Youth will do that to you. Close you up. Make you feel like what you have to say isn’t worth reading because you’re just [insert young age here].

For years, I pondered on what I could do, what workshop I could possibly take, to be as vulnerable as Ms. Angelou, as bold as Ms. Toni, and as raw as Nikki Giovanni who was so cold as a poet, I always remembered it’s Nikki with 2 k’s. The light-skin Black woman with the short gray fro and “Thug Life” tattoo on her forearm.

I remember falling in love with her and her writing while reading an article in VIBE Magazine on her decision to get her infamous “Thug Life” tatt.

She said she didn’t quite agree on 2Pac’s music, but she felt his spirit of revolution. She felt his change-maker energy and wanted to honor him. I thought that shit was so cool. Not historically cool, but cool.

But, it never feels like history in the moment.

Looking back, Ms. Giovanni getting a thug life tattoo was historical as hell and symbolizes a bridge from generation to generation, pretty much saying, “ I see you, I see you.” And we all want to be seen, especially if we’re creating from the heart.

So, why I couldn’t write as well as my idols? Well, I simply hadn’t lived enough. It took me to get deep into my 40s before I realized this, and I hope it soothes your young soul if you’re reading this right now. Your writing gets better in your 40s. Honestly, everything gets better in your 40s, but that’s a whole other random Substack article.

In my 40s, I’m confident and more patient because, I believe, you have witnessed so much life thus far, and maybe went through a few, or alot, of losses. You appreciate life a little more. You slow down a little and just live.

And as you just live and push through life, the words come. That’s if you have something to say. The words flow out with wisdom and grace. You’re grown.

And it shows in your writing.

You know what to take out and what to keep.

You know when to cut the fat and when to leave it greasy.

You know your shit is dope, and that’s when you realize why all your favorite writers didn’t pop off until their 40s.

It’s a magical time, and it’s an absolutely delicious time of my life.

Maya Angelou published I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings at age 40, and Toni Morrison dropped The Bluest Eye at age 40. Nikki Giovanni was accomplished writer in her 20s and published well into her 70s, which is motivational for me as it shows you don’t ever have to retire from the craft.

So here I sit at a small desk in my bedroom, typing away, writing some of the best shit of my life, hoping it will pop off like the amazing women before me.

If not.

My 40s are still delicious.💋

Peace.

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I first heard Caron Wheeler’s “I Adore You” in the 1992 hood classic Mo’ Money’ starring a young and kinda fine Damon Wayans.

Although I was only 10 and had no business watching the movie, I remember this song playing in the scene where Damon’s character finally got his dream girl, played by a young and very fine Stacy Dash, after acquiring a suspicious large amount of cash. During a montage of them shopping at luxury spots in New York and falling in love, Caron’s song played in the background.

‘I adorrre yoooou.’ The hook was sweet and playful yet sensual, and almost haunting.

It sounded like how it must feel to fall in love, and even as a child, I knew I was hearing something special.

It wasn’t until I grew all the way up, went through some things, and revisited the song that I realized the lyrics were as beautiful as the melodies.

Before we reach the hook, Caron sings “Knowing who I am/ and believing in who you are/ We surrender our love to the highest star.”

In my own experiences in love, I’ve ran into a lot of men who weren’t as true to their character as they portrayed, leaving me wonder if I’m the only real one showing up?

So as Caron croons, “knowing who I am, and believing in who you are,” she’s confirming that she, in fact, knows who she is and honestly believes that her mate really is who they say they are.

I know it sounds simple, but it ain’t easy getting to know full yourself, and it’s damn hard believing in someone’s character after meeting a series of frauds, especially when you’re mind is sharp and your heart is open.

Aside from this song, and her work as the lead vocalist for the British collective Soul II Soul, Caron has a bevy of other jams like “Need a Man” and “Livin’ in the Light" that have that free-spirited, New Jack Swing-ish vibe that feels as good as it sounds.

I’m thankful that my young brain filed this one away for me to revisit at the right moment because I get it now. I really get it.

I’ve been noticing something lately — both online and in real life — and once I named it, I couldn’t unsee it.

We’re losing age groups.

Not the people, but the spaces that used to belong to them.

Somewhere between social media blending all of us together and businesses trying to be everything to everybody, the lanes that once separated teens from young adults, young adults from grown folks, and grown folks from elders have completely collapsed.

We’re all squeezed into the same rooms, and honestly? It’s not going so well.

When everywhere becomes “for everyone,” nobody feels catered to.

This isn’t about elitism or gatekeeping. It’s about the vibe.

It’s about the difference between belonging and just sharing air with strangers who live in completely different eras.

Take social media. There’s no escape room anymore. Your mama, your little cousins, and your coworkers all live on the same app, breathing in the same content. You can’t even scroll in peace without stumbling across somebody’s wild post that you wish you didn’t see — but you saw it — because you all exist in one endless digital hallway.

And as strange as it sounds, what’s happening online has spilled into real life.

Here’s what made it click for me.

I stopped in a local bar a few months ago to grab a drink and some food to go. Nothing major. Inside, an older couple was eating, and the man was just trying to watch his game in peace.

Then a group of twenty-somethings came in — happy, loud, full of that Friday night energy — and they beelined to the bar’s digital jukebox to put on Latto’s “Big Mama.”

The older man shouted, “Turn that shit off! Don’t nobody wanna hear that!” but the young crowd didn’t care. They kept vibing, singing, and having their fun. And honestly? They weren’t wrong.

They were grown. They were paying customers. The jukebox was open to everybody.

But the vibe in that room?

Off.

Not because of the people, but because of the mix.

Of course the older gentleman didn’t want to hear explicit rap while eating wings and watching sports. And of course the young folks didn’t want to feel policed while trying to enjoy their night.

Both reactions made sense. Neither belonged in the same space.

And eventually, the young group left early, not because they did anything wrong, but because the space wasn’t made with them in mind.

We keep throwing all generations into one pot and acting shocked when the gumbo ain’t hittin’ like that.

Bars are turning into restaurants. Restaurants are turning into clubs. Clubs are serving kids’ meals. Lounges are throwing family nights. And somewhere in America, someone’s cracking a cold one open at Chuck E. Cheese’s.

In another spot I visited recently, families were dining while young adults danced to explicit music. The waitress had to shimmy around dancers just to deliver people’s food and drinks. It was confusing. It didn’t feel intentional. It felt like someone folded three different businesses into one and hoped nobody would notice.

It’s not that the people don’t mix. It’s that the environments don’t.

A 55-year-old’s idea of a good Saturday evening isn’t a 22-year-old’s. A 16-year-old shouldn’t be partying next to adults. And no parent wants their toddler two tables away from a dance-floor altercation waiting to happen.

We used to understand this, but somewhere along the line, we forgot.

Where are the teen clubs? The real nightclubs? The grown-folk lounges?

Many of our third spaces where we hang out are one-size-fits-all, and the seams are splitting.

What’s missing is curation.

People don’t just need a place to go, they need a place that fits who they are right now in real time.

They need spaces where the music makes sense, where conversation is possible, where they’re not looking over their shoulders, where they’re not babysitting someone else’s kids while trying to have a night out. Spaces that understand the culture, energy, and needs of the age group they’re serving.

Right now, we’re getting the opposite.

We’re getting a patchwork of mismatched vibes, and people feel it — even if they can’t name it.

Social media gives us a false sense of “community,” and the real world is imitating it.

Online, everything is flattened. You and your mama comment on the same thread. Teenagers broadcast their mess in front of entire family trees. Adults’ private lives sit next to high school drama. Everything becomes performative — or policed.

Offline is following that script as well.

Businesses want maximum foot traffic, so they blur all the lines. Instead of being curated, spaces become chaotic. Instead of belonging, we get coexistence. Instead of community, we get collisions.

What I’d love to see more of are intentional, age-aligned environments like:

• true teen spaces with music, safety, and supervision

• real nightclubs for 21–30-year-olds

• mature 30+ lounges with controlled music and slick ambience

• family restaurants that stay family restaurants

• elder-friendly spots with clear boundaries and a consistent vibe

We deserve to be catered to, not crammed together “just because.”

I think we’ve honestly mistaken proximity for connection. We assume that throwing everyone in the same room will magically produce harmony. What it often produces instead is tension, discomfort, and silent resentment.

Community requires understanding that different generations bring different energy, and that each deserves a space built with them in mind.

Right now, too many spaces feel like social media offline which is often crowded, chaotic, unfiltered, and not truly for anyone.

Maybe the real message is that everything doesn’t have to be for everybody. We just need spaces built with intention, where people can show up as themselves without squeezing into a vibe that was never meant for them.

Next time, I want to explore what age-aligned spaces could actually look like in Flint and why my city is perfectly positioned to build them.

Until next time,

Peace.

I want an easy Sunday kinda love that feels effortless and free. A love where I can wholeheartedly and easily be me. A love that is new to the eyes but familiar to the soul. The kinda love you wish for after healing yourself whole.

I want conversations that flow like water and intimacy that tastes like wine. I want it all with him, every emotion you can find. I want kisses that mean something and passion that feels real. The kinda love you wish for when you still have to heal.

I want vibey nights with music, candles, and of course, some drinks; complete with good convo every time we link. I want touches that feel like butter — that release all my tension. The kinda love you wish for when you move with intention.

I want an easy Sunday kinda love. Easy and free. A love made for me by the powers that be. I want it wild but steady, with plenty of space to heal. The kinda love you wish for when you want the real deal.

-Tia

When love calls, do you really have to answer?

I’ve been asking myself this ever since I literally ran from the possibility of love last weekend.

I was hanging out with a really cool guy friend, and we’d been out on the town talking, laughing, sharing a few drinks. When he invited me back to his place for a nightcap, I didn’t think twice. He’s just a friend.

But his place was stunning. Comfortable. Something out of Love Jones.

He put on music. Late-80s and early-90s R&B, the kind that hits deep, makes you feel warm and nostalgic. Makes you wanna fall in love… 

The drinks were still flowing around 2:30 a.m., and our conversation had that easy rhythm you don’t find too often.

At some point, I looked him in the eyes—really looked—and for a split second, I saw something I wasn’t ready for: love.

That scared me more than anything. My heart said stay, but my feet said run.

So I did. Told him that I had to get up in the morning and left abruptly.

He said I could stay since I’d been drinking, but honestly, the thought of potentially ending up in his arms sobered me up. I couldn’t compromise a friendship for a what-if, even if it felt right.

I drove all the way home asking myself: Am I ready for this?

The truth is, I wasn’t. Not then. Maybe not now. I’m terrified of being hurt again, of risking a friendship, of letting intimacy change what’s already good. Yet part of me wonders if running was me protecting myself or just blocking something beautiful.

When love calls, do we always have to answer?

I don’t know. But what I do know is this: I don’t want to keep running.🏃🏾‍♀️

I may not have answered this time, but I’m learning how to be ready when love calls again.

Because maybe, just maybe, love’s worth the risk of saying hello.

Thank you for reading❣️

And before you head out, I put together a cool little playlist on Tidal that describes my current thoughts and feelings on love at the moment. It’s surprisingly not that bad lol. Check it out below. https://tidal.com/playlist/8e722576-2c2a-4896-8a05-91877f51d9a1

When I self-published my book of poetry, I had no big marketing plan, no team, and a very minimal budget — just a body of work I believed in and the will to share it. Although I was super busy with work and my social life, I still managed to get the word out about it and learned a lot along the way. Here are some of the ways I promoted my book, what worked for me, and what I’d try next time.

1. I started with social media

As soon as I published my book, I took to Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and TikTok to let my immediate audience know that it was out. I posted about it, showed the cover, and shared a few quotes. That created a little buzz and let people know it existed.

2. I got it into the library

I wrote about this in more detail [here], but getting my book into the local library wasn’t about making money; it was about visibility and building readership. If someone couldn’t buy it, at least they could still read it.

3. I showed up in person

I signed up for local poetry readings and vendor events. I’d sell books, perform a few poems, and talk about why I wrote the book. That’s where a lot of my sales came from — people seeing the book, flipping through it, and buying it on the spot.

4. I carried books with me

I ordered 150 copies through Amazon KDP. Since Amazon sells you author copies at the print cost (mine was about $2 each), I spent roughly $300 and sold most of them for $15 apiece. I gave away about 20 copies to friends and family, but the rest I sold, and made my investment back and more.

5. I talked about it when invited

I didn’t go looking for podcast shows to go on, but once people knew about the book, a few hosts reached out. I made some great connections and got new readers just by showing up and sharing my story.

6. I learned that in person > online

People can like your social media posts all day and say, “I’ll grab a copy Friday!” but ‘likes’ don’t always translate into sales. In-person conversations, tho? Holding the book in your hands? Hearing your voice? That’s what sells books.

What I’ll do differently next time

I want to run Amazon ads. That’s something I didn’t make time for, but I know it could help reach more people. I also want to double down on physical sales and local events. That’s where the real energy is.

One more thing: Promote your book often, without guilt.

Don’t feel awkward about sharing your book again and again. I still post about mine when the feeling hits because every day, someone new is discovering you and your work. And yes, people who already know about it might see it again, but so what? This is your book. Your art. Your voice. And you deserve to tell the world about it.

Want to read the book I’m talking about?

Grab a copy of Let’s Talk About Love: A Collection of Words & Rhymes, available on Amazon.

Want more book promo ideas?

I put together a guide: “30 Cool Ways to Promote Your Book (That Don’t Feel Weird)”
It’s a downloadable list of creative, real-world strategies I’ve used, or plan to use, that you can grab for just $10 here.

Thanks for reading!

I want him to drop Tevin Campbell’s ‘Can We Talk’ in my DM’s along with his phone number. I wanna smile like Angela Winbush and ask my angel if he’s the one for me like SWV.

I want him to ask me to take a long walk with him like Ms. Jilly from Philly, and give him a kiss goodnight like Blackstreet before I let him go.

That night, I want him to feen for me like Jodeci and tell me he wants me, the right way, like Marvin.

I want him to send an audio message of Zapp’s ‘I Want Be Your Man’ to make our love official.

I want him to put on Stevie Wonder’s ‘Make Sure You’re Sure’ over a candlelit dinner to solidify our new union, even with past heartbreaks on the menu.

I wanna kiss him while Anita Baker swoons to ‘Sweet Love.’ I wanna sway with him closely to Alex Isley as we two-step in the living room, then meet him in the bedroom like Silk.

I wanna make love to him while D’Angelo’s ‘Alright’ plays softly in the background, while he tastes every part of my brown sugar.

I want our lovemaking to feel like Donna Summer’s moans and Donny Hathaway’s vibratos.

I want his eye contact to be as intense as Prince at the end of ‘Beautiful Ones’ and his touch as gentle as any Minnie Riperton song.

I want our love to give me goosebumps like LTD’s ‘Love Ballad’ and butterflies like MJ and Marsha A.

Like that Keith Sweat jam, I hope we can make it last forever, and I pray our love plays out longer than ‘Get it Up’ from The Time.

I want him to love me like I love music. Love me til the end of time. 

If you like what you just read, you can buy me a coffee to keep fueling these random thoughts lol. Peace❤️

When I self-published my book, Let’s Talk About Love, on Amazon KDP, I dreamed of more than just online sales. I wanted it in the hands of people in my city, and I wanted it to be included in my local library — a place I had spent so much time in throughout my life.

I had discovered so many amazing books throughout the years, from big-name authors to local ones, and knew the impact an easily accessible book could have.

When it came time for my book to hit the library shelf, the process was surprisingly simple: I visited the library’s website, completed a local author request form, and submitted it, along with a copy of my book, to the designated department.

In this post, I’m sharing how I did it to hopefully inspire you to get your self-published book into the library as well. And if you want even more details, please click the video below where I explain the whole process.

So, what about you? Have you ever thought about getting your self-published book into the library, or have you completed the process? Let me know in the comments, I’m all ears!

Also, if you enjoy my posts and want to support my work, you can always buy me a coffee. Every bit of encouragement helps me to create and keep sharing my thoughts and experiences. Thank you for reading!

I didn’t mean to raise my daughter Britnee on the genius of Chuck D, Spike Lee, and J. Dilla. But somehow, I did.

Through background music during car rides, DVDs stacked beside the TV, and spontaneous conversations about Black culture, we built a shared language that bridges generations through rhythm, resistance, and raw storytelling.

So today, I sat down with Britnee, now 24, to talk about the creators who shaped my world and how they happened to land in hers.

🎤 Chuck D & the Sound of Empowerment

Tia: Do you know who Chuck D from Public Enemy is?
Britnee: No... but I’ve heard of Public Enemy.
Tia: They made the song Fight the Power. I’ve always told you not to fall into the hype. That song is where it comes from.
Britnee: That message definitely stuck. I remember hearing Fight the Power on social media — sometimes behind protest videos, sometimes in cat memes. It always stood as a symbol of standing up for yourself and not getting caught up in trends or drama. I didn’t know it was Public Enemy, but the message was loud and clear.

We also talked about Flavor Flav — who is more recognizable to her generation through reality TV shows like Flavor of Love — and how he represented another side of the coin: playfulness alongside Chuck D’s militance. She compared it to Huey and Riley from The Boondocks, who were two sides of the same cultural soul.

“Chuck D didn’t ring as loud in my generation,” said Britnee. “But his presence is still important — like Huey P. Newton. Not a huge household name for us like Dr. King and Malcolm X, but still a huge part of the movement.”

🎬 Spike Lee & Realism Without Preaching

When I asked Britnee which Spike Lee film stood out most, she didn’t hesitate:

“School Daze.”

“The characters, the frats, the campus culture, it showed all kinds of Blackness. And I love Broadway-style musicals, so that movie felt like a play to me.”

She discovered it by accident while I was watching it in the living room for the millionth time. She walked in on a scene with Tisha Campbell as she sang ‘I don’t wanna be alone tonight’ and instantly got hooked. What kept her engaged in the movie was how real it felt. Not heavy-handed or preachy. Just a good film with an underlying message of staying true to yourself.

“Spike Lee teaches you something without yelling it at you,” she told me. “You just watch real people live, and the message sticks.”

She even recalled a moment in college when watching Do the Right Thing inspired her to do exactly that — after hitting a parked car, she left a note instead of just driving away. Thanks, Spike!

🎧 J. Dilla & the Quiet Influence

J Dilla wasn’t trending when Britnee was in school, but he was always in the background, playing softly (or often loudly) in our house, woven into her subconscious.

“I heard him through you. Car rides in the mornings on the way to school, around the house while you made dinner. Eventually I had to ask, ‘Who is this?’ And that’s how I found out about Dilla.”

Though she can’t name his tracks, she knows the vibe. The beat. The feeling. And that’s what matters.

“He’s not like Aaliyah or other nostalgic artists who stayed in the mainstream. He’s more niche, but if you know, you know.”

💿 Passing Down the Culture

I asked Britnee: which artists from her generation would she pass down?

She didn’t miss a beat, citing Masego, Leon Thomas, Tyler the Creator, and yes, Lil B.

“You can’t talk about Tyler without Lil B. Just like you can’t talk about today’s supermodels without Naomi Campbell. You gotta teach the babies who came before.”

She wants her kids to see the Yonkers video, which shows Tyler eating a live roach, wild-eyed and defiant, because that was her introduction to an artist who moved her. That was her moment.

Final Thoughts

This conversation reminded me of how culture travels and dwells through time. Sometimes it’s intentional as a well-curated playlist or a planned movie night. Other times, it’s incidental as a smooth record humming in the background while breakfast sizzles on the stove.

Either way, the torch is passed, and it burns with the fire of Chuck D’s impeccable truth, Spike Lee’s incredible vision, and J. Dilla’s soulful sounds.

So, teach the babies. Play the music out loud. Watch the movies in the living room. Keep the stories going, because they’re listening — even when you think they’re not.

Peace.

☕️Want to support my work and make me smile? Buy me a coffee😁
❤️Also, check out my collection of poetry, Let’s Talk About Love
✍🏽And learn more about my creative projects at tiamediallc.com

Hey you,

Last Friday, while getting ready for a night on the town, I found myself dragging.

My makeup wasn’t giving what it usually gives. My outfit? Just okay. And the truth? I wasn’t even in the mood to go where I was heading. It’s usually a cool spot with great drinks and a solid vibe, but I kept thinking to myself: I want to have fun…but not that kind of fun.

It wasn’t a loud frustration—it felt more like my inner child was whispering: I want to come out and play.

So I gave her permission to lead.

And where did she take me?
The living room couch.
To watch Beavis & Butt-Head.

Yep. That’s where the party ended up. And you wanna know something? After 20 minutes of watching, I laughed. I said “eww” a few times. And then something unexpected happened—I slipped into a feeling I haven’t felt in so long:

Pure, uncomplicated fun.

I remembered what it felt like to laugh just because something was dumb or weird. I remembered how I used to spend entire afternoons watching TV, reading, then writing whatever I pleased for hours. There was no pressure to be productive. Just freedom. Just joy.

I think as we get older, we lose that spark that used to guide us to simple pleasures. Instead, we start chasing the kind of fun that’s sold to us: bottomless drinks, curated nights out, expensive trips, impulse buys.

And sure, those things can be fun. But I’ve also found myself drinking too much, spending too much, traveling to places I didn’t even enjoy—all in the name of “fun.”

So this weekend, I asked myself:

What did I love before adulthood rearranged everything?

Before the bills, the goals, the survival mode—what did fun actually look like?

And here’s what I found:

• It looked like my mom surprising me with a copy of Vibe Magazine from K-Mart, which I read cover to cover, dreaming of becoming the next dream hampton.

• It looked like crying over a book about the Titanic (before the movie) because I’d fallen so deep into the story.

• It looked like Saturday morning cartoons, a huge bowl of Cap’n Crunch, and hours of laughter.

That version of me shaped the writer I became.
She was curious. She was imaginative. She was joyful.
And she’s still in here.

So this week, I want to ask you something:

What did fun look like before the world told you how to have it?

What did the younger version of you love, and can you let them lead for a little while?

They probably have the answers you’ve been looking for.

With love (and a little cartoon chaos),

-Tia

💌 Forward this to someone who needs a little fun this week.
📚 Read my poetry collection Let’s Talk About Love
☕️ Wanna Buy Me a Coffee? (Go ahead, make my day 😁)

Hey you,

I almost talked myself out of writing this.

That little voice—the one that says, “What if it’s not good enough?” or “What if no one cares?”—was loud this weekend. But I showed up anyway. Not with something polished or profound, just a quiet intention: to start small, again.

Starting over can feel like defeat.

But what if it’s really just a return?

A minor setback for a major comeback?

A homecoming?

I’ve been thinking a lot about that—about how easy it is to drift away from the things that once lit us up. Life gets noisy. Deadlines take over. Confidence dips. But the spark? It doesn’t leave. Sometimes it just waits for you to slow down and listen.

That’s what this note is for: to pause. To breathe. To remind myself that even on days when the words feel stubborn or slow, showing up matters.

So here I am, writing from my desk with a cup of coffee, an open window, and a promise to keep this space honest. I won’t always have the answers, but I will bring presence. And care. And curiosity.

If you’re in a season of returning, too—returning to yourself, your creativity, your joy—I hope you feel me on this.

Until next time, peace.

-Tia

💌 Forward this note to someone who might need it today.
📚 Read my poetry collection Let’s Talk About Love
☕️ Wanna Buy Me a Coffee? (Go ahead, make my day 😁)

Hey you,

Some days, the best thing I can do for my writing is give myself permission not to force it.

There’s something sacred in slowing down. In letting the words come in whispers instead of waves. In learning to trust that the spark will return, not because I chase it, but because I make space for it.

I used to feel guilty for not being productive. Like I owed the world constant output to stay relevant or worthy. But truthfully, the best writing I’ve ever done came after long pauses—when I let myself live, observe, rest, and reset.

This week, I’m dedicating myself to writing more slowly. Fewer pages, more honesty. Less pressure, more care.

It feels like a soft return. Not dramatic. Not loud. But REAL.

So if you’re in a quiet season, if you're figuring out how to come back to yourself, know that the pause isn’t wasted—it’s a part of the process.

Let it be enough today.

Until next time, peace.

-Tia

💌 Forward this to someone giving themselves permission to rest.
📚 Read my poetry collection Let’s Talk About Love
☕️ Wanna Buy Me a Coffee? (Go ahead, make my day 😁)

Hey you,

Lately, writing has felt like whispering into a wind tunnel. The words come slowly. Some days, not at all.

I used to think that meant I was doing something wrong. Real writers didn’t hesitate. Real inspiration didn’t leave. But now, at this big age, I know better.

Some days, showing up to the page is the work.

Not because there’s something extraordinary waiting to be written, but because there’s something worth staying connected to—even when it’s quiet.

Today, I wrote one sentence I liked. ONE. And that was enough.

So if you’re in a slow season or if the spark feels out of reach, let this be your reminder: you’re still a writer, even when the words don’t come easy.

Take your time. Breathe. And when you’re ready, write something honest—even if it’s just: “I don’t know what to say today.”

That counts, too.

Peace,

-Tia

💌 Forward this note to someone who might need it today.
📚 Read my poetry collection Let’s Talk About Love
☕️ Wanna Buy Me a Coffee? (Go ahead, make my day 😁)

Publishing a poetry book has always been a dream of mine. For over 20 years, I let my pile of poems sit in the corner of my mind with silent promises of publishing them one day.

After years of writing, editing, and daydreaming, I finally brought that dream to life, and I did it all on my own. Well, I did have a little help from Amazon KDP and Fiverr, but I did everything else on my own, and you can, too.

If you’ve ever thought about self-publishing your own poetry, here’s a behind-the-scenes look at exactly how I did it, what I spent, and what I learned.

📚 Want to see the finished book?
Grab a copy of ‘Let’s Talk About Love’ on Amazon here: https://amzn.to/44UCtZA (affiliate link)

Step 1: Organizing My Work

The first thing I did was gather all the poems and type them into a single Word document. I divided the poems into chapters based on themes and moods, which helped me start shaping the book’s overall structure. I didn’t worry about what font or format to use because I knew it would all change in production. My main goal was to just get everything into a document so we could get the publishing process going.

Make sure that you’re working with the final draft of your book before going into the production phase. I re-read my draft multiple times to see if everything flowed well and if there were any grammar issues.

Step 2: Designing the Cover

Next, I turned to Fiverr to bring my book cover to life. Actually, let me back up a second. In 2021, I asked my boyfriend at the time, who’s a graphic designer, to sketch out an idea I had for my book cover. I told him how I wanted it to look and emailed him various reference photos of women blowing kisses and tiny little hearts. Below on the left is his sketch from 2021, and the final cover on the right was designed by a freelance designer from Fiverr in 2023.

The Fiverr freelancer charged me $55.25, which is honestly a great price for quality work. I loved how it came out.

Step 3: Formatting the Book for Print

With the cover complete, I moved on to formatting the book’s interior. I hired another freelancer on Fiverr to create a simple layout for $34.15. After reviewing the first draft, I realized I needed to make some updates and paid the same seller another $34.15 to revise the file.

If you’re not happy with a freelancer’s results the first time, don’t be afraid to let them know and ask for changes until you’re satisfied with the final product. And if you’re just not happy at all with that freelancer, cut your losses with them and find another one. There are tons of professionals on Fiverr to check out. Just do your homework beforehand.

Step 4: Uploading to Amazon KDP (and Running Into Issues)

When I tried uploading my files to Amazon KDP, I ran into a problem: the specs for my cover were off, and KDP wouldn’t accept it. I found out the dimensions needed to match the final page count exactly.

Step 5: Resizing the Cover

I went back to Fiverr and hired someone to resize the cover for KDP compatibility, which cost me $13.05. This fixed the issue, but the process wasn’t over yet.

Step 6: Upgrading the Interior Layout

At this point, I decided to take things up a notch and make the inside of the book more visually appealing. I hired a Fiverr designer to improve the interior layout with creative elements and better spacing. This cost $87.40, but it made a huge difference in how the book looked and felt.

Step 7: One More Cover Adjustment

Because the new layout slightly changed the page count, the original cover no longer fit. Amazon KDP rejected it again. I went back to Fiverr one last time and paid $7.78 to have the front, back, and spine resized.

Step 8: Final Upload & Approval

Once everything was in place, I uploaded the revised files to Amazon KDP. After a short wait, the book was approved for publishing.

Step 9: Ordering the Author Copy

Before promoting my book, I ordered an author copy to see how it turned out, and holding it in my hands for the first time was a moment I’ll never forget. Although I published it myself, I felt like an accomplished author, and honestly, I am!

My book has an ISBN and was published on Amazon, which is a worldwide seller that gives you access to customers across the world and the ability to publish your work in many different languages.

Going this route was the best decision for me, and I’m glad I stopped putting my dream off and finally made it come true.

💸 What It Cost Me to Self-Publish

In total, I spent $231.78 self-publishing my poetry book. Every penny went toward making sure the book looked and felt exactly how I envisioned — from design to layout to the final printed copy. While it wasn’t free, it was definitely affordable compared to hiring a full-service publishing team or graphic designer.

If you're planning to do something similar, I'd recommend setting aside at least $200–250 to cover formatting, cover design, and potential revisions. And if you're handy with design software, you may be able to cut that cost down even further.

What I Learned

Here are a few tips if you’re planning to self-publish:

• Triple-check your specs. Make sure your formatting and cover dimensions match Amazon KDP’s requirements exactly.

• Leave room in your budget. You may need to pay for revisions or formatting tweaks.

• Don’t be afraid to upgrade. Investing in layout design can take your book from good to great.

• Be patient. There were delays and do-overs, but each one taught me something new.

Ready to Start Your Own Self-Publishing Journey?

Whether you’re working on a poetry collection or another creative project, I hope this post gives you the confidence to move forward. Good luck and happy writing!

📚 Check out my book here: https://amzn.to/44UCtZA (affiliate link)
🎨 Need help with formatting or design? I highly recommend Fiverr (affiliate link) — that’s where I got all of my publishing support.

☕️ Wanna Buy Me a Coffee? (Go ahead, make my day😁)