about the bullsh*t
Once upon a time, I had this grand notion. To start a blog. And this blog would be so high-minded, so Earth-shattering in its thought-provocation that it was beyond definition or an actual direction.
But I wanted it to be about writing. Certainly, that’s what I do when I’m not busy putting food on the table. So first I used this place to post my work. And after the blog languished for three months, I merged this with an older blog to create Voltron altruistic bullsh*t, to meld creative writing with technology. And that worked for, maybe, ten posts. It was, regrettably, unsustainable. How many ways can I say, “Don’t trust the spell check function?”
Then I went slightly insane and decided I needed to make this a personal blog which is, of course, 2.0 speak for “diary” and I don’t want to write an online diary anymore than you want to read one.
Finally, it occurred to me. I’m a writer. An unpublished writer. A BLACK unpublished writer. I love to read old and new black literature and I have no shame in saying the lion share of my collection consists of melanin’d authors. And there are some unique issues facing black authors these days. Well maybe not “unique,” but lamentable, if the “African American” section at your local chain bookstore is any indication.
So that’s altruistic bullsh*t. It’s mostly me, because I’m the only writer here, but I’m sure I’ll somehow shame my friends and family here, too. Black literature, dope music and drool-worthy gadgets. And the occasional sad song about publication rejections. That’s about all I can promise.
