Reading another great book this week, "No Plot? No Problem!" by Chris Baty (pictured right), founder of NaNoWriMo, the National Novel Writing Month Competition. Every November, more than 100K writers around the globe try to write a 50,000 word novel in just one month. There are daily pep talks, "write-ins" with fellow NaNoWriMos, an online regional database to locate other participants, and a certificate upon completion.

Sound a little crazy? Maybe it is. But there are far crazier things in life than writing a novel in a month -- say, writing a novel in 10 years.

I tried it last year; but life, fate, and my crazy roommates conspired against me. I don't think it's a farfetched idea at all, it's certainly quite doable. But there are quite a few things that need to be in place to create a favorable environment for Nano-ing and writing in general. What's great about his book is that it is written for people who have a lot on their plates -- like school, work, and family -- and live in an internet culture that creates these overwhelming and nonproductive sucks on your time (something that Anne Lamott and Stephen King don't take into account at all, likely because they're old school).

Chris offers tips on how to prioritize your writing and deprioritize time sucks like web surfing, washing dishes, and hanging out till all hours of the night. There's this great little tool, called a Time Finder, for figuring out what things you can do without. For a whole week, you keep a daily log of your activities, noting how long it takes you to do them. Then you go through with a colored pen at the end of that week and categorize each activity as REQUIRED, HIGHLY DESIRED, or FORGOABLE. Once you do that, you cut out all the forgoable activities (and highly desired if push comes to shove) for those four weeks and voila -- you found the time you need to write!

I always feel like I don't have enough time in the day, so this Time Finder seems really amazing. I certainly do waste a certain amount of time every day which, taken together, I could be using to enormous good. At the same time, one thing that Chris finds is that your down time becomes enormously productive as a result of getting your writing done. Spending time with friends, the sunrise, even a slow walk in the park seem more enjoyable.

And I can vouch that this week, writing at least a couple of hours every morning has been very good to me. I find that I'm far less irritable with other people because I'm getting my own work done and I can really be present with them because I'm not thinking about what I didn't get done.

I hope the process of finishing this book will help me finally put to rest this issue I have with prioritizing other people's commitments over and above my own, giving generous amounts of valuable time away -- in a sense, giving myself away. To that end, I have officially instituted a moratorium against working on other people's projects at present, so I can commit fully to my book.

Will let you know how well I stick to it. ;)

February 25, 2009
I first read Push a couple of years back when author Sapphire, under the alias "Zora," started showing up to my writers' workshop in Park Slope. She had been longtime friends with our workshop leader, Sister Bisi, and had a penchant for crafting award-worthy poetry in five minutes or less.

Sapphire has an innate facility with words; she can turn the darkest, dreariest circumstances and emotions into pure poetry. A true -- and, likely, born -- writer. And a former dancer. And pretty, her closely-cropped natural highlighting a perfectly shaped dome and a delicate nose ring. She was a lot of other things, too; made me wish that looking at her was seeing a reflection of myself twenty years from now, nose ring and all. But back to her book.

Having written alongside Sapphire in workshop, I felt somewhat prepared when I bought my copy of Push, siren red with bold, black letters running lengthwise down the cover. It evoked a sense of urgency that made me open it up on the subway ride home -- and not put it down until I had finished digesting the brutal reality of child abuse and incest Precious suffered.

When I heard Lee Daniels had gotten his hands on it and was making a film, I almost threw up -- conjuring the sensationalized, self-annihilating drama that was Halle Berry in Monster's Ball. I was certain that the story would be exploited for its savagery, the subtleties of Precious's strength and resilience glossed over for cinematic effect. I only hoped that, since she'd sold the rights, Sapph was on board with the project.

Fast forward to the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance Festival '09 and I couldn't be happier Daniels chose it. Some people just know how to make ugly pretty. And we can't help but watch them do it.

I attended a fashion week benefit after party for the Macdella Cooper Foundation, featuring a runway show by Korto Momolu of Project Runway fame (pictured left). MCF is raising $500,000 to build a tuition-free school for Liberian orphans, spurred by the zealous mission of founder Macdella Cooper, a civil war refugee turned glamorous fashionista.

I have never been in a room with more rich people in my life. There were New York Times reporters and fashion execs, Hollywood producers and supermodels.

It got me thinking that, like Macdella Cooper and Korto Momolu, I want to be my own brand. It seems to be the only path to the kind of job and life satisfaction I'm seeking. Working as a freelance writer is tough. Quite often the editor's or publisher's vision is so far off from mine that I have to compromise my creative authenticity, my work becoming so much fodder for a 24/7 news machine.

Deep down, I crave the freedom to define what, when, and how I write. Achieving that goal requires an unyielding determination and audacity.

Right now, I have to fake it to make it, repeating the mantra: I am living in a universe of my creation. Master of my personal brand.

I've been reading a bunch of memoirs on writing lately, notably On Writing by Stephen King and Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott (pictured above). King's is gripping; not only as a study on the craft of writing and the vagaries of publishing, but also in its unflinching honesty about his battles with alcoholism, drug abuse, and rebirth after a near fatal run-in with a 15 passenger van.

What I enjoyed most about King's memoir was his honesty about where he comes from -- he was among the working poor most of his life -- and its impact on his life. What irritates me about Ms. Lamott's writing is her inability to grasp the effect of her socioeconomic status and racial privilege on her success.

Lamott says, of her college days, "I was drawn to oddballs, ethnic people, theater people, poets, radicals, gays and lesbians." By her own admission, she is normal, while the rest of us are different. Exceptional by virtue of our idiosyncracies -- be they race, gender, or sexual orientation.

In essence, she is a middle class, college-educated white woman whose father was a writer. There is a certain degree of privilege in that, but Lamott is unwilling or unable to own up to that privilege. She claims her experience as a universal one and, by omission, pushes all others to the margins.

Of South and Central American writers, Lamott writes: "When I read their books, I feel like I'm sitting around a campfire at night where they are spinning their wild stories...I understand why this style is so attractive to my students: it's like primitive art. It's simple and decorative, with rich colors...like watching a wild theater piece with lots of special effects."

She describes one character as "an old black woman from the South," as though this description alone is evocative, stumbling over her own predisposition for campfire/mammy imagery.

While I struggle to write the people in my life, many of whom happen to be "ethnic" -- for lack of a pithier, though less derogatory, adjective for non-white -- as real people and not caricatures, hundreds of successful writers sell books peopled by "old black women from the South."

It seems unfair that those of us who conceive of ourselves as "ethnic" must shoulder the burden of our sensibilities alone.

What got me to the Brooklyn Museum for First Saturdays yesterday was a conversation between choreographer Bill T. Jones and noted film critic Elvis Mitchell, of NPR fame.

Jones -- who is featured in a new exhibit, The Black List Project, by photographer Timothy Greenfield-Sanders and interviewer Mitchell -- discussed his life, Lincoln, Fela Kuti, and the role of anger in art.

Jones was a wannabe actor who, after discovering African dance through the late great Percival Borde, began his dance career at the age of 19. He went on to become a celebrated postmodern choreographer with notable commissioned works, including a project commemorating Abraham Lincoln.

Describing a scene typical of his younger days, when he flashed a man and his two young children during a performance, Jones considered the role of an artist in society:

"He ought to be running naked through the streets thumbing his nose at people. Absolutely free. But there's a conservativizing effect that comes with success. I began to ask whether I should edit myself more."

Jones urged all artists to "describe your world with as much accuracy and generosity as you can," noting that only then can you engage in a higher dialogue about issues of race, class, and gender. All too often, artists make the mistake of starting with the big picture and working backwards to the personal. They paint with too broad a brush, losing their point-of-view and failing to tap the raw material of their emotions -- namely anger, desire, and love.

"Fela! was primarily an entertainment. Work for hire," Jones said. "My producer brought the story to me and I created a show." Jones's latest production was amazingly well choreograped, scored (by Antibalas), designed, and performed -- lead actor Sahr was phenomenal and the dancers were fiery -- but it was a little too light on story.

Jones felt that imparting Fela's message was more important than being true to how he would've spoken or even behaved in certain situations. "[My producer] asked me why I wanted to translate some of the words [Fela sang] and I said because most people would not understand pidgin English."

There was more Fela to come, at a dance party pitting DJs Rich Medina and Spinna in a Fela vs. James Brown spinoff. It was a little too light on Fela, but I danced the night away all the same.