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Not so long ago, this young, good-looking guy in my neighborhood tried to talk to me. The conversation went something like this:

YOUNG TENDER: I always see you around with a big smile on your face. My name is (Young Tender states his name), and I’d like to get to know you.

ME (flattered): I’m engaged and too old for you, but I like your style. My sister’s younger and cuter than me. Maybe I’ll introduce you next time she’s in town.

YOUNG TENDER: Well, who says I’m into cute? I want your number.

ME (stomps off insulted, thinking–did I just get called ugly???).

It’s surprising to me that someone as good-looking as the young tender could have so little game (I mean, why would you tell someone you’re trying to “holla at” that they’re unattractive???). But anyway, that’s life. Other surprising things I’ve learned this year about writing:

1) Rejection can actually make you more hopeful. I’ve had my share of rejection this year–and with the economy so bad and funding for artists/writers so limited, I don’t think I’m the only one. But the strange thing rejection teaches you is that rejection isn’t the end of the world. And when you finally publish a story that has been rejected more than a few times, you have this feeling that anything is possible, and that gives you the courage and motivation to continue writing.

2) Writers can be other writers’ best source of support. Maybe I read too many biographies of writers as a teenager, but I didn’t realize until recently how much other writers are willing to champion each other’s work (when they really like that work).

3) Your job doesn’t have to mean the end of your writing; in fact, it just might make it better. I teach at a community college, where the teaching load is heavy, but my job has forced me to become a little less disorganized and a lot more focused. When the semester ends and I do get a break, I think I’m more productive than I would have been had I had a less hectic schedule.

What surprising things have you learned this year about writing and life?

I can’t help but like Joe Biden, especially because his latest gaffe—the “big f–ing deal” comment—sounds so much like something that would have happened to me. That whole completely inappropriate slip of the tongue in the midst of a big, solemn moment–totally a Rochelle thing to do. For that reason, I feel I understand Biden more than Obama, who has a calm and poise I strive for but haven’t quite obtained.

Literature reminds us of these kinds of moments—how you don’t have to be from the cultural or ethnic background as someone in order to “get them.” Obama and I are both black, but I connect more with Biden’s bumbling than Obama’s cool.

Which reminds me: I keep re-reading The Bridesgroom was a Dog by Yoko Tawada, a writer the poet A. Van Jordan suggested I read. I say re-reading because I picked up this collection of novellas a month or so ago and have read it three times since.

Tawada is my new hero–her first novella is something I wish I had written, the last sounds like something I’ve started to. (And as a black woman who writes quirky, dreamlike stories about black women, it felt enormously good to read stories from a writer whose quirky, dreamlike stories about Asian women have received great acclaim.)

All this brings me to a comment James McBride made at today’s Black Writers Conference: “Black people don’t read.” He went on to argue that if more black folks were reading, we wouldn’t have novels like Push receiving so much attention.

I was incensed. I got up my nerve and waited as the four or five people in front of me asked their questions. By the time it was my time to speak, people were in the midst of a conversation about Push and had forgotten what I feel was the more dangerous part of McBride’s assertion.

“More people should be reading Black writers, period,” I said. I tried to explain, in my bumbling Joe Biden way, that a person–of any race–is impoverished if their reading lists haven’t included Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, Zora Neale Hurston,Jefferey Renard Allen, Tayari Jones, Victor LaValle, Charles Chesnutt, Gwendolyn Brooks, Paule Marshall, Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Chimamanda Adichie, Yusef Komunyakka, August Wilson. Studies have suggested that literature has the power to make us more empathetic, more open-minded. So if we’re truly serious about changing the world, why aren’t we doing more to make sure that Asian, Latino, White, and Native American kids are reading these works? These treasures shouldn’t be limited–or ghetto-sized–into the “black book section” of your local libraries and Barnes and Nobles.

But then the self-important moderator stopped me in the mid-question and made me say my name (and what is it with this narcissistic way of asking questions, where people always give this long introduction of who they are before asking their question. Isn’t the question supposed to be more important than the person asking it?) which confused me. My voice then took on that high-pitched, nervous quality it gets when I’m either a) emotional about something or b) speaking in public. (And I was both, at that moment.)

I don’t think anyone got my point (though the delightful Chris Abani reached the same conclusion I did about the novel Push). Still, I hope today, if someone is reading this post, that they decide to reach out to a friend and introduce them to the wonder that can be found in literature from writers of all colors.

Other Highlights of the Black Writers Conference: Seeing the incredibly talented and superbly generous writer Victor LaValle read; meeting Angela Reid of the National Black Festival Online Book Club; having a dude who stood me up for Valentine’s Day eight years ago (and, no, I haven’t forgotten) ask me for my contact information

I am filled with serious gratitude for the wonderfully supportive and engaging community of writers/artists who share their work & dreams with the world! :) #love #joy #gratitude #feeling good

(The Vermont Studio Center’s very talented visual artists held their open studios today. Amazing, original work. This was followed by a reading from creative writers whose poems, novels, and essays I admire. It feels soooo good to listen to thoughtful, innovative work!)

Okay–Van Jordan, the Idris Elba of poetry, is participating in the Hurston-Wright workshop, along with novelist Mat Johnson. I’ve read both Jordan & Johnson’s work and both are amazing writers, so this should be a worthwhile experience (wish I could go, but I’ve got a wedding to plan & it’s sucking up all my $$$. ) Tuition, which is only $389 for the whole weekend, is due February 19.

Most writers hear a lot of Nos.

There’s the Fast No: A rejection just a couple of days after you send off your manuscript.

There’s the Slow No: A rejection months—or even years—after you send something off (This is pretty bad; after a year of no response, when I had basically forgotten I’d sent off a story, one publication rejected me twice, for the same story, in the same week. I guess they really hated it.)

And finally, there’s the Passive-Aggressive No: This No looks like an acceptance because your piece was actually accepted, and it’s only until months–or years later–when the publication never actually publishes your work that you discover that you’ve been rejected yet again.

I believe that good work does eventually get published, and when I’m not drowning in self pity (kidding, kidding) I try to use rejection as a chance to revaluate and revisit my work, and hopefully, make it stronger. And in the event that I can’t find someone to publish the work, but I feel the story or novel is strong enough to go out into the world, I think there’s nothing wrong with self-publishing. Below, you’ll find my essay about self-publishing—why we should be open to reading self-published work and why it may be particularly valuable for writers of color. (Writers who are not of color should note that I wrote an entire essay about self-publishing in New York without ever once bringing up Walt Whitman.) Enjoy!

“Get my book–$1. $1 for the whole thing. Read the back. Good story for only $1.”

We know the value of creativity and reinvention because we already did this for hip-hop—we took the classic R&B of our parents, appreciated its artistry, and used it to create wondrous new art. I hope that today we’re doing the same for literature.

My neighbors from Brooklyn publish books, travel, write books together, and just generally have a good time. Each day, this loving couple experiences the life I hope to one day live.

Visit them at http://www.brettbooks.com/bretts.shtml.

I think I spotted novelist Victor LaValle the other day. I was on 9th & 49th, leaving the most gully gym in NYC , and possibly the entire country.

Because I’m loud, and a bit obsessed with his latest book, I started screaming, “Victor…Victooooor! It’s me, Rochelle!”

Of course, Victor–or the person who may have been Victor–kept walking, his eyes directed straight ahead, his I-Pod plugged firmly into his ears.

Well, you know how southern black folks are. If we’ve talked to you for more than 23 seconds, we expect (demand?) a greeting (or, at the very least, a head nod). So I started muttering, “Why he didn’t speak?” And because I was red-faced (from working out) with little drops of sweat clinging to my naps, and talking to myself, a brother stopped me on the street.

CONCERNED BROTHER: Miss–are you alright?
ME: Fine. Thanks. I’m just thinking about God.
CONCERNED BROTHER (looking even more concerned because of my disheveled appearance and the fact that this could very well be the start of one of those infamous New York street corner sermons): Okaaaay.
ME: No, seriously I’m fine. Sorry for worrying you. Thank you. Thanks for stopping.
Exit Concerned Brother to bank; Exit Rochelle towards apartment

Before I read LaValle’s Big Machine, I thought belief was something fixed. I grew up in a conservative town, and everyone I knew, whether religious or atheist, held such strong, immovable beliefs. And in many ways, I’ve always envied these people for their convictions, for their ability to know at all times, with absolute certainty, exactly what it is that they believe. Sometimes when I pray (uncertainty hasn’t prevented me from praying), I have these flashes where I feel connected to something grand and joyous and loving, and I think that what I’m feeling could be called God. But then there’s times when that feeling is far less strong, less present, and I question what I ever felt in the first place…The thing that neither my religious nor my atheist friends get is that you can’t make yourself believe, or vice-versa, make yourself disbelieve. What you feel is simply that–what you feel. I can examine all these reasonable, philosophical arguments about the existence (or inexistence) of God, but that doesn’t necessarily change my feelings. Perhaps it’s analogous to understanding the logic behind an emotion; you might understand the reasons why you’re angry, but that doesn’t mean that you’re less angry. And some scientists believe that your ability to feel strongly one way or another may be partly genetic.

So, there’s something comforting (to me, at least) about books like LaValle’s Big Machine, or Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair. Both books suggest that doubt isn’t something to be squelched or ignored.

(This will eventually blossom into an even longer post (my apologies), but right now I just want to do a quickie post on LaValle, his book, and my random thoughts about God and spirituality…)

UPDATE: Victor sent a really nice message explaining that he had just been in deep thought that day and didn’t see me. I know what that’s like (there are days when I’m concentrating so hard on something, I could walk past my own reflection), and we all have those moments when we just need to get lost in ideas, emotions, etc…And by the way, if you haven’t gone out and bought Big Machine, please use this post as a reminder to do so!!!

This month, I’m re-reading Invisible Man & checking out Njabulo Ndebele (as suggested by my Tweet friends). I’ll follow up here with with a Francine Prose styled close reading of my favorite passages.
☮ Ω ♥ (peace, luck, and love)!

(This is a long overdue post, but it’s never too late to say “thank you.”)

Essence magazine published a story last month about how black women don’t support each other. And not only do black women not support each other, the story argued, black women spend more time cutting each other down than building each other up.

I wrote to ABelleinBK, a writer for Essence, and said that hadn’t been my experience–I didn’t feel very much animosity from black women. In fact, I told Belle that while I’ve been supported by writers of all races and both genders, I’ve had a great deal of encouragement from black women writers.

1) Opal Moore (my gratitude towards Opal cannot be expressed in words), Alma Jean Billingslea-Brown, Akiba Harper, Sharan Strange, and the entire Spelman College English Department for giving me the courage to express my opinions.

2) Paule Marshall for giving me tough love when I was planning to move back to New York; Paule warned me that I needed to take my writing seriously and do something more with my life than “just take care of your boyfriend.”
3) Alice Walker for providing with the funding that allowed me to go to New York and pursue writing and poet Nikky Finney for judging the contest for Ms. Walker’s fellowship and for giving me an honest assessment of my strengths and weaknesses as a writer.
4) Edwidge Danticat for telling my twenty-year-old self that I had talent when I didn’t believe that I did.
5) Joanne Gabbin and the wonderful women of WinterGreen Writers Collective for their words, inspiration, and advice.

And, although not exactly mentors, I am appreciative of–and delighted by–the warmth and support of young black women writers/editors: Bunmi Adeoye for taking a chance on a new writer when she didn’t have to–at all; >LaToya Peterson of Racialicious for being thoughtful enough to pass my work on to a supportive Deanna Sutton ; Akiba Solomon for words of encouragement when I was sort of broke and kind of homeless; Kyla Berry, Chantal James, Katrina Rogers, and Brittny Ray–a new generation of poets, novelists, journalists, and playwrights–for reminding me of the joy and beauty of language.

When I wrote to her ABelleinBK responded that I was lucky to have had these kinds of pleasant interactions with other black women. The publishing industry can be challenging, and writers of color struggle with complicated arguments about their art/politics that I don’t think other writers face (now if I’m wrong, let me know). I’ve had the usual issues with depression, and without the outpouring of support from both new and established black women writers, I don’t know if I would be writing today. And all that makes me realize that Belle is right: I have been quite fortunate.

Now, tell me, who are your mentors?

The National Book Award Foundation discusses White Noise today. In response, here are my two pennies:

Initially I read White Noise because I was too intimidated by the size of Underworld and my girl Lisa Bauer told me I HAD to read it. Turns out, Lisa was right…

White Noise is one of those books that not only doesn’t seem dated–it feels especially true now that Twitter and cell phones and Facebook status updates are constantly competing for our attention. (In fact, White Noise’s brief excerpts from t.v. commercials read like tweets.)

I’m not sure what message I’m supposed to take from this book, but that’s the reason I like it…All of that “white noise”–the television, radio, the blogs, and now, the tweets–aren’t meant to make sense; they’re just a distraction from our ultimate, eternal destination.