I’ve been writing for a long time. I published my first books back in 2004. I’m still going, even without the glitz and fame, without being a household name and raking in tens of thousands of dollars in royalties each month.
I’m a hobby writer. I’m not too concerned with writing for an audience, whether book buyers or editors. I believe this keeps me challenging my comfort zone with the stories I tell. I’m free because I’m not seeking approval or validation from anyone else. I’m not worried by how my work will be received by editors or readers.
Brooklyn looks nothing like how I imagined
It would from the Wu-Tang songs
I listened to in the 90s. I was paranoid
I’d get mugged or stabbed walking
From Cumberland to Greene,
To Lafayette to Elliot to Park.
Instead I passed parks full
Of white toddlers with white moms,
Young professionals straight out of college
And out of their parents’ taxes as dependents
On the mile walk from the brunch spot
To Commodore Barry Park.
The doorbell interrupted Jim Owen Brown’s breakfast. He abandoned his meal and went to open the door, a full mug of coffee in his hand. A woman and a man, both wearing suits and broad smiles, greeted him. The man held a clipboard.
“Hello,” said the woman, her voice as sweet as candy cane, “are you Mr. Jim Owen Brown, Sr.?”
Jim had to stop himself from laughing out loud at such a question. Every adult in the union knew who he was, even young fresh-out-of-college lackeys like the two people in front of him. Most people called him by his political moniker, Vice President JOBS.
Jim took a sip of coffee before answering. “Yes, I am he.”
Words = Life
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