TRAMBLINGS. . .
Feeling a little anxious today. Turning the new project in on Tuesday and right now I am finding a million and one things wrong with it. Tomorrow I’ll love it and Sunday I’ll go back to hating it. Monday I’ll be ambivalent and Tuesday just before I email it to my reps, I will think it’s the best thing since chunky peanut better and snow-white KEDS. Not together. Separate and apart.
And since we’re talking about sneakers, you haven’t seen anything if you don’t know about THESE. I mean, really, how fly is UNDRCRWN anyway? Besides being hip, old school and ahead of the curve, they come in a black velvet jewelry box. So, if you don’t know, now you know.
Anyway, I can tell I’m anxious because I’m craving comfort food like a fiend. My mom showed me how to whip up SMOTHERED STEAK during my visit so I made it last night. The Crown Prince was horrified but by the time the rice finished cooking he was standing in the kitchen, with Kobe behind him, wondering if there was enough for him. But, what, I ask, is steak and gravy without a peach pie for dessert? You have to take it all the way to the wall when you fall off your nutrition plan so I baked the pie while waiting for my manuscript to print out. My anxiety attacks don’t last long, thank goodness. Otherwise, my friend, I’d be big as a house.
So, we’ll file this new book under the category of SHITTIEST TITLE I’VE SEEN IN A LONG, LONG TIME. I mean, really, why is all that necessary? And the subtitle is just as nuts. THIS IS NOT CHICK LIT: ORIGINAL STORIES BY AMERICA’S BEST WOMEN WRITERS. Really? Says who? I’m not in there and I think I can string together a mean motherfucking sentence. (Okay, not that sentence but you get the idea). Are there only 18 BEST WOMEN WRITERS IN AMERICA? Why not 27? Or 11? Or 992? America’s a big place. There might be 18 in Maine. . ., no, that doesn’t sound right either. There might be 18 in Bangor, Maine. No, shit, that’s too limited as well. Okay, look, there might be 18 in a three block radius in Bangor, Maine or maybe in a five block radius but I would still. . .
When the EDITOR came up with her list how did she narrow it down to those women. What was the formula for “black, white and Puerto Rican?” What about if you set your hair with rollers at night instead of working a perm? Did they all have to own library cards? Drive a Prius? And what about the whole issue of shaving your legs versus waxing? I mean, since we’re being so arbitrary where do those writers fall on the “like men with comb-overs” versus the “I like a man who can rock a bald head” school of thought. And, how, must I ask did Merrick just decide she was “literary?” Can we give ourselves titles? We can? Well, gotdamn, nobody told me. From now on I am Nichelle D. Tramble, Queen of the Universe.
Where’s Z.Z. Packer? Where’s Emily Raboteau? Where’s Elizabeth Gilbert? Where’s Grace F. Edwards? Edwards writes a mystery series these days but she still comes to play. Does the fact that she writes genre fiction automatically disqualify her? What about Ellen Gilchrist? Tayari Jones? Naomi Hirahara? T. Greenwood? Or, well, you get the picture? I admit to being a fan of nearly every writer involved in the anthology – and it’s a pretty impressive list of women – but that title and the motivation behind it is some bullshit.
If you want to read more, here’s a REVIEW and here is some DISCUSSION. And an opposing anthology, THIS IS CHICK LIT hits stores soon. You know, like an answer record from the early days of hip-hop but since we’re on the subject, I want all the women involved in this dust-up to remember the East Coast/West Coast rap battles and take it down a notch. That shit ended bad for everybody involved.
Now before I competely go off the deep end and bake another pie while throwing manuscript pages from the roof of my house, check out my girl PAULA, then have a safe weekend.
Until next time. . .