Omg! Omg! Omg! My fingers are dancing across this keyboard as I write to you! Finally a bit of validation that the first of my three novels is as marketable as I hoped. After a concerted search and query campaign for a wonderful literary agent, one has asked to check out the full manuscript for Flamenco & the Sitting Cat — yay!!!
Much of the discussion over whether to self-publish or to go the traditional route does itself a disservice. Often, it mashes together anything involving words and pages. Seldom does the conversation distinguish non-fiction from fiction, and literary from genre, genre from niche.
To my inexperienced eye, self-publishing stardom belongs to non-fiction and narrow fiction genres. It’s easier for them to top of internet searches without authors having to spend truckloads on marketing.
My novel falls into the category of upmarket, somewhere between commercial and literary fiction. To become easily findable by readers, those demand a heck of a lot of expertise, time and money, effort, then more time and money. How is that sort of writer to find enough time and focus to write more upmarket novels?
By the way, when I first queried this agent, I didn’t hear back for a while, so I nudged her. Thank goodness I did, because if I hadn’t, there’s a good chance that I wouldn’t be jumping up and down with glee right now. If you’re curious about nudging agents, here’s a link that explains.
I love good news! When I hear it in bad times, It reminds me that good things are possible. During good times, it’s win/win nirvana!…
Today’s guest blog post is by published poet, Jerrice J. Baptiste — yes! — Thunderous applause is due, because from what I’ve heard, poetry is the most daunting to find agents and publishers for. Originally from Haiti, she resides in New York. An educator and facilitator of poetry for healing and self-expression, she’s a Pushcart nominee for 2024 and Best of The Net by Blue Stem in 2022. Her writing appears numerous noted publications, from Artemis Journal to The Yale Review, and quite a lot in between. Moreover, Jerrice’s poetry and collaborative songwriting are featured on the nominated Grammy Award album, Many Hands: Family Music for Haiti. Check out her site for more on her and her writing.
Ghost Who Loved Me by Jerrice J. Baptiste
* * *
I Look for You in The Sangha
Papa, I never visited your grave to see your name carved in stone.
Your last name I resisted, changed, returned to like the ocean thrashing.
My father figures were not you, not the same blood thumping in temples,
thick white marrow in Sangha, fingers rolling Mala, coyly hair scented with lemongrass. No kind eyes like toads, like Buddha with soft gaze at lotus feet.
No salt of your skin after bowing to the sun all day. No ink reserved in your pen for scribbling, erasing stars then replacing them back together in sky where they belong. How do I carry your name and not hyphenate, not follow the Middle Way?
Become a soaring Buddha, unafraid of the spark of you in me that makes
everyone who knows me says, “You’re just like your father.”
* * *
“Do you have any memories of your father?” my friend asks. Curiosity in his voice chills my bones. Shivering before we even get out of the lobby. Where the eggshell marble lamp table welcomes guests to sign in. We step out into the frigid air, fold our arms until that moment we hear the car beep. Pulling the red Subaru doors open, we rush in as if we were allergic to the outside air.
My friend’s beard curls over like carrot stems growing old on the steering wheel. Second guessing his old new thrift store trench coat. Still unsure if it’s a woman or a man’s coat. The price was ridiculously low. Fill up a medium size brown paper bag for three dollars. That was the deal of the decade. A brown leather coat and grey trench pushed in a bag. His eyebrows raised almost as thick as a squirrel’s tail, peppered thin line joining in the center of his forehead. His question returns, “You don’t remember anything about your father?”
* * *
Green Bicycles Daughters Never Learned To Ride
We reach with hands
through wind,
offer oranges, forgiveness
peeled.
Salt of abandoned sea
bakes our cheeks.
Lament of pink twilight
surrounds. Papa lives there
waiting for our laughter on the green bicycles
we never learned to ride.
* * *
My eyes glance at the frozen pond. I remember when the ducks were here. Their constant quacking became like a song my mind looked forward to hearing. Unlike being faced with this question, I had to answer whether I remembered my father right in this moment. I know about his fervent love for me through second hand smoke. Grandmother would light one, right after the other, professing his admiration for me.
* * *
Do You Remember When Papa Left Home?
Among palm trees he vanished.
Tail of his white linen shirt floated
in the breeze. I stood on a sandy
beach with footprints, led to a sun
setting with pink clouds.
I searched the sea of our homeland
Corals brushed my soft skin
I don’t know if papa is waiting
Where the ocean ends.
* * *
“Nope, I don’t remember anything,” I respond. Watching for winter birds who may visit the pond just before the dawn’s indigo hue turned shades of emerald, aquamarine even turquoise before settling to what we call sky blue. I don’t remember anything, wishing I had my father’s pocket handkerchief scented with smoke. It occurred to me it would’ve been good to have the choice to reject the scent of his cigarettes he lived on or the Heineken he drank like the thirsty fish he was in the ocean.
There are no pictures. I imagine his afro, French letters in black ink, smeared signatures leaning one way or another, religious statues he bowed to before dusk, a closet of his remaining clothes, a single t-shirt with a political figure he admired with fist raised, a peeling green suitcase full of his vinyl records of Yole Derose or Edith Piaf, a gravestone to grieve on. The car warms up, I hear the familiar sound of the shifter into drive. Is the real question, “Do I love my father?”
* * *
Haibun: Closure with Flying Birds
They’ve spoken to my father and bring back news. Sun shines in the garden where I sit. The birds fly to me, asking for a message for my father. I offer a poem
Father, when the amber sun rise
your language comes at once
on my tongue. I speak it to my love.
I keep it safe for my journey.
I inhale scent of his shirt in the wake of their wings. The flying birds told him his scent is now mine too. I follow the track of flying birds.
* * *
What’s your latest good news?
Happiness Between Tails by da-AL 
I understand Word Press no longer links my blogs with Anchor tool on Spotify for podcasts How do you manage that problem with your own podcast efforts? Congrats on your poems marketing success. Good idea to sponsor other writers.
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Thank you usfman 😃 as for podcasting I’m still doing same as before. I just had to go through steps at old anchor site to switch over to Spotify. If you have problems I’ve had great success with emails and online chats with WordPress.com\help
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Honestly I would rather speak to real person. It seems I would have to upgrade my Word Press plan to this. Thanks for responding.
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Not sure if you can on free plan. But have you tried the chat?
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