CRAFTING FICTION FROM THE 'COLORED' SECTION

Recently, I was at a book signing when a woman walked up to me and told me that I “…don’t write like a black person.” When I asked what she meant, the speaker, who was a black woman, said that she didn’t like “the dark stuff:” horror, crime, science-fiction or even dark fantasy. In her words, “My life is scary enough.” “Besides,” she said. “Vampires and aliens...that stuff just doesn't happen to black people.” She suggested that writers of color should write about “issues,” ones that affect everyday people of color; that we should write from a more racially identified perspective: I’m black, so my fiction should reflect “blackness” and, presumably, everything it implies. Therefore, in her opinion, writing science-fiction, horror or other speculative fiction was more for “mainstream” authors. By “mainstream” I assumed she meant ‘white’ authors. The speaker expressed her love for titles from what I call the “Sistergirl” literary movement. Some people call it “street-lit;” books written, mostly by African-American authors, and aimed at the “Urban Market.” My newest critic’s bookshelves, she proudly stated, were crowded with titles like God’s Gon’ Git You, Bedelia Watkins, and Mad Mad Maddy and Her First Baby’ Daddy. (Alright, I made those up, but you get the point.)The only reason she had bothered to approach me was because she had read two installments from The Ravenous, my (incomplete) psychic vampire e-book series.

The first two installments of the series feature Neema Umayma, an African-American twenty-something who learns that she has inherited dangerous psychic abilities from her dead mother. Neema is soon inducted into the Sisterhood of Shadows, a multi-ethnic clandestine cabal of female ‘hunters’: psychics who possess the ability to derive supernatural strength and sustenance from human suffering. The stories are dark, graphic and not for the squeamish. The woman had “accidentally” read the second installment- it was recommended to her by a friend- and, surprised, thoroughly enjoyed it. She’d even gone back and purchased the first installment. But now, here she stood, yelling at me about writing more “uplifting” inspirational stories. To find a wider audience among African-Americans, she insisted, I should try my hand at street-lit. Maybe I could explore the story of a sexy thug, a smooth- operating con-man, or a wickedly handsome dope dealer with a six-pack and a bad attitude. Maybe my handsome dope-slinger could meet a hardworking Christian single mom and fall in love with her, ultimately giving up the dope life, going to medical school and winning the lotto, all within a -hundred quickly digestible pages.

“You mark my words,” my new advisor swore. “Black women eat that stuff up!”

Long after the woman had moved on to harangue another writer, our conversation left me feeling deflated and disenfranchised.  Like many people of color of my generation,  I'd struggled with racial identification as a child: in a country where a black man is expected to speak a certain way, exhibit certain behaviors, love sports, dress (and date) in a fashion that is easily relatable, I’ve always struggled to maintain my individuality. My wife and I were both raised to speak ‘proper” English, and insist that our children do too, but that dedication comes with a price, one our family has discussed around the dinner table: Am I American or African-American? And so here it was again: Was I a man, or a black man? Was I a writer, crafting my stories to appeal to a wide audience, or a black writer, writing only for black readers?

This strange duality is never more obvious than when I’m pitching ideas around television network executives. Usually, the first question they ask is, “Who’s the audience? Mainstream or…" the most recent ethnic catch-all… “Urban?” Some studio and television executives see a black writer and automatically start looking for the “Black Angle”(Some just look for the nearest exit), assuming the story has to be aimed at "Urban" (read black and/or Latino) consumers in large cities. Somehow, without my being completely aware of the danger, I’ve blundered into the hazy no-fly zone inhabited by ‘ethnic’ writers who seek “mainstream” or “crossover” appeal.