MY NAME IS ON A BOOK.
In Your Roots, Secrets Lie
On Monday, I introduced you to the main character of Order of Seven, Devi Bennett, in a way that I hope was both mental and visceral. If you missed it, go here.
Eighteen-year-old Devi Bennett is surrounded by mysteries: her unknown heritage, a recurring dream about an African tribal ceremony, an inexplicable attachment to a certain tree and a psychic ability she’ll never understand—unless she finds her biological parents.
“My older brother, Nodin, remembers more than me.
But I have something he doesn’t.
I have the dream.”
Things take a shocking turn when she meets Baron, an intense and alluring energy healer.
“My mouth finds the warmth of his skin,
the salted-caramel taste of him an elixir.”
Baron receives prophetic dreams which all seem connected to her.
“Two days ago I didn’t even know this man.
Now his absence is an earthquake.”
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“It will crawl under your skin and consume you. Let it. This is the kind of possession you want.”
I said I was going to reveal something huge this week. Something saturated in my blood, sweat, and tears. Something I held secret for a long time. Too long. Something that exposes me and makes me more vulnerable than I’ve ever been.
And I will.
But first, I need you to go on a little ride with me. From the neurons firing in your brain to the marrow in your bones, I need you to comprehend the gravity of what I’m about to tell you.
Imagine yourself as eighteen again. No, really. Think about that time in your life. All the uncertainties. The feelings of trepidation and excitement mixed with insecurity and fear. The angst. Hormones charging through your veins like bulls, twisting and turning your emotions on a dime. The yearning to find yourself and understand who you are.
What if on top of all that you also had…
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I’m at my local Starbucks last week, which happens to be located inside a Barnes and Noble – I know, heaven – and I’m drinking my favorite daytime beverage,
wine coffee, with my book whisperer, Mandi, and we’re doing what all women do when we have a sliver of time to talk uninterrupted:
started conversations: 1,292, 785
finished conversations: 0
TAMARA’S IN THE HOUSE!!!
I couldn’t be more thrilled to have the intensely-creative writer/poet, Tamara Woods, over to play today. I just got her book of poetry, The Shaping Of An “Angry” Black Woman, and am blown away by its complexity. I think you, dear readers-o-mine, will approve of the subject she’s chosen to share with you here, AND the best part is revealed through video because she freakin’ rocks like that! Without further ado, here’s a little taste of Tamara.
When I was growing up, I tried to picture who my perfect man would be. Talk, dark and handsome? A culinary wizard who also paints and likes to watch football? A cross between Jordan Knight, Christian Slater (circa Pump Up the Volume mixed with a bit of Heathers) and Johnny Depp (circa Benny and Joon)?
As I grew older, I realized I’m attracted to the misfit toys. This extends to friendships as well as lovers. I want the ones who are a little left of center. Not necessarily fixer uppers, because I don’t think they’re broken. I think they’re different, which makes them special. If I wanted normal, I’d turn on my dryer and have a seat. (This is going to a weird place. Let’s bring it on back.)
I’m also drawn to mystery. The unknown. If he’s got a brain like a puzzle, then I’m going to try to figure him out. What is his motivation? My current boyfriend, or as I like to call him, The Mathemagician is a man of few words. But when he speaks, I’m either laughing or learning-a heady combination for me. Going into year four, I’m still wondering where he comes up with this stuff. Utterly fascinating.
Back in my foot loose and slutty freed days, my roving eye would unerringly find that stranger across the crowded bar who wasn’t talking to anyone. He’s the one I’m going to sidle up to and give the sexy eye.–Though I’m not really good at being sexy, so it would more likely me doing a parody of the sexy eye, which looks like I’m having a twitchy fit. I rely on humor to bring the boys to the yard. They have to get their own milkshakes. I’m not Betty fucking Crocker.–
Anyway, what was I saying?
Oh yes, mystery. Intrigue. The guy who is smoldering in a corner, not really speaking. He clearly has something on his mind. And I want that something to be me.
Here’s a poem about meeting that perfect stranger.
Tamara Woods was raised (fairly happily) in West Virginia, where she began writing poetry at the age of 12. Her first poetry collection is available at http://amzn.to/1kti3r0. She has previous experience as a newspaper journalist, an event organizer, volunteer with AmeriCorps and VISTA, in addition to work with people with disabilities. She has used her writing background to capture emotions and moments in time for anthologies such as Empirical Magazine, her blog PenPaperPad and writing articles as a full-time freelance writer. She is a hillbilly hermit in Honolulu living with her Mathemagician.