This is my favorite season. My birthday is in a few days, and I’ve always felt that I’m made of the colors of autumn. When the season starts to change, I start to dream. Last week I was walking through the rose garden when I suddenly heard this exchange between a teenage girl and her ex-boyfriend:
You said you’d come.
I know, but…it’s far.
Immediately I saw an old Victorian house—red brick with white gingerbread lace along the porch. And a black girl in the window, afraid. I’m supposed to be writing my novel, but I’m tempted to write about the construction of black masculinity in MC Higgins, the Great. I got halfway through that book and thought to myself, “Virginia Hamilton’s a genius; no one’s writing at this level today.” And then I read a scene that set all my feminist hairs on end. I’m not *supposed* to be writing essays about other people’s books. I’m *supposed* to be finishing the sequel to Wish but my mind just won’t stay put. I missed my close friend’s birthday, and the birthday of another old friend. I missed TWO meetings of an organization I *just* joined. I did wake up from my nap yesterday in time to make it up to Harlem for my friend’s show at Casa Frela Gallery. You can see one of her stunning images here. And for my birthday week I’m going to try to visit a place in the city I’ve never been to before. I have been to the Brooklyn Historical Society, but I’m heading there this Thursday to see a new opera by Ghost Star about Crow Hill, one of the first black communities in Brooklyn. And on Tuesday (my birthday!) there’s a great panel at the NYPL: Reflections on YA, featuring our very own Amy Bodden Bowllan. On Wednesday I’m attending the “Do The Right Thing” fundraiser for my favorite literacy org, Behind the Book. You can still get tickets and a chance to meet Spike Lee…and somewhere in between I hope to write six thousand words so I can pass the 60K-word mark on Judah’s Tale. Wish me luck!