In case you missed it, I met my literary hero Paul Beatty this week at DC’s Politics & Prose. I’m still beaming on the inside. Here are the photos:
Writing
Writing into the Abyss: Where Depression and Creativity Intersect
I sit in front of my laptop, or my desktop, or on a throwback day, with pen in hand and spiral pad underneath. I try to write. Some days I am successful. Many days I am not.
There are two books that I want to work on, am working on, will work on. One should be easy. It’s already mapped out in my head and outlined on paper. The other is more challenging, but I know I want it to be good.
My life is not where I want it to be by a long shot. I have not reached the level of success or notoriety that I had hoped to have by the age of 35. I look back on what I have accomplished and I see four novels and a book of poetry. I understand. I possess the knowledge that I have done more than what many writers have done in entire careers. I understand that five books is a good thing.
But having the knowledge is not the same as feeling successful. I write and I publish and the people say it’s good and they immediately want another, not understanding that I have put years of my life into a work that they finished in a weekend, in a day, sometimes even just one long night. I give everything and more is desired right away.
With every new book comes the dread of following it up with another good book. I don’t know that I can. I never think that I can.
I feel, sometimes, that it’s all for nothing. I am a success, but I don’t feel successful.
They want more books, but they don’t know what I have to go through to get there.
It is dark where I am. My eyes are wide open but I can’t see a thing. I know I have to go to Tartarus alone and claim what belongs to me.
I take the first step and the panic already creeps over me, but I continue in spite of the sweat that has drenched me almost immediately. I am afraid that I will swallow my tongue, that I will stop breathing, that I will die on the spot. But I don’t, in spite of a racing heart and spinning head.
I descend further and further into the abyss for days, months, years, searching for my prize. I know it is here. It is always here. My greatest creativity has always been housed in my greatest pain. I cannot leave until I retrieve it.
I finally hit the basement level of my descent and all around me are the demons I have been avoiding. I have to acknowledge them in order to pass. They demand it.
My own doubts. My own fears. They screech beside me begging for attention. I ignore them and go deeper.
The mentor who betrayed me time and again. The father who doesn’t love me. Fathers and father figures alike grabbing at my shoulders to hold me back. I break free. I break through.
I see authoritarians there. You supervised me into submission. You bossed me into victimhood. You signed my checks but you couldn’t sign my life. I vanquish you, too. I go deeper.
I see the men. I see the ones who loved me wrong. I see the ones I loved. I see the ones who inspired poems:
i was born in diana’s tide with a caul over my third eye
And I see the ones who are the reason that I haven’t written more than two poems in the past decade. I pretend as though I feel more comfortable with fiction but the truth is I feel too broken to write poetry.
And even the ones I still love are there, compassing me about. I break free.
I see me. I see body image. I see someone who doesn’t feel worth it. I see an utter lack of hope, a vision of a future that is not there, in which I have not been remembered. I am dust.
And there, just beyond the nihilism, just one more step beyond the limits of my odyssey, it is there:
The next novel.
That is what it is like to write. Every single novel.
I cannot write until things are right. Every time I sit down to work on something, practically everything, even this blog post, I feel like I am going back to Hell to confront all of my demons all at once. I feel short of breath and I give up to work on other things that make me happy and give me some meaning.
I know that being a writer is my destiny and my gift to the world, but I can’t always do it. This, in spite of the many people who ask me when the next book will be out. If I could make a living on my writing, I would write three a year. But I cannot live in the abyss in order to do that.
This is not writer’s block. This is depression.
I will beat it someday.
The Magic of Dreams: Eleanor Lopes Akahloun’s memoir is here
Last month, I had the pleasure of attending the book launch for Eleanor Lopes Akahloun’s memoir The Magic of Dreams: An American Diplomat’s Journey. Ms. Akahloun–known as Penny to her friends and family–is the mother of one of my dear college friends. The event was at Sankofa Books & Cafe in Northwest DC–a fine venue to just meet friends, purchase books from the diaspora, or have an intimate special event.
I brought my camera just in case my talents were needed and I found myself doing my thing fairly quickly. I was happy to serve, considering I know what it’s like to have to put on a book event and worry about all the little things that come up in the course of the day.
Ms. Akahloun did a wonderful job and I can’t wait to read about her various adventures as a woman in foreign service.
A Micro-Renaissance
I feel as though I haven’t written in months. I probably haven’t. That will change.
The things in Ferguson have been weighing heavily on my mind, as has the death of my fraternity brother Marion Barry.
But that was yesterday.
It’s time to come back.
Thank you to the women in this picture, my sister-authors, for helping me bounce back. And you ain’t even know it.
More to come.
Richard II
Last night, a character on Red Band Society (great new show on Fox) recited a line from Henry V. And it was cute or whatever, but it reminded me how I fell in love with Samuel West’s portrayal of Richard II when I went to England way back in 2000. Truth be told, I had to creatively gain credits in order to graduate on time, and Georgetown’s “Shakespeare: Text and Performance” course was a good way to earn six credits and two courses in four weeks. Plus, I’d get to see the UK. (Note: It looks like they shortened the program. That’s too bad.)
I believe we saw six (or seven?) plays all together, four of which were Shakespearean (Richard II, Henry IV parts one and two, and Romeo and Juliet), and then The Rivals and the the Mystery Cycles (religious vignettes) at York Minster.
(Typing those words makes me feel smarter than I really am.)
I am still friends with several folks I met on that trip and I really want to go back to the UK some day, for an extended period if I can. Reflecting on it, I felt both incredibly aware of my blackness in England yet also incredibly free. Certainly the British have racism and racists and privilege and all of that (and I would NEVER go back to York if I could help it), but I also felt like I was part of the diaspora in ways I do not feel here in the states.
I suppose in some ways when you are not home, and you’re black, you look for color everywhere. And England is indeed colorful.
Back to Richard II. The version we saw was at “The Other Place” which was the smallest of the three theaters making up the Royal Shakespeare Company’s properties. It was a “white box” with minimal scenery and gorgeous costumes designed by Sue Willmington.
I really wish there was a DVD of this performance. It was so good.
I am so grateful for the opportunity to have traveled overseas at an age where it mattered so much in my development into manhood and into writerhood. I look at this performance of Richard II and I can see now how much it informs the stories I tell, particularly that my protagonists are often not terribly sympathetic and are deeply flawed.
Just a little trip down memory lane. Sometimes I am amazed at the things I was able to do before I learned how to worry.
Sneak Peek: BLOOD OF A DARK NATION by Rashid Darden
Here is an exclusive excerpt from Blood of a Dark Nation, Rashid Darden’s sequel to the vampire novel Birth of a Dark Nation.
Basildon Park
Micah Leung was in his fifth year as the Butcher’s faithful executive assistant. He was faithful to his employer in every way, from grocery shopping for the household to making sure all the bills were paid on time. The Butcher loved being tuned in to every possible news outlet to stay on top of the goings-on of the world, so the cable and internet needed to be operational at all times.
[Read more…] about Sneak Peek: BLOOD OF A DARK NATION by Rashid Darden
Sneak Peak: YOURS IN THE BOND by Rashid Darden
Yours in the Bond is a novel in progress from Rashid Darden. Here is an excerpt.
“You’re in a really good mood.”
JJ carefully put my camera on the table near the big comfy chair. He stood up, walked over to the lamp, and turned it off. In the dark, I saw him slide out of his suit pants and carelessly leave them in a clump on the floor.
“Good mood is an understatement,” he announced. In an instant, he climbed onto the bed and crawled next to me. He laid on his stomach, looking up at me while he rested his chin on his folded arms.
“This just might be the most fun I’ve ever had,” he said.
“Me too.”
JJ sniffed the air, his nose scrunching into a little wrinkled brown dot.
[Read more…] about Sneak Peak: YOURS IN THE BOND by Rashid Darden
Read THE LIFE AND DEATH OF SAVION CORTEZ by Rashid Darden
i
am
crazy
i was born in diana’s tide
with a caul over my third eye
and my umbilical cord around my neck
i was wet
like the forests of the hesperides
i inhaled and swallowed neptune’s froth
drunk with his children, i envisioned our love
underwater
an octopus crowning your head
we became one
Read BIRTH OF A DARK NATION by Rashid Darden
Here is an excerpt from Rashid Darden’s Birth of a Dark Nation.
I stood at attention in between Eşusanya and Aborişade while my mother addressed the entire village for the final time. The sun had just risen and a cool breeze still blew over our land. The vibrant blue sky and pure white clouds were ill suited for this solemn moment.
“My brothers, my sons, my friends. I stand here before you today with a heart that is both heavy and overjoyed. It is heavy because I send you out into the world to continue our bloodlines. I say farewell to you, the builders, the soldiers, the philosophers. We will not forget your contributions to this culture. We know that wherever you go, wherever you land, you will keep the heart and soul of the Razadi with you. You will seed your communities with our tenacious spirit. Our influence will be felt all across the land because of you.
“Even though we will miss you, we know this division is necessary for the survival of us all. Even now, a new generation grows. Olateju will be known as the matriarch of the next generation of our people. May all of you be patriarchs of the worldwide Razadi empire!”
Next to her stood the very pregnant Olateju and her Oyo husband, as well as Haruna, the satisfied general of the Oyo army.
“Ogundiya and Babarinde. Come to me.”
Our most senior leader and his deputy approached my mother. I could not tell what she was whispering to them, but I could see what she presented them: iron casks and two scrolls each.
Nervous whispers fell over the crowd. Were those the scrolls? The fundamental tenets of our beliefs and the history of our origins?
Abeo embraced each man and they rejoined the group, carefully entrusting the casks and the scrolls to their assistants. Abeo then descended into the ranks. She looked carefully into the eyes of about a dozen men, and nodded at them. She didn’t speak at all.
I knew they were all her sons. So much time had passed in between our births that most of us weren’t terribly close. They were no more my brothers than my peers were, as each man in our tribe respected one another the same.
She came to me and paused. Tears welled in her eyes and she leaned close to me.
“You, my youngest, are the one who will change the world.”
“I don’t want to go, Mama,” I said, choking on my tears.
“Go. Seek the new dawn. I love you.”
“I love you too, Mama.”
She took her place in front of her men for the final time and uttered but one phrase.
“May Olódùmarè and the Orishas forever protect you!”
“And you!” we shouted in response.
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Novels that have influenced me
One of the many memes going around Facebook these days is a reinvigorated “Top Ten Novels” list. Several people have challenged me to list ten novels which have impacted my life in some way. Obviously Lazarus, Covenant, Epiphany, and Birth of a Dark Nation impacted my life the most! However, here are ten other novels which also influenced me or changed my life in some way:
The White Boy Shuffle by Paul Beatty. This is one of the most brilliant books I have ever read. Paul Beatty truly inspired me to take my writing seriously at a young age. He was a poet-turned-novelist, something like me, and his lyricism and vocabulary came together in ways I had never seen before.
Winding Down to Wind Up
Thanks to the generosity of a dear friend, I am heading out of town this week for a short urban retreat. I will be heading to a city in the northeastern US to just kick back, relax, eat well, and spend hours and hours writing Blood of a Dark Nation, the next installment of the Dark Nation series.
I have had a lot on my plate recently. Gamma Xi Phi, the professional fraternity for artists, is still a very important volunteer experience for me and I recently joined the Georgetown University African American Advisory Board. Though I’ve still been writing, it hasn’t been with the intensity that I usually do. However, I think this trip will be an excellent way to kick-start the next portion of developing this book.
Just time…in a different environment…with no interruptions. Exactly what Justin and Dante need to get the rest of their story told.
I’ve written about 50 pages of the novel and I’m guessing it will be about 200 pages total. Covenant was also a short novel, but it gets to the point.
Blood of a Dark Nation will have a lot of action. I’m excited to introduce several new characters, including Annette Mitchell, Dr. Leung, The Butcher, and of course, The Jackal.
Spoiler alert: There will be blood.
That said, I will be scaling back my blogging and social media updates unless it has to do with the writing of this book, from next week through the end of August. Since Blood of a Dark Nation is totally outlined and 50 pages are already written, I don’t think it will take longer than nine weeks to finish the rest.
I would *like* to publish the novel by the end of the year, retaining my annual publishing streak. But I can’t promise that because the editor and cover designer still need to be paid as well as the company which formats my work for e-books. (I could do that myself, but I really am not that good at it.)
I might pull a Beyonce and just surprise y’all when it drops. That does take a LOT of pressure off me when it comes to the promotion leading up to a launch. Like, dropping a book is much like planning any other special event. But really… like really really…. I don’t make a lot of money off my books in the first place, so why not take the risk of a “surprise” publish date? My super readers follow me on this blog and social media so there’s little risk that anyone would miss the announcement.
Just rambling at this point. Haven’t made any decisions yet.
Y’all take care!
The Resurgence of DC Black Pride
Last weekend, as is every Memorial Day Weekend, was DC Black Pride, sometimes referred to as DC Gay Black Pride by those of us who aren’t ashamed of the word “gay.”
I went to my first Pride in the year 2000. It was epic. I think everyone’s first Pride is epic, no matter how small it becomes. I didn’t attend my next Pride until the year 2004. That year I sat in the lobby at the feet of author Brent Dorian Carpenter as he held court, selling his book and making new friends. It’s because of Brent that I knew I could publish without the aid of an agent or traditional publishing house. The following year, 2005, I participated in Pride as an author and vendor for the first time. Since then, I have attended Pride each year, if even only for a few minutes.
A few years ago, DC Black Pride “fell off.” Not only were the crowds dwindling due to competition from circuit parties and for-profit LGBT-related vacations, it could also be said that Pride itself had not trained the next generation of leaders to take it over from the elders. For me, the last straw was last year, when I was told rather flippantly that there would be no authors forum.
You have to understand, in addition to all the parties that Pride is known for are the more important workshops and “daytime” events, such as the Poetry Slam, the Film Festival, the Author’s Forum. It’s not just vendors… this is an opportunity for authors to directly connect with their readers, get new readers, and inspire other writers – just as I was inspired by Brent.
Perhaps even more importantly is that the people who attend Pride are those who want to be on the forefront of new movements in the black gay community, politically and artistically. If I hadn’t been an avid Pride attendee, I would have never known about black gay films like The Ski Trip and black gay shows like Noah’s Arc.
So it was a heartbreaker that they eliminated the Writer’s Forum.
But this year they brought it back and I was invited! As usual, I had a ball. Wyatt O’Brian Evans did a more than capable job as the moderator. I was joined on the panel by old friends BuddahDesmond and LaToya Hankins and new friends J. Omarr and Tiana Meek (T’Ego). I think it was the right size, diverse mix of opinions, and a good vibe overall. The audience had great questions, too. I was lucky to reconnect with other old friends from my Georgetown days.
I would say that DC Black Pride is definitely alive and well. The audiences, though smaller than they were in the mid-00’s, are growing again. The spirit was back. Nobody seemed defeated or tired or unhappy. The name finally matched the feeling – PRIDE.
I hope this message encourages all of you who had written Pride off to make it your Memorial Day Weekend destination once more. The writers are still writing and we are again being included. Let’s make it even bigger next year, okay?
Throwback Thursday: Social Probation
In this excerpt from Lazarus, I write about one of the occasions the Beta pledges were on line and had to navigate the campus while on strict social probation. Enjoy.
After having purchased extra white shirts and black slacks for our line brothers, Ed and I stepped off of the bus and paused at the front gates. We were both dressed identically, from shoes to shirts, and even our thick winter coats happened to be black.
“How are you feeling?” Ed whispered.
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s do this.”
Our book bags on our backs, and shopping bags in our hands, we walked side by side through the campus. Our goal was to meet our line brothers in the smaller of our two cafeterias and have lunch together before we split up for class.
As we walked through the diagonal red brick path toward the heart of campus, my heartbeat sped up. Dozens of white kids passed us by, without so much as a second look. It could have been that our stoic faces disturbed them, but it was also highly likely that they did not notice us. We willed ourselves to be invisible so that we would not be forced to ignore our friends.
I noticed that our pace was quicker than it would have been had we not been pledges. Only about a minute had passed, and we were already walking through The Square, the symbolic center of campus as well as the busiest place at midday. We were nearly through The Square when someone called out for Ed.
“Ayo, Ed!” the male voice called. I resisted the urge to turn to Ed, and we walked on.
“Ed!” the man called again. We continued to walk, not daring to break social probation. The sharp voice cut through the winter air like a blade, for as busy as it was, The Square was still relatively quiet. I could sense Ed tensing up, but we walked on.
“Hey Ed, I know you hear me!”
I prayed that whoever was calling Ed would not try to confront him right there in front of everyone. It just would not do to have an argument in the middle of campus on our first real day of pledging.
We stepped up our pace and finally were clear from the center of campus. We only had two more buildings to pass before we reached the cafeteria. There were more people of color walking on this side of campus, but fortunately, we did not know most of them. Several smiled or nodded, which we could handle with a small smirk or nod back.
Every now and then, I touched my collar to make sure my pledge pin was still there. The golden disc with the burgundy letter P was smaller than a dime, and we all were paranoid about losing them since we had to wear them at all times.
We reached the cafeteria and got in the longish line to have our identification cards swiped through the card reader so that we could eat. Ed and I surveyed the dining area and saw Calen and Micah already seated at a square table near the rear of the room. We made eye contact with each other, and they rose to begin getting their food.
Kathy, the middle-aged lady who swiped the cards took one look at me and Ed and knew our story.
“Oh my God!” She quietly exclaimed as she held my card in her hand. “Y’all are pledging, too?”
She smiled as we looked at each other, unsure of what to do.
“Well, babies,” she began. “I know y’all can’t talk to me, but don’t worry about it. You just do your thing. It’ll all be over soon enough.”
We couldn’t help but to smile at Kathy, as she was the first person to really wish us good luck in the process.
“Yeah, babies,” she said as she swiped Ed’s card through the reader. “I seen a lot of young men – and ladies – be on line throughout the years. Y’all will be just fine.”
***
If you liked what you read and want to know what happens next, please purchase Lazarus today!
Only 54 Black-Owned Bookstores left in America and I ran out of ****s to give
That title was pretty harsh, right? I’m sorry.
I just read a blog entry from Troy, the founder and webmaster of AALBC. He reports that there are only 54 black-owned bookstores left in America, about half of the amount existing in 2012. There are many reasons cited and I suppose they are fair.
I really should be quite sad that the number of black-owned bookstores in this country is dwindling. But I am not. I am an indie author who knows how to reach my market. I have opted out of the system which requires agents, major publishing houses, and major distributors. In fact, the disappearing black bookstore just might be a symptom of success for the indie black authors who have discovered the companies who do right by us.
I have two quick stories:
When I first published Lazarus (which you should buy there or on Amazon), I got linked up with an African American book distributor. I can’t remember their names, but I remember they were the only black distributor listed in some book I read for aspiring authors. Long story short, I sent them a box of my books and never saw a single dime. That was over $300 dollars of merchandise they just… took. Emails bounced, phone disconnected. It was a classic con and I fell for it, much like many other authors, I’m sure.
So my book never made it to most book stores. Which is fine because Lazarus did very well for a book in limited availability. I knew how and where to market the book and I got a few paid speaking engagements based on its success as well.
All this without traditional bookstores and with Amazon and direct sales through my website.
But aside from the distribution scam, I want to talk about the few independent bookstores I did work with: One gay bookstore and one black bookstore.
Lambda Rising Books in DC (which has since closed) was a great bookstore. A young gay man like me would have never thought so many books had ever been written about the gay experience. And they had a whole section for black gay books as well! They kept Lazarus in stock. They would call me personally when they ran out, to the point where I couldn’t keep up with the demand. I loved them for that. Honestly, I was afraid that the book would just collect dust on their shelves because I wasn’t convinced black gay people were patronizing gay bookstores in large numbers. I was wrong.
There was another bookstore in DC, a chain store actually. You know the name but I will not say it. I wanted so badly to be included in this store. If your book was in this black bookstore, you had really made it. I followed all their procedures to be included to the letter. Sent them a copy of the book. Nothing. No response.
And of course you think to yourself what the hell man, I am black and this is a book, why wouldn’t they carry my book?
I felt bad, but I moved on.
A year or so later, the Federal City Alumnae Chapter of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Inc., invited me to participate in their emerging authors event. Nikki Giovanni was the headliner that year and the black bookstore I mentioned was the official vendor. They sold Nikki’s books upstairs, along with other products, and the indie authors were downstairs.
So I got my picture with Nikki and we chit-chatted about my book. So she says “Why aren’t they carrying your book?” and I’m like “I don’t know, I submitted it for their review and didn’t hear back.”
So she basically beckons the owner over to us and says “Excuse me, I understand you’re not carrying this young man’s book?”
And he’s all incredulous like “What you you mean we’re not carrying it?”
And by this point I’m all smug because Nikki Giovanni is literally advocating for my inclusion in this bookstore right in front of me!
So, I guess to avoid a scene, the dude is like “Well all he has to do is send up a book and we will get that process going!”
I say “Yes, I did that, but I will do it again.”
So I thanked Nikki Giovanni and got on with life. I sent the bookstore all the same materials and another book and patiently waited.
No response. Again. They played the hell out of me and lied to Nikki Giovanni.
If you’ve read this far, you might be wondering why I am still holding on to this. It’s because black gay authors have, for years, been treated like shit by straight black bookstore owners, to the point where I don’t even attempt to work with them.
And when I heard that the bookstore in this story closed, I had but one response:
When Lambda Rising closed, of course I was in mourning for weeks, but I ultimately knew that whether one is a fan of black bookstores or gay bookstores, the same books on the shelves are available on Amazon and through the author’s websites. And a very large number are available on e-readers.
Of course, there are some good black bookstores and I support them regularly, including (and especially) Children of the Sun and Sankofa Books, all within a stone’s throw of Howard University in DC, which itself has a very nice bookstore. I will continue to support those places because I make pretty good discoveries there. But I know that I need to remain personally vigilant when it comes to getting book recommendations, paying attention to my Amazon recommendations as well as my friends and family who know my tastes.
The way authors get our books to our readers has changed and is changing. There will always be bookstores, though not in large numbers. And there will always be libraries, where they are in the community, in our homes, or on our devices.
I just can’t get behind the closing of black-owned bookstores as a crisis when it’s not impacting my readers’ ability to find my books.
Where did Lazarus come from?
1) Where did you get the idea for the series of Lazarus, Covenant, & Epiphany?
2) Did it all come to you in one big idea? Or a little bit at a time, and that’s how it became 3 books. — Rico W.
The story of the Lazarus Trilogy began with a question: What would happen if the star basketball player got into a relationship with the most popular young man on campus?
That idea became a play that I wrote in 2000 called Behind Closed Doors, and later named Discretion. It was the story of a slightly different (yet familiar) Adrian Collins who was living with a basketball player named Isaiah, while dealing with mild Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from having been hazed and literally beaten off line from Beta Chi Phi. (Although he was still initiated into the fraternity, he was viewed as an outcast for being gay.)
In the midst of this story, he falls in love with Isaiah and deals with his ex-boyfriend Carlos, who he lost while pledging.
When the play was finished, I tried to stage a reading, but only my friends Maya (RIP) and Amerie showed up to help out. On top of that, my mentor at the time, Dennis Williams, said the play was good, but he wanted to know more about Carlos the ex-boyfriend and about the pledging process.
So I made the decision in 2000 to rework this story as a novel, beginning with the fraternity story and saving the love story for a subsequent novel if I still felt like it. I also decided to postpone writing it until after I finished undergrad. Incidentally, it was also during this time that my “black vampire” idea was born.
In fall 2001, I began writing the novel called Lazarus. President’s Day Weekend 2002, it was complete. I published it in 2005.
Of course, Carlos became Savion and Isaiah only made cameo appearances in Lazarus, so Covenant still had to be written. It was completed in 2007 and published in 2011. That novel was quick and easy to write because I already knew how it would turn out.
While writing Covenant, I had ideas for two more novels. In the end, there were to be four novels, more or less mirroring the four years of college. If you have read Epiphany, imagine the first two-thirds being novel #3, and the last third being novel #4, plus a story line about Adrian becoming the Dean of the line during his senior year. But I decided that I was done writing about the fraternity experience. While interesting to me, I don’t think most people would care about Sigma Chapter anymore after one novel about Adrian’s experience on Uprising and another about his experiences bringing in the Phantoms.
Oh hell, while we’re here, I might as well tell you about what was going to happen on the next line. So Calen was going to get elected Dean of Pledges, then he was going to have a terrible car accident and have to take a semester off school to recover. The chapter was going to recruit six guys:
Morris Jordan from Potomac was going to be the Ace. As you know, he had a previous history with Adrian. As the Dean, Adrian felt it might not be appropriate for Morris to make the line, given their past, but the chapter liked him so Adrian was outvoted. After he gets a little….shall we say “sassy” with Adrian, he is given the line name “Cruel Intentions.”
Kyle Sykes, a business student from Rock Creek, was the deuce. All I know about him is that his personal motto was “greed is good” which landed him the line name “Monopoly.”
Justin Wilson and Jason Wilson were twins attending Potomac. My notes on them indicate that they were always nervous so the chapter named them “Paralysis” and “Aphasia.”
The number five was Leon Rogers, a theology student from Rock Creek who is named “Holy Terror” because he turns out to be a homophobe that can’t seem to respect his Dean.
Finally, the number six is Shane O’Neil from Potomac. Everyone seems to think he a guitar-playing, stoner white boy, but he is actually biracial and struggling to find himself through the fraternity. Because he is so unique, and some would say strange, he is given the line name “Xenogenesis,” which is not only the prior name of Octavia Butler’s Lilith’s Brood series, but it literally means “the supposed generation of offspring completely and permanently different from the parent.”
Needless to say, a lot was going on with this line, which Adrian named “Crucial Conflicts.” But in the end, I decided to make Mohammed their Dean to allow Adrian the chance to focus on his national position that he gained at the end of Epiphany and to provide a way for Mohammed to gain the respect of the chapter. And I didn’t think those things needed to happen “on-page” for them to be believable.
So that’s how Epiphany was written the way it was, with that “extra third” at the end which seemed like a separate story altogether. At the end, three college novels was enough, and if I was going to continue to write about these beloved characters, they’d have to be young adults removed from the college campus.