The Goings On of George Floyd

I'll preface this by saying I have 3 blogs, and haven't used this one in six years. But I wanted to make sure, for the people in the back, that they knew who I was and that no one was confused by my Way.Ward or Where the Drywall Ends blogs. This is Melanie A. Howard. I've written 10 books. I've written 9 books for children. I am white, chubby, and a disabled American due to Mental Illness. And I have things to say.

I grew up in a town that is probably quietly famous for its racism. It is a town of about 20,000 people. There were probably a grand total of 10 POC in my school, and only one black girl. The year before I started high school, the white supremacists in my high school threw a black boy out of the lunch room. I know this because the day I went to set up my locker with my dad the janitors were sitting outside on a smoke break and talking about the "coon" that was thrown out of lunch. My dad, a Minneapolis native, squeezed my hand so hard I thought it would break, and explained racism to me on the way home. I, of course, had learned of racism in school by that time as something that people marched about in the past, but in Minnesota, we were progressive and liberal and "nice" and didn't have such problems.

As far as I know, that poor black child had to leave school. Probably to save his life or his sanity or both. Black people simply didn't come to my town, or stay in my town. I was a child, so I didn't think anything of it, except when I saw actual black people every once in a blue moon and just stared. I think everyone just stared. As I became more aware of the quiet, rage-filled racism in my town, I began feeling very concerned when I saw black children playing. There are more of them now, which is good for my town but has to be horrific for them. I remember just at the cusp of my home town becoming more integrated that there were five adopted black children being sent to the school where my mother was a nurse and I frequented time to time, and I remember being angry. I was so angry because I knew they were going to be facing the full force of the most racist community in Minnesota, and didn't their parents know that?! Shouldn't they be taken somewhere safer? It's not fair that they have to be the poster children for integration in my town when they could have a better time somewhere else.

It never occurred to me that "somewhere else" didn't exist. I thought Minnesota had dumped all of its racists into one happy little town where they could talk about going "coon hunting" on the high school news channel, then laugh their way through an apology later. I was positively certain there was this Minnesota outside the borders of my town where black people were safe, and equal, and not stared at as though a wild turkey had wandered through a herd of hens.

My family started going to church in Minneapolis, a small, tight-knit church of many colors. This, I was certain, was the way the real world was. Except for a few outlying assholes, everyone was congenial, brought food to potlucks, sang and laughed loudly, held hands without wondering if the color would rub off, and created community where everyone was equal and nobody stared. When I left home for school at the U of M Twin Cities, I was certain this was how I was going to find the majority of the world.

I expected college was going to fix a lot of things - it didn't - but what surprised me most was that, while things were better for minorities, we weren't all one big happy family singing kumbaya. Everybody found a group, and stuck with that group. I found a group at the Loft Literary Center. At college, I was very much a loner (some things never change), but that gives one more time to observe. I took the bus from the U of M to my grandparents' house in South Minneapolis (yes, very close to the riots). I passed through a Somali community and a Hispanic community, then the area around Franklin that was a very poor community (mostly POC, I know, I should have told you to sit down first, I'm sure you fainted with surprise). All of these communities were in Minneapolis, and it wasn't as though they were integrated. I once had a social studies teacher who told us the United States isn't really the "melting pot" everyone says it is. It's a tossed salad, with different communities generally sticking with their own. It only occurred to me later that this was for safety from "us."

I saw "us" on one of those buses. I had evening courses, which I liked better because they believed in working Americans who didn't have time for extemporaneous fluff. The moment I stepped on the bus, I knew something was wrong. There was a young white man towards the middle of the bus just staring ahead of him, and a young black woman towards the back with her forehead pressed to the seat bar in front of her. It didn't take me long to find the problem. At the front of he bus, an Asian-American man was being harassed by a group of older teenage boys (white), asking him if he knew Jackie Chan and trying to incite him to talk back to them. It was the worst 45 minutes of my life, sitting there at the very back, wondering why the white man didn't do anything, wondering if the black girl needed a hug, enraged that the bus driver wasn't throwing these assholes off. I thought of going to the front and asking the Asian-American man to sit with me, but the boys were drunk and there were more of them than I thought could reasonably be handled if they decided to be unruly. I will forever regret not doing something anyway. I was completely unafraid when I actually got stabbed on a bus in Guatemala years later, but I was terrified of these white yahoos. The best I could get myself to do was to call them assholes as I disembarked the bus.

I've seen "us" in other places, but never like that. Mostly I see "us" unconsciously exercising our privilege. Even out of the country, I was a white American and that seemed to mean something, everywhere I went. I'm never afraid of the police. I doubt I will ever have to be. But the more I observe, the more I know I'm very lucky that way. But, I was sure, I was absolutely convinced, until a few days ago, that this was still Minnesota, and we still believed in Minnesota nice. I don't believe that anymore. I remember the children at my mother's school and think to myself that they probably weren't safe anywhere and might as well have gone to school in my home town. I will still hold my breath every time I see someone Somali walking through my home town because I am absolutely terrified for them, but I won't think they should go somewhere more "kind" and "understanding."

I think maybe this place only existed in my mind.

So, as Minneapolis is burning, I can only hope that it will cause change. Statewide change. Country-wide change. I don't care about looting or fire. I care that my nephew is half Filipino and someday he has to go to school. Lord help the school system that does not protect him, because I will not be silent anymore. To the George Floyd protesters, I see you. I can see you now. I am not blinded by the white any longer.

Fame and Fortune?

I used to wonder if being a writer would turn me into an egotistical monster.

My hometown library keeps me humble. Eleven books, not one if them are stocked by my hometown library.

I can't fault them too much, though. I didn't put my own books on the shelves with the "real" books in my own library until I moved.

Luckily, my transplant town shows me a lot more love.

In truth, most of the time I look down at checks from my publishers and think to myself - I can't believe someone actually pays me to do this.

I've never been recognized on the street. No one has ever come up to me except when I was sitting with a stack of books at a conference event or a book signing.

When I was a teenager, I was afraid to try publishing because I thought it would stop my life from being "normal." I can now say with complete confidence that being a writer does not automatically make a red carpet and paparazzi appear in your living room. You don't have to go grocery shopping with sunglasses. And even if you're at a party and you SAY you're an author, the vast majority of the time, no one will have heard of you. That's simply because, if you're not Stephen King, with the many books and diverse tastes in the general population, unless you're a social butterfly, the likelihood of you running into somebody who's read your book at a social gathering is pretty low.

Sometimes I'm overwhelmed about how much writing professionally *didn't* change my life.

So, am I worried that someday I'm going to turn my nose up at a McDonalds cheeseburger and be a general snooty asshat? No, not really. And I'm not hoping to be a person like that anytime in the future.

The Great 3 Year Gap!

Hello all.  Sorry for the long absence, I've been quite the busy bee.

If you look on amazon.com, you will see I am the proud author of several books for Capstone.

Psychic Tarot continues to sell at a steady pace.  I'm rather happy about that as I believe it's a book that will help a lot of people connect with Spirit.

More to follow, here's to a new blogging resolution!

-Mel

Doncha?

I just got done with my very first magazine interview with Nance. It was very pleasant. I was really excited to share about the book and its ideas, and isn't that just the way it should be? Nance and I were very in synch.

Thanks to my brother's fiance, Laurie, I did not look like a total shlep. I actually looked very nice. In fact, I will admit to rocking a little "Doncha Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me" in my head. I haven't work make-up in a good... long... time. You'd have thought it was Christmas when I walked into Bare Essentials last weekend and said to the lovely attendant and make-up specialist: "I have two friends who really like your products. I haven't gotten new make-up in four years. Help!" I think I made her day. Unfortunately, when I got home, I was not so good at making the nifty purple crease design that she did. And then, as though a page had gone out on the psychic network, Laurie appeared at my door and fixed it.

I've decided the hardest part of writing is not the writing. It's not even finding the time to write or dealing with being blocked or burned out. It is publicity. If you're wondering where they real, roll up your sleeves, dig in, this is going to get messy part of writing comes in, it is in publicity. Calling bookstores. Getting nice clothes (if you, um, perhaps have become a bit too comfy with a jeans & cotton shirt wardrobe). Blogging. Being present in forums. Telling everyone you know your book is coming out. Planning. And scheduling. And deciding what events to go to and what not. Plugging the book E-V-E-R-Y-W-H-E-R-E. This, this is the real work.

Tomorrow, I read Tarot cards on a podcast with Dax of the Tarot Guild. Nance and I will both be there. I'm excited, and will post a link here once it's done. I am just... so... completely... blown away... by how little I knew about what is turning out to be the second-most important thing of writing a book. This is a good, if grueling, experience for me.

-Mel

Promotion Pooped!

I. Am. So Tired. Of Book Promotion. And it the book hasn't even been officially released yet!

Seriously, if anyone tells you writing is hard, ask them if they've ever published something they had to promote. Then ask them what the hardest part of being a writer is.

I am excited. But I am EXHAUSTED!

-Mel

It's Here!

Two copies of Psychic Tarot arrived at my house today! YAYAYAYAYAY!!!!!!!

-Mel

Signings & Marketing & More Stuff I Don't Have a Grasp Of

So, now I'm a writer. Okay, I've always been a writer and I've been published for some time now, but now I'm a writer with a book that actually requires more from me than - well - writing.

We will be doing a book signing at the Har Mar (February 8th) and hopefully at Eye of Horus (mad love to Eye of Horus!!! I love that store. February 20th, but not all worked out yet). There are also podcasts and classes and a party and my oh my oh my!

It's the moment I've prepared for, taken classes for, did 2 advanced graduate classes in college to make sure I was ready..........

....... in the world of fiction. Specifically in the world of Science Fiction and Fantasy. I am even reasonably prepared for a career in Romance. Nonfiction? *cricket chirp* And the more opportunities and situations and questions that keep popping up, the less I find out I know. Do I know any nonfiction reviewers, bloggers, podcasters, groups, websites? Not a one. Tarot? Some, but not nearly enough to be more helpful than Nancy, who has a strong footing in the Tarot world. I almost feel as though I've been caught with my pants down. Years, and years, and years of classes, beyond college, advanced college. And the first book I actually need to be involved in the promotion of turns out to be nonfiction.

Man plans. God laughs.

I honestly do find this funny. Inside, I am laughing my behind off at my own hubris. I was ready. I was totally ready. I was ready - for anything but this.

Oddly enough, when, and I do mean when, I publish my first novel, or even a handful of them, I can't say I will feel I have done something half as important as I feel I've done by being involved with Psychic Tarot. That's just God's honest truth. I enjoy writing novels. But a true fire of purpose, the idea that I could have helped change the face of something, perhaps even a small corner of the world? That's heavy.

Makes me wish I had put a little effort into researching the nonfiction market. But then, to every thing there is a purpose. Perhaps my first steps are meant to be uncertain. In any case, I am excited to learn.

-Mel