Permission to write, june 2017, installment no 1

DATE 06/19/2017

Featuring A. Jarrell Hayes, Chiereme Fortune, and much more.

Installment No. 1

UNCOVERING THE LAYERS WITH GG RENEE

PERMISSION TO WRITE

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WHO WE ARE Our goal is to cultivate the craft of independent writers of color, give them space to create, a platform to amplify their voices, and a community to support their journey. We want to help readers find their new favorite writer and help writers grow and find new audiences for their work.

THIS ISSUE

FEATURED WRITERS

One of the biggest obstacles to overcome as a writer is finding the value in

JOHANNA CARRASQUILLO

your words. For this inaugural issue, we wanted to focus on giving our-

CHIEREME FORTUNE

selves permission as writers.

COURTNEY J. HARDWICK It’s up to you to decide that your voice is bigger than your pride. Bigger than

A. JARRELL HAYES

your self-confidence. We write, not because it is something to do. We

XALAVIER NELSON JR.

write because we have to. We write because we have something to say.

Welcome to Permission to Write.

CONTACT US 45 E. City Avenue

Twitter: @permtowrite

#327

Instagram: @permissiontowrite

Bala Cynwyd, PA 19004

Email : hello@permissiontowrite.com Web :

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www.permissiontowrite.com

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PAGE OF CONTENTS INTRO 06

EDITOR’S LETTER It’s

the

first

issue!

Hear

from

our

Editor-In-Chief

Ashley Coleman about this new journey.

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MEET THE TEAM Team work makes the dream work and we don’t work without them!

SPECIAL FEATURES 08

MORNING PAGES There is nothing like morning journaling, check out these prompts from Telyse Bee.

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AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT W/ GG RENEE When writing is truly soul deep, it resonates. Uncover the Layers in this interview with author GG Renee.

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JOURNEYING SOULFULLY W/ CHIREME JACKSON What started as a way to cope flourished into a brand and business.

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5 WAYS WRITERS CAN GIVE THEMSELVES PERMISSION Are you a writer that’s been holding back? JaQuette Gilbert gives us the keys to grant ourselves permission.

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PTW PICK & RECENT RELEASES A less than exhaustive list of books that should indeed be on your shelves!

SUBMISSIONS 10

THE TREES WERE ONCE PEOPLE “When I die, I want to come back as a tree.” Those were the last words my daughter said to me.”

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MY BECOMING “This wasn’t just clutter to me, this was my life, love, pain, and other unknowns that I needed the stamina to face.”

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BAPTIZED IN SWEET WATER “When the pain wrapped ‘round my hips, I felt the air leave my body for a moment.”

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REST IN PEACE “I had to mourn the loss of someone who was still alive.”

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MAZURKA - A GHOST IN ITALY “I’m not worried about how anyone sees me - or if it fits the carefully-crafted image on the edge of my anxieties.”

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EDITOR’S LETTER

Photo: Ashlee Douglas

So here we are. The inaugural issue of Permission to Write. Here I they’ve been there too. That is the significance of writing. am, tapping out my very first editor’s note.

When we realize that our work is bigger than us. Bigger than our I’ve been on an interesting journey. If you’ve followed my work, fear of transparency and authenticity. Bigger than our grammatical you know that I started my career pursuing songwriting. But some- prowess or eloquence with words. That moment is when we are how ended up with a blog and yeah. When starting out, I never able to give ourselves permission. Permission to write. would have thought that I would end up exactly in this space. I wanted to write music, but sometimes God has a bigger plan than I hope that you enjoy this work that our team has worked to put towe have for ourselves.

gether. If you do enjoy it, tell a friend to tell a friend so that we can continue to build momentum around the work of talented writers

Permission to Write emerged from a book idea. I wanted to tell the of color. story of learning how to be a confident writer and that changed.

I decided I wanted to create a platform for the works of writers of It’s my hope that not only will you indulge in the works of others, color. Our stories matter and I don’t see that representation in the but that in turn, you will also find your voice as a writer. Know that major publishing world as much as I would like to.

you don’t have to wait for anyone else to give you permission.

So many writers have allowed insecurity to get in the way. They’ve With intense love and admiration, let their definition of a “writer” stifle them from telling the stories that shape history, that help heal, and that help to show a different perspective. I know the power of storytelling first-hand. I know what it’s like to read the work of one of my favorite writers and

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF @writelaughdream

breathe a sigh of relief. In that moment, their words help me realize

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Meet the Team!

TELYSE BEE

GABRIELLE HICKMON

Submissions Editor @fabulouslyslow

Submissions Editor @gabgotti

TAMIKA BURGESS

JAQUETTE GILBERT

Special Features @tameeksb

Special Features @mrsjpgilbert

NNEKA OKONA Submissions Editor @afrosypaella

LANESHIA LAMB Special Features/Social @laneshialamb

KA’LYN COGHILL

EDIE KING

Managing Editor @asapbookworm

Project Manager @edierenee724

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MORNING PAGES There is something to be said about the ability to capture your first thoughts in the morning. In this section, you will find journaling prompts for you to utilize in your writing time.

“The question isn’t who is going to let me; it’s who is going to stop me.” ~Ayn Rand In the past, I have considered myself to be a lot of things, but never a writer. In my heart and in my dreams I fantasized often about becoming a best-selling author. In reality though, I felt like the sum total of me was my day job as a Cosmetologist and Educational Director for a hair product company. Although I had been at my day job for 10 years, I still had a hard time answering the question so often asked, “So, what do you do?”

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When I would answer, I would always bumble, always stammer… it just never seemed to flow off my lips as smoothly as it did for others. It was as if these job titles didn’t feel true to who I was at my core. It wasn’t that I didn’t like my day job, I liked it. In fact, I chose it. However, I didn’t know myself at 18 the way I know myself now at 30. If I had known then what I know now, I might have made a different decision.

I think the underlying issue was that I never thought I could actually consider myself a writer.

Honestly, up until recently I still didn’t consider myself a writer. Even though I had written

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articles for online and print publications and managed a blog for a company I previously worked for, I still didn’t consider myself a writer. When I did write, I didn’t write for me. It was always for someone else, about someone else’s chosen topic or to capture someone else’s voice.

This is the first time in my life that I decided to stop writing for others and to start writing for me.

table, one that works for the type of writer we are.

Writing is one of the most difficult mental tasks a person can undertake. Therefore, any effort expended in this endeavor should be noted and celebrated, by you. Whether you are the girl who writes in her journal every day or the guy who writes a blog post each week or the woman who writes poems on her lunch break, you have given yourself permission to write As huge as that decision was and as happy as it made me, and you are a writer. later I found myself with a different struggle. I wondered, “Will my writing actually be good enough? Will Writing is for the brave.Writing is for the emotionally anyone like it? Will it connect?” Sometimes in our minds honest.Writing is for the over thinker. we think we are a lot better at something than maybe we actually are; was this my issue? On the other hand, Writing is for those who just might lose their mind if sometimes in our minds we think we are mediocre when they don’t get these thoughts out in some way, shape, in fact we are amazing. It’s funny though; rarely do we or form. think the positive.

Writing is for those with the imaginary audiences, When seeds of doubt in our minds are fertilized and left friends, situations and scenarios that run on autoto grow, they can choke out even the largest and most play through their minds every day. beautiful buds of creativity. You then find that you’re left with all of these incredible ideas that you’re just plain Writing is for those who have given themselves the scared to put down on paper. You become paralyzed by permission to write. the fear that if you write them down or type them out, they won’t be as incredible as they were in your mind.

Allow me to reintroduce myself, my name is Telyse Bee and I am a writer.

Stop letting fear paralyze you.

I always thought that to write, one must be a writer by trade with an impressive portfolio of published work.

However, I have found through much thought, reading, and personal growth that writing consistently is what makes one a writer. No award, degree, byline, or outside validation is needed.

The word Permission means authorization granted to do something. So, giving ourselves permission to write actually starts with us getting out of our own way and granting ourselves the authorization and the mental freedom to know that we belong at the writer’s table too. And if by chance that table gets too full, each of us has the ability, yes, the permission to construct our own

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Written By: Telyse Bee Photo: Ashlee Douglas PROMPTS What do you give yourself permission to let go of in your life? What is no longer adding value?

How did you give yourself permission to write?

What do you appreciate and cherish about your unique voice and perspective?

If you had to encourage another writer, what would you say to them about giving themselves permission?

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SUBMISSIONS

THE TREES WERE ONCE PEOPLE Written by A. Jarrell Hayes | @ajh_books Photo: PTW Fiction

“When I die, I want to come back as a tree.” Those were the last words my daughter said to me. The last words any human said to me.

Part of me wishes she had died in the beginning of the end. It would’ve been quicker, less drawn out and agonizing. I wish she had been vaporized when the bombs dropped on Philadelphia, Dallas, Denver, Sacramento, and dozens of other cities across the US and the world. Seemed like everything was destroyed in that war -- everything but her and I and the trees.

On the day she died in my arms, I caressed what was left of her curly fro. Her scalp was patchy with hair that resembled molted fur and blisters. She blinked away tears and said that I was lucky. Thanks to my cybernetic organs and nanotechnology injected in me, I would survive the end. I could breathe air that set Geiger counters whirling; I could quench my thirst with green water polluted by nuclear sludge; I could digest radioactive food grown in the corrosive soil and not vomit.

Before the war, I was an experiment in creating cyborg soldiers. My liver and heart and lungs and stomach -- and god knows what other parts of my body -- were amalgamated with self-maintaining factories that produce the nanobites that have kept me alive for over three hundred years. From what I know, I was the only subject. The war came and the project was scrapped in favor of more urgent concerns.

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My daughter was right. I was lucky enough to survive, to live centuries after the destruction of humanity. I was lucky enough to watch every single person I loved die; crumble to ash and slip through my fingers.

I took her corpse in my arms and carried her out into the forest she loved all her life.

The pines and spruces and evergreens had been stripped to skeletons by decay; dead, just like her. I laid her body down at the roots of a tree that looked the most alive -- it still had some sad looking needles on its branches. I then dug into the ground and carved out a shallow grave for her with my fingers. I carefully placed her body in the grave. That’s when I spotted a soggy pine cone on the ground. I placed it on her chest, folded her hands around it like she was holding an egg, and then covered her with dirt.

My tears served as eulogy.

You’d expect I’ve seen a lot in those years. I haven’t. Scorched earth, barren plains and life that withered away before my eyes -- that’s what I’ve seen. At least at first.

I don’t know how many years had passed when I stumbled through the forest where I buried my daughter. I made it to her grave, as I always did. I found a peculiar seed

“When I die, I want to come back as a tree.” Those were the last words my daughter said to me. The last words any human said to me.” on the mound. It was a big as a cherry, shaped like an arrowhead and as hard and bumpy as a walnut shell. I squeezed it -- it withstood the crushing power of my enhanced strength. I smirked; I had finally found something in this world as resilient as me. I put it in a small pouch I used to hold interesting knickknacks that I found.

Life and death really aren’t cycles. Things die, and that’s the end of them. Something else -- something entirely new -- is then born. Or not. I hate to think that the old had to be wiped out in order to make space for what was to come.

The trees were the first to return to life. But they were different looking. Grey like morose clouds. Twisted like a politician’s lies.

Budding colorless flowers. Bearing droopy leaves. Sprouting fruit that looked like squishy toads and reeked of poison.

This new flora disgusted me. I stomped around for weeks, months, years to distance myself from the life that had grown. I couldn’t escape those absurd trees. They were everywhere.

Fed up, I decided to plant the seed I found on my daughter’s grave. If those sacrilegious plants could desecrate the memory of my Earth with their hideous existence, maybe this weird seed could grow too. Maybe my daughter’s wish to be reborn as a tree would come true. I planted the tree in a clearing and cared for it. It grew into a tree that resembled a mango tree, though it has yet to bear any fruit.

I spend most of my time sitting underneath my daughter’s tree. When I touch its bark, I can hear my daughter’s voice in mind.

I can feel her heartbeat pulse upon my fingertips. She’s in there. I know it. She got her wish.

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SUBMISSIONS

MY BECOMING Written by Chiereme Fortune | @cfortunewrites Essay Enter this Cluttered Room This room. Filled with books, journals and paper folders spilling over the bookshelf and onto the floor.

Clothes, half put away lingering on door knobs and dresser tops.

Shoes, packed into worn cardboard boxes and plastic crates, always missing the right foot.

This is my life.

No more commercial storage sales to fear, no more garage space to keep bargaining with overextended favors with relatives. Everything was here. My life on paper, in fabric, and dusty memorabilia was all here.

I was here. ‌ I avoided cleaning my room for months. I knew how my oldest OCD brother felt about anything that looked cluttered. I knew that my mom and I were picking up the pieces of my domestic training by buying scores of books on organization and decluttering our lives. I knew that I wanted to explore the idea of being a Minimalist - able to function and live with only what I needed, but what I really needed was more time.

To take my time.

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This wasn’t just clutter to me, this was my life, love, pain and other unknowns that I needed the courage and stamina to face.

I started and stopped.

Allowed distractions.

Took breaks.

Came back.

Started again.

It was on those shelves, stuffed into dresser cabinets, hiding under the edge of plastic containers. It was like meeting myself all over again. As if God was reintroducing me to the the sacred, wide-eyed made in wonder self I had given up looking for.

She was there, and we had so much catching up to do. ...

The journals, stacked neatly with loose thoughts crawling out from the sides and tucked away in the purple box that was starting to look overgrown. Clothing evenly spaced in sections of the closet, folded in over-packed drawers and lingering on hooks, knobs and anything that a hanger could be left on. Turtles from Nicaragua, yard sales and childhood experiences perched on the dresser fulfilling their purpose as paperweights and reminders to furnish my adolescent dream to witness the life of a baby turtle. The roll of white wrapping paper flooded with blooming pink, orange and purple roses laying alongside the gold foil wrapping paper, destined for some great DIY project.The plastic 8x11 envelopes holding the drafts of poetry, songs and books in need of some intentional time and reminding me of my deficiencies in time management. I was there. ...

In those pages, on that bookshelf in the corners of these four walls was everything I owned in my entire twentyfour years and seven months of existence. Everything was pushed to the four walls that confined my childhood reunion which seemed like meeting old friends rather than going through years of storage locked containers, diaries and pictures. It was like my heart. A little cluttered, but still cleaned out in the middle for Christ to make His home.

But He is a God of order and there should be nothing - not even leftover pieces of myself crowding His space. I began to open, sift, sort and throw away the parts of my life that I forgot existed. The parts of my life that I would have liked to have left in those storage bins, the memories that I had tucked away and forgotten how to remember.

This journey to Becoming the Woman started in my senior year of college during my first fast with a sink of dishes, left there for days, collecting dust and hardening with each day that went by. Finally being still enough to see the mess I was living in, I rolled up my sleeves, put on the purple rubber gloves, and started to wash each dish with a sudden feeling of peace that only comes in the presence of God. He met me at that sink. He spoke to my heart. That sink was not about dirty dishes, it was about the missing memories. It was about the childhood I had missed, the time with my mother and other women who would later shape my unformed identity as a

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young women into the old soul I am today. It was about my questions that were harbored in my heart, never asked or answered.

He was speaking to my becoming. Speaking of my identity and freeing me to start asking the questions that I thought I should already know the answer to. To ask the questions that seem innate to all women. The questions that seemed like most girly-girls knew already. The questions that led to process, that questioned the meaning of God’s silence and led me into the wilderness of waiting on God. Those dishes brought me to that cluttered room. Full of everything I owned, and everything God was preparing me to be.

(Photos: Kimolee Eryn, @kimoleeeryn)

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AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT: UNCOVERING THE LAYERS WITH GG RENEE

GG Renee is an independent author, speaker, coach, and writer that shows women how to uncover their layers through writing.

remember how you found people, but you can easily see the importance of the discovery after some time. I am certain that I am among many other women who have become better writers because of their encounter with her soulful words and uninhibited spirit.

Whether it’s in her full on courses like “Words That Move” or “Writing the Layers” or in her simplistic online challenges like

Through her books and writing business, GG has stood up for

#30layersin30days, GG knows how to evoke soul deep writing. She

the introvert, excavated the layers of self-discovery, and advo-

once mentioned starting your work with the “truthiest truth,” which

cated for mental wellness and self-care. For this inaugural issue,

is a testament to why her work resounds so deeply with her audi-

we had the opportunity to take a glimpse into her writing pro-

ence. Never running from transparency, authenticity, and storytell-

cess, what moves her, and how she escaped the limitations of

ing, GG lays it all out on the table and keeps readers coming back

others to pursue this meaningful, life-changing work.

again and again for more.

Tell me about the most beautiful part of the writing process

It’s been probably about three years or so since I was introduced to

for you?

GG Renee’s work. Either through a writing challenge or something

I love how writing forces me to surrender my fears and insecuri-

of the sort, but you know how the internet goes. You may not always

ties. It gives me a place where I can always find comfort, no mat-

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ter what is going on in my life. The most beautiful part to me is seeing Self-doubt and all that comes with that. Ultimately I had to decide my soul laid out in sentences, sharing it with others and seeing them that writing is part of my purpose and my path as a human being connect with it.

and I’m going to live it out in my own way and create my own definition of success. When I stopped focusing on external expecta-

Your greatest writing muse?

tions and started valuing my own journey, I developed a mindset

Women! Particularly women of color. Particularly women who have of possibility and abundance that I didn’t have before. struggled with anxiety, depression or any kind of mental/emotional health. I write for women like me who have hidden their true selves How were you able to make the transition from blogger to for too long because they fear exposure, rejection and failure. I want published author? to set an example of how your life can open up when you push In 2009, I started blogging as a hobby. I wasn’t passionate about through your fears.

my job at all and I needed a creative outlet. In 2012, I decided to take blogging and writing seriously and to see what would hap-

Three writers that have given you envy when reading if any?

pen if I practiced what I preached and followed my heart. That

It’s hard for me to name three writers because there are so many! But was the year I got my first paid freelance writing gig. That is when it’s easy for me to break down three types of writer envy that come I started to really believe that writing was meant to be more than up for me:

just a hobby for me. By July 2013, I’d quit my job and was in the thick of creating my own products and services.

Wordplay Envy: I admire the art that writers make with language so much that sometimes I find myself wishing I was more clever, more We live in a time where you can write and create a platform for descriptive or more of whatever gift I happen to see in another writer. yourself without an agent, publisher, or gatekeeper of some sort This type of envy is an opportunity to be inspired, not envious, and having to choose you. So instead of waiting for permission, I depractice refining the gifts of your own voice.

cided to do just that. I wrote and wrote and created print books, e-books, online courses and in-person workshops. The first pro-

Speed Envy: I marvel at writers who seem to put out new content ject I worked on was a book, “The Beautiful Disruption,” a memoir more frequently and consistently than I am able to. “Seem to” is key about heartbreak and healing that I published in 2014. I’ve also because it’s all about perception. This is when you have to embrace published “Wallflower,” a book of essays for quiet women who your own pace, how your creativity flows and how you pour it out. want to be heard, and “Writing the Layers,” a self-discovery workYou have to learn to trust your process.

book.

Popularity Envy: As someone who has built their writing career on- The most difficult part of the publishing process for you? line, I’ve caught myself envying other writers for the size of their plat- Marketing! I thought writing and structuring the book would be form and for their crowd appeal more than their actual writing. I’ve the hardest part but finding an authentic and effective way to prolearned through experience that I thrive in a quality over quantity mote it proved to be the biggest challenge. Just like you have to environment. I’m not interested in numbers for the sake of numbers. discover your writing voice, when you are promoting your work But because we’re human, sometimes we envy people for things we you have to experiment and discover your marketing style. Other don’t even want for ourselves!

than your friends, family and most loyal supporters, people won’t just come running to buy your book because you wrote it. You

I’ve gone down these comparison rabbit holes many times only to have to find creative ways to give your book legs and get it in front find my way out by reminding myself that this journey will only be of people. You have to learn what audience you are targeting and meaningful for me if I stay true to exactly who I am and honor the how to reach them. For example, when I wrote Writing the Layers, evolution of my own craft.

I also created a three-hour live workshop based on the book and that allowed me to reach people in a new way.

What’s been your biggest obstacle in giving yourself permission to write?

How do you handle marketing and promotion as more of an

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“This won’t be the last time she has to disappoint someone to avoid betraying herself.”

-GG Renee

The Beautiful Disruption “She fears she will have to lose everyone, in order to save herself. She has turned all her conversations inward. In such a short amount of time, she has come to enjoy her solitude, her reflective space, so much that she has distanced herself from everyone.

Monopolized by transformation, she has created her own cocoon. And she wonders if she will be hard to love, because she is so consumed with and comforted by her own little world. She thought she would be fulfilled with every declared truth and understood by everyone who mattered. This was the heavenly destination she sought. The promised land.

She felt so good in the moment, changing the conversation and participating in her own truth for a change. But now she knows there is an art to it. This won’t be the last time she has to disappoint someone to avoid betraying herself.”

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introvert?

craft that is different than anyone else?

So far, I do most of my promotion online. As an introvert, being

I believe that as writers of color, we have generations of stifled and

able to write, create and promote, all from the comfort of my own

stolen expression fueling our need to create. The intense emo-

home is ideal. With that said, this is an area where I continue to

tions of our ancestors simmer inside of us and boil over in our art.

challenge myself to step out of my comfort zone and get out and connect in person. I’ve found that the idea of self-promotion is

With the inside scoop, I know that the next book is in the works.

much more daunting than the act itself. You have to go through

Are you approaching this project any differently? What have

the discomfort to find out what works for you. I prefer one on one

you learned since releasing your first three works? Anything

conversations, sharing impactful stories and connecting with peo-

else you want to share about the craft of writing?

ple organically through the work.

The biggest difference with this book is that I’m taking my time and making sure this book is braver and bolder than the others. When

The Beautiful Disruption was a creative framing of your real life

you start your writing journey as a blogger, after a few years you

story, how do you overcome the ability to be vulnerable in your

can look back and feel like all your best work is online. In many

writing? To put things out there about your journey?

ways, this book is a transition from putting my best work into the

I think about who I might be helping by sharing my stories as hon-

blog and instead saving it for my books. My strategy has changed.

estly and shamelessly as possible. Initially, I felt extremely vulnera-

In contrast to my earlier days, I now use social media and my web-

ble while writing “The Beautiful Disruption” and I was struggling to

site to introduce myself and showcase samples of my work, but my

get the words out. The book is written in the third person because

books and courses offer up a whole experience you can collect

somehow referring to myself as “she” unlocked something and

and keep with you.

allowed me to write more freely, like I was revealing truths about the character and not myself. Creating that distance allowed me

From the first three books I’ve learned that publishing is a multime-

to open up.

dia project with many moving parts and I’m approaching this book with that in mind. Even as I’m still in the process of writing it, I’m

I used to worry about over sharing but I don’t anymore. At some

thinking about marketing, promotion and positioning in a way that

point I had to stop worrying about being criticized because it was

I never did before.

hindering my work. Also, writing is a spiritual practice for me so that drives me to let go and say what’s in my heart. I know that

I look back to the beginning of all this and I see how much I’ve

being brave with my writing will help me be more brave in my eve-

grown but I also look forward and see that growth is limitless and

ryday life. I know that the women I am trying to reach will only hear

that’s the beauty and the humanity of it. As creatives, we have to

me if I speak directly and transparently to them. There’s no room

just start -- openly and imperfectly -- and let ourselves experience

for self-consciousness in creativity, it only waters us down.

that vulnerability. Too often we’re scared to start because we don’t know what we’re doing and we feel inadequate. It’s constant prac-

Your writing resonates so deeply with your audience, what do

tice and willingness, hands-on learning and stubborn resilience

you attribute that to?

that grows you step by step so you can build something authentic

I hope it’s because my readers hear their own thoughts in my

and sustainable.

words. I try to speak to the layers of emotion that we all feel but have been conditioned to hide. I want to set an example that in-

To keep up with GG Renee and purchase her books, follow her

spires others to be more vulnerable and expressive. Many peo-

@ggreneewrites and hit her site allthemanylayers.com.

ple feel this urge but don’t know what to do with it until they see someone else doing it. That was the case for me. Seeing other artists and writers express themselves unapologetically gave me

Written by: Ashley M. Coleman

the desire to do the same.

Photos: Courtesy of GG Renee

What if anything do you feel that writers of color bring to the

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“The book is written in the third person because somehow referring to myself as “she” unlocked something and allowed me to write more freely, like I was revealing truths about the character and not myself.”

“I try to speak to the layers of emotion that we all feel but have been conditioned to hide. I want to set an example that inspires others to be more vulnerable and expressive.”

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Journeying Soulfully with Chimene Jackson of Vagabroad Stationery Do you believe that everything happens for a reason? I do, and perhaps its truthfulness resonates even more after a heartfelt conversation with Chimene Jackson, owner and creator of Vagabroad Journals. What started as an innocent yet intentional series of questions, quickly turned into Chimene passionately sharing who she is and why her brand’s voice needed to be amplified. During our hour of power, I imagined her pacing back and forth and using her hands to further drive home her points. She later confirmed that was true, as we laughed at how intense those moments were.

It wasn’t Chimene’s intention to make

happened and how it made you feel.

tractions, and as much as we may hate

a business, and she surely didn’t

You are giving yourself the details you

to admit it social media is one of them.

plan on creating a brand. She simply

will need to extract the good.

It often times leads us down the dead

wanted somewhere to put her words;

2.

“Fear is prevalent in our cul-

end path of comparing our when’s

a journal whose exterior reflected who

ture as a false sense of logic and as-

with those we see on our screens. It

she was just as much as the thoughts

surance.” In life, things happen that

is important to understand that every-

and feelings that would soon fill its

are out of our control and your soul-

one’s timing isn’t simultaneous. Our

pages. From the void she found in the

ful journey is dependent upon you

timing is distinct to us and our indi-

marketplace, Vagabroad and all of its

standing firm against your fears. You

vidual why’s. Journeying soulfully is

accompanying passions were born.

have to learn to recognize fear and

accepting that there is a when com-

block it from becoming real. The trib-

ponent and allowing yourself to be

“Journeying soulfully is understand-

ulations of our lives aren’t intended to

still and learn all you need to so you

ing that everything happens for a

scare us, they are meant to teach us.

don’t miss it and that you’re prepared.

reason; it’s the conscious effort of tap-

3.

ping into what’s happening in your

from which hope and creativity

life, and it’s staying connected.”

spring eternal, and that’s your im-

“You have to guard the place “There was nothing for US...”

agination.” Our time is better spent

It

When I asked Chimene how you

cultivating what’s in us than looking

through a rough transition dealing

make the effort to stay connected,

outside of ourselves for fantasy and

with the separation of her parents and

she responded with five distinctly dif-

approval.

it became the process of creating the

ferent, yet interdependent steps.

4.

started

with

Chimene

going

“There are some things you

Vagabroad journals. She researched

won’t understand; you have to re-

bookbinding, using conversations

“Stay connected through journ-

spect the unknown.” Don’t become

with those she’d encountered abroad

aling.” The process is for you, but it’s

consumed with trying to figure things

to further inspire her. The first edition

also for those who come after you. It’s

out, instead focus on being present

had a cover of where she had been

documenting the stories of our times,

and strengthening your spiritual con-

and hoped to go, and the pages of

the thoughts and feelings based on

nection. When it’s time for you to un-

its interior were covered in tea. An

what’s happening around us. Journ-

derstand, you will.

unplanned experiment turned out to

aling empowers you to remember re-

5.

“We were created for a why and

be another embedded representation

sponsibly as you make note of what

a when.” We are surrounded by dis-

of Chimene. The journals have since

1.

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“I can’t just check out because what I am going through isn’t Instagram-friendly, my job is to tell the truth.”

become a week long process just to create one, hours painting the covers and days staining the pages and constructing the journal for shipment.

Chimene attributes her success and her ability to create full time to her transparency online. When she communicates with her audiences, she never does it with the intentions of selling. Instead, she communicates her experiences. Coining herself as a dialogue artist, she has committed herself to being an active participant in her own life.

Chimene currently lives in Maryland. You can connect with her on multiple platforms but her website is where more of her stories live, her products, and her writing visit, www.journeysoulfully.co/ to start your soulful journey.

“Sometimes you need to sit down and be quiet. Listen to that small voice inside of you. Don’t ignore the whisper and don’t be afraid of what the quiet uncovers.”

Written by Laneshia Lamb Photos: Courtesy of Chimene Jackson

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SUBMISSIONS

BAPTIZED IN SWEET WATER Written by: Courtney J. Hardwick | @mscjayne Essay

Dear God, Names are important.

My Momma named me Glory. She would tell me that I reminded her redemption was real for anyone who wanted it. She never told me what she needed to be redeemed for.

But I was my Momma’s glory and I think about that every day. More now that I have my own baby on the way. And that scares me. I have done my best but some days I feel like it’s not enough. I have a chance to make that right now.

These machines are scaring me more than they help. The nurses keep trying to reassure me that I’m fine and that my baby is fine, but why do they whisper so

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“My Momma named me Glory. She would tell me that I reminded her redemtion was real for anyone who wanted it.”

much? Why are they so flustered? And why do they tell women

When the pain wrapped ‘round my hips, I felt the air leave my

who are labeled high-risk that it’s all fine?

body for a moment. And that’s where I saw you. I don’t know how long it took to get her here? But I do know it felt like bap-

They shouldn’t do that.

tism. Baptism in sweet water.

I really want the pain to be over soon. Not in a definite way but

First the air left my body. And then a warmness creeped

a way that lets me know it was worth it. Many women say that -

down my legs. But the pain of it all was cold - almost like I

“Labor is worth it when you get to hold your baby.”

had been shocked. I felt pieces of me break but I didn’t worry because those were pieces of her to begin with. And I saw my

And maybe that’s why my Momma named me her Glory? She

Momma! She said to me, “Glory just lie down. It won’t be too

saw something of her, more than her maybe, in me. That’s a large

much longer.”

order to fill.

She was right.

As my baby moves, I think I understand what she meant. I think I get it. There’s something about feeling the stretch of a piece of

It happened in an instant. First the warmth and then the cold

yourself. But my baby still doesn’t have a name? Other women in

that shocked to my body. And I broke open. I broke myself

parenting classes have had the names of their babies picked for

open so that she could get here. And when she did? It was

months. They talk to them in a personal way and I wonder if that

like the life I needed had gotten stronger. I can’t explain it

sometimes means I didn’t do what I should have.

but that’s what it was. And I held her first. They were there to catch her but I wanted her to feel my hands, her first body, be-

Maybe she’ll look like my Momma? Then I can have a piece of

fore she felt anything else. I had to let her know that it was real

her too. But the pain is getting intense now and I’m going to stop

and we knew each other. So, I caught her first. And I looked at

talking to you. I appreciate You listening.

her face and knew what my Momma meant when she called me her Glory.

Dear God,

Her name?

A baby girl who was splendid to look at was born the other day.

Redemption.

And it felt as though I got to meet You in person. I knew she was arriving even though nurses told me I still had time.

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Photography: Kimolee Eryn

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SUBMISSIONS

REST IN PEACE

Written by: Johanna Carrasquillo | @ijudge_jojo Photo: PTW Creative Non-Fiction

I had to mourn the loss of someone who was still alive the pain that caused was worst than what death would have derived and mama are you healing? or can you still feel the pain? i haven’t called you in a few years because i can still feel the pain and that pain becomes rage and that rage i can’t contain when

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i think about when i was twelve years

mama are you healing?

old and

or can you still feel the pain?

mama are you healing?

i don’t come around anymore

or can you still feel the pain?

because it’s easier that way i learned to block it all out

i was only twelve years old then

until i had to revisit it again and

and even then i knew it was wrong

once again you couldn’t accept

when

your sad reality

he tried to steal my innocence

so you told her the same stories

and i

that you told me

didn’t realize you were wrong when

and she was only six years old then

you told me i had imagined it

and then you had the chance to make

imagined him

things right when

attempting to take what wasn’t his

you confronted him and

and

all he did was lie and and he did was cry and

mama are you healing?

you didn’t even try to see the lies

or can you still feel the pain?

behind his eyes and you forgot to read the fine print

i don’t answer you calls because

on what those lies would do to our

i’m still healing

lives and

i’m still learning to forgive you i’m still grieving

mama are you healing?

remember when you said i could tell

or can you still feel the pain?

you anything i thought i was being brave when i

you forgot to read the fine print

told you about his demons

on what those lies would do to our

i thought i was being brave when i

lives and

told you about his demons

how one night i attempted to take

i thought i was being brave when i

my own life because

told you about his demons

it had to be easier than being the

but instead you became a coward

only person that understood it

when you started listing reasons

wasn’t right

reasons why it couldn’t possibly be

because we were little girls then

true

and

you made me feel guilty for telling you

you taught me that i could never

the truth and

trust men and i could never trust you again and

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lessons on what it means to grow up quick and growing up with an attitude that no one else gets and being angry inside for so many reasons and yet i forgive you i forgive him mama i’m healing i know now i’m more than just okay and i’m learning to find peace between those years i no longer accept the pain

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SUBMISSIONS

MAZURKA - A GHOST IN ITALY Written by: Xalavier Nelson, Jr. Photo: Kimolee Eryn Creative Non-Fiction I hate the Mazurka.

I hate how my feet stumble over the uneven cobblestones, and the maze of simple steps everyone else seems to grasp.

I hate the way my knees knock into those of my partner as I attempt yet another ill-advised course correction.

I hate the way my undershirt slides off my belt and edges towards my chest.

I feel exposed.

I lose my concentration.

I make my partner laugh, and my mind desperately attempts to examine how.

I’m dancing with someone else, now.

Try to make her laugh.

If I keep talking, maybe she won’t notice my hand shaking.

I’m leading, because I’m the man.

Right?

I’m a man.

Yeah.

I stop in the middle of the ‘dance floor’ - a small, public clearing beneath the statue of a naked man and his rearing horse.

There are garlands in front of the statue, today.

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“I hate the way my knees knock into those of my partner as I attempt yet another ill-advised course correction.”

ners.

I mean it.

They smile back.

The emptiness is starting to creep in again.

Smile.

Fuck.

Smile.

I find a small contingent within the group who are beginning to claim the ‘magic’ of Mazurka by ignoring steps altogether.

This strikes me as an original concept, despite it being the only way I’ve danced until today.

I apologize for not being able to finish

the steps yet again.

the song.

I feel welcome.

I feel Italian for the first time since I ar-

I step outside of the ring of swaying,

rived in this country eleven months

flowing figures.

ago.

Make another joke.

I feel like crying.

It lands.

I dance.

Screw the empty space filling the hollow behind my eyes.

Dance.

Don’t say goodbye.

Don’t think about the the long, short walk home.

Don’t think about how ‘normal’ peo-

Thank God. Someone asks me what brings me to In a city known for the arrogant, de-

Italy.

tached airs of its citizenry, these spe-

I forget the Italian word for job.

cial people gather to play decades-

I tell them I’m studying Italian.

old music and take the steps forgotten

I tell them I’m studying Italian history.

by their neighbors.

I tell them that I’m a writer.

No one seems to be doing the same

I haven’t written anything new in

thing, but the figures manage to be in

weeks.

perfect sync anyway.

I do not tell them this.

It’s beautiful.

I’m good at this dance.

Someone takes the time to teach me

Screw the 1-2-3.

I smile at my rotating series of part-

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ple look at you.

Like you’re going to rob them and use the money to buy a puppy.

And then stab the puppy.

Don’t think about how they, consciously or not, pull their loved ones that much closer.

Walk that much faster.

Don’t think about the past.

Don’t think about the faces of your fellow tenants in South Korea - the splitsecond before they screamed and ran

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out of the elevator.

I’m not a burden.

The split-second before they recognized the color of your skin.

Don’t think about the freaks who clutch people they barely

I’m not lonely.

know to their whirling bodies at 3 o’clock in the morning to feel human for a single moment.

I’m not worried about being a lonely burden.

Don’t think about the freaks who taught you to dance.

The real normal.

I’m not worried about how anyone sees me - or if it fits the carefully-crafted image on the edge of my anxieties.

Keep walking.

I’m not worried about how my feelings are invalidated by the incredible amount of privilege I have, made possible by

I understand snatches of Italian being spoken on my way home.

the sacrifices of those I love.

A joke here.

How I’m worried about how someone may look at this

A comforting reassurance there.

piece, while human beings I *know* wonder how they’ll

People are working, loving, *living* just outside my window

feed their children tomorrow.

and I’m going to go back to my little room and write about it instead.

I love the Mazurka.

I’m going to write about writing about it.

Because I am a jackass.

I love the fucking Mazurka.

I am a ghost, and the people outside my window, those snatches of real life I hear - they are real.

I don’t exist.

I don’t read about the election, or how people feel about the election, or how people feel about feeling about the election.

I don’t care.

It’s 6 AM when I finally climb into bed.

I don’t sleep, even though I need it.

I use my imagination.

The imagination I should be using to finish one of my many projects, or the freelance pitches that might actually ensure I have something to give my family this holiday season.

I escape.

I’m sincere, but not desperately so.

I nail the steps.

I know my partner is enjoying her time dancing.

With me.

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5 Ways Writers Can Give Themselves Permission Photos:(Top: Ashlee Douglas, Bottom: PTW)

Do you remember the days in high school English when you had to get your essay topic approved by your teacher before proceeding?

As writers, I think we sometimes get stuck in that mode. We think we need to receive permission from someone else before writing and publishing our work. The truth is, we don’t need anyone’s permission but our own.

The writing industry is filled with incredible writers from a variety of genres. Everyone cannot and will not be a Maya Angelou, an Alex Haley or a Nikki Giovanni. That’s perfectly okay. We must give ourselves permission to come from behind the shadows of the greats, and walk our own path.

Each writer has a gift, and we must let go of stereotypes and idolatry to see the manifestation of our own greatness.

When we were children no one could tell us our dreams were too outlandish and impossible to achieve. We kept believing it would all come to fruition. As adults, we need to have that same childlike faith and belief. We need to believe our dreams are possible, and we need to believe we have what it takes to achieve our vision.

While it is understood that no one generally enjoys making mistakes or experiencing less than stellar results, we must give ourselves permission to miss the mark. Does it feel good to know our readers did not connect with our work? No, but as we walk our path we will encounter both harvest and drought seasons. In the high and low moments, there are lessons to be learned. Lessons about embracing our imperfections, celebrating our progress, and the need to keep hope alive. Giving into these lessons promotes growth and evolution, which are both necessary components of a maturing or

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skilled writer.

A part of growing and evolving includes a level of vulnerability.

It takes a special writer to embrace vulnerability. Dropping our defenses doesn’t mean we have to share our entire life story with our readers, but it does mean we aren’t afraid to dig deeper when we need to. We aren’t afraid to hone in on why our characters are going through a surge of emotion. We aren’t afraid to capture a common struggle and show our readers that we understand the emotions and thoughts they may be experiencing. As difficult as it may be, vulnerability is what helps us connect with our readers in a profound way.

There’s so much noise around us on a daily basis. Some of us have a 9 to 5, a significant other, children, parents, pets, and extracurricular activities that all vie for our attention. Distractions are everywhere, and if we aren’t careful, writing can get lost in the shuffle.

As writers, we must give ourselves permission to make writing a priority. If we don’t make writing a priority, no one else will do it for us. No one will respect our craft if we don’t. I’m a firm believer that people treat us the way we allow them to. While it can be difficult to balance “all the things,” we must be okay with demanding time to work on our craft.

No two writers are identical. Regardless of what happens in our writing pursuits, we must always remember that our journey has its own fingerprint. We don’t need anyone’s permission to be who we’ve been called to be. We are writers, and we consciously give ourselves permission to change, grow, explore, and share our stories.

Written by: JaQuette Gilbert

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“The Hate U Give” is a spectacular Young Adult novel that has captured the attention of the nation. The fictional story is centered around the ugly reality of murders and police brutality against people of color in America. Starr is the witness to one of her good friend’s murders at the hand of a policeman and watches the jury of public opinion decide whether he deserved to die because of his questionable activities. It’s a captivating tale that is both heart-wrenching and entertaining. Starr navigates being the only witness to the murder, her budding activism and managing her social life. For first-time author Angie Thomas, she truly hit this one out of the park.

Yes, I know you may be apprehensive about the fact that it’s a Young Adult novel, but it will hold your attention, no matter your age. It’s a quick read and helpful to keep in mind the uphill battle that many minorities face in today’s society.

RECENT RELEASES Yellow Rose, Kendra Williams, Mar 27 My Soul Looks Back, Jessica B. Harris, May 9 I Can’t Make This Up, Kevin Hart. June 6 Hunger, Roxane Gay, June 13 So Much Blue, Percival Everett, June 13 What We Lose, Zinzi Clemmons, July 11 Daddy’s Girl, Jakayla Green The Blended Ones, Angela J. Ford Black Privilege, Charlamagne Tha God Don’t Settle for Safe, Sarah Jakes Roberts

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“

Don’t wait for permission. Pursue your passion. Work however you can. Small steps.

Enjoy your journey. Forget about the industry.

Begin.

-Ava Duvernay

STAY CONNECTED: Twitter: @permtowrite Instagram: @permissiontowrite www.permissiontowrite.com 35