Hey, I’m sharing so we can
both all be better writers.
Here my caramel popping, stubby fingers were clicking links when I stumbled upon two refreshing and informative writing advice posts.
The first was from Samantha The Reader, The Best Writing Tips I Wish I Had Known From The Very Beginning!
I already appreciate how she writes. Descriptive, clear, warm and enlightening pieces of writing advice.
Second one was found through Brittle Paper links. It is an amazing post compiling Tiah Beautment’s twits about writing erotica. It is filled with writing etiquette, dispels myths, serving writing tips for erotica. I learnt a few new things. my cheeks are smiling because I hadn’t done any of the DONTs in EROTICA: Rules of engagement when asking readers to review your draft.
My lean legs walked briskly closer to the seated cluster of dusty beggars. The sun beat down harshly while the wind whipped stinging sand particles on my dark brown, oblong face. My full red lips didn’t whisper my praying thoughts. I prayed for the eternal rest of my late Grandfather, a friend’s father and another friend’s uncle. My slender fingers clutched the small black nylons filled with hot bean cakes and others with ripe mangoes. I had six small nylons in all. I spotted the recipients of my free brunch. My hands stretched out to two small boys conversing in low tones, two women staring into the air who immediately stretched out their hands murmuring thank you. I moved past their faded black hijab figures to a blind, stooped man with a tiny metal bowl and a standing homeless young man. There, on a hot Thursday mid morning, I had done the prayers for my dead.
Born into a family of seers from a young age, I had learnt the importance of my visions, prayers and charity. It was a habit now, I had a system for giving alms, sweets,clothes, fruits, books, (religious bodies) donation boxes. From charity drives, to roadside beggars, to NGOs donations, to a friend in need, just name it. I walked back to my parked car just as fast as I had walked towards the sandy, plastic littered roadside. The bright golden rays shone relentlessly. I raised my slim left wrist, stretching my palm to block the heat. I felt a bead of sweat roll down the space in between my breasts and pool at my navel. I opened the car door with my right long fingers. Driving out of the parking lot of the mall towards the hospital, my eyes felt tired. The previous night had been scary. My girlfriend had been up all night vomiting, stooling and burning up. Early hours of the morning I had been packing up and mopping orange stomach fluids, pieces of half digested yam that smelt like zobo drink off my dark tiles. Of course I took a day off work, I called in sick. Thinking of how the fear she was going to die had crept into my mind made me shudder. The rolled up windows blocked out the noisy, bright, bustling of Lagos Island. It hadn’t helped that the first song on the radio on my drive out the hospital was JCole singing about the dead.
Alone in the red Camry, I prayed she was better at the hospital. I didn’t want to see death lurking behind her weak irises. While I eat chocolate and custard filled doughnuts from the pink box on the grey passenger seat.
His fat thumb tapped the erase icon repeatedly. He looked at the snap and typed ‘Those who drank garri with me then will eat with me now’. Immediately he posted it messages rang in. Who had cooked such a feast? What type of chocolate wasn’t on that cake? The questions were followed by lustfully emojis. His chubby cheeks curved into a smile. As he started another video to capture his bestie popping champagne. She paused pouring the pink liquid and started screaming, when Hakeem opened the large red box filled with 24 novels from her Christmas book wish list. Garri for Breakfast, Selected Poems was the first on the right stack. The uploaded snap with views increasing. A dope bestfriend deserves cassava flakes of literature sprinkled on her birthday gifts.
Obiageli didn’t want a cliche Sunday lunch. She had made a list of ingredients—onions, small tin of sweet corn, green pepper, carrots, frozen turkey laps, Know chicken seasoning cubes, sausages, a bunch of yellow and black streaked plaintains, Gino curry and thyme. Other ingredients for her fried rice recipe, she purchased from memory. Being Easter Sunday she had an admirer and dear friends to cook for, a small lunch party. Her sister eyes were buried in the pages of the Linda Lael Miller western romance novel like sauce stuck at the bottom of a pot of rice. “Go and buy the turkey, one kilo. Chioma!” Obiageli said through the creaking brown door she held slightly open. “Okay, I’ll dress up and go.” Chioma responded without closing the novel or looking at her. *** Finally the front door closed behind her sister who walked on clutching crisp one thousand naira notes. Several minutes went by as she diced a large onion and five plantains humming to Mayorkun’s verse on Don’t Mind blaring in the kitchen. The queen part of ‘One of my Slay Queen’ was cut off with the start of her ringtone.
“There was no turkey. Just Orobo chicken laps. Should I buy the nine hundred naira own?” Was the question that replied her hello. A deafening pause assisted her thoughts. When asked what she’d cook for Easter Sunday Lunch Party. She hadn’t wanted rice and chicken. Yet it seems the Sunday lunch powers have her at the last minute making just that! “Yes, buy that. Thank you’,she answered as the end tone beeped.