Confessions of a Writer/Educator

The launch on September 15 went over really well. The readers were fantastic and the audience was thrilled.

My recruitment efforts leading up to the launch also led to exactly six young writers who are seriously interested in committing to the project. A lot of people are asking the question: "What if they flake out?" I'm more interested in, especially right now: "What if they don't flake out?" Why should I create unnecessary competition for something that has pieced together so organically seamless at the moment. Especially now that I can focus on other things, i.e. writing the curriculum, planning field trips and applying for a grant that could allow us to do a print edition.

So now what? For me, that is. What are my goals? For the past week I've been thinking about the repetitive nature of projects and what it means to found an organization. Yet, I must be true to myself first. I have always been adamant that this is not a project that comes from a humanitarian motivation. Youth and Brooklyn automatically conjure notions of charity. If anything I'm trying to counter that assumption. I'm doing art for art's sake with youth for my sake. I love teenagers. I love literature. I love the idea of creating a space where I can work with youth and expose them to writers and ideas I value while giving them the opportunity to incorporate these ideas into their own work and project.

Some people have been very supportive of my decision to keep this as solo event. Others have allowed me to humor them with a shrug of the shoulders and a "who knows" what will happen. But I feel there are those who just assume and expect that this is my life mission, so much so that it influences the way I view the project and myself. Thank goodness for this blog, where I can work out these dilemmas.

I'm a writer, first and foremost. Raw Fiction is a huge creative outlet for me. As a writer I am still learning and growing. I am adamantly an unpublished writer because I am not ready to be published. My work is not yet there. So, by doing Raw Fiction I can produce something that is much larger than myself and feel like I've done something worthwhile before slipping back into obscurity.

I am craving obscurity, as I write away on this blog, so public like a frog in a livelong bog. Even when I thought Raw Fiction could be an organization, or had to be an organization, back when I was first starting out and had no idea what I was doing, I knew I didn't want to be ED. I still don't. I don't want to do the same thing for years. I don't want to beg rich people for money in order to pursue my dreams. I'm not saying there is anything wrong with people who write grants for a living, or who are ED's of really great organizations that can only exist to help people because they can successfully convince the people with money to direct the money to them, but it is not my world. I can see no happiness at the end of that tunnel. I don't feel the rewards of it..... Unless, unless, it was for my own personal literary work.

In my searches for grants I've realized how many options there are for writers, women writers, black writers, queer writers and I want to look into those when this project is over. I've taught myself how to research and apply for grants, I want to take that skill and use it for my own art.

I think we all have to be completely true to our own hearts and ambitions. And it's hard for those of us who are queer activists. We want to fight for our communities. We need to. But how do we do that and balance our need to take care of ourselves and immerse ourselves in our art? That's another thing Raw Fiction is doing for me. I'm allowing myself to put all of my energy into this huge thing that is inherently humanistic and charitable no matter how much I try to say otherwise. No matter how much I will benefit from the personal and professional growth of it, it's a really "honorable thing to do," to quote a poet who I resented for saying it. But I can't keep doing it. This is not my destiny.

I am dreaming of the next steps. Of traveling somewhere. Of moving somewhere. Of writing something. Of getting a Master's degree, not because it's a last resort but because I would really enjoy it. The world seems so wide open and welcoming right now. Having come so far with Raw Fiction (getting it off the ground, meeting awesome youth who are excited about it, knowing it will be a success no matter how big or small) has given me the confidence to keep pursuing my dreams. To keep dreaming.

That's what I want Raw Fiction to give to all of its participants and audience members: We can follow our dreams and see them to fruition. And that in itself is enough to change the world.

THE CENTER

Thursday, September 6, 2012. 6pm.

I was presenting Raw Fiction at the The LGBT Center on W. 13th Street. It is one of the organizations that has been on my list from Day 1. People would ask me: Where do you want to recruit youth from? It's always been: schools and libraries, The Door and The Center, everywhere. It's one of the orgs that has been part of my New York awareness since I can remember, which makes sense because it was founded the year after I was born.

I was excited that Olin, the Outspoken Views coordinator, had invited me to present the project to his youth in person. When I showed up people couldn't find him so I sat down and started reading.  A few minutes later the cutest guy came over and sat next to me and asked what I was reading. He thought I was a new youth. The beauty of being 30 is that when someone takes you for 17 (based on your looks) it is a wonderful compliment.

I got a brief tour of the YES (Youth Enrichment Services) offices then Olin rounded up the young people and we all sat around a giant round table in the Outspoken Views meeting room.

Raw Fiction was the theme of the day and an agenda was written on the white board.

The first activity was to go around in a circle and introduce yourself with name, preferred gender pronoun (PGP), age and why it's great to be your age. Olin, 29, he, went right before me: (30, she, but I don't care if I get he because sometimes I dress like a guy and look like a boi or a boy from certain angles) and thought the best thing about being 29 is that he's not 30 yet. Lucky he's so cute. One more year Olin, I promise the thirties are the best decade.

The next exercise was an ice-breaker. A group story that manifests one word at a time from each participant as it develops rapidly around the circle. Censorship was not a question, these are teenagers getting to express themselves safely, in a fun and silly way.

Then I did my project presentation. Gave a Q&A. Think it went over well. The youth seemed interested but how does interest manifest itself into action, the ever-hovering question. I was impressed by their creativity, I hope they all come. One youth declared web programming was easy. HTML, CSS what? no problem. Give me that one. Sign them up! Take the talk to the walk and Mentor Darwin will get you there.

The writing exercise that followed my presentation was pretty deep and I was happy when the young man next to me asked Olin to re-read the prompt. Which went something like this: You are standing on the train platform when the train burst into the station the air gushing into you and filling you up like a helium balloon you are blown into the air and pushed into the tunnel but it is there you realize you have not ended up in the subway tunnel but near the core of yourself.

So I wrote a piece about stomping around like a happy explorer on my heart. The young woman who sat next to me probably inspired the planetary-like exploration by bringing her love of Octavia Butler to the table during the Q&A. Butler is not on Raw Fiction's list but she probably should be. The list will definitely be subject to change depending on the interests of the youth involved in the project. This same young woman is a great writer herself and I hope she comes through with all her friends to the recruitment event. Some of the youth chose to express themselves visually and some intense sketches came from the exercise.

Olin's job reminds me of part of the reason I am doing Raw Fiction, I love working with youth. Sitting around a table full of teenagers and inspiring them to express themselves creatively is really the best job I can imagine.

Plus, Outspoken Views isn't just a meeting group but they produce a publication every few months. So the youth who participate are welcome to hand in their work at the end of the one-hour session as a means of submitting work to the zine.

Before I left I received the gift of a couple of past productions:

Thank you Nicole (the Youth Project Director), Olin and the youth of YES for being such an inspiration to Raw Fiction!

LAUNCH INVITATION. WWW.RAWFICTION.ORG

Ya-Ya Network, New York State Youth Leadership Council and PEN American Center

August 23, 2012.

My bicycle had a flat. I could have patched the tube and tried to ride it but the tires needed replacing and the bike shop that I am religiously loyal to is closed on Wednesdays - I'd forgotten and stopped by far from public transportation in the shadows of the BQE or LIE or whatever that highway is that runs over Park Ave in Brooklyn.

I became a pedestrian for a day.

I work on Seventh Avenue between 28th and 29th Streets. I get out of work at 2pm. I had to be at an MSF goodbye party at a bar around the corner from the office (see image below) by around 5pm so I could get to a GGs Reunion on St. Mark's Place by around 7pm. It was a sad day (see image below - the sunshine of the office was departing for the field) but a business day.

I was doing the pavement pound: spontaneous interruption of grassroots youth advocacy orgs in action. If I was from a different time with a different kind of upbringing I think I would have enjoyed being a door-to-door salesman.

First on the list: YA-YA Network. Just around the corner on 29th Street.

Stepping out the elevator, I walked into a wide open space where a group of teenagers was gathered enjoying their last day of the year as community organizers for YA-YA (Youth Activists - Youth Allies). I was given a platform and told to sell my product to the youth. Would they buy it? We'll see, I hope I recognize some of their activist faces at the launch in a couple of weeks.

You can't really see my outfit in that photograph but I probably do look like some sort of a queer salesman with a vest, no sleeves, a tie with Yogi Bear and my generic fedora. Not to mention super-city hoop earrings. And my baggy boy jeans in an early state of disintegration. The hole in the crotch not yet noticeable.

Second on the list: Southbound to Lafayette and Bleeker to walk in on NYSYLC. There was a buzzer and an intercom. I walked up a couple of steep flights of stairs. Found their suite and was met with curious but dismissive glances from a busy staff in a narrow office each at his or her own computer working efficiently. I commenced my pitch, a little bit breathless not really caring what effect my fedora and Yogi Bear tie would have on these gritty activists. One of them kind of looked at me and asked if I was in the right place. Yeah, I said, a bit breathless from the stairs. And got through my pitch, their eyes turning toward me with a bit more attention, one woman especially interested. This would be her niche. They took my flyers and said their thanks. I said mine and headed to

Third on the list.

PEN America. The literary giant of Freedom of Expression. Heroes. Icons. Lots of straight white people having debates about how to have more people of color and women on their panels. I don't think they have progressed the argument so far as different sexualities, trans-identified ... I mean, they're still working on women in leadership positions. But still, an international force to be admired. They're huge, founded in1922 and still manage to avert missionary styles of speech. I mean, their president from 2004-2006 was Salman Rushdie and he founded the PEN World Voices Festival in 2004, so that's pretty much my knowledge of the organization. Which is a beautiful angle.

I found their Broadway building and went in and the young security guard pulled out his book to tell me PEN's floor. Shaking his head and commenting on how he could never remember which company was on what floor. He was cute.

I had to wait a minute for one of the two old-fashioned elevators to descend for me to then ascend to the 3rd Floor.

Immediately across the elevator bank was a closed door with a sign PEN American Center. Easy find. There was a bell that I rang and nothing happened. I tried the door. It opened. I entered. There was a high reception desk to my right and a wall of cubicles preventing a deeper view of the office. And then an open space on the left. A small conference library looking space. But memory is funny and this happened five days ago so who knows what the office actually looks like. There was no receptionist to be seen. No sound of clicking keyboards, rustling paper or murmuring voices. I thought if I walked in there would be empty desks and computers turned off. It would have been too much like a Paul Auster novel based in New York City turns into a Haruki Murakami novel and when I left the building I'd end up in the sewers of Tokyo.

So I left my propaganda on the reception desk which had a few other stacks of paper on it, perhaps from months ago. Maybe no one had been in the office since the World Voices Festival. Maybe I'd stepped into France or Germany and everyone is Out For August (OFA). And I left, in tact, still in New York City and with the low hopes that my project would be circulated amongst their young writers.

All in all I walked about seven miles that day. Participated in an MSF send-off to be remembered. Speeches and messages read aloud from Blackberry phones to say you are our light, we'll miss you. Then to a grassroots organization reunion at Grassroots Tavern and made connections with community garden activists while drinking pitchers of beer and shooting darts with grace, if not accuracy.

African Voices, A Bike Ride Up Frederick Douglass Blvd, Charan P. Morris and Akeema-Zane

Tuesday, August 21, 2012.

I had a meeting with LAMBDA fellow poet and high school teacher Charan P. Morris at Astor Row Cafe at 4 o'clock.

I finished work at 2 o'clock so I decided to ride up the West Side Highway and swing by African Voices to personally invite Carolyn A. Butts to Raw Fiction's launch at FiveMyles on September 15. The magazine shares an office with the NAACP and as I sat next to this driven editor and journalist I couldn't help but conjure W.E.B. DuBois and think about The Crisis. Harlem in the early 1900s, in the 1920s. Harlem a century later: Red Rooster and Starbucks, The Apollo and H&M, The Library, The Schomburg Center, rent prices going up while community staples are shutting down.

Hue-Man Bookstore. I rode up Frederick Douglass Boulevard. It has a bike path etched along the side - I love how powerful the bike lobby is in this city.... if only those people could rally for our schools and social services then we might actually see some progressive change. Instead they get lanes carved into roads that push out ancient business owners because they are now safe roads in safe neighborhoods attracting all sorts of safe people. The city needs more bike lanes so Harlem's jazz legacy can eke out a living based on the generosity of bussed-in tourists.

I saw Hue-Man Bookstore. An empty storefront. What will move in? A real estate agency? A Five-Guys burger joint? An organic restaurant? Owned by how many people who have only been to Harlem once?

I passed the building that once housed Hue-Man Bookstore and I felt something akin to disillusionment washing through my gut.

I crossed 125th Street and continued north. On my right appeared Amsterdam News. Inspiration resurfaced and an idea for a really cool field trip was planted.

After getting a coffee and chips from the deli I go to when I go to The Schomburg Center and sitting on somebody's stoop watching people coming and going from the Countee Cullen Library I popped into the Schomburg to see what was up in the front gallery. Gordon Parks: 100 Moments. Gordon Parks was the first black artist to produce and direct a Hollywood film, "The Learning Tree."

A lot of thought and inspiration can happen in two hours. As can a lot of cycling. I rolled down to 130th and locked up outside of Astor Row Cafe, named for Astor Row which is the nickname for the stretch of semi-attached row houses along the south side of 130th Street between Fifth and Lenox.

There are some people that you know you're not going to get a lot of time to talk to so it's important to make the most of the conversation. Charan P. Morris is one of those people. She is a straight-shouldered, straight-talking kind of poet, performer, educator. And I wanted to know what she thought ... about education, community, gentrification. I wanted the reality check I knew she'd be able to give me. She, like me, speaks without smiling when she's passionate, her eyes clear and vision focused.

College: Everyone should have the opportunity to get there.
Literacy: Our youth need to learn how to read and think critically. Literacy is necessary in high schools because our elementary schools and middle schools have failed our youth and continue to push them out toward adulthood.
Charter Schools: No. Not a solution.

The Future:
Charter Schools, Bike Lanes and Red Rooster

The Past:
Hue-Man. Public Schools. Baldwin.

But not if we can incite change. How? I don't know. But it won't happen unless we try.

After eating a toasted sesame baguette filled with mozzarella tomato and avocado with an iced hibiscus tea, discussing Raw Fiction and the logistics of connections made I said goodbye to Charan and headed back to The Schomburg to meet up with Akeema-Zane and catch the Moneta Sleet, Jr. exhibit in the back gallery. Glorious photojournalist. Rosa Parks. Lena Horne. Martin Luther King, Jr. singing and playing piano with Coretta Scott King and their daughter, Bernice. Eartha Kitt and her baby, Kitt. Haile Selassie.

Akeema took me to The Shrine. We caught up. Recollected about a movie seen and totally forgotten over a year before. It was a French film she remembered. African. Cote d'Ivoire. And out tumbled a loose storyline of images of love, betrayal, violence, obsession, lesbians, homophobia, friendship, exile and a heroic return. Who called Jared Diamond a racist? We spoke about her love for Octavia Butler and disbelief in the universe. I hate outer space and all discussion of conquering("exploring") it but I love the universe and her energy, even when she completely baffles me with her lessons and methods of interference. Imagine though. We've never been to outer space. There isn't even an outer space. No man on the moon, Curiosity is zapping some dust on a rock that is floating around in our very own atmosphere. Man has duped himself into believing far more absurd impossibilities than the existence of the universe, our planetary system and life outside of earth.

What is the purpose of mankind within a universal context? Probably insignificant.
What is the purpose of the individual within a universal context? Irrelevant.

What is the purpose of mankind on the planet earth? Arbitrary.
What is the purpose of the individual on the planet earth? To be significant in his community.

exalt youth

I was prepared. I had flyers and brochures printed, I had my wallet, the sky was clear and I'd left my bike at home. There were no train delays and I exited at Borough Hall, found Remsen Street sans ado, went through two friendly security guards and found Suite 1000: home of exalt youth, the most exciting organization I found without referral. I found them on Idealist.

exalt's mission:

exalt is premised on demonstrated success showing that substantive, supported internships can be powerful catalysts and incentives for youth to pursue their education and employment goals. Our mission is to transform the lives of court-involved youth by equipping them with the skills and experience necessary to become self-sufficient members of society.

exalt fulfills this mission by providing a cohesive program with four components: employability and life skills training; paid internships in youths' fields of interest; post-internship skill development and support services; and an alumni network that provides ongoing access to education and career development support and resources.

Instead of sending an email I decided to show up unannounced on a Friday afternoon and introduce myself to a receptionist. What a presumption I made! I walked right into an office in action. There was no front desk and there was a lot of movement of very well-dressed youth and staff. They were preparing for graduation. The energy was high and focused. Despite my intrusion I was greeted pleasantly and I was welcome to state my business.

Luckily enough I'd opened the door on Gisele Castro, the Director of Programs and External Relations. When she said her first name I recognized having seen it on the website, right below the name of Founder and Executive Director, Sonja Okun. I started describing my project and Gisele saw connections and movement and opportunity for the youth who were about to graduate. I hope something can come of it, if there is a youth in their midst who is interested in writing I can only be confident that Raw Fiction would benefit from the skills and community awareness he or she would bring to the table.

I left feeling rather exalted. Headed up Fulton Street barely taking in the commodity lined blocks and bustling Brooklynites, thinking about what I was doing with Raw Fiction. This one time project. So many organizations struggle endlessly to keep their doors open, and I really don't believe I have the personality type to endure a long-drawn battle, but one time, is it really enough to make the difference I want to see, to create the debate I hope to inspire and to learn the skills and theory I seek to develop?

Make the Road by walking it and you will find your path.

Still Waters in a Storm, Make the Road & the day I rode nearly 40 miles

The first time I contacted Stephen Haff, Chief of Still Waters in a Storm, a reading and writing sanctuary in the volatile, big-hearted neighborhood of Bushwick, Brooklyn, was in March when I was still trying to figure out how exactly I was going to pull off Raw Fiction. He was immediately welcoming and told me when the best time to stop by would be. The day I attempted to ride out to the small schoolhouse on Stanhope, I wound up with a flat tire while crossing the Williamsburg Bridge and then got so caught up with my own work I never made it back to see the school.

Five months later I finally made it to this haven for happy children. One day later than expected because of the rain it poured on Wednesday. What was the universe trying to tell me, I wondered? And I almost didn't make it again. And then I almost didn't make it on Thursday, 16 August, 2012 because I left my wallet at home. I didn't realize I'd left my wallet behind until I was going to pay at the print shop on E. 4th Street that only charges $0.39 for a color copy as long as you get 100 made. Plus 100 black and white double sided prints at $0.15 a pop. And haha, Mr. Independent Business Owner, I forgot my wallet and can't pay you for that $55 order.

Liton, the owner of the copy shop, was a lot more calm than I was and didn't accept my phone as collateral preferring to send me racing off to Brooklyn on my bike with my phone and his number in case anything came up. Hooray for good people! One hour and 10 miles later I was back, paid and had exactly an hour (minus 3 minutes) to get to Stanhope before 5pm.

I felt dizzy, my temples were pounding, my throat was parched. I knew I needed water but I was too spaced out to go in and buy some quickly so I snapped my helmet strap under my chin, threw my leg over my trusty black Mercier and headed for the Williamsburg Bridge. I took Broadway to Flushing and my adrenaline was so high I was flying past cars as I sprinted into Bushwick, and then I flew too fast past, way way past, Irving then Wyckoff, the cross streets, past Metropolitan before I stopped and thought, I've gone too far. Retraced my steps, legs growing muscle with every pump of pedal, and I made it, with 15 minutes to spare.

I locked up and walked into the store front school house with curtains and children's art work dressing the windows. I walked into a party, a festive scene with delighted children and relaxed adults. A table display of different kinds of cake stood as the centerpiece to this end of summer party scene. Stephen Haff, with blondish wisps of hair under his cap, came forward to greet me. The Chief of Still Waters, an appropriate title for this gentle soul who is at home in Bushwick with gleeful youth swarming around. Unfortunately, programming for teens is no longer available so his connection to that population is limited.

Stephen referred me to an organization called Make The Road which was not too far away. I went directly, dehydrated and on the verge of delirium but my adrenaline was so high I knew I could do it. Luckily I had to wait a few minutes before a youth power project organizer could meet with me.

I really must remark upon how graciously I've been welcomed into all the organizations I've interacted with. Me: sweaty and wild-eyed on Thursday or soaking wet from thunderstorms the previous day at The Center for Black Literature. People are willing to meet me, sit down with me, hear what I have to say. "I'm doing a project for youth, I want to give them professional skills." "Sure, come on in, let's hear it." It's all about the opportunity, the youth, the community.

So, I had a few minutes to cool down. I drank some water and collected my thoughts. When Jaritza came out to meet me she led me through the offices to the youth section. I confessed my lack of knowledge for the organization and had only just stopped by on the suggestion of Stephen Haff of Still Waters in a Storm. I was given a brief tutorial of what Youth Development means to Make the Road: activism, community involvement, knowledge of social and political issues. In their words: Make the Road New York (MRNY)* builds the power of Latino and working class communities to achieve dignity and justice through organizing, policy innovation, transformative education, and survival services.

Stop and Frisk is a big issue for youth. For those of you who don't know: "The police are stopping hundreds of thousands of law abiding New Yorkers every year, and the vast majority are black and Latino."

One of their big project is creating a newspaper written by youth in Brooklyn and Queens.

Young people thinking about and reporting on everything:

Not only am I doing my best to establish an idea and create a project that is inspirational I am realizing as I go along that I have been seeking inspiration and by going out, pedaling around, pounding the pavement, I am meeting and seeing the passion and drive that gets so overlooked by most forms of popular media and I am inspired.

I am thinking a nice aspect of the launch could include a table at which Brooklyn organizations can leave their flyers and information, get people signed up to their email lists and create connections with like-minded people doing social justice work all over Brooklyn and New York City. Launch meets Recruitment meets Networking event - with something of a chilled out carnival feel.

LJ Walker, The Center for Black Literature and Susan Kent

I've been busy finalizing paperwork and creating head space for clear and concise thinking and I haven't blogged in ages. I've been superficially surviving raw fiction but I need to explore the depths - by writing.

This week has been busy. I interviewed a writer who is about to enter the 11th grade. I connected with the Center for Black Literature, I went to Susan Kent's monthly event: Tell it Brooklyn, and had an involved conversation with Erica about the meaning of collaboration.

This is going to be a long and healthy post. I am going to find myself here.

Let's start with the interview. Had I mentioned this is not my first. Do you know that the goal is to find a web programmer before the launch even happens? In July I met with a young programmer who does not want to have to commit to anything. His name is Georgiy, a son of Eastern European immigrants, and was referred by iGotITtoo. A nonconformist to an enviable degree. Even Darwin, the mentor to the Web Programmer, a model citizen who fits in from the country club to the projects, Wall Street to OWS, elite athlete to star at the bar, and so on. Even Darwin was envious of this young man's sense of freedom and inability to conform to the positive learning space that Raw Fiction offers.

This past Tuesday candidate number two met me at the Brooklyn Public Library. He was another direct referral: a young relative of a woman I work with. He goes by the pseudonym of LJ Walker and self-publishes on a website called booksie. He's ahead of the game almost too much so, but I would love to radicalize his mind. He's perfect except he is not community-centric. Which then makes him perfect because it presents a challenge, and I like challenges. And he's confident enough to know that he doesn't want to be brainwashed by a radical like me so I could fail. I don't like to fail.

This situation kind of reminds me of the woman whose memoir I'm transcribing, but in reversed roles. She completely respects who I am but she is Saved and wishes I too were saved. She tells me about the love of Jesus Christ and I know she's not proselytizing at me but sharing and wants to open my heart. As a community activist I feel like I am saved (from the corporate materialism and conformist mentality of the system) and I don't want to force a sense of independence, freedom or nonconformity on anyone, I just want to share it and for it to be embraced unhesitatingly.

I'm flyering. Olin at The Center has been a glorious connection. Yesterday, in the pouring rain I met Maeshay K. Lewis, Program Director at CUNY MEC's Center for Black Literature, who went out of her way to put up copies of my flyer before I'd even delivered them. Thank you Olin, Maeshay and Erica of HMI! And Stephen Haff of Still Waters in a Storm, who I didn't see yesterday because of the rain and didn't meet in March because of a flat tire, but I will definitely, come sea monster or heavenly plague, make it into Bushwick today!

There's something disorganized about my efforts of outreach. It's inexperience. Timidity. Funding. Know-how. But I'm learning and getting the hang of it and being received well by strangers who care about the community as much as I do and are working for and running great organizations and programs. I would fall flat if it wasn't for this giant interconnected community that genuinely wants the best for the youth.

But I'm doing it. I even put flyers for the launch reading on random people's tables at Susan's event last night. I need to digress.

How cute is Susan Kent?! She hid behind the curtain all night so when I saw her briefly it was hard to take in the whole ensemble. Pigtails and hoops. There was a jester cheerleader to her look that was neither mocking nor to be taken seriously. One just wants to sit and chat and look into her eyes and flirt with her all night long. Alas, she has a job to do. Alas, she has a girlfriend. Alas, I'm just a kid to whom she had to explain Flyering at a Bar 101.

Can I digress again? Erica. I've already swooned in a number of past posts. But last night she was wearing a white, 1950s kind of conservative and classy dress. Skirt length, button down. Her hair evokes the passions of our Civil Rights Era. Her intertextuality of style is contemporary: New York City radical to be reckoned with.

And how do I find my way back to the thread of this post? I've thoroughly distracted myself. Zahra, why are you doing this project? I wanted to meet all the greatest women in New York, why else?

Oof, and that takes me back! Erica is contemplating becoming Raw Fiction's Project Consultant. If she had more time to offer I'd make her Executive Director because this girl is like come on Z, get on track, put it on paper. Share the theory, define the vision. And she tells me this in such a way I can totally hear her. Surprise surprise, I don't work well with everyone, I'm incredibly motivated and headstrong and often end up hurting other people's feelings. Other People's Feelings. Ha, that should be the name of my band. Or rather, I'm not even capable of hurting other people's feelings so I keep my mouth shut and then become all repressed and irritable so I end up hurting other people's feelings because they think I don't like them. And it's not that at all! I do really really like most people. I just don't like working with them. Teens are different. I love working with young people because they are just downright honest and I feel like I can be myself.

Fleshing it out, getting it out.

So, Erica needs me to write a job description for Project Consultant, Description of the Project, Motivation behind the Project, Mentor Outlines, Fundraising Plans, Expectations for the Youth, Expectations for Myself: What outcome will satisfy me. Let me throw in a timeline to the launch with it.

DEFINITION!!!!!!
Thou art the bane of my sense of arbitrary experience.

But I'm going to do it because it will be necessary and important. In order to sell this and get some grant money I need visibility with vision.

Making Paper at the Brooklyn Hi-Art! Machine

Today I learned how to make paper. It might be a surprise to some who know my politics and perspective and building/plumbing tendencies that I've never gotten into making my own clothes or paper; I don't compost; I don't belong to a community garden. I have no CSA. There are a lot of things on my to do list for being a model citizen.

It was hot in Brooklyn. And on the shady side of the street, under two tents, a few tables stood waiting to be surrounded by the young and old of the community, and Oasa sat sketching the boy who faced her on the other side of the table. A group of women and children walked ahead of me, we were all destined for this community project. The Brooklyn Hi-Art! Machine is a public art project serving a neighborhood that is being ravaged by gentrification (pause ... think about the fantastic use of words) and today a woman and her 10-year-old son George came out from Queens to conduct a paper making workshop just up the block from where I live.

I've kind of known Oasa for a couple of years and when I ran into her at a Farmers' Market vegetable stand I commented on the kickstarter for her project that I'd heard so many good things about but had never managed to visit and participate. I had three days to donate and they'd gone over their goal so she suggested I do a workshop. I didn't manage to donate and so I offered to do a workshop. Conversations via email: I think when my writerly verbosity communicated with her artist laid-backness glitches happened and I didn't end up doing a workshop. I could have but I also kind of bailed out.

Today, finally, the second to last day, I managed to make it to the awesome public art project that happens a few blocks away. And I learned how to make paper. And I met a ton of young people and helped them learn how to make paper, too. I wound up engaged in a rather in-depth and exclusive conversation with a young'un. His hair was to his shoulders and in his eyes. 

This is how it started:

What does life smell like? A few of the young, little people were looking at these buckets equipped with maps, a word and instructions to smell.

Life. Freedom.

Humility and Respect.

What does life smell like I asked? What about Freedom. 

"Freedom smells like cinnamon and salt."

Marcy, my new friend, was getting a bit high on Freedom. 

They weren't sure about life. Life smells like a pizza parlor, I said. 

I'd already explored the interactive art piece. And had written down my own answers in the little book I carry.

Humility is the sweet smell of love.

Respect: a forest carpet of pine needles after the rain.

It's always flattering when a random kid takes a liking to you. He showed me the tins he'd painted the day before that belonged to a masterpiece of connected cans of different sizes painted by the people on the block that looked like a necklace for a giant (he understood my imagination, I need to talk to kids more, I made a mental note) and we got to talking about making paper and the art project they did yesterday and summer in Brooklyn. He was telling me about his dog. Who was at home, and then, no at the vet. Why? I asked. And he said something that may well have come from his imagination.

I used to have a dog, I said, got her when I was just a bit older than you. How old were you? He asked. Nine, I said. How old are you? Seven, he said. But then he became 8 and a minute later he was nine. I honestly have no idea how old this boy is, his arms were so skinny and frame so little but he couldn't have been too little because his language, however mumbled and at times really hard to understand, was good. My guess is seven.

Oh, it's my birthday in three days he said. He'd forgotten he was eight and is going to be nine in three days.

I'm not going to reproduce the conversation but it was fantastic. Random. Creative.

At times I was thinking, does he realize that I know he's making all this shit up?

At times I wondered if he was thinking, does she realize that I'm making all of this shit up?

Except maybe he wouldn't have thought "shit."

From dogs to superheroes to block association presidents with exclusionary rules.

Eventually he went off to play with the other kids. And I asked Oasa if she'd like to do portraits at the launch. She will. Thanks, Oasa!

And thank you to Mildred the Hi-Art! collaborator. The world needs more accessible art workshops on the street and we all need to contemplate the scent of Freedom, Life, Humility and Respect on a regular basis.

The Evangelist, The Holy Spirit, and an Old Idea Come New Inspiration

On Mondays I volunteer for the Women's Press Collective. They're located at 12th Street and Second Ave in Brooklyn. You can call them at 718.222.0405 for more information, they don't have a website. Their organizing style is old school and personal. Today I came in to volunteer and they offered me an opportunity.

Lisa was driving to Fort Greene to pass out magazines to small business owners and managers to try to recruit sponsors. I was the one who was going to jump out of the car and give them to the employees to give to the manager/owners. Middle people, always makes me think of the children's game telephone - will the message arrive in tact, will it be wholly distorted or will it get disconnected? However, there was another incentive for me to be a part of this, to meet L., an elderly woman who lives in Fort Greene.

L. has lived a life. She was a gospel singer who had her esophagus taken out but still sang at the Brooklyn Tabernacle on a momentous night. She was a mother for the four months of her infant's life. Her husband was a merchant marine who was on water more than land. She was baptized by the Holy Ghost and visited the Brooklyn Hospital for over 30 years and prayed for thousands of people and witnessed miracles. She is a living miracle, she calls herself the bionic woman.

L. has a story to tell. And I am going to help her write it. Literally, because she doesn't type and can barely hold a pen to write. I cannot imagine being blessed with a more honorable task.

But that is not all that happened today. While I was sitting in her living room, crying at some of her stories, taking in the knickknacks acquired over a lifetime, and trying to figure out a good way to start the transcription I was inspired. Raw Fiction should incorporate the older generation.

It's not a new idea for me. When I worked for Green Guerrillas there was an emphasis on cross-generational learning and shared experiences. So when this idea of Raw Fiction came back to me in January it was still heavily set in three parts - writing, development and community -- and my launch event was going to include youth and elders sharing stories. However, the community took a back seat for a while. It looked like too much on paper. But if the summer component revolves around youth publishing the stories of community elders then that would be a truly beautiful thing. And I don't think I'm going to give an option. I think that is what I will do because it is the most valuable thing we can do, for ourselves and for our community.

Goodnight moon.

James the iMentor and an ELNYA panel at Smack Mellon

I'd been looking forward to meeting James for a couple of weeks before our schedules finally meshed. We were to meet at six and I finish work at two. So I had some time to spend in the city. I decided to make photocopies of the brochure I'd finally finished and walk around a bit. Finding a photocopy shop proved harder than I'd imagined because prices were much higher than I'd imagined so by the time I gave up and decided to get a very late lunch I'd already walked a few miles in city heat.

There was a pizza place called Artichoke on E. 14th St between 2nd and 1st Ave that caught my eye. I wondered what time it was and pulled my Blackberry from my skirt (yeah, I was wearing a skirt, and I'm wearing one today and I wore one on Monday, too) pocket. Somehow it slipped from my hand and landed on the concrete. I wasn't too worried, Blackberrys, unlike blackberries, are known for their durability. So when I picked it up and the screen was white without a crack or scratch in sight I did what anyone else would do. First I tried to turn it off and then I took the battery out. No cigar. I'd broken my phone. The next hour made me think of Murakami's 1Q84 and I believed I could well have stepped into a coexisting parallel universe and the dead phone was the glitch that made it happen. But I wrote about that in my journal and this blog is no site for fiction.

The relevance of the broken phone is that I was about to meet someone I had never seen a photo of. He'd seen a photo of me, however, my gmail blogspot rawfictionfacebook photo is a me with a fro. I have short hair now. So I ran to a library and sent an email to let him know I had no phone, however, brilliantly, I failed to mention my hair and my outfit. So, when I got to Think Coffee, I was on the lookout for a potential James. There was a man sitting on a high stool at a high table and I thought, he could make a good James, but had an arrogant air about him. I bought an iced coffee and wandered around the tables. There was a guy in the back who looked like he was waiting for someone, he had no coffee or treat and looked nervous and a little bit scared. We made eye contact but I really didn't want him to be James. So I went to the front and took out my colorful brochure and flyer that I hadn't made any copies of and put them on the counter. Yes, I am Raw Fiction.

A couple of minutes later a dashing, laid-back man walks in. His energy was immediately warm. He didn't necessarily look like he was looking for someone but I wanted him to be James. I caught his eye (he was looking for a woman with a fro so it didn't immediately register that I could be Zahra) and brought his attention down to my flyers. He smiled, we shook hands. Whenever I'm around men with ideal physiques the feminine in me is immediately summoned and the masculine in me feels a sense of camaraderie (not that I have an ideal physique, but I think I make a cute boy/boi when I dress like one). He was wearing a grey t-shirt and navy shorts, we could have been in his living room with a couple of cans of beer watching a game; that's how comfortable he looked. And his appearance didn't contradict his personality. He's totally the kind of guy you'd be thrilled to have mentor your kid. And! he's into healthy (slow) food.

We sat down and I pitched my project. He asked questions and suggested that he take it to the staff of iMentor, an organization that pairs adults with teenagers across the city. They have about 2500 young people in their network, it's very possible a young writer is amongst them just waiting to benefit from project Raw Fiction. Thank you, James!

This is going to be a long blog. But yesterday was a long day full of like-minds and positive energy.

After parting from James -- boy-Z wanted a hearty handshake, girl-Z was all about the hug and awkward-Z just smiled foolishly and said 'how nice to meet you' more than a couple of times -- I headed home to change into my favorite shorts with lots of pockets, got on my bicycle and rode to Dumbo.

Smack Mellon is located under the Manhattan Bridge across from Brooklyn Bridge Park - Main Street. It's an artists' space and was hosting an ELNYA panel on connecting professional artists with teen artists. In a nutshell, it was a panel about mentoring artistic teenagers. I went with my friend Erica, of the Hetrick-Martin Institute (to read more about her see the blog with Erica in the title), thanks for the heads-up on this awesome event!

I'd say the most important thing that was said that I want to remember is to never forget that ART IS FREE OF AGENDAS. This was emphasized by Johnny Ramos of Media Fellows. Yes, realistically, we have to pitch our ideas to schools and to funders so our project descriptions cannot truly be agenda free (even Raw Fiction which attempts to circumvent agenda language but I'm gonna have to get in it dirty to apply for a grant) but when facilitating arts projects we have to remember it is the art that matters. Not the corporate savior jargon and pro-college, pro-institution, pro-conformity agenda. (Not that I'm necessarily anti all these entities, I just think we're all individuals and have independent needs.)

It's the same with mentoring, it's the bonds that are made that matter. It's what the mentor learns from the mentee and what the mentee learns from the mentor. The dynamic of relationships matter more than the goals written on paper.

Another supportive idea that was raised was Jobs Training in the Arts. "Engender a sense of pride - their work is good enough to be sold," said Hannah Berson of Exploring the Arts (ETA).

Yes, not just asking for grants but working to make a profit, attempting to self-fund. Which is impossible but an important part of managing a budget. What can we earn on our own? This project is a worthwhile business not a simple charity case.

The arts are gold and mentoring is priceless.

Hey Eugene! The MoMA and First Generation Writers in a Post-Artists' World

I met Eugene in June 2008. Our mutual friend, the chef with a PhD in literature, the third arm of my imaginary 2004 band The JMZ, the woman who visited me in Seattle and Lorient, Mademoiselle Jennifer X. Cho, introduced us. Jen knew Eugene from being Korean at NYU (they were in different years and departments) and I knew Jen from being an English major in AmeriCorps. "So you want to be a writer?" was my nervous pick-up line to this gorgeous heterosexual before she became the renowned Chef Dr. And we started a writing group that more often than not wound up in bathtubs and bars where real writing happened sitting in a circle on a kitchen floor and our imaginations bounced off rooftops and along the banks of city rivers.

Eugene studied business as an undergrad and got his MFA in fiction at the New School. He loves Borges and Nabokov and was reading Dickens on his kindle yesterday when we met up at the MoMA. The last time I went to MoMA was with Eugene and we saw the German expressionists, Kathe Kollwitz and Picasso's guitars. This time was less exciting but it's still a New York museum, it's not bad. There's a good collection: the Monet room and sculpture garden, Picassos and Kahlos an Elizabeth Catlett and a wall of Jacob Lawrence. It's a way to spend a day.

I met Eugene in the summer of 2008. I had been living in France and a few weeks before I came home for the summer I got an email from Jen asking if I wanted to write for a project her friend, Eugene, was putting together. It was the Alexander Lim Project. Lim was an imaginary sculptor who broke boundaries and acquired fame, however, the material he used in his work was toxic and he gave himself lung cancer and died prematurely. The participants in the project were to write critically about the life and death of this celebrated and misunderstood artist.

Awesome, I thought. But I was moving home, didn't have a job, didn't have much money so how was I supposed to focus on writing? Had to. No one in their writer's mind could resist being a part of this project that culminated in a reading of all the participants. It was brilliant and absurd. A superb afternoon.

Eugene and I have managed to keep in touch over the years. Our early adventures focused on readings and drinkings. We've branched out to museums, Brooklyn and more food than booze. We're growing up, we've written novels we're passionate about but have families and lives and responsibilities that are maybe more important than dreams because dreams will always be there. Comparisons are odious (says Jack Kerouac) and first gen Scottish is definitely different from first gen Korean, but the chosen exile is similar, our parents wanted out and moved to the States and gave their children different opportunities. I feel like I've gone on a sentimental tangent that is more irrelevant than . . . thus I end.

I'm thrilled that Eugene will be reading at the launch event on September 15 at Five Myles Gallery around 3PM or so.

Erica, The Hetrick-Martin Institute and how I saved a baby

Sunday was PS1 and Astoria, Queens.

Before heading out, just before noon, I called a friend (this person will remain anonymous) to see if I could swing by for her MoMA member card. She answered the phone with a voice in pain and self-pity, "Hello?" she growled in greeting. It was a brief conversation with many giggles on my part and much whimpering on hers. Thankfully, she was able to make it to her door with the Van Gogh decored card in hand. She showed me the bruise on her forehead, I giggled some more and bid her well as she frowned at the hot and clear day she was missing.

I must admit, abashedly, I'd never been to PS1 and hadn't realized how just off the Pulaski Bridge it is, how just over Newton's Creek she lay. All I had to do was roll down Vanderbilt, make a right on Flushing, race up Kent, merge with Franklin, make a right on Eagle (which I missed and had to detour), fly over the bridge, merge right on Jackson, and bickety-bam! I'm there. Locked my Mercier to a pole with my brand new Kryptonite triple reinforced U-lock ... long story but couldn't go without mention. No one likes to drop 100 bucks on a lock because theirs suddenly malfunctions ... nuf said.

I saw her arriving before she stepped through the door, was unsure for a second, had imagined a different height, but yes, that tantalizing mouth, it was certainly the woman I came here to meet. Erica was wearing a dress of earth tone yellows greens and browns. Her smile mischievous. Her laugh not always appropriate but contagious.

We'd made it to the second floor, via some uninspiring installation, with a Mondrian grid she noted, before we discovered the most random of connections: Hagerstown, MD. Her hometown rang a bell I couldn't immediately identify. Ah, yes. Our processing center! The international humanitarian agency that I work for has its donations' processing center in Hagerstown, of all places. And, apparently, people are from there. And it's Amish country. And no, Erica is not Amish, I'm assuming. All this discovery against the backdrop of Rania Stephan's film posters of busty Lebanese women. Post an artso-political Lego people evoking Adam and Eve computer sex talk in English as a shaky second tongue, by Frances Stark.

We were most notably moved by Edgardo Aragon's Efectos de Familia. Part of the video sequence made me recall Le Tigre's Bang Bang and sent shivers through my body. Going upstairs we got some Better Energy from Esther Klas with an uplift in mood upon contemplating her curious concrete sculptures and comical plaster casts.

Leaving the museum whose staircases are decorated by silhouette nightmares and thought evoking images of exodus, heading up 23rd St. under the 7 tracks, we got to talking shop. What is Raw Fiction? What is the ballroom scene at the Hetrick-Martin Institute? What does it mean to work for a well-established and well-funded organization - the limitations and the freedoms? As we moved into Astoria our conversation moved toward the changing of neighborhoods, hipstuppies and yupsters, their trendy restaurants and the neighborhood nightclubs where the ethnic Europeans dance together.

A fellow writer, traveler, French speaker, youth advocate, over-tipper (yes, she's served tables, too), actress who can carry a tune, to be a reader at the launch. Wonderful, couldn't have asked for a better introduction to a like-mind. So nice meeting!

Oh yeah, and I saved a baby too. Sunday morning. Near the Grand Army Plaza fountain. Her dad just turned his back and walked a few steps away waiting for the dog to do his business in the ivy grass and the stroller started rolling down the incline toward the steps. The child, maybe two, maybe not quite two, made no sound but donned her hat to me when I planted my foot against the stroller wheel and stood patiently in front of her waiting, longer than you'd expect a dad to have his back turned to his baby in a stroller. His response when I stated my reason "It was rolling" bluntly to his surprised face: Oh thank God her mother didn't see! And we nodded a smirking goodbye as I sat to watch the fountain and get some sun medicine, wake up and inhale calm.

Shawn(ta), Women's Press Collective, Thunder Clouds and the Universe Answers

Yesterday I met Shawn(ta), my favorite youth librarian, in the industrial setting of Lowe's parking lot and the Gowanus Canal. I was early and went for a wander along the oily canal, sat on a bench and gazed at construction trucks tidying up a pile of scrap metal as cars and trains silhouetted the sky on highways traced against a western backdrop of darkened clouds bulging threateningly around the sun. To the east blue skies and fluffy clouds alluded to a wonderfully warm spring.

Shawn(ta) was wearing the dress she'd bought at BAM's Dance Africa Festival the day she discovered the Women's Press Collective. Yes, she discovered, but not like the explorers and conquerors of yesteryear but as the afroqueer of the present. Our lady called out to the universe: "Universe," she cried, "guide me, I need something new. Being a youth librarian, academic librarian, lesbian archivist, story corps archivist, co-producer of Rivers of Honey, a monthly cabaret for women of color, founding co-editor of Her Saturn Returns anthology, queen of okcupid, in a serious relationship and about to embark on a second master's in creative writing, is not quite enough!" She takes a breath, closes her eyes and feels the universe listening. "I need something new. I want a writer's collective. A women's collective, but not queer. Not strictly of color but not solely white women. A working class women's collective, founded and established and running strongly. Something that goes back to the end of the Civil Right's Era, the radical that was born as the nation settled into the material apathy of the 80s."

So the universe gave birth to WPC. An organization of women volunteers who started by helping women farm workers of the UFWTexas put their voices in print. Flyer creation and article writing.Voices that need to be heard are given the support to organize and get others to hear them - hmmm, sounds a bit like Raw Fiction, only larger scale and driven by a real political goal of bringing the socio-economic bottom up to a livable standard so no one can fall into disrepair if they hit bottom. Wow. Good job, universe.

"Asante sana," Shawn(ta) thanks the universe.

At my weekly visit to the BPL youth section, to check out flyers for teens and catch up with the latest from the sexy librarian, I was invited to go meet the women of WPC. Not only is this going to be useful for my project - they have a whole system dedicated to supporting member projects and they offer trainings in using printing presses and software - but I'm going to meet so many inspiring women who are engaged in their own grassroots projects.

The young woman who gave Shawn(ta) and me the orientation is called Courtney, looks early twenties, is super knowledgeable about printing, farm workers, WPC, Sojourner Truth, and living outside the system. She also had really cute hair: messy short twists. She is a full-time volunteer. She receives no wage, eats what is in the kitchen and sleeps where there is a bed on offer. Wow. We stepped back into radical history. There is no religious doctrine to this, nothing cultish, just straight-up badass philosophy. Word.

And they know what they're doing with recruitment. We enter and we're filling out volunteer forms. We leave and we're given dates and times to return. The next step: what WPC can do for us. So I'll be going in at 10am on Saturday morning to talk about my project and learn what they can do to help me. I'm going there to get inspired and, hopefully, to inspire.

Also, the rain poured while we were on the inside and it let up when it was time to leave. Thank you, Madame Universe, you are loved and respected.

Jesse, Community Word Project and a rainy day

The weather on my phone said no rain. So I grabbed my bike and headed out. The fog was touching the pavement. It looked like rain, but I trusted my phone. I mounted and rode to work. Beating the thunderstorms by hairs and minutes. Housing other cyclists on the Manhattan Bridge as always. The weather on my phone is a liar.

I had an appointment in Greenpoint with Jesse that day and was not unconcerned about getting drenched. Jesse's a friend of a friend who I'd previously met a few times socially. [Thanks for the connection, Gillian! Gillian's also really rad. She works for the Audubon Center in the park and plays the cello and travels around the country working in gardens and meeting young musicians who she then goes touring with.]

We exchanged frantic (well, on my part, I think he must've wondered why a bike commuter was scared of the fog) emails, gchats and text messages for hours, examining the position of clouds, weighing their mass and estimating the potential energy of yet another downpour. The one that looked like a cartoon lesbian on a Schwinn (I don't ride a schwinn and I may be taking creative liberties here. I may actually take creative liberties all over and up and down this blog site) holding an umbrella loomed threateningly in the sky.

I took the chance and the Williamsburg Bridge and found my way to Grumpy's Cafe on Meserole past McGuinness Blvd. It is an area where Brooklyn begins to feel like Queens. The clouds held the rain and squinted down with mocking glares of sun rays.

I drink coffee. With milk. Or an americano when I'm tired. Or a latte when I'm feeling luxurious. Or a cappuccino, rarely. Or a double espresso once in a while. Jesse got an iced americano. Black.

He opened a black and white composition notebook. I'm gonna say wide-ruled, but must admit my abilities of observation were not so acute. I was nervous. Serious Zahra. Meeting with people I know, or kind of know, is practice for when I have to talk to strangers, doers, older, stronger women and men who have seen so much and created so much before me. I'm not an orator, I've always claimed. Well, it's high nigh time to get talking.
He used a blue pen and wrote and doodled and designed while we talked. Words without context in a child's notebook surrounded by sketched faces and squiggled creatures.

He's a writer, musician, activist and traveler. He dreams of sending teaching artists to English language schools abroad. Sign me up for that. Imagine. Five weeks in Seoul. A fully furnished studio. Korean soap operas. A decent stipend. Jesse, do it.

The first time I met Jesse was in 2009. He and Gillian were in a band at that time. He was the lead singer. Shirtless. Skinny and muscular. Would one say sinewy? Tattoos. On and off the stage. This guy is energy.

He's worked with children at the Community Word Project.
CWP believes that all children have the right to a learning environment that teaches them not what to think, but how to think. They achieve their goal through multi-disciplinary arts residencies, a comprehensive teaching artist training program, and professional development for classroom teachers and afterschool leaders.

The Hermit Goes Public

Dear Readers,

I'm doing a project called Raw Fiction. I will soon be recruiting six teenage writers to produce their own literary journal - online, in print, whatever they choose. It will be theirs, I'm the facilitator.

It's A LOT of work ALL THE TIME and I'm an artist, not a doer. However, for some reason I'm doing right now. I have this urge to do, to participate in the world, but it eats away at the artist. Artists don't do, they be.
So, hopefully, this blog will nourish my starving artist while I am continuously doingdoingdoing like a good citizen.

This summer I'm going to try to meet lots of artists and activists in New York City. So I've decided to keep track of all the amazing people I encounter along the way. I will write about them and the awesome things they do for really cool organizations.

This is daunting.
I've never done a blog.
I don't tend to read blogs either; I read books.
And I write with a pencil on unlined paper, not with a keyboard on a screen that doesn't understand radical words and tells me my sentences are incomplete. Word.

A lot is changing in my life - except my single status, that's the only thing I can('t) control, women keep me at arms (like Mr. Fantastic's arms) distance because I'm a creative writer with a writer's disposition. Or maybe it's my sign. I'm acclimating myself to the modern world, slowly and painfully. I even know what Rihanna looks like now. Welcome to 2012, Zahra. I can't very well publicize my project with a homemade bark pencil in an Italian notebook writing in the shade of a table umbrella at the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens. Or can I . . . on Monday I met Art. He joined me at my table just as this idea was hitting home and I was scribbling away with my brand new pencil from the brand new Visitor's Center. He's a Brooklyn native, too. An artist, a writer, a traveler. Way to go bark pencil attracting like-minded people to my table.

I need to write. I crave writing. I hunger for it. If I don't do it, if I neglect my creative urges - then I get dumped. Wait, oh, I'm talking about Raw Fiction, not my recent failure to keep my imagination out of the magical reality of romance. But I'm not bitter. I'm raw. Sorry. I shall never pun again. In public.

Therefore, so as to not lose my mind while putting my everything into the Raw I will blog about my experiences and the awesome people I meet along the way, some of whom I am lucky enough to already know.

Enjoy the journey,
zmp