The Writer In Me

Real Talk

Don’t cry for me, make me better. Don’t mourn for me, even after I’m gone. -- CaSandra Mathis To the left is a list of what I like to call, “TWIM Story Shorts” They’re simply short pieces on who I am and how I came to be, as well as how I came to think and believe as I do. They’re “all things me” and begin with the piece below, “Real Talk.” Enjoy! ----------- I spent most of my formative years in one of the poorer neighborhoods of Milwaukee, WI, light-years before it became politically incorrect to outwardly hate. So yes, racism greatly impacted who I became as time dragged on. But, that was just the tip of the iceberg. The dynamics of a dysfunctional existence in every imaginable realm of human interaction is where the real bitch that became my life lies. Back in my day, Milwaukee’s inner-city was ripe with pimps, drug dealers, whores, slicksters, petty thieves, and drug addicts who, with the introduction of crack, became known as “crack heads.” My thoroughfare, one of many that stayed hot, was Hopkins Ave.. My street was 23rd, and it was no exception. Oh, and let I not forget the impacting force of the multitudes of dysfunctional families and hordes of wayward offspring that sprouted from endless pools of the equally clueless and otherwise oppressed of which, the younger the mother’s became, the worse everything got. The inner-city. The hood. You name it? We had it in full supply. It was nothing to come home from school and have to bypass men gambling on the sidewalk, full on crap games, or pimps banging in some whore’s head for whatever reason they could drum up, or couples fighting and throwing furniture out of the window, or crimes of passion like car windows getting busted out, or crimes of greed like cars and houses getting broken into, or people getting robbed, or the doors of dope houses getting kicked in on that jack move. With the block usually hot with cops cruising, or busting, or just passing through, or doing dirt they damned selves, it’s a wonder so much still went down. But, it did. Now, some peeps from the even rougher, locales of New York, Chicago, or other “hell towns” may think this doesn’t say much. And, to some extent, I’d have to agree. The “Mil” was not that. Not them. Merely a fraction of that and them. But, murder is murder, drug deals are drug deals, drive by’s still kill the innocent and the intended, and cops were then, and still are, tripping er’where. Death is death in every zip code. So, if it’s true that what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger, I must be the, “Ironman,” of screen and fiction writing ‘cuz a sista learned a whole lot of not so favorable shit at a very young age. I learned two things early in life, 1) parents are going to have their picks, and 2) I wasn’t and never would be it. Nuff said. I don’t believe in speaking ill of the dead and well, any dialogue on the living would be a waste of words. The bottom line is that, all I experienced, witnessed, read, imagined, and heard about, fortified me with the ability to write edgy, true-to-life stories with the grit and realism that makes them both relatable and entertaining. My ultimate goal is to become a working screenwriter and author much sooner than later and to be a formidable competitor in the realm of creative productivity. My products are prime for cable networks like Starz and HBO because I like having the freedom to tell my stories in my own voice and keep to the grit and realism I actually experienced. I don’t want to water down my truths. So, I appreciate the networks that allow for a deeper level of expression as well as action.

TWIM Story Shorts

TWIM STORY SHORTS

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TWIM STORY

SHORTS

Real Talk

Don’t cry for me, make me better. Don’t mourn for me, even after I’m gone. -- CaSandra Mathis To the left is a list of what I like to call, “TWIM Story Shorts” They’re simply short pieces on who I am and how I came to be, as well as how I came to think and believe as I do. They’re “all things me” and begin with the piece below, “Real Talk.” Enjoy! ----------- I spent most of my formative years in one of the poorer neighborhoods of Milwaukee, WI, light-years before it became politically incorrect to outwardly hate. So yes, racism greatly impacted who I became as time dragged on. But, that was just the tip of the iceberg. The dynamics of a dysfunctional existence in every imaginable realm of human interaction is where the real bitch that became my life lies. Back in my day, Milwaukee’s inner-city was ripe with pimps, drug dealers, whores, slicksters, petty thieves, and drug addicts who, with the introduction of crack, became known as “crack heads.” My thoroughfare, one of many that stayed hot, was Hopkins Ave.. My street was 23rd, and it was no exception. Oh, and let I not forget the impacting force of the multitudes of dysfunctional families and hordes of wayward offspring that sprouted from endless pools of the equally clueless and otherwise oppressed of which, the younger the mother’s became, the worse everything got. The inner-city. The hood. You name it? We had it in full supply. It was nothing to come home from school and have to bypass men gambling on the sidewalk, full on crap games, or pimps banging in some whore’s head for whatever reason they could drum up, or couples fighting and throwing furniture out of the window, or crimes of passion like car windows getting busted out, or crimes of greed like cars and houses getting broken into, or people getting robbed, or the doors of dope houses getting kicked in on that jack move. With the block usually hot with cops cruising, or busting, or just passing through, or doing dirt they damned selves, it’s a wonder so much still went down. But, it did. Now, some peeps from the even rougher, locales of New York, Chicago, or other “hell towns” may think this doesn’t say much. And, to some extent, I’d have to agree. The “Mil” was not that. Not them. Merely a fraction of that and them. But, murder is murder, drug deals are drug deals, drive by’s still kill the innocent and the intended, and cops were then, and still are, tripping er’where. Death is death in every zip code. So, if it’s true that what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger, I must be the, “Ironman,” of screen and fiction writing ‘cuz a sista learned a whole lot of not so favorable shit at a very young age. I learned two things early in life, 1) parents are going to have their picks, and 2) I wasn’t and never would be it. Nuff said. I don’t believe in speaking ill of the dead and well, any dialogue on the living would be a waste of words. The bottom line is that, all I experienced, witnessed, read, imagined, and heard about, fortified me with the ability to write edgy, true- to-life stories with the grit and realism that makes them both relatable and entertaining. My ultimate goal is to become a working screenwriter and author much sooner than later and to be a formidable competitor in the realm of creative productivity. My products are prime for cable networks like Starz and HBO because I like having the freedom to tell my stories in my own voice and keep to the grit and realism I actually experienced. I don’t want to water down my truths. So, I appreciate the networks that allow for a deeper level of expression as well as action.