Everything below is from Thomas:
Since we're on the subject...I've become weary. I know this sounds incredibly silly. Who wouldn't want my job? I'm a published author of several novels that have done quite well with a few awards under my belt.
Yet, every year, I go through the melt down of having to market myself. Time to contact the media, magazines, radio shows, news outlets, and booksellers with hopes of being featured so my book will rise to the top of the very large pile of newly released choices for readers. It's time for me to announce who I am, what I've written and why they should be interested in reviewing my latest great work of art, which inevitably boils down to the color of my skin.
In this day and age, one would think we are past color coding, but it's more prevalent than ever. I've thought about displaying my multi-racial plaque. It seems to be popular and a quick area to move ahead of the pile since President Obama became our leader. But I have too much pride for shuffling race cards. Once that's established I quickly get tossed onto the African American pile, skipping the women's fiction, romance-comedy, and long running series pile. I skip the area of live and laugh out loud characters and become the black author whose subject matter doesn't matter at all. I was asked by a white associate if my next book would still be about black characters. When I told her yes, she seemed disappointed, like she would love to support me, "but ummm, sorry, it's out of my hands."
That's when I realized that it was out of my hands too. I've written characters, with a strong vivid plot whose race didn't matter. Something in the style of Barbara Delinsky, Jude Deveraux, or Susan Elizabeth Phillips who get to write without announcing the color of their character's skin. These manuscripts lay in stacks in my closet. In the past, even to mention that my characters were less than a deep shade of beige, I would be struck down by the all mighty publishing manifesto. Black writers must only and always write about black characters. Please leave my sight until you have repeated this one hundred times. And while you're out, write it down so you won't come back with that foolishness again.
Occasionally, one exception will get past the powers that be. Jericho's Fall by Stephen L. Carter would be a fine example. I'm sure he's also proof that it cannot ever, ever, ever, work, no matter how many degrees you have or what Ivy League institution is your employer. This is the proverbial ONE-WAY street.
Hats off to books like The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, The Help, Secret Life of Bees, and James Patterson's Alex Cross series. Hats off to their publishers who thought nothing of it to publish these black stories by white writers. My only question:
Why aren't these black character driven books sequestered to the African-American section in the bookstores? Why do they get a pass to freely roam about the cabin skipping the colored-only signs entirely? Why do they get to skip the pile?
Don't get me wrong, I am comfortable in my skin. I find it pleasing to the eye and extremely desirable proven by the constant new tanning products introduced every year. But that's only skin. On the inside, we are the same. We experience hurt, rejection, awareness, hope, faith, and rebirth, all the same. The human experience we write about surpasses skin deep motivation. I don't make a judgment whether to buy a book based on the color of the characters on the cover. Is it a good story? Is it recommended? I'm good as long as the lead character doesn't die in the end. That's where I draw the line. I don't discriminate. I read because I love to read. On my bookshelf it's about fifty-fifty of black and non-black writers. There are few white readers who can say the same. I am a black writer hear me roar, or sigh as the case may be.
Signed Trisha R. Thomas
Aka, Weary in Publishing
March 23, 2010 1:52 PM
Signed Trisha R. Thomas
Aka, Weary in Publishing
March 23, 2010 1:52 PM