Every time I see this commercial, I want to throw things at my television.

Are these kids really yelling out, “cupcakes! cupcakes!” while adults are standing right there looking bemused?

Is that mother really fretting over her cupcakes when she has a housefull of ingrates yelling “cupcakes! cupcakes!”

The advertising firm that came up with this winner is DDB San Francisco. And it makes me sad that in 2009, we still have commercials that show the hard-at-work mom and the thoughtless children who don’t appreciate her.

The kids deserves beatings. Not cupcakes.

The commercials get worse:

The woman is in the kitchen, struggling with the meal, while the family sits at the table making awkward small talk.

Really?

The husband couldn’t be in there helping her?

And why are they sitting at the table when dinner obviously isn’t ready yet! They’re supposed to be sitting in front of the television or–gasp!–helping her!

These commercials remind me how far behind the times the advertising world really is.

If you watch daytime television and the commercials, this is what you will assume about the American woman.

1. She is white.

2. She wears a uniform: a white tee shirt, khaki pants, an open denim shirt over the white shirt and flat shoes.

3. If she’s Black she has curly hair.

4. Or she’s pleasingly plump and talks in a no-nonsense, sassy manner.

Sigh.

Did you know that there’s an expression for the typical set-up for a commercial geared towards women?

It’s called: Two Cs in a K.

That’s short for Two Cunts in a Kitchen.

Advertising executives still use this term to describe the typical set-up for a product commercial. You put two women in a kitchen and have one tell the other about how awesome the product is and how it makes life so much easier.

Two Cs in a K. Nice.

Children throwing tantrums is why you should buy Pam.

Your family will be uncomfortable if your dinner sticks to the pan. Buy Pam.

See? This is why I don’t cook and clean.

Hmph.

As an author, sometimes I feel like a bit of a fraud.

We have so many tools at our disposal that make it easier.

I don’t handwrite. Can’t imagine doing it. I think I would, if I had to.

But really? Without my MacBook, I’m lost.

Pen and paper? I love it. For making a grocery list. Not writing a novel.

Remember typewriters? And sliding the carriage over at the end of the page. And using Wite-Out on your mistakes. And God forbid you want to save the project. Not happening. Wanna travel and write? Pack that typewriter and some extra ribbons and lots of paper. Have fun with that.

These days, if you want to write, the only thing stopping you is you. Really.

If you’re reading this, you have access to a computer. And if you have access to a computer, just write the damn novel already.

I like to play around with programs that are designed to help writers. My favorite, by far, is Scrivener.

Like most writers, I procrastinate. But even when I’m not writing, I’m writing. If I’m reading the latest isssue of Glamour, I might come across a name or a personality trait for a character.

You can bet money that one day, I’ll write a novel with a character based on the Indian guy who owns the local corner store in my ‘hood. He’s a rich character and I file away all our conversations in my mind. It will become dialogue in a novel one day I’m sure.

You can make the most of your  non-writing writing time with a program like Scrivener, a great program for storing your thoughts on a particular project, creating an outline and then, when you’re ready, actually writing.

Here’s what Scrivener looks like when you open up a new file:

This is like your dashboard. Consider it a desktop solely for your current project.

You can start by creating index cards to outline each chapter.

When you go into Corkboard mode, it gives you this nice corkboard-style interface. And you can add as many index cards you like. (You can change the colors too.  No Tea For The Fever As-Yet-Untitled follows four characters, so when I outlined, I used different colored cards for each character. It makes me very happy for some reason).

Once you’re done outlining, you can always refer back to your cards if you want to rearrange them or just look at the big picture of your work.

Each index card may represent a chapter. And when you click on it and begin writing, your chapter will remain in that card. Then, you can switch the view and look at it as a regular document as well. Very helpful. Especially if you need to move whole chapters around later. Which you will. You just drag your card to wherever you want it. And that’s it! When you print it out, it will be in the right order.

My favorite part of Scrivener is the Research folder. It’s another corkbard where you can just throw up random things you want to reference as you’re writing.

Like, say for example, your novel features a main character who looks, acts and talks like Russell Simmons. And the character lives on Turtle Island. And one day he reads a story in the New York Times about a writer named Aliya S. King who has troublesome hair that she can’t control. And he sets out to find her and make her his muse for a new line of haircare products called TurtleIslandKinks.

Well, you might want to have some photos, news clippings and other random things spread out that you can look at from time to time as you write.

Voila! There’s your inspiration board! Refer back to Russel’s dimples, the color of the water on Turtle Island’s, a newspaper clipping from the New York Times, a shot of Aliya S. King and her troublesome hair.

In the Research folder for my novel, I have dozens of tidbits like this. I scoured stock photos on Google for images of people who looked like the characters in my head. I dragged and dropped them here for reference. If I read something a magazine, I uploaded the link here. If someone gave me a suggestion, I jotted it down on an index card and put it here.

Very helpful to have all this stuff in one place. Particularly in the same exact file where you will write.

Speaking of, Scrivener also gives me something I desperately need: a blank page.

When I’m working in Microsoft Word, my computer screen looks like this:

It’s pathetic to admit it. But that’s actually distracting for me. I can see my screensaver back there. I see other open documents on my desktop and random folders. Next thing you know, I’m on Twitter.

Scrivener has a feature called Full Screen which is just that:

It darkens your desktop. You can choose whatever color “paper” you want. And you will nothing else but your text.

I love clicking into the Full Screen mode. I feel like it tells my writer self to shut down everything and just get the words down, one after the other.

You can also set goals for yourself. I try to write 500 words a day on a new project. I enter that number in the software and I can check to see if I’ve made my goal or perhaps exceeded it.

I’m sure a lot of writers would say, please. I’m not paying for software. Just sit your butt down and write.

And I’m sure there are many writers who do it with no special tools with cute interfacing.

I’m not one of those people.

Scrivener does two things for me:

1. It helps organize my random thoughts. And keep track of my writing-while-not-writing ideas.

2. It gives me something to do that is writer-y, when I’m not yet ready to write.

Right now, I feel like I’m ready to start writing a novel. (Just saying that made my heart start pounding). Before I get overwhelmed and start doubting myself, I’m going to open a new project in Scrivener and just look at my soothing, calming chalkboard. I’ll jot some notes on index cards and see what happens. Then, soon, I will give myself a goal–500 words and don’t get up til you’re done–flip on the Full Screen option and get to work.

500 words a day for 200 days, is a 100,000 word novel.

200 days seems like forever. But it’s really not.

200 days from now, you’ll be glad you started writing that 500 words a day.

Happy writing. I’ll let you know how far I’ve come in 200 days…

Check out Scrivener. It costs money, can’t remember how much. But not more than 20 bucks. And check out other writing software, there are tons of options.

A child’s hair should be presentable and shiny and neat. Not a dull lifeless lint-filled mess.

I am resolved to style my child’s hair in a way that makes sense.

What are my issues?

1. Her hair is very kinky and coarse. She cries when I comb it.

2. I don’t know which products will help with #1.

3. Once detangled, I don’t know what to do with her hair. I am not a braider. And using ball-y things to make a bunch of ponytails is time-consuming, cumbersome and can’t possibly be comfortable.

I need a hairstyle for Tog that lasts an entire week. And doesn’t leave us both sobbing in the process.

I went to Whole Foods Sunday night in search of something called Kinky Curly, a line of hair care products I’ve heard are really good on kinky hair.

I decided to see if the Kinky Curly products could release Tog’s natural curl pattern and perhaps she could just wear her hair out and about. Why be bogged down with ponytail holders and barrettes? I’d let Tog go free! Like Jaden Smith!

Sunday night, I go to Whole Foods, where Kinky Curly products are sold. Shampoo: 11.99. (Gulp!) Detangler: 11.99 (Whoa.) And then, the Curling Custard for styling: 29.99 (What the hell!)

For $54.00 I expected those bottles to sprout arms and style Tog’s hair while giving me a mani-pedi at the same time.

I plopped Tog into the tub and got to work. First, I undid last week’s attempt at a hairstyle and got down to the essence of her nappy roots:

God help me

I wet her hair and worked in the Kinky Curly Come Clean shampoo.

The label says it’s especially good for getting residue out of curly hair. And they were right! I scrubbed Tog’s hair and I could swear I heard it squeaking.

Note: a drop got in her eyes and she screamed bloody murder. It doesn’t say No More Tears for a reason.

I rinsed Tog’s hair and reached for the Knot Today detangler.

Within 30 seconds of applying it to Tog’s hair, I knew I had something very special on my hands. It seemed to literally dissolve her kinks while keeping her natural curl pattern intact. I ran a wide tooth comb through her hair and this is what she said:

She was singing y’all. While I was combing out her hair!

I wanted to find Shelley Davis, the woman who founded the company, and kiss her full on the lips. After a few quick comb-throughs, Tog’s hair was soft and tangle-free!

“

cue angels on harps

I worked the product into Tog’s hair and it began to solidify her curls. It was a little…sticky. But I figured once I hit her up with the blow dryer, it would all come together nicely.

I blew Tog’s hair dry. Or as dry as it would get covered in the…custard.

Things began to get ungood. Fast.

First, my hand was stuck to the blow dryer. Then, random lint in the air began making a beeline for Tog’s hair. The dog walked by and immediately, strands of his fur flew off his back and attached itself to Tog’s hair.

Who knew “custard” was just another word for “hard core hair gel.”

I brought Tog downstairs, hoping her hair would air dry.

TH took one look and raised both eyebrows:

“I hope you’re going to give her some ponytails,” he said.

“No,” I said. “She’s going to wear her hair out and natural. When it dries it will be fine.”

“It just looks very…wet,” he said.

I ignored him and sat TG down for dinner.

An hour later, her hair was still dripping wet, sticky and awful.

The damage was done. Tog’s soul was officially glowing. And by the time I realized the catastrophe Kinky Curly custard had caused, it was too late to start over. I tried a last ditch effort to save it by twisting up Tog’s hair before she went to sleep.

Maybe in the morning, it would look like something?

No, it didn’t. It was a goopy, linty mess.

The next morning, I wanted to rinse it out and start from scratch. But I didn’t have time. So Tog went to school looking worse than usual:

I tried to use a headband to distract the general public from her pitiful ponytails. And that would be the morning i couldn’t even find two matching ball-y thingies.

I took Tog to school, hanging my head in shame.

Yesterday, I picked her up early, determined to get it right. Everything had been going so well.

Until I got to the custard.

It was the custard that had defeated my plans to style Tog’s hair properly.

I wouldn’t let it happen again.

Last night, I reapplied the Come Clean shampoo. All residue gone! I detangled with the Knot Today: no knots today!

And then, I sat Tog down and actually looked at Tog’s hair carefully. I examined her hair and tried to determine what would make sense.

She was not going to do a Jaden-syle ‘fro. I’m not sure what that involves. But it would take more than air-drying naturally. Braids would get fuzzy too quickly. I decided to go for two-strand twists, the same kind I did on TG years and years ago.

I parted one section, applied a tiny DOT of the custard and twisted her hair together.

Then, I did another, another and another.

Tog never opened her mouth. She was on my lap, watching Dora The Explorer without making a sound. (Okay, she was also eating a double chocolate chunk cookie. But not even a cookie would have worked in the pre-Kinky Curly days!)

45 minutes later. And I finally felt like a real mother:

Nothing fancy. But Tog’s hair was neat, manageable and smelled good. But after a night of tossing and turning, would she still be presentable? That would be the true test.

Here’s Tog this morning.

I swear she was better behaved today too.

I hereby declare that Kinky Curly products, (in moderation!), are awesome.

Yay.

When I was in the third grade, my teacher was Mrs. Ambrose. She actually wore her glasses on a silver chain and wore a constant frown.

Every morning, Mrs. Ambrose would call attendance. I’d chirp out “Present” and she would look over her glasses at me and slowly shake her head.

I’m like, what did I do?

I’m the teacher’s pet. I do my homework. I raise my hand first always. Why the disapproving look?

Finally, one morning, I got my answer.

We’re all doing our boardwork. (Remember boardwork!?)

Mrs. Ambrose says, “Aliya come up here, please.”

I hustled up to her desk.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Turn around.”

I turned, my back towards Mrs. Ambrose.

I heard her open up a desk drawer and take out some items. Next thing I know this woman is whipping a comb through my hair.

“Don’t make no sense for this child’s hair to look like this every day,” she mumbled, as she tugged through my naps.

There was a spritzing of detangler.

There was an application of green colored grease.

Hairbows were fastened.

(She kept this stuff in her desk drawer?)

My scalp was pulled so tight, I couldn’t blink. After 15 minutes, Mrs. Ambrose, said, “Okay, have a seat.”

I took a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the classroom door. I almost didn’t recognize myself. My hair! It was…done!

It was not something I was used to. For my mom, doing my hair meant smoothing it with her hand before opening the car door and dropping me off at school.

Now, let me make this abundantly clear.

Mothers don’t get more effective, nurturing or supportive than Rita Moore King. I’m not half the mother my mom is and I never will be.

But that woman never did my hair.

I thought about scanning in some childhood pictures. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Just trust me, whether it was picture day, a wedding or just a regular school day, please believe that Aliya S. King was the girl with the week-old  linty ponytails.

“Do you understand how you screamed when I came near you with a comb?” my mother always says. “I couldn’t take it.”

Whenever my mom says this, I just shake my head and frown.

“It can’t be that hard Mommy,” I always say.

And then I had a daughter.

But before I gave birth to my own daughter, I inherited TG. So I was no stranger to doing hair. And TG has more hair than I ever did. Every Sunday that she spent with us, I would wash, condition and detangle her hair. Then I’d make neat parts with a skinny comb and give her dozens of shiny, two-strand twists that would last the whole week.

This process wasn’t easy. TG would cry as I detangled, laying her head in my lap and pressing her hands to her temple letting out a steady stream of ow ow ows.

But TG was a trooper. She did it. She sat there and took her lumps like a woman.

I continued to look at my mother askance.

She could have done this, I thought to myself as I raked my comb through TG’s hair. Hmph. Just throw that baby on your lap and make it happen.

And then, two years ago, I was on my back, at St. Clare’s Hospital, attempting to push a baby out of my nether regions and feeling nothing thanks to a lovely epidural.

I didn’t know what I was having ahead of time. TH and I wanted to be surprised.

But for my entire pregnancy, everyone told me I was having a boy.

Perfect strangers: That’s totally a boy.

Relatives: You’re carrying high! Totally a boy!

I interviewed a zillion artists during my pregnancy:

Usher: Looks like a boy to me

Puffy: A boy, for sure.

Jeezy: I bet you any amount of money you having a boy

Idriss Elba: (in a heavy British accent) Man, you’re huge. I think you’ve got two boys in there.

I was absolutely convinced that I was having a boy. So was TH.

When my midwife pulled that baby out and said: It’s a girl! I was literally in shock.

A girl?

But a girl has to get her hair done!

A year later, I had to literally chase Tog down if she even saw a glimpse of a comb in my hand.

You know how the dentist holds the needle down at his side before he jabs you with it? That was me with a comb, approaching Tog like she was a lion sleeping in the jungle.

At a year old, her hair was still baby hair fuzzy and it was three different lengths. She was bald in the back and front and had long wisps growing out of the top of her head, like a character on Fraggle Rock.

I did the unthinkable. I cut Tog’s hair and gave her a TWA. A few relatives had something to say: how you gonnna cut that baby’s hair!

But I didn’t care. Tog’s TWA was easy to manage and cute.

But then it grew. And grew. And then grew some more.

Now she just has an A.

And my baby’s hair is very rarely done.

I can’t be bothered! She’s not easy like TG. She won’t lay in my lap and just cry like a normal kid. She screams bloody murder, bolts from the room, tries to take the comb out of my hand, begs me to leave her hair alone.

It’s torture. For both of us.

So instead, I’m repeating the cycle.

Tog’s hair is never done.

And I mean never.

Went to brunch with a friend and she gave me a raised eyebrow when she saw Tog’s fuzzy ponytails.

“Need to comb that child’s hair,” she said.

“Easy for you to say,” I said. “You have a boy.”

“Do her hair,” my friend said. “Stop being trifling.”

That night, a Sunday, I forced Tog between my legs and pulled and scraped and combed and brushed. She howled the entire time.

But the next morning, she went to school looking like this:

YAY! Look at that! Shiny sections. With the classic ball-y thingies!

I was so proud of myself. I texted the photo to both my brunch friend and TG’s mom.

I can do this!

But that night, I took out the little ball-y thingies and Tog said, “You’re doing my hair AGAIN!”

And I thought, nope. I’m not.

She went to bed in her ponytails. The next day, I smoothed them down with some of my 20.00 Paul Mitchell mousse and reapplied those ponytail holders.

I did that for the rest of the week.

Are there mothers out there giving their little girls a new, fresh hairstyle every. single. day?

That’s a full time job!

The next Sunday, I tried cornrows instead of ponytails.

Whoo-hoo!

Okay. So my part is crooked. And the braids are a little wobbly. But it’s done. It’s neat! It’s presentable!

Homegirl rocked those braids for a week. By Friday, she had an Afro halo surrounding her braids. Not cute. Don’t care. Can’t deal.

I hereby apologize to my mother, Rita Moore King, for giving you the side-eye for most of my adult life for your lack of hairstyling skills.

I now have what you had: a fiesty, fiery, loud child with a head full of hair.

Here’s Tog today. On day five of some kind of mess I created last Sunday.

I can see your halo, halo, halo....

Sigh.

And yes, she’s feeding the dog milk from her sippy cup.

You got something to say?

I didn’t think so.

I turned 36 two weeks ago.

I’m totally fine with this.

No, really.

Could be in better shape. Need to give up the coffee. But in general, I’m okay with almost-40.

I’m not okay with the wiry, gray hairs that are cropping up at my temples.

You can't see the gray in this picture. But believe me, it's there.

Gray hair=old. Grandma old.

TH is two years older than me and has not a single gray hair on his head.

My girl Serena told me that she started noticing gray and decided to rock with it. Embrace it. Be one with it.

I’ve tried that for the past six months. It’s not working.

First of all, people keep bringing it up. Why on Earth do folks walk up to me and say, “Wow, look! You’re hair’s turning gray!”

What am I supposed to say to that?

TH, who is a head taller than me, has this annoying habit of looking down at my hair and saying, “Wow. You’re really going gray.”

TG touches my temples: “Wow. Grey hair!”

Tog runs her fingers through my TWA and narrates what she sees: “Black hair. White hair. Black hair. White hair.”

I’m done.

As I type this, I’ve given Lynn free reign to dye my hair.

Work that magic, girl.

I’ve colored before, years ago. For fun, not out of necessity. I did blonde pieces here and there and all kinds of fun stuff. This time, I didn’t even pick the color. I just pointed at the random brown sample she showed me and nodded.

Don’t care  about the color. Just want to cover up those pesky white strands calling me out.

Told Lynn to throw in a streak of something bold in the front, just for fun.

I’m happy with the result. I’m totally fine with getting old. (No, really.) But I don’t need to be reminded of it every five minutes.

-A

P.S.  I no longer have a TWA. Unless it stands for Twisted Wild Afro.

FADE IN

INT. Fancy Restaurant -MORNING

ALIYA, her husband TH, LADYFRIEND, and her husband MALEFRIEND and their children TG and JR sit at a round table at an upscale restaurant in Montclair, New Jersey. The children are eating pancakes and giggling. The mothers are trading childbirth war stories and the men are talking about technology.

ALIYA
The potty training thing is not going so well. She will go any time I take her to the     potty. But she won’t tell me when she has to go.

LADYFRIEND
It’s all about scheduling. We were able to get into a pattern where we knew when JR had to go. And we just took a week off in the summer and he went without diapers and we took him on schedule.

ALIYA
(looking down at her French Toast)
Tog is not on much of a schedule.

LADYFRIEND
Yeah, the scheduling is important.

ALIYA
So how old was JR when he was potty trained?

LADYFRIEND
About 18 months.

ALIYA
(eyes widened and mouth agape)
Really?

LADYFRIEND
But don’t stress. Every child has their own timetable. I just couldn’t be bothered with diapers anymore.

ALIYA
Right, right.

INT. CVS Pharmacy- NIGHT

A crowded convenience store. Long lines and only one cashier. ALIYA holds Tog’s hand and a basket in the other hand. She is obviously tired and disheveled. Her shoes are caked with mud from an earlier visit to a dog park and her hair is unkempt. She is trying to keep TOG from letting go of her hand. TOG pulls away and begins to pull candy off the shelves. ALIYA stifles a scream. FEMALE RELATIVE catches ALIYA’s attention. They embrace.

FEMALE RELATIVE
Hey girl, how are you? Tog is getting so big.

ALIYA
I know, growing up so fast.

FEMALE RELATIVE
Where’s TG? She went camping right?

ALIYA
Yeah, she’s back Friday.

FEMALE RELATIVE
I’m thinking I’m going to take Tog roller skating with us on Friday night. She’s two now, she’s old enough.

TOG
(putting away candy and rushing over to Female Relative)
Roller Skating? YEAH!

FEMALE RELATIVE
What are you doing in here so late anyway?

ALIYA
(looking nervous and trying to hide her basket)
Just needed to pick up a few odds and ends.

FEMALE RELATIVE
(leaning over to look in ALIYA’s basket)
Are those size SIX diapers?! I’m assuming you’re gonna start potty training soon.

ALIYA
(mortally embarrassed and cheeks flushed red)
We’ve been working on it.

FEMALE RELATIVE
(looking at the diapers disapprovingly)
Huh. Didn’t even know they made size six.

ALIYA
I have to special order them.

FEMALE RELATIVE
Really?

ALIYA
No. I was joking.

FEMALE RELATIVE.
Oh.

ALIYA realizes that Tog has wandered off to the candy at the register. She dashes to grab her hand and Tog won’t budge.

ALIYA
C’mon Tog, let’s go.

TOG
No! Not yet!

ALIYA
Why not?

TOG
(closing her eyes and squatting)
I NEED TO STAY RIGHT HERE MOMMMY!

FEMALE RELATIVE
Yeah, she’s pooping right now. She’s ready to be trained.

ALIYA
Tog, let’s go.

TOG
I’m almost done Mommy. I have to poo poo.

ALIYA
Tog, we poo poo in the potty. If you just tell me when you have to go, I will take you.

TOG
No thank you Mommy. I poo poo right here in my diapy. It’s better.

ALIYA
(making a face)
No, it’s yucky.

TOG
It’s not yucky mommy, it’s nice!

FEMALE RELATIVE
Okay, girl. I’m leaving. See you later.

ALIYA
Right! Let’s talk about roller skating this weekend.

FEMALE RELATIVE
(looking stricken)
Oh, right! Roller skating. I’ll um, call you, about that…Not sure if we’re going this weekend. I’ll let you know.

INT. ALIYA’s home- NIGHT

Aliya is slumped on the couch, rubbing her temples. MOTHER is visiting, sitting across from her on a loveseat.

MOTHER
You know I had all my kids off the bottle by one, potty trained by two.

ALIYA
Yeah, I know.

INT. SHOPPING MALL – NIGHT

ALIYA is waiting in line for the bathroom with TOG, who has a dirty diaper. MOTHER is holding the packages and manning the stroller.

MOTHER
You know I had all my kids off the bottle by one, potty trained by two.

ALIYA
Yeah, I know.

INT. MOTHER’s HOME-DAY

ALIYA is picking up Tog after spending the night at MOTHER’s house.

ALIYA
How’d everything go?

MOTHER
She was an absolute angel. She even used the potty a few times.

ALIYA
(leaning down and hugging Tog)
That’s great!

MOTHER
You know I had all my kids off the bottle by one, potty trained by two.

ALIYA
Yeah, I know.

INT: TOG’s bedroom-NIGHT

ALIYA is holding TOG in her arms. She’s been fed, bathed and is about to be put down for the night. ALIYA has read her stories and a Barney lullaby CD is playing in the background.
ALIYA
Are you a big girl, Tog?

TOG
Yes! I want to wear my Dora big girl panties!

ALIYA
Well you have to go pee and poop on the potty. Then you can wear big girl panties. Because diapers are for babies.

Tog seems to consider this for a moment. She closes her eyes.
TOG
Diapers are for babies?

ALIYA
Yes, for babies. Like pacifiers and bottles.

TOG
I don’t want to wear big girl panties. I like diapers. I wanna be a baby. Okay mommy?

ALIYA
But I thought you wanted to be a big girl?

TOG
Later, Mommy. I’ll be big girl later.

Three Years Later

INT. Elementary School –MORNING
It’s the first day of school on a brisk sunny September morning. ALIYA is walking TOG to her first day of Kindergarten. TOG is skipping happily, a new bookbag on her bag and shiny leather Mary Janes on her feet. ALIYA stands in line to drop off TOG at her new classroom and briefly meet TEACHER

TEACHER
Hello, there Tog, welcome to Kindergarten!

TOG
(looking down at the floor)
Hi.

TEACHER
Find the seat with the number 10 and sit down, okay?

TOG
Okay!

ALIYA
Nice to meet you.

TEACHER
You as well! I’m looking forward to having TOG in my class this year. Is there anything special I should know?

ALIYA
[Handing over a small bag]
Um. You’ll need this too.

TEACHER
What is this?

ALIYA
Diapers. Wipes.

TEACHER
[mouth agape and sputtering]
Tog is not potty trained?! She’s five years old! How is that possible?

ALIYA
I suck as a wife and mother. That is all.

FADE OUT

THE END

Yeah, chile. She’s something else. She don’t take no tea for the fever!

I googled it and found the phrase used in one of Langston Hughes’ Jesse B. Simple stories. Fell in love with the phrase years before I even started writing the novel.

And this morning, I got an email from my wonderful editor Sulay Hernandez:

That will not be the title of my book.

[Insert sob here]

[Insert wail here]

[Insert wall slide* here]

Sulay loved the title. The higher-ups did not. Case closed. It’s a wrap.

I’ve heard from published authors that this is how it goes. And there’s not much you can do about it.

So why do I feel like crap?

It’s because I feel the sting of rejection. They don’t like my title? What else don’t they like?

And also, it frightens me because I know this is only the first of many battles that will be waged. What happens when it’s time to design the book cover?

I’d love something simple and artistic:

Will I instead have a cover like this?

Of course, I mean no disrespect to Keisha Ervin or Triple Crown Publications. But it’s not what I envisioned for my book.

But what do I know? I’m not even sure how to categorize my book. Is it street lit? Sure, some of it. Is it highbrow literary fiction? No. Is it Terry McMillan-esque. Yup. Unabashedly.

I don’t want the cover of my book to be animated. And I don’t want the title to tell you specifically what the story is about.

And I know I have zero control on how it all goes down.

This is frightening.

I have to remind myself that these are luxury problems. A year ago, I would have jumped for joy at the thought of having someone reject a book title for a book that will be published.

Gotta have faith that it will all work itself out the way it should.

And now, I’m off to think of new book titles.

[Insert heavy sigh here]

-A

P.S. I’m feeling a tinge of regret for shutting down aliyasking.com. I would have gotten tons of feedback on this issue. But I’m not advertising this blog the way I did before. So there’s a good chance that the people I really need to hear back from on this might not see it. Alas, if you’re a published author, please share your thoughts/experiences on the title process. And if you’re not, just tell me some of your favorite book titles….

*wall slide: stolen from LuvvieIG: Click here for an explanation.

Wrong.

Here’s what I look like when I wake up in the morning.

Egads!

I tie my hair down at night. When I wake up, it’s half high-top fade, half ‘Fro and all bad.

I jump in the shower. Don’t wash my hair each day. But the moisture from the hot water loosens my hair up a bit.

slowly but surely

Here, we have something close to an actual hairstyle. The steam has filled my hair out a bit. But now what?

Now, it’s time for product.

[Cue scary music here]

My hairstylist uses something made right in the shop. It’s top secret information. And I don’t know the ingredients. But she works it through my hair, puts me under the drier and I have a curly, firm, non-jheri-curl-looking TWA.

I have not been able to replicate this process at home.

So, I am one of the few women on earth who actually goes to the salon every two weeks to get her TWA done.

It’s a travesty! I know Lynn’s not complaining. But I should be able to leave the house with a perfect TWA all on my own.

My problem is my overuse of product. I start with essential oils for shine, throw in some mousse to release the curl. And then, out comes the hair gel. I like my hairline to be defined. I like my babyhair slicked down. Yup, I said it. I need definition around those edges.

Last Saturday, I went to my bestie Victoria’s birthday party. I was in the mirror for 20 minutes patting my TWA. Adding just a little more mousse there and a bit more gel here.

The result was not pretty.

From far away, I look totally acceptable. Up close?

I was Eriq La Salle’s twin sister.

I ran into an ex at the party. He gave me a hug. And then said, “Your hair looks good.”

I said thank you.

And then, disaster struck:

His hands started reaching toward my hair.

I was frozen in fear. Was he really about to touch my hair? Even if I didn’t have a temporary jheri curl, touching my hair would be out of pocket. But considering the circumstances, I definitely had to keep him at bay.

I did a quick duck dive and put my hands up.

“Heeeey,” I said, “Hands to yourself.”

I pretended to pat my ‘Fro.

“I don’t want you messing up my ‘do.”

We laughed. Disaster averted. Temporarily.

I avoided candles the whole night. Didn’t even want to eat ’cause the food was all on tiny burners. Open flame plus my hair? It could have been a major tragedy.

So this morning, I decided to go light on the product.

I skipped the oils all together and reached for my mousse.

I use Sculpting Foam from Paul Mitchell. 20.00 a bottle. Ugh. Lynn would frown on me using this on my hair without putting some kind of oils on first. Cause this stuff can be drying. But I don’t care. I’m determined to get out of the house with one form of product in my hair.

A palmful of that stuff goes along way. I massage and start the Pick and Pat.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see…

C'mon. Just a little touch. Your edges are looking kinda dry...

No. I must resist. I love the greasy little curls this stuff gives me. But it never ends well. This pomade is the key to getting your soul to glow. It’s for rolling up bangs on little girls with pink sponge rollers. It doesn’t belong within 10 feet of a TWA.

I fought the urge. I left the gel alone and kept working in my foam.

I picked and patted, patted and picked. Put on my favorite headband from Urban Outfitters and voila!

I was out the door this morning in ten minutes with just one product. Yay!

However, I’m not completely satisfied with today’s TWA. I’m not sure what’s missing. Do I need a real pick? The kind with the Afro on the top? In the middle picture, I’m looking a bit uneven.

And all in all, I feel like my TWA needs some TLC. Highlights? Twists? Braided sides forming a Mohawk? I need an upgrade. I’m taking all suggestions…

-A