EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER 2

Excerpts from Chapter 2 of Evergreen Uprooted

After walking past the kitchen, using the distant dimmed light from the hallway to see, I would tiptoe on the squeaky hardwood floors until I reached the cluttered boxes filled with second-hand clothing and all sorts of junk mail. When I reached those boxes, I knew I was at the living room. I would stand at the door of the living room, which had been transformed into Mommy’s bedroom, and strain in the dark to see if she was home. My eyes always landed on her dresser first. She had enough medicine bottles on her dresser to supply a pediatric clinic. She had albuterol, nebulizers, pain reliever and fever reducer, amoxicillin, penicillin, calamine lotion, ringworm solution, chicken pox medicine, corn starch, diaper-rash ointment, A&D ointment, and empty methadone bottles that she had obtained from her drug rehab at the Lee Building in Harlem, with a little bit of orange juice mixed with methadone a

t the bottom. I have to admit I was often tempted to drink it, after being outside all day and having only water.
Her vanity display consisted of an eye-pencil, and a lipstick tube that was always half empty because it served as her lipstick, blush, and eye shadow. She used her pinky finger to dig it out. Next I would look at her many pocketbooks, filled with old food-stamp book backs and empty pill bottles. These hung down from the edge of the mirror that was located in the middle of the dresser. Then I would notice that, as usual, she wasn’t home.

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EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER 3

Excerpt from Chapter 3

Next there was my middle sister Armani, who was short, and adorable. She also had a different father, and she looked just like him. She was light-skinned with sandy-brown hair, big brown eyes, and thick eyebrows. When she frowned, which was quite often, her eyebrows met in the middle of her forehead, forming the shape of a unibrow. Armani was sneaky, quiet, and soft-spoken. We called her “Sweet Tooth,” because she loved sugar. She would do anything for it.
One time Naomi asked Armani, “Do you want a piece of candy?”
Eagerly she answered, “Yes.”

Naomi took off her sneakers and socks. “Suck my toes.”
Armani frowned, “Ill, that’s nasty.”
Naomi wiggled her toes. “Sweet Tooth, go in the kitchen, look in the cabinet, and get the Adobo seasoning. Sprinkle some of it on my toes. Then suck them.”
Armani seasoned all ten of Naomi’s toes with Adobo, and then sucked them. I watched her open her mouth and suck the big toe to the pinky toe. After she sucked the last toe, Naomi gave her a piece of candy.

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EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER 2

Excerpt from CHAPTER 2
Many nights I longed to take a bath after being outside all day, but most of the time the tub was overflowing with dirty clothes. Mommy would begin to wash the clothes by hand but would never finish. The laundry would sit there for days, creating a stench that filled the whole house, smelling like mildew and rotten fish mixed together. The clothes appeared to be floating on top of a dirty swamp with worms forming from the dampness.
The only lights that we had in our apartment were placed in the hallway, kitchen, and bathroom. We usually kept the bathroom door closed, because of the regular funk we were seeking to avoid. The apartment was always dark and depressing. My eyes were accustomed to seeing in the dark. So I would just go straight to me and my sisters' bedroom, climb in bed, and sleep – on sheets that were changed maybe six times a year.
The four walls in our room contained dirty footprints and magazine

posters. The windows were decorated with sheets instead of curtains.

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Evergreen Uprooted, Memoirs of Secret

GETTING STARTED

My eight-year-old is learning at school that the purpose of writing is to Persuade, Inform, and Entertain (PIE).  My late Professor Stacey Israel who passed two-years ago from a rare heart disease said "A good work of art is based upon the consensus of the people."


"We write for our readers."~N.A.Z. Pankey

Let's get started!

Generate ideas by planning, drafting, and developing.  Find a topic to write about.  I chose to write about my childhood.  Good writing is about telling the truth.  All stories have a beginning, middle, and ending.  All stories have conflict.  Conflict can be many things.  What is the need of your main character and what is preventing that need? What will change things around? What is the conclusion or resolution.  Think of a hill.  At the beginning is Conflict.  Walking up the hill is Rising Action. At the top of the hill is Turning Point.  Walking down the hill is Falling Action.  At the bottom is Resolution.



CONFLICT may be internal or external—that is, it may occur within a character's mind or between a character and exterior forces. Conflict is most visible between two or more characters, usually a protagonist and an antagonist,  but can occur in many different forms.

The basic types of conflict in fiction have been commonly codified as "man against man", "man against nature", "man against self.  Man is universal and refers to woman too.
Man against Man is an external conflict which involves stories where characters are against each other.  The Conflict may be a robbery, fight, or an antagonist against a protagonist.
Man against Society where man stands against a man-made institution (such as slavery or bullying).
Man against Nature is an external struggle positioning the hero against an animal.
Man against self is internal. Man must overcome his own natures or make a choice between two or more paths - good and evil; logic and emotion.

RISING ACTION a related series of incidents in a literary plot that build toward the point of greatest interest.

TURNING POINT marks a change, for the better or the worse, in the protagonist’s affairs. If the story is a comedy, things will have gone badly for the protagonist up to this point; now, the tide, so to speak, will turn, and things will begin to go well for him or her. If the story is a tragedy, the opposite state of affairs will ensue, with things going from good to bad for the protagonist. Simply put, this is where the main part happens or the most dramatic part.

FALLING ACTION during the falling action the conflict between the protagonist and the antagonist unravels, with the protagonist winning or losing against the antagonist. The falling action might contain a moment of final suspense, during which the final outcome of the conflict is in doubt.

RESOLUTION  serves as the conclusion of the story. Conflicts are resolved, creating normality for the characters and a sense of release of tension and anxiety, for the reader.
 
A great way to get started is the make a time line of topics and events.  Make sure they're in order and not mentioned twice. Repetition is boring. If you explain on page one that your dog had black spots, no need to mention it again on page 10. Try not to use the same word more than once in a sentence unless there is no way out.

Think of your Audience.  What age group will your story attract.  Your intention should be to create something that will move your audience.

Here is an example of Conflict that starts in Chapter One of Evergreen Uprooted, Memoirs of Secret. Pay attention to the first four sentences.

I was standing in the dimly lit stairwell of the first floor in my building.  It was the size of a single prison cell.  And my mother Ann was standing next to me.

I had followed her out of the house to make sure she was okay.  She had just been punched in the face by my stepfather Buck, for disappearing for three days and coming back home without money.  She claimed he had broken her jaw.  This, however, did not stop her from pulling out a crack pipe and getting high.
~N.A.Z. Pankey

Conflict - My mother Ann had just been punched in the face by my stepfather Buck.

Here is an example of Rising Action also from Chapter One of Evergreen Uprooted, Memoirs of Secret.

As the long seconds passed by, I began to feel alone and afraid.  After about a minute or two of staring at me, she offered me a hit. 

 “No thank you,” I said, shocked that my own mother was asking me, at nine years old, to smoke crack.  


Thanks for taking the time to read my blog.  I hope this information helped.  Part TWO of GETTING STARTED will be posted soon.

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MY JOURNEY TO BECOMING AN AUTHOR

MY JOURNEY TO BECOMING AN AUTHOR

Becoming an author surprised me as well as my family, friends, and my community.  I didn’t grow up writing poems and reading books, but for me, writing was just as easy as breathing.

During my early 30’s I decided to go back to college.  After taking a placement test and scoring really high on the writing portion, but low on the reading—I was placed in a remedial reading class.  That was where my journey began.

Being brutally honest—I was pissed that one out of my four classes was remedial reading.  Life moves fast after thirty and I felt a non-college level class was a waste of my time.  I was forced to read book after book and then engage in group discussions.  Half the class came from hard knocks like me and the other half used English as their second language. 

Professor Steve Cohen taught us.  From the neck up he looked nerdy in a good way.  He wore seeing glasses with a thick black frame.  He had a head full of black hair that was parted down the side and slicked down neatly.  From the floor up he was tore up, wearing sneakers, jogging shorts, and a t-shirt.  He did a rhythm-less dance as his students entered class.  He kind of favored the famous actor Kevin James.  And then he opened his mouth and began to speak.  By the end of the class everyone could relate to him.  He became all things to all people in our class: goofy, smart, ghetto, Black, Caucasian, Hispanic, working class, welfare class, and no class.  We all felt a bond with him and soon began to bond with each other as we engaged in classroom discussions about reading and how it relates to our lives. 

Professor Cohen shared a book that he wrote while he was in college.  It was a book to help new college students find their way around school.  It was then, at that moment when I decided to write a book about my life.  Writing a book would make sense out of no sense.  Give my pain and struggles reason.  I asked “What do you think about me writing a book?”

            He responded, “That’s great! Bring me your first five pages.”

Now I was just running an idea pass him.  I hadn’t written anything and had no idea of how to begin to write a book, but I was excited.  It consumed my thoughts for days. Where do I start? What do I write about?  How honest should I be?  Whose voice should tell the story?  Questions multiplied as the days passed.

Well I started with the most dramatic thing I could remember happening to me.  Professor Cohen read my first five pages and loved it.  He said, “Keep writing.”  I wrote every night for three months straight.  My book was complete and it was all over the place.  Only I could understand it.  I had to rewrite the whole book.

This blog is my journey to becoming an author.  Let’s get started!  Please read my next blog titled, GETTING STARTED

 

Click on the link below to read an article I wrote about Professor Steve Cohen in 2010 

http://nccvoice.com/family-economic-security-program/ 

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BECOME A SELF PUBLISHED AUTHOR: Chapter ONE

BECOME A SELF PUBLISHED AUTHOR: Chapter ONE: And the rest of the trees of his forest shall be few, that a child may write them .   Isaiah 10:19 ONE I was standing in th...

EVERGREEN UPROOTED, Memoirs of Secret (Chapter ONE)

And the rest of the trees of his forest shall be few,

that a child may write them.  Isaiah 10:19

ONE

I was standing in the dimly lit stairwell of the first floor in my building.  It was the size of a single prison cell.  And my mother Ann was standing next to me.

I had followed her out of the house to make sure she was okay.  She had just been punched in the face by my stepfather Buck, for disappearing for three days and coming back home without money.  She claimed he had broken her jaw.  This, however, did not stop her from pulling out a crack pipe and getting high.

Back in 1985, a crack pipe looked like a glass drinking straw with burnt edges.  A more affordable type of method was the homemade “quarter water” pipe.  The folks from my hood, one of the toughest areas in the Bronx, right outside of Hunt’s Point, they called it “quarter water” because it was made out of the container for the twenty-five-cent juice that was affordable and quenched one’s thirst on a dry, hot summer day (also known as "hug juice").  This juice famous to children became the tool Mommy used to get high.  Mommy would march to the local Spanish roach-infested bodega, walk straight to the back of the store, open the refrigerator, and grab a quarter water.  It was a round plastic container.  Aluminum foil concealed the juice.  Since it only cost twenty-five cents, she wouldn’t even wait on line to pay for it.  She would walk right up to the register, slap a “case quarter” down on the counter, and leave. 

Standing in the stairwell on the lower step that day, I looked up and watched my beat-up mother take the back of her earring and punch tiny holes in one side of the aluminum-foil top.  After that, she let me suck seventy-five percent of the juice out of the container.  Then she took a clear BIC glass-like pen, pulled out the ink stick, and punched a hole through the belly of the container.  She lit a cigarette.  The light from the fire shined on her nails.  They were bitten down to the base.  She sucked in that nicotine that gave her pleasure for years but caused the color of her teeth to be mustard-yellow, then put the burnt ashes on top of the tiny little holes punched into the aluminum foil.  Next she planted the crack on top of the hot ashes.  It looked like very small pebbles.  The light from a distant window in the hallway reflected on one side of her face.  I could make out parts of her beaten face.  Blue-black swelling puffed her skin and made her eyes appear twice their normal size.  I watched Mommy take her lighter and set the crack ablaze.  I could hear it crackle.  I saw the smoke building up inside the container.  The crack had a sweet but funky odor, kind of like someone who gets up in the morning and without taking a shower, puts on sweet perfume.  The stench began to dominate the familiar fragrance of the hallway. 

I stood there looking at what had appeared to be Mommy, but now seemed like a totally different person.  She took a long pull and then she stared at me.  It didn’t seem like she was looking at me, instead she gazed straight through me.  It was as if something or someone was in the hallway behind me.  I looked around and saw no one.  It was just Mommy and I.  Her whole personality changed in a matter of seconds.  She turned into a zombie right before my eyes.  Her eyes were wide open and her pupils dilated.  She became anxious and seemed focused on something nonexistent.  The woman whom I loved as Mommy was deviant.  She became a stranger to me.  She didn’t even look like Mommy anymore.  I was a skinny kid, but she appeared to be just as skinny as me.  She weighed around eighty-five pounds.  Her skin was dry and discolored.  Her face was so sunken that her eyes looked as though they were going to jump right out of her skull.  As the long seconds passed by, I began to feel alone and afraid.  After about a minute or two of staring at me, she offered me a hit. 

 “No thank you,” I said, shocked that my own mother was asking me, at nine years old, to smoke crack.  I knew at that moment that her mind was really gone.

She tried again.  "Come on, take a hit, smoke it.”

I looked her straight in the eyes.  "No, Mommy, I don't want to.”

She looked into my eyes and moved the homemade pipe towards me.  “Are you sure?  It’s good.”

I looked down at the steps and whispered, “No, thank you.”

Suddenly, I realized our roles had reversed.  I no longer could make excuses for Mommy or depend on her to protect me.  I had to become an adult.  I had to discover a means to guard my life, and to protect Mommy from herself. I turned to the streets, and the neighborhood was my dwelling

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*****FREE*****

Read EVERGREEN UPROOTED for FREE on 10/13/2012 ALL DAY on Kindle

N.A.Z. Pankey wrote her first book!  It's her life story.  A story of redemption, hope, and inspiration about overcoming the adversities of life, and most importantly about faith!

"Faith is the highest passion in a human being.  Many in every generation may not come that far, but none comes further." Kierkegaard, Soren

God inspired Pankey to write a memoir about her childhood--how a young girl, living in the South Bronx, New York, triumphed over adversity.  Her story takes place in the eighties.  Her mother was addicted to crack heroin, Valium, alcohol, and methadone.  Pankey writes about her experiences as a child being abused, economically, physically, and sexually.

BACK COVER READS:

HOW FAR WOULD YOU GO, TO HIDE A SECRET?

"I walked with my head facing the ground, unable to face the world."

"Everyone was on a mission except for me.  I had nowhere to go.  I felt the evil and coldness all around me."

"I shocked him with the element of surprise.  I jumped over three tables, and tackled him down to the floor."

She leaned over and whispered, "The candles are suppose to drive away evil spirits.  This room is the safest place in New York."

READ MORE AND REVIEWS ARE WELCOME.

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