THE ROLE OF A 21st CENTURY BLACK WRITER: WHAT WILL YOUR LEGACY BE?
By William Fredrick Cooper
What is the function of Black Literature in the 21st Century? Are the authors students of a beautiful craft, an art that deepens the intellectual, human and spiritual potential of man by way of the written word? Or in the alternative, are we slaves to a trade with little or no regard to uplifting a community? Should our stories be utilized as instruments of change, transcending, then destroying the negative images and conditions of this social environment with inspirational, thought-provoking passages? Or should they comply to the business demands of an industry mired in economic instability? Is the technical quality of African-American Fiction being compromised by the greed of a publishing industry and the consumers need for constant entertainment? Have 21st Century Black Fiction Writers found the middle ground between weaving a lively tale and mentally stimulating the intelligence of our own? Or are we compromising our talents for a collection of tacky, poorly executed narratives that have little or no import to serious minds starving for a drink of something with substance? Are readers and writers collectively, simultaneous fools of a new slave trade, eagerly composing and gobbling up side-show prose that, in some ways, continues to blind a culture from recognizing and maximizing its brilliance? Is our literary community producing writers willing to create timeless, life-altering stories that will be remembered long after we’re gone? Or are merely hungry mercenaries, bastardizing a race by dummying down our gifts by inflaming the many insecurities of a race in a greedy chase for money?
When historians review the legacy of the 21st century African-American Fiction writer, will they congratulate us for the quantity of books produced, or cringe because our innovative hearts, though filled with passionate sound and fury, are stringing together words saying nothing of significance? What will your legacy be? Will it be endless a steady diet of sex-driven, stories that inflame insecurities of the heart and a continuous stream of books that glorify and glamorize negative walks of life? Or will generations that follow us see literary brilliance from the best of us? Where is this generation’s James Baldwin, Richard Wright, Ralph Ellison and Ann Petry?
What will your legacy be?
Who do we hold accountable for this mind-numbing quandary? The reader, for their right to choose fast, exciting prose and not pushing themselves to read the best of us? The story-teller, for sticking to what they know from life experiences and what sells, sometimes minimizing their gifts by ‘going along to get along? The publisher, for foregoing the responsibility of literary balance in our communities to make money? Or is it the vendors, for carrying toxic literature that partners with the bodega store owner carrying malt liquor in his freezer, both accessories to a warped maintenance that keeps magnificent minds mired in mush?
Tears have formed in my eyes when I peruse bookstands here in New York City. Listening silently and very carefully, to some of our readers as requests are made, in some instances, I’ll pick up a popular selection that has garnered massive support.
Scanning the first few pages, the lessons I’ve learned along my literary journey filter through me, causing an innate inquiry. Is the Author a Writer? Continuing my mental deposition at warp speed, Does the voice understand the delicate balance between image-driven narrative and snappy dialogue, or is merely a dialogue driven, conversation read? Do they establish a rhythmic flow with words, occasionally starting scenes with action verbs to give them more to work with? Or they conditioned to stilted text? Have they learned things that allure and excite, make words dance with delight, tantalizingly teasing, training, then taming the readers eyes with technique? The use of metaphors? Alliteration? Are they a student of the craft? Camouflaging my conclusions to the naked eye, usually I smile graciously, then return the book to the table. Frustrated? Sometimes. But always understanding the nature of the beast. Most 21st century Black Authors simply aren’t writers. They’re hired mercenaries, trained by publishers and editors to make money by way of encouraging a sensationalistic marketplace.
After all, business is business, publishers state. But at the expense of keeping potentially brilliant minds in the dark, stumbling over underachieving works while groping for a light switch that inspires the best that’s within us all? Are white writers composing efforts that contain an eighth grade vocabulary content (seriously, I’ve been told by more than one person this is the reading level we must adhere to) and are short on intellectual diversity and long on conditioned ignorance? Do juicy, tell-all stereotypes glorifying all that is negative in their world take a back seat to a Grisham, Patterson or Koontz release? We already know the answers to these questions.
So why is the demand for literature distorted to absurd lengths within the black community? What makes readers crave and authors compose stuff that stunts our social growth as people? Is it a responsibility to the black author to allow the reader to escape their personal problems by reading underwhelming works written solely for monetary gain? Or are we merely entertainers on a stage, making readers feel good for a respite? What’s up with the lack of technical execution, or voices and styles that distinguish themselves?
And why are we telling the same story with endless redundancy? Do Authors have the obligation of being conscious voices suggesting solutions to Black life within their pages, thus allowing the reader to progress from point A to B in their own melodrama? Why are we not enhancing the intelligence of the reader with uplifting stories that inspire those struggling not to give up on God, because he hasn’t given up on our race? Or does an articulate exhibition of knowledge in our stories give us a bourgeois sense of the Black experience?
Don’t get me wrong: some people may read the words on this page and swear I’m inebriated from ‘haterade’, or fail to see the objectivity that is mired in confusion. Others may say I’m jealous of another writers’ success. Kill that noise, for I am cognizant of the fact that everyone must make a living, and book writing and selling has provided, in many ways, peace within our village. A fine example of such is a street fiction genre dominated by authors that were formerly incarcerated. Weaving tales of inner-city strife, they have shown, in numbers, that their movement is no passing fancy. Recruiting many new readers of color, it’s a starting point because it speaks to people. But are we seeing diversity from these scribes? Do they challenge themselves to learn certain nuances with regards to the craft of writing, and learn other genres? Or are they and their publishers content with making money?
In some ways, because of their popularity, the growth of the reading community depends on it. In fact growth to all involved in our fiction movement should cause us to exhibit diversity in our stories, not to mention our bookshelves. As sales numbers have proven, Black Authors of Fiction have a following. We can’t settle for that, and in some instances we are regressing back to a sadly-familiar, regrettable label.
“What’s the best way to keep something from a black person?”
“That’s easy. Put it in a book.”
Simply translated: we’re reading, but what are we reading?
Would it be a stretch to say that we’re still ‘grinnin’ and shufflin’, glorifying our craft by chasing the green paper, clearly forgetting about the many sacrifices made by talented literary forefathers that culminated in the present explosion of books?
Even Timmothy McCann, a writing mentor of mines and contemporary pioneer of Black Male Authors, seems perplexed. Frustrated with the evolution of a renaissance into something he did not like, was this the reason why a man with boundless passion and never-ending commitment of excellence to the art of Black Fiction Writing walked away from it all, leaving a legion of fans missing him so?
Recently, I had the honor of sharing a heartfelt, thirty minute chat with a man who injected my veins with the same love for writing; a loving gift from God I almost gave back in frustration two months ago. Recalling how he sat me down on the 2001 African-American Book Summit Cruise, drilled me for two hours on the craft; gave me reference books to study from for improvement; dissected a short story I wrote with loving criticism; and then sent me on my way after demanding greatness from me. ‘He saw something,’ he said to me that day ‘but you have to figure it out’.
He still said that a few days ago.
“I feel so alone, man,” my soul cried out to the man who, along with Marcus Major and Franklin White, opened the doors to men that write with deep feelings. “You can feel the lack of respect of the craft from page one. It’s not the same anymore.”
“Yeah, it’s something,” he responded. “1995 to 2000 was a truly special time. Colson Whitehead, Colin Channer and writers of the like ready to take over the world… And then it all changed.”
‘And then it all changed’ weren’t his exact words, but I clearly got the message, especially when it was repeated four times during the chat.
“I almost quit, Timm. But I can’t.”
“It’s good to see you still have the fire. Don’t lose it. You have a legacy to build. You were given a torch to carry. Carry it.”
“I miss you so much, man.”
“Please stay in touch, William.”
Still helping me after all these years, my writing mentor answered a calling from God: he is now a Pastor of a church in Atlanta. Having recently made a pact with our Father myself to serve Him, it’s not surprising that He delivered confirmation by sending an old angel to me. I have a legacy to try to leave with what I write, one. Through technique and prose, I will glorify His name by putting pen to page in a way that inspires, and helps the Here and Now, and tomorrow…Wright, Goines, Slim, James Baldwin and Ellison did it. Eric Jerome Dickey’s doing it now. Why not William Fredrick Cooper?
One last question still plagues me, however: Will the legacy be because of the quality of my prose, or for me being a cash cow? Ah, the dilemma of a 21st Century Black Fiction writer.
What will your legacy be?
What is the function of Black Literature in the 21st Century? Are the authors students of a beautiful craft, an art that deepens the intellectual, human and spiritual potential of man by way of the written word? Or in the alternative, are we slaves to a trade with little or no regard to uplifting a community? Should our stories be utilized as instruments of change, transcending, then destroying the negative images and conditions of this social environment with inspirational, thought-provoking passages? Or should they comply to the business demands of an industry mired in economic instability? Is the technical quality of African-American Fiction being compromised by the greed of a publishing industry and the consumers need for constant entertainment? Have 21st Century Black Fiction Writers found the middle ground between weaving a lively tale and mentally stimulating the intelligence of our own? Or are we compromising our talents for a collection of tacky, poorly executed narratives that have little or no import to serious minds starving for a drink of something with substance? Are readers and writers collectively, simultaneous fools of a new slave trade, eagerly composing and gobbling up side-show prose that, in some ways, continues to blind a culture from recognizing and maximizing its brilliance? Is our literary community producing writers willing to create timeless, life-altering stories that will be remembered long after we’re gone? Or are merely hungry mercenaries, bastardizing a race by dummying down our gifts by inflaming the many insecurities of a race in a greedy chase for money?
When historians review the legacy of the 21st century African-American Fiction writer, will they congratulate us for the quantity of books produced, or cringe because our innovative hearts, though filled with passionate sound and fury, are stringing together words saying nothing of significance? What will your legacy be? Will it be endless a steady diet of sex-driven, stories that inflame insecurities of the heart and a continuous stream of books that glorify and glamorize negative walks of life? Or will generations that follow us see literary brilliance from the best of us? Where is this generation’s James Baldwin, Richard Wright, Ralph Ellison and Ann Petry?
What will your legacy be?
Who do we hold accountable for this mind-numbing quandary? The reader, for their right to choose fast, exciting prose and not pushing themselves to read the best of us? The story-teller, for sticking to what they know from life experiences and what sells, sometimes minimizing their gifts by ‘going along to get along? The publisher, for foregoing the responsibility of literary balance in our communities to make money? Or is it the vendors, for carrying toxic literature that partners with the bodega store owner carrying malt liquor in his freezer, both accessories to a warped maintenance that keeps magnificent minds mired in mush?
Tears have formed in my eyes when I peruse bookstands here in New York City. Listening silently and very carefully, to some of our readers as requests are made, in some instances, I’ll pick up a popular selection that has garnered massive support.
Scanning the first few pages, the lessons I’ve learned along my literary journey filter through me, causing an innate inquiry. Is the Author a Writer? Continuing my mental deposition at warp speed, Does the voice understand the delicate balance between image-driven narrative and snappy dialogue, or is merely a dialogue driven, conversation read? Do they establish a rhythmic flow with words, occasionally starting scenes with action verbs to give them more to work with? Or they conditioned to stilted text? Have they learned things that allure and excite, make words dance with delight, tantalizingly teasing, training, then taming the readers eyes with technique? The use of metaphors? Alliteration? Are they a student of the craft? Camouflaging my conclusions to the naked eye, usually I smile graciously, then return the book to the table. Frustrated? Sometimes. But always understanding the nature of the beast. Most 21st century Black Authors simply aren’t writers. They’re hired mercenaries, trained by publishers and editors to make money by way of encouraging a sensationalistic marketplace.
After all, business is business, publishers state. But at the expense of keeping potentially brilliant minds in the dark, stumbling over underachieving works while groping for a light switch that inspires the best that’s within us all? Are white writers composing efforts that contain an eighth grade vocabulary content (seriously, I’ve been told by more than one person this is the reading level we must adhere to) and are short on intellectual diversity and long on conditioned ignorance? Do juicy, tell-all stereotypes glorifying all that is negative in their world take a back seat to a Grisham, Patterson or Koontz release? We already know the answers to these questions.
So why is the demand for literature distorted to absurd lengths within the black community? What makes readers crave and authors compose stuff that stunts our social growth as people? Is it a responsibility to the black author to allow the reader to escape their personal problems by reading underwhelming works written solely for monetary gain? Or are we merely entertainers on a stage, making readers feel good for a respite? What’s up with the lack of technical execution, or voices and styles that distinguish themselves?
And why are we telling the same story with endless redundancy? Do Authors have the obligation of being conscious voices suggesting solutions to Black life within their pages, thus allowing the reader to progress from point A to B in their own melodrama? Why are we not enhancing the intelligence of the reader with uplifting stories that inspire those struggling not to give up on God, because he hasn’t given up on our race? Or does an articulate exhibition of knowledge in our stories give us a bourgeois sense of the Black experience?
Don’t get me wrong: some people may read the words on this page and swear I’m inebriated from ‘haterade’, or fail to see the objectivity that is mired in confusion. Others may say I’m jealous of another writers’ success. Kill that noise, for I am cognizant of the fact that everyone must make a living, and book writing and selling has provided, in many ways, peace within our village. A fine example of such is a street fiction genre dominated by authors that were formerly incarcerated. Weaving tales of inner-city strife, they have shown, in numbers, that their movement is no passing fancy. Recruiting many new readers of color, it’s a starting point because it speaks to people. But are we seeing diversity from these scribes? Do they challenge themselves to learn certain nuances with regards to the craft of writing, and learn other genres? Or are they and their publishers content with making money?
In some ways, because of their popularity, the growth of the reading community depends on it. In fact growth to all involved in our fiction movement should cause us to exhibit diversity in our stories, not to mention our bookshelves. As sales numbers have proven, Black Authors of Fiction have a following. We can’t settle for that, and in some instances we are regressing back to a sadly-familiar, regrettable label.
“What’s the best way to keep something from a black person?”
“That’s easy. Put it in a book.”
Simply translated: we’re reading, but what are we reading?
Would it be a stretch to say that we’re still ‘grinnin’ and shufflin’, glorifying our craft by chasing the green paper, clearly forgetting about the many sacrifices made by talented literary forefathers that culminated in the present explosion of books?
Even Timmothy McCann, a writing mentor of mines and contemporary pioneer of Black Male Authors, seems perplexed. Frustrated with the evolution of a renaissance into something he did not like, was this the reason why a man with boundless passion and never-ending commitment of excellence to the art of Black Fiction Writing walked away from it all, leaving a legion of fans missing him so?
Recently, I had the honor of sharing a heartfelt, thirty minute chat with a man who injected my veins with the same love for writing; a loving gift from God I almost gave back in frustration two months ago. Recalling how he sat me down on the 2001 African-American Book Summit Cruise, drilled me for two hours on the craft; gave me reference books to study from for improvement; dissected a short story I wrote with loving criticism; and then sent me on my way after demanding greatness from me. ‘He saw something,’ he said to me that day ‘but you have to figure it out’.
He still said that a few days ago.
“I feel so alone, man,” my soul cried out to the man who, along with Marcus Major and Franklin White, opened the doors to men that write with deep feelings. “You can feel the lack of respect of the craft from page one. It’s not the same anymore.”
“Yeah, it’s something,” he responded. “1995 to 2000 was a truly special time. Colson Whitehead, Colin Channer and writers of the like ready to take over the world… And then it all changed.”
‘And then it all changed’ weren’t his exact words, but I clearly got the message, especially when it was repeated four times during the chat.
“I almost quit, Timm. But I can’t.”
“It’s good to see you still have the fire. Don’t lose it. You have a legacy to build. You were given a torch to carry. Carry it.”
“I miss you so much, man.”
“Please stay in touch, William.”
Still helping me after all these years, my writing mentor answered a calling from God: he is now a Pastor of a church in Atlanta. Having recently made a pact with our Father myself to serve Him, it’s not surprising that He delivered confirmation by sending an old angel to me. I have a legacy to try to leave with what I write, one. Through technique and prose, I will glorify His name by putting pen to page in a way that inspires, and helps the Here and Now, and tomorrow…Wright, Goines, Slim, James Baldwin and Ellison did it. Eric Jerome Dickey’s doing it now. Why not William Fredrick Cooper?
One last question still plagues me, however: Will the legacy be because of the quality of my prose, or for me being a cash cow? Ah, the dilemma of a 21st Century Black Fiction writer.
What will your legacy be?
