photo by Perplex Photography
Hi. I write stories about everyday life, to lift your spirits and challenge your assumptions. (Learn why I love the dentist.)
My own assumptions were challenged when I wrote Blindsided: Essays from the Only Black Woman in the Room. Blindsided taught me, if you're uncomfortable with the room you're in, you should find another room. I let go of all-white spaces. These days I seek out rooms where people of all colors are present. And the rooms are focused on books and writing. I take workshops through organizations created for writers of color: Midnight and Indigo and Roots.Wounds.Words. A local black-owned bookstore (BLK+BRWN, A Smart Bookstore) gives me a sense of community by way of book groups, readings, and an emphasis on authors of color. Founder Cori Smith has welcomed me into her ecosystem. She opened the store on her day off for my photo shoot with her friend Lexi—the owner of Perplex Photography.
Writing is the perfect job for me, a woman tossed between existential doubt and the cosmic laugh. Existential doubt says, “You don’t know how to write.”
The cosmic laugh says, “You can't make the writing stop.”
I start each day in my home in Kansas City MO at 5:00 AM, with a bowl of Raisin Bran, a handful of vitamins, and a dose of caffeine. 6:00 yoga. 8:30 shower—make mental note to clean bathroom. 9:00 set a timer in the kitchen downstairs, then report to my writing room upstairs. For twenty-five minutes I write, which means: type, delete, make faces, change fonts, type just keep typing, and rejoice when the timer finally dings. Run downstairs—build in exercise—turn off the timer. Spend ten minutes in mindless physical activity like sweeping a floor. Reset timer. Lather, rinse, repeat until lunch.
During work sessions, I deploy an app that blocks the internet from my computer. (I cheat by checking my phone.)
External accountability motivates me to work consistently, safeguarding me from procrastination. Tuesdays, I have to write a blog post for Wednesday morning publication. Thursdays, I have to come up with another essay, because another blog goes out on Friday mornings.
The blog also serves as a jumping off point for my books. Sometimes a story elicits a string of responses like “Hit me exactly where I am right this minute,” or “Are you me?” Sometimes Jessica emails me a single-word reply to a blog post: "Damn." Those are messages from the world to transform a post into a deeper, layered essay for inclusion in a book.
I first earned money for an essay in 2007, when The Christian Science Monitor published “Jingle Frogs,” about a Secret Santa exchange. For the next decade, I was published and paid frequently enough to keep me dabbling in the written word, while I kept up with the rest of life: job, garden, house. Priorities shifted; writing ascended. I quit the job. The garden weeded over. Dust bunnies bred like rabbits.
My own assumptions were challenged when I wrote Blindsided: Essays from the Only Black Woman in the Room. Blindsided taught me, if you're uncomfortable with the room you're in, you should find another room. I let go of all-white spaces. These days I seek out rooms where people of all colors are present. And the rooms are focused on books and writing. I take workshops through organizations created for writers of color: Midnight and Indigo and Roots.Wounds.Words. A local black-owned bookstore (BLK+BRWN, A Smart Bookstore) gives me a sense of community by way of book groups, readings, and an emphasis on authors of color. Founder Cori Smith has welcomed me into her ecosystem. She opened the store on her day off for my photo shoot with her friend Lexi—the owner of Perplex Photography.
Writing is the perfect job for me, a woman tossed between existential doubt and the cosmic laugh. Existential doubt says, “You don’t know how to write.”
The cosmic laugh says, “You can't make the writing stop.”
I start each day in my home in Kansas City MO at 5:00 AM, with a bowl of Raisin Bran, a handful of vitamins, and a dose of caffeine. 6:00 yoga. 8:30 shower—make mental note to clean bathroom. 9:00 set a timer in the kitchen downstairs, then report to my writing room upstairs. For twenty-five minutes I write, which means: type, delete, make faces, change fonts, type just keep typing, and rejoice when the timer finally dings. Run downstairs—build in exercise—turn off the timer. Spend ten minutes in mindless physical activity like sweeping a floor. Reset timer. Lather, rinse, repeat until lunch.
During work sessions, I deploy an app that blocks the internet from my computer. (I cheat by checking my phone.)
External accountability motivates me to work consistently, safeguarding me from procrastination. Tuesdays, I have to write a blog post for Wednesday morning publication. Thursdays, I have to come up with another essay, because another blog goes out on Friday mornings.
The blog also serves as a jumping off point for my books. Sometimes a story elicits a string of responses like “Hit me exactly where I am right this minute,” or “Are you me?” Sometimes Jessica emails me a single-word reply to a blog post: "Damn." Those are messages from the world to transform a post into a deeper, layered essay for inclusion in a book.
I first earned money for an essay in 2007, when The Christian Science Monitor published “Jingle Frogs,” about a Secret Santa exchange. For the next decade, I was published and paid frequently enough to keep me dabbling in the written word, while I kept up with the rest of life: job, garden, house. Priorities shifted; writing ascended. I quit the job. The garden weeded over. Dust bunnies bred like rabbits.
The boundary between personal life and professional blurred.
Super-fans began as friends, listening to my occasional essays at spiritual retreats. New readers became friends, identifying with the hurts and triumphs I described. Friendships were strengthened over coffee and readings in private homes. Heaven for this author is a living room with six people leaning forward in their chairs, listening to my words.
In the age of COVID, it was necessary to find other pathways to connection.
I asked super-fan, Katherine, “Are you up for an experiment?”
“Sure,” she said.
“Let’s do a Zoom call. I’ll read you an essay, and then we can chat about it. You pick the essay.”
Together, we invented Author on Demand.
It was a revelation to realize Zoom gave me a way to hold author readings whenever I wanted to. No more searching for a venue, no more email back-and-forth to coordinate schedules. No more asking for permission. Period. I schedule a reading once a month and send out the zoom invitation through my blog. I rehearse like I'm about to do Carnegie Hall. Sit at my laptop and see who pops onto my screen.
Aside from videos, fans and I connected through emails, Facebook conversations, and phone calls. Toni texted me as she read Blindsided. “I just finished ‘Liza and Me.’ I’m so pissed. We have to talk.”
I was always a glutton for books. And not faithful to any particular genre. My first fantasy was Lord of the Rings. First historical fiction, The Good Earth. First gothic novel, Wuthering Heights. Later, as a creative perfecting her craft, I stuck with the recommendations from writing buddies. At various times, my favorite authors were Toni Morrison, Sherman Alexie, and Martha Wells. The list changed regularly.
Except for Toni Morrison.
For fun, I took up singing. At first, I told myself I was doing it for business reasons. Weekly lessons kept the voice in shape for narrating my audio books, but … really … singing was a stunningly joyful laugh-out-loud hoot. Lessons packed a bigger rush than caffeine, because belting the right sound, at the right time, in the right key required participation from the entire body.
Voice coach Suzanne gave instructions that confounded my intellect. “Let your abs take you to the high notes.”
Apparently, the abs understood. Without my analysis, the high notes happened. Total reliance on my body provided a vacation for my writer’s brain. Like yoga, singing put me completely in the present moment—muscle memory the only kind of memory that counted. Previously in-person lessons were recorded on my phone. I played them back to practice the exercises and to hear the laughing going on between Suzanne and me. And every week, I phone a friend, just to serenade her.
Existential doubt says, “You’re not qualified to write, video, or sing.”
Cosmic laugh says, “Guess what? You're going to create a YouTube channel.”
TO GET MY BLOG POSTS EVERY WEDNESDAY AND FRIDAY, SUBSCRIBE TO MY SUBSTACK NEWSLETTER: TEACHABLE MOMENTS
Super-fans began as friends, listening to my occasional essays at spiritual retreats. New readers became friends, identifying with the hurts and triumphs I described. Friendships were strengthened over coffee and readings in private homes. Heaven for this author is a living room with six people leaning forward in their chairs, listening to my words.
In the age of COVID, it was necessary to find other pathways to connection.
I asked super-fan, Katherine, “Are you up for an experiment?”
“Sure,” she said.
“Let’s do a Zoom call. I’ll read you an essay, and then we can chat about it. You pick the essay.”
Together, we invented Author on Demand.
It was a revelation to realize Zoom gave me a way to hold author readings whenever I wanted to. No more searching for a venue, no more email back-and-forth to coordinate schedules. No more asking for permission. Period. I schedule a reading once a month and send out the zoom invitation through my blog. I rehearse like I'm about to do Carnegie Hall. Sit at my laptop and see who pops onto my screen.
Aside from videos, fans and I connected through emails, Facebook conversations, and phone calls. Toni texted me as she read Blindsided. “I just finished ‘Liza and Me.’ I’m so pissed. We have to talk.”
I was always a glutton for books. And not faithful to any particular genre. My first fantasy was Lord of the Rings. First historical fiction, The Good Earth. First gothic novel, Wuthering Heights. Later, as a creative perfecting her craft, I stuck with the recommendations from writing buddies. At various times, my favorite authors were Toni Morrison, Sherman Alexie, and Martha Wells. The list changed regularly.
Except for Toni Morrison.
For fun, I took up singing. At first, I told myself I was doing it for business reasons. Weekly lessons kept the voice in shape for narrating my audio books, but … really … singing was a stunningly joyful laugh-out-loud hoot. Lessons packed a bigger rush than caffeine, because belting the right sound, at the right time, in the right key required participation from the entire body.
Voice coach Suzanne gave instructions that confounded my intellect. “Let your abs take you to the high notes.”
Apparently, the abs understood. Without my analysis, the high notes happened. Total reliance on my body provided a vacation for my writer’s brain. Like yoga, singing put me completely in the present moment—muscle memory the only kind of memory that counted. Previously in-person lessons were recorded on my phone. I played them back to practice the exercises and to hear the laughing going on between Suzanne and me. And every week, I phone a friend, just to serenade her.
Existential doubt says, “You’re not qualified to write, video, or sing.”
Cosmic laugh says, “Guess what? You're going to create a YouTube channel.”
TO GET MY BLOG POSTS EVERY WEDNESDAY AND FRIDAY, SUBSCRIBE TO MY SUBSTACK NEWSLETTER: TEACHABLE MOMENTS
Your donations keep me writing. Thank you!
paypal.me/dawndowneywriter
venmo @Dawn-Downey-11
mail 3913 N. Main. Kansas City MO 64116