Friday, September 15, 2006

Age is Just a Number: Adventures in Online Dating

Title: Age is Just a Number: Adventures in Online Dating
Author: D.S. White
Publisher: Divine Truth Press
Release Date: September 15, 2006
ISBN-10: 0977810305
ISBN-13: 978-0977810307
Paperback: 124 pages
List Price: $9.95 (Paperback)
E-Book: $3.99 (PDF)
E-Book: $3.99 (EPUB)

Description:

MEET DIVINE: female, thirty-seven, slaphappy, young at heart, self-employed; an online newbie, living in New York. She is fresh out of a long-term relationship and has completed the two-year mandatory wound-licking I-hate-men mourning period. Unfortunately for Divine, someone neglected to inform her that dating has been upgraded to new millennium level. But maybe she shouldn’t worry…hemlines aren’t the only things that have gone up.Thirty-somethings are premium dating material now…at least for the twenty-year-oldsDivine’s experiences are the basis for the serial memoir I call “Age Is Just a Number,” a lens through which to view the world of online dating.

About the Author:

Her motto: I am who I am by the grace of God

An avid reader, D.S. White is the former proprietor of an online African-American bookstore and wholesale dealership. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a back up plan for 9/11/01.

She is the divorced mother of a fabulous 21-year-old who is in her senior year at the University of Pennsylvania. D.S. White loves traveling but most of it to date has been done within the pages of a book. While planning that mother/daughter trip in the distant future, she’s tried her hand at acting, singing, dancing, modeling, cosmetology and sales.

A budding wordsmith, she has few credits to date which opened her eyes to the need for a place where writers of color could congregate, a Water Cooler, if you will. There writers of all levels of experience can find awards, contests, markets, scholarships and more, specifically geared to writers of color.

Aware of the need for reading material which accurately reflects the look and mindset of the person of color, she decided to do her part to facilitate the same. If you remember nothing else from her bio, remember that she loves God and is always happy to share what He’s done in and for her life.

Read an Excerpt:

Purchase a Copy:

ForewordAmazon.com: (Kindle Edition)
IntroductionBarnes and Noble: (Nook Book)
Part I: 


Read a Review:

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

What Jogs Your Memory?

Good Morning People!

Singing: We made it! We survived... errr... da da dum, dum

Yeah, yeah I don't remember the rest of the words. I just know it's a gospel song from a bootleg CD ... ahem... CD I bought and those words describe exactly how I feel at this point in time.

Which reminds me of a question I'd meant to ask y'all a while back but before I do, do we have any "Living Single" fans in the house?

If so, do y'all remember Max? (played by actress Erica Alexander). The eat-too-durn-much-a-holic? It cracked me up in one episode when Khadijah (played by actress/model/songstress Queen Latifah) asked Max if she remembered a certain incident.

Max's initial response was no. Then Khadijah mentioned what Max was eating at the time and presto--her recollection of that moment in time was a miraculous thing.

Well, most of my memories are connected to music. I've been singing all my life and in fact, were it not for music I would not be here, much less the devout Christian I am today. There was a time when my life was so rife with strife that I had a hard time hearing the Word. I mean, who wanted to hear the Words of a God who allowed, wife beating, daddies who slept with their daughters and boys who kept going when you said stop? Oh come on now, I know someone out there knows what I'm talking about. The loss of hope, the feeling of worthlessness, the lack of friends because we push everyone away to ensure continued secrecy?[i]

Well--as soon as a preacher began to preach--I was present in body but absent in mind. But not so with music. The choir could sing all it wanted and that was enough of a sermon for me. I believe that is the very essence of and, to me, explains the universal appeal of music. It has the ability to go where no man has gone before. It is Godlike in its ability to reach down into the depths of our very being and melt a hardened heart, comfort a bruised spirit and soothe a chaotic mind.

I'd often say to all and sundry, "It's a wonder that I'm here today," or "I don't know how I made it." But in retrospect I knew--I just didn't know that I knew. Unable to reach me by spoken Word, God who is the Word, reached my by the constant repetition of Word wrapped in lyrics and accompanied by musical instruments was able to keep my demons at bay and imbue me with the strength needed to survive as well as plant a seed of hope which one day was watered by the spoken Word that I was finally willing and ready to hear.[ii]

Today, when I hear certain songs like:

Here and Now: It swoops me smack dab into the memory of my favorite sister's wedding. I had the honor of singing it. But above all that I remember her trembling but taking that huge step head held high, but what garnered my attention most was my brother-in-law, big strong
strapping ex-football player weeping unashamedly--in public! That was not a thing of my experience. Upon viewing that sensitivity, I think that's the moment we connected and what has enabled us to be close friends, family and eventually mentor (him) and mentee (me). But that's another issue.

Low in the Grave He Lay: Pulls me straight back to my homeland, Trinidad and Tobago in the West Indies.

I peered through the dusk at the scene which drew the focus of all present--the sight of a blindfolded man clad in white shirt and pants, being submerged in the water. I recall thinking that it seemed as though Elder had a tempo going. Wave one, wave two, wave three--submerge, resurrect, turn to the congregation, glare and demand, "Why aren't you singing? Sing!" Then assured of blind obedience he'd turn around and reach for the next candidate for baptism being ushered his way.

As I looked longingly at the boy, a relative of Elder's, who was allowed to sleep, the white clad members of the congregation renewed their efforts at singing Low in the Grave He Lay, the song that later explained to me the symbolism of the candidates being submerged in the cold surf and resurrected one after the other at that godforsaken hour of the morning. But at that point in time, all I could wonder was, Don't they know another song? How come he gets to sleep and I have to stay awake? Shucks there's another mosquito. Yeeech, this sand is sooo cold and it's all between my toes... Are we done yet![iii]

Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen: Wings me once again to the land of my birth and a clear cut vision of my eight or nine-year-old self, up under the house[iv] mumbling to myself in between stifled sobs and hiccups, When I get older I'm gonna leave this place and these mean people[v] behind. Always beating people, as if they her mother. My mammy's not here. She's in America. I don't see why I have to empty and wash the stupid poseys[vi] anyways. I'm the youngest and if I can hold it all night how come they can't? I'm going to stay here all day and not come out--that'll show them!

The Long and Winding Road: Transports me to the sense of accomplishment and belonging I felt at the eighth grade choir competition when our secret weapon (thirteen year old Tommy with a head full of red hair and a tenor to die for) stepped up to the microphone and flawlessly sang, "Many times I've been alone and many times I've cried, anyway you'll never know the many times I've tried" As though rehearsed, the audience rose for a standing ovation and we were awarded straight 1's. As he rounded our excited group up to board our bus for the trip back to our school, my eyes couldn't help but take in the huge first place trophy he held protectively (or was it possessively?) in his grasp.

Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me: Gives me goose bumps as I remember a balmy summer night back in 1988: my ex-fiancé and I singing along with the radio and singing to each other as we sat in his bright yellow Toyota in the parking lot at the beach. I can't remember who was Elton John and who was George Michael, but I remember thinking, Yes! This is the one, he's on key, knows all the words and is actually singing them to me! This is soooo romantic! I might even...

Okay now y'all didn't think I was gonna finish that thought did ya? LOL.

Now don't make me think that the mythical character Max and I are the only ones with memory joggers. What jogs your memory?



[i] If dealing with this situation please use this link to get help.

[ii] Which is why it is so important that we guard our souls. Guard our souls you ask? Yes. We need to take stock of what we hear constantly, what may seem harmless, funny even. Because whether we realize it or not, what we hear constantly becomes a seed planted in us that can later be watered. Our soul has no filter it just ingests data and the filter then becomes our connection with the Holy Spirit. The more we submit to the leading of the Holy Spirit the more we are able to filter out the unwanted data, however if there's little or no connection with the Holy Spirit, then our unawakened spirit has a whole lotta work to do trying to filter unwanted data on its own.

[iii] Oh wow! Lightbulb! I think I just connected my aversion to the beach and sand between my toes to this memory as its source. Phewww... that's why I love this business of writing.
[iv]
The island’s uneven terrain had most houses on stilts.

[v] My sisters … LOL

[vi] Also known as the chamber pot. Indoor plumbing was not yet prevalent.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Queens Book Fair

I will be attending the Queens Book Fair on August 19th in Queens, New York. The timing is perfect because it will be four days after the official release of AIJAN (and my 41st birthday). To celebrate both I've set up a new discount opportunity.

Now call me prejudiced and in this instance I must say that I am, based on the fact that I was the proprietor on an online bookstore. It grieved me dearly to go out of business because I know for a fact that there were enough African Americans out there to keep me in business for years to come--yet it seemed as though they preferred to spend their dollars elsewhere.

I now know that it was really not a part of God's plan for me to continue as a bookstore proprietor but a part of His preparation process for my authorship. But the part of me that still whispers at night "I coulda been a contender" feels strongly about African American dollars going towards African American businesses. So to that end I've partnered with the proprietor of The Book ClubHouse, an independent bookseller, so that members of my lists may purchase AIJAN for $10.75 (less additional discount with special coupon code "queens06" at checkout making the cost $9.88 + $1.75 Standard S/H = $11.63 Total Cost).

NOTE: Coupon code expires August 31, 2006.

For those of you in New York:

Want to reserve it and purchase it autographed at the Queens Book Fair?

First 1-20 people to reserve a copy: $8.96 (25% off)
First 21-40 people to reserve a copy: $9.20 (23% off)
First 41-60 people to reserve a copy: $9.56 (20% off)

Remember ... the early bird gets the best discount!

Peace,
Dee

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

A Bit of "Dear Abby" Humor

I received the following post in one of my Yahoo groups today. Now although it states that these are real letters received by Dear Abby ... I really didn't attempt to verify for the fact they're more hilarious than serious--Enjoy!

REAL LETTERS THAT DEAR ABBY GOT TO WHICH SHE ADMITTED SHE WAS AT A LOSS TO ANSWER: Maybe you have a snappy answer you would like
to share?? Reply with answers.

Dear Abby,

A couple of women moved in across the hall from me. One is a middle-aged gym teacher and the other is a social worker in her mid twenties. These two women go everywhere together and I've never seen a man go into or leave their apartment. Do you think they could be Lebanese?

Dear Abby,
What can I do about all the Sex, Nudity, Fowl Language and Violence On My VCR?

Dear Abby,
I have a man I can't trust. He cheats so much, I'm not even sure the baby I'm carrying is his.

Dear Abby,
I am a twenty-three year old liberated woman who has been on the pill for two
years. It's getting expensive and I think my boy friend should share half the cost, but I don't know him well enough to discuss money with him.

Dear Abby,
I've suspected that my husband has been fooling around, and when confronted with the evidence, he denied everything and said it would never happen again.

Dear Abby,
Our son writes that he is taking Judo. Why would a boy who was raised in a good Christian home turn against his own?

Dear Abby,
I joined the Navy to see the world. I've seen it. Now how do I get out?

Dear Abby,
My forty year old son has been paying a psychiatrist $50.00 an hour every eek for two and a half years. He must be crazy.

Dear Abby,
I was married to Bill for three months and I didn't know he drank until one night he came home sober.

Dear Abby,
My mother is mean and short tempered. I think she is going through mental pause.

Friday, July 21, 2006

Looking for a Few Good Men ... and Women

MEDIA CALL:

Here's something I received through one of my Yahoo groups that might be of interest to you and forwarding is permissible:

Hello Friends-

I need black men and women. Period.

I put this email out before and got tepid response. I am producing and co-hosting a show (with Ron Claiborne)on ABC News Now that is as yet untitled. It's a public
affairs show for black people... BUT? it is not done in the conventional ABC News way. It is meant to replicate the kinds of conversations that we have when we get
together in the church parking lot, beauty shop, barbershop, dinner table, playing spades? whatever. It will be the TV version of a typical black conversation about current events, music, sports, pop culture, news? With all the energy and bravado, minus the four letter words. To give you an example of what we talk about? During our first two pilots we addressed: Blacks and Immigration, the Duke LaCrosse rape case, Baby Daddies and Baby Mamas, Colin Powel or Condeleeza Rice for President etc.

So I'm putting together a list of potential guests. My first show tapes this Friday and every other Friday at 3:30pm. I don't need any experts. We all know someone
who can turn a conversation into an argument? Besides me!

I just want regular black folks but I'll also take artists, authors, CEO's, professionals.. (Uptight people who are charmed by their own intellect need not respond). If you know someone in NYC who is intelligent, up-on-current-events, witty, lively, funny, opinionated and black -- male or female -- please have them get in touch with me via email. Or send their contact information and I will get in touch with them.

Or if you can or want to be on a future show yourself, please speak up too. (Some of you are definitely qualified). I am really struggling to find SISTERS.

We always complain that there aren't enough on mainstream media about us and for us so here's one. I need all your support to sustain it.

Thank you.
Eddie

eddie.pinder@...

(212) 456 3746

Saturday, July 08, 2006

Girls Most Likely: A Novel

by Sheila Williams
Published by One World/Ballantine


paperback US$13.95
ISBN: 0345464761


About the book:
"We didn't know then that the dramas we imagined weren't even warm-ups for what real life held for us."

From the fifth grade to their fifth decade, Vaughn, Reenie, Susan, and Audrey have shared secrets and dreamed dreams -- their lives connected like silk threads through rich fabric, pulling but never breaking at life's unexpected twists and turns. Meet the girls most likely

To Write the Great American Novel: Vaughn has a flair for words that makes her the unofficial diplomat of the foursome. She's great at keeping it together for everybody -- but herself.

To Marry a Prince: Sassy Reenie can break hearts as easily as she can take out a bully without breaking a nail. But her live-for-today attitude leads to a tragic mistake that will haunt the girls for years.

To be Famous: From the ashes of a ravaged home life, amid rumors and bad feelings, Susan rises to fame as a glamorous network anchorwoman, proving that success is the best revenge. But forgiveness is another matter.

To Run the World: Audrey is the ultimate overachiever, but this takes a devastating toll on her health, her career, and her family. Perfection is a race where the finish line keeps moving. What will she sacrifice to win?

Girls Most Likely is an emotional, uplifting, often hilarious glimpse into the lives of today's ever-changing African American women, sustained by love, laughter, and sisterhood.

Read an excerpt

About the author:
Sheila J. Williams was born in Columbus, Ohio. She attended Ohio Wesleyan University and is a graduate of the University of Louisville in Louisville, Kentucky. Sheila and her husband live in northern Kentucky.

For more information, please visit the author's Web site at www.sheilajwilliams.com.

Excerpt: Girls Most Likely

One


I thought that I was fearless until the piece of paper that every sane adult over forty dreads arrived in my mailbox on a June afternoon: the invitation to my thirtieth high school class reunion

PURPLE TIGERS, CLASS OF 1971
IT'S REUNION TIME!

DATE: FRIDAY, AUGUST 25
TIME: 7:00 P.M. UNTIL ???
PLACE: THE IMPERIAL ARMS
BE THERE OR BE SQUARE
RSVP TO DARLA MARTIN-GILMORE BY AUGUST 5
WE LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING YOU!!!!


Damn it! I said to myself, fingering the white envelope trimmed in purple. I wondered if the French Foreign Legion was still in existence. I hadn't used my high school French in over twenty years but there were refresher courses. Maybe it wasn't too late to join the Witness Protection Program.

Why, for God's sake, the Imperial Arms? It had seen better days. Like forty years ago. And the buffet wasn't that good even then.

You have some choices, my conscience advised. You can kill yourself now or mark the envelope "Addressee Unknown" and drop it into the mailbox . . . or you could go.

Oh grow up, I answered back. What's wrong with suicide?

I would be fifty in a couple of years so I figured there weren't many things left in the world that could really scare me. After all, I was on my second marriage. I was not afraid of the dark -- I outgrew that when I was four. I will admit that I am the only mom who sits at the bottom of the bleachers at my son's football games. Heights make me queasy. And yes, cancer and Alzheimer's worry me. So I eat broccoli and do crossword puzzles to keep the gray cells from getting squishy. But other than that, I thought I was fearless. But there's nothing like the invitation to your thirtieth high school reunion to put ice cubes in your intestines.

Maybe I could run away from home.

"Hey! What's up?" My son, Keith, or "Jaws" as we call him because of his feeding habits, joined me in the hallway. He was chomping on an apple, talking with his mouth full, and holding a jar of peanut butter in one hand. Life was normal.

"What's with the psychedelic envelope?" he asked, with a burst of laughter in his voice. Bits of apple went everywhere.

"High school reunion," I answered. "And clean up that mess!"

"Ho, ho! How many years is it, Mom? Thirty-five? Forty?"

"Thirty, thank you. Get it right," I retorted.

"You're old."

"If you don't watch it, I'll stop feeding you," I warned him.

"Purple Tigers? Oh, this ought to be good. You old-school fogies limping around the dance floor to Al Green . . ."

"No, the Temptations, Sly and the Family Stone, Earth, Wind and Fire," I countered. I was remembering the wonderful music. "And there isn't anything 'old school' about it. It's just real music where people actually play the instruments. You know, musical instruments? Saxophones, trumpets, guitars?"

Keith shook his head and took another monstrous bite.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. You're going, right?" He patted me on the top of my head.

One of the lovely things about having a nearly grown son is that when he gets to be taller than you are, he treats you like an armrest.

"Go away, shoo," I said, pushing his two-hundred-pound frame toward the kitchen where it belonged. "Don't forget we have to talk about that football camp this evening. Oh, and that girl called again." I call her "that girl" because she has one of those amazing names that I can't pronounce. "La" on the front end and an "ishelle" on the back end. As my great-grandmother would say, "Mercy!"

"OK, but you should go, Ma. You don't look too bad for an old lady. A little short but . . ."

I love compliments.

"Beat it before I throw something at you," I yelled after him.

I looked at the invitation again.

Had it really been thirty years? It seemed like only yesterday that I had nearly been suspended for . . . Now I was sounding like an old-school fogy. Of course, it had been thirty years. I'd been to college, married, had two babies, divorced, married again, had one more baby; worked at three companies, one university, and one junior college; done innumerable loads of laundry, been a room mother three hundred times, cheered soccer, football, and volleyball games; and made more chili and Rice Krispies treats than I care to think about. Not to mention the gray hair that I religiously color every four weeks and the extra ten pounds I was carrying around -- OK, fifteen pounds.

Oh, yes, and those babies grew up. Becca was in San Francisco preparing to make me a grandmother. Yikes! Candace had just finished her master's degree and was spending the summer in Italy. Keith was headed toward his senior year in high school.

And there were the other things.

Thirty years ago my parents still lived on Greenway Avenue in a little beige stucco house. Our German shepherd, Ranger, held court in the backyard and Mrs. Adams poked her nose over the fence complaining about his barking. My oldest sister, Pat, would have been in the bathroom in front of the mirror combing her hair this way and that. My youngest sister, Jean, would have been in the window seat, coloring. Grandma Jane lived on the next block; the Methodist minister lived around the corner.

Time didn't march on, it flew at light speed. Dad was gone now, and Mother sold the little house and lived in a condo on the other side of town. Pat and her family live in Denver and Jean is stationed in Washington, D.C. My baby sister is a major in the U.S. Army. Grandma's gone, the reverend is gone, and Ranger was the third of several dogs by the same name, all of which were buried with pomp and circumstance and heartfelt tears in the backyard beneath the old maple tree.

Thank God for the memories. My high school yearbooks rest on top of the bookshelf in the family room. Keith leafs through them and makes fun of the way we dressed "back in the olden days," especially our afros. Of course, everything comes back, and now that bell-bottoms are on the runways in New York, my long-haired son looks at my high school picture with more respect. We were trendsetters.

I pick up the book from 1971, which is my favorite year. I flip through it whenever I want to feel good. It's like a worn house slipper, completely broken in. It is like meat loaf and mashed potatoes made with whole milk and butter. And I always open it to the same page. There we are. It's the picture of the National Honor Society and we're standing in the front row: me, Audrey, Reenie, and Su -- best friends since elementary and junior high school. Inseparable. We are wearing plaid jumpers with pleated skirts, V-neck sweaters, and knee socks. Cheerleader skirts. Afros and hooped earrings. Dashikis. And smiles. Lots and lots of smiles, real ones. Life was full of possibilities then.

On the day we graduated we promised to stay in touch, but we scattered. Our times together grew further apart but were no less cherished. And I think all of us would agree that the times we spent together growing up were some of the best times of our lives. Those were the days when we weren't afraid to experiment or make mistakes. Those were the days before our lives would need revision, before our souls would need restoration. Those were the days before we learned that we wouldn't live forever, the days before regrets. And, in many ways, those were the last days that we had friendships so close that our skins inhaled the fibers of the mohair sweaters we borrowed from one another.

Irene, Audrey, and Susan were the girls I grew up with. The girls who turned the double-Dutch ropes when I was nine, who invited me to their slumber parties and told me their secrets, some of which I've kept to this day. In high school, they got their own page in the yearbook because they were the "girls most likely": to succeed, to marry a millionaire, to be rich and famous, and to negotiate world peace. They were the girls most likely to do everything wonderful. I was on the fringes of their lives, basking in the reflection of their friendship and taking advantage of the benefits that came with being seen with them.

We were born in the early fifties. Our mothers named us after their favorite movie stars: Susan Hayward, Irene Dunne, and Audrey Hepburn. And like the screen queens, we were told to behave ourselves and do what was expected of us: white gloves and a hat to church on Sunday; Fisk, Spelman, or Howard; a "good" job teaching school or working for the government (thirty years in and a pension out), or, God willing, marry a doctor and not have to work at all. Of course, we were colored then and things were changing in the world.

Excerpt from GIRLS MOST LIKELY by Sheila Williams. Copyright Sheila Williams; published by arrangement with One World/Ballantine Books (on-sale July 25, 2006; $13.95)

For more information, please visit the author's Web site at www.sheilajwilliams.com.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Here It Is!

Here's the Book! This is the book that houses my poem: The Strong Black Woman is Dead! Or Is She?

I received an additional email from Sara of BlackExpressions and it was mailed out two days ago. It should be here by the weekend. I'll let you know the verdict as soon as I gobble it up. But in case you can't wait either... here it is:

Sunday, June 04, 2006

Trouble Don't Last Always

I know by its very definition, the word surprise means that something unexpected happens, but as we both know, surprises can be good, bad, or indifferent.

By 10 a.m. today I’d had three surprises; and get this—they were all good, great even!

That was in total opposition to my day yesterday. When:


  • The phone wouldn’t stop ringing,

  • Notes were making nests on my desk; and

  • I didn’t leave the office until the cleaners came. And the song in my soul was, Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen



Well today:

  • My boss brought me some of her famous baked ziti. (Y’all know how I love Italian food)

  • She also told me I could leave early; and

  • I received an email from Sara at Black Expression 2005 (Yahoo Writers Group) with fabulous news!



It went like this:

Dear Dee,

Your poem titled: "The Strong Woman is Not Dead" is included in our anthology.

Please send us an address to mail it to you.

Sincerely,
Sara

My decorous response:

REALLY?!!?!!!?

Yeeee hawwwww!

What a lovely surprise!

My mailing address is:

D.S. White
P.O. Box 145
Whitehall, PA 18052-0145

Thanks for the great news Sara.

Dee.


Although the little gremlin on my left shoulder tried to bring up the fact that the title of the poem was actually "The Strong Black Woman Is Dead! Or Is She?" I treated it like my alarm clock and beat it into submission, while I continued doing a dance of joy and thought to myself, trouble truly don’t last always.

Thursday, May 18, 2006

Bio

Born 40 years ago in the Republic of Trinidad & Tobago through the power of prayer, Dee's life has not always been easy. But had someone told her years ago that her name Diane meant Divine, it might have saved her a lot of the time she spent thinking up ways to "fit in".

A strong black woman, Dee has realized forgiveness is essential to achieve the peace she has sought all her life. She has come to terms with the angst of her birth and realizes even her name has purpose in God's eyes. She's real enough to admit that some of her limitations in life were self-induced. She's not ashamed to admit she's not perfect, and at times may need to be lovingly reminded that "It's not about you!" But she prays she will always surround herself with people who will hold her accountable to the need to have and show compassion.

Her first blook (book based on a blog) Age is Just a Number, will be released June 1, 2006. Pre-orders available at Amazon, ATWC Books, Barnes and Noble and The Book ClubHouse. (Utilize the discount code housecode at checkout to receive an additional 10% off until May 31, 2006.)