I will be on a panel on diversity in SF/F presented by the Friends of the Merril

The Friends of the Merril present a roundtable discussion on “Diversity in SF/F”, a wide-ranging roundtable about diversity in the Canadian and North American literary and speculative fiction field, inclusiveness, their various forms, and what works and what doesn’t.

The discussion will be moderated by Léonicka Valcius and panelists will include Charlotte Ashley, Leah Bobet, E.L. Chen, Malon Edwards, and Tonya Liburd.

The event will be held in the basement auditorium of the Lillian H. Smith Library at 239 College Street, on Saturday, Sept. 27th starting at 7 PM.

The event is free and all are welcome!


The bottom line is this: You write in order to change the world, knowing perfectly well that you probably can’t, but also knowing that literature is indispensable to the world. The world changes according to the way people see it, and if you alter, even by a millimeter, the way people look at reality, then you can change it…. If there is no moral question, there is no reason to write. I’m an old-fashioned writer and, despite the odds, I want to change the world. ” — James Baldwin, September 1979 interview with The New York Times


via Afro Futurist affair (@AfroFuturAffair):-
Critics generally don’t associate Black people with ideas. They see marginal people; they see just another story about Black folks. They regard the whole thing as sociologically interesting perhaps, but very parochial. There’s a notion out in the land that there are human beings one writes about, and then there are Black people or Indians or some other marginal group. If you write about the world from that point of view, somehow it is considered lesser. We are people, not aliens. We live, we love, and we die.”
— Toni Morrison (via blackcontemporaryart)


Waiting to order a large hot chocolate at McD’s.

Playing peek-a-boo with a little black girl in a pram. Her mom’s got a juicy figure, breasts that I’m jealous of, dressed in a red plaid dress and headwrap. Mom never noticed, she was so busy on the phone.

As she pushed the pram away, the little girl sat up to get one last look at me. Then mom noticed; she smiled at me, still on the phone, turning the pram around, trying to beeline it for a seat.

Made my evening.

Snippet again

Another story I started, based in the world of The Ace of Knives story I sold.


The wild yellow dance of flames.
The scent of smoke.
Your screams.

You’re in my arms, you hold onto me tight, and we sit as the flames surround us and climb into the night sky, and you whimper, a sound almost consumed by their crackle and hiss. You get frantic at them licking at your sleeve, scream as the hungry flames cause a blister to appear on your pale skin. You wonder at my own untouched black sleeves, at my implaceable calm.

“Because this is just a dream,” I remind you once more. “It is not real.”

Your fear of imminent death, your panic as your clothes begin to be consumed, fades along with your fearful moans. You regain composure. Your back straightens, a stable, confident clarity shines in your dark eyes, something I rarely see in them these days.

The fire disappears. We wake in your bedroom, on your bed. You rise and extricate yourself from our embrace. You look into my eyes, the sober clarity I saw while lost in your dreamworld replaced in the real world by a fragile skittishness that makes your eyes dart hither and yon.

“Thank you,” you say softly to me.

You look into my eyes, mother to daughter, a broken toy past its playable date, uncertainty and gratitude trading places within your eyes, along your features.

I kiss your forehead, lay you back down onto the bed, and pull up the covers, telling you goodnight before heading to my own room.