A gift - be it a present, a kind word or a job done with care and love - explains itself... and if receivin' it embarrasses you, it's because your 'thanks box' is warped.
Like snowflakes, the human pattern is never cast twice. We are uncommonly and marvelously intricate in thought and action, our problems are most complex and, too often, silently borne.
I continue to create because writing is a labor of love and also an act of defiance, a way to light a candle in a gale wind: In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was God, and the Word was God.
Some feminists feel that a woman should never be wrong. We have a right to be wrong.
The Black writer explains pain to those who inflict it.
The twisted circumstances under which we live is grist for the writing mill, the loving, hating and discovering, finding new handles for old pitchers . . .
Who wants to live with one foot in hell just for the sake of nostalgia? Our time is forever now!
. . . and realizing there is no such thing as the Black experience. . . . Time and events allow for change on both sides.
It becomes almost second nature to be on guard against the creative pattern of our own thought.
. . . the good old days. The only good days are ahead.
. . . it's a poor kind of man that won't fight for his own freedom.