The Woman Who Builds The World With Her Own Two Hands

August 27, 2015

the woman who builds

Author’s Note: Today is my last post until Wednesday, Sept. 9. After an amazing and intense summer of publishing and promoting my first book, I’m taking a breather to regroup for autumn and move into a new place that will be complete with a HOME OFFICE. Yassss. Plus, you know when I go away, I always come back with surprises and announcements. Get ready for another amazing season together. Until then, xoxo and enjoy the last unofficial days of your summer. 

I write for the woman whose heart is inked by lovers past and whose lips are stained from red wine. The woman who feels every emotion in some deep burgundy. Or blinding sapphire. Or neon pink. I write for the woman who does not ever teeter in the middle, but gallops across the bridge with gusto and gall.

I write for the woman who ran out of fucks to give because she traded them in for one shot at the chance to let her true self blast from that bubble at the bottom of her soul.

I write for the woman who knows he still has one fragment of her heart, that jagged and distorted fragment of her heart. I write for the woman who sometimes stares into a pit of nostalgia and wonders what happened or what’s next. I write for the woman whose longing for love swallows her whole, but whose hope keeps her alive. I write for the woman who is not easy to love because she is a burst of fractured and blinding light. I write for the woman whose embers burn the kind of men only accustomed to fighting someone’s fire and saving someone’s day.

I write for the woman who is a web of complexities and a pile of contradictions.

I write for the woman who lives out loud, but works in silence. The woman whose dreams have the power to shake the ground, move mountains and split the Earth at its seams. I write for the woman who revolts, rebels and rages against the machine.

I write for the woman who chooses a Barnes and Noble gift card over a Mac one. The woman whose feet have gone without a pedicure all summer. The woman with a pile of clothes that still need to go to the dry cleaner. I write for the woman who gets lost in the stationery aisle and spends too much money on notebooks and pens. I write for the woman who is madly, deeply and drunkenly in love with creativity.

I write for the woman who owns her shit. I write for the woman who faces her demons head on and peels back the scabs so she can see the true scars. I write for the woman who came undone and knew she would never walk away unscathed. I write for the woman who cried at 1:45 a.m. in the middle of the floor and shouted to a God she didn’t know she could believe in. I write for the woman who built a shrine from her broken bits and made that place her home.

I write for the woman whose greatest currency is her mind. Her spirit. That fractured light. I write for the woman who doesn’t care if her eyebrows are on fleek or her face is beat. I write for the woman who doesn’t want to be seen, but begs to be heard.

I write for the woman who is a force to be reckoned with. I write for the woman who has let the story inside of her escape so that it can set the world ablaze. I write for the woman who sometimes dreams so immensely and intensely that it scares her. The woman who draws people in with that certain je ne sais quoi. I write for the woman whose energy sends rays through a room without her ever saying a word.

I write for the woman strapped with words and armed with metaphors. I write for the woman who knows anything she says could build people up or blow them away.

See, I don’t care if the woman is a single mother in south Bronx or a starving artist in South Carolina. I don’t care if her mother is white and her daddy is black. So, when you ask me who my target audience is, I will tell you I write for the woman who challenges convention and builds the world with her own two hands. The woman who loved, lost and tried again. The woman who is a warrior on behalf of her dreams. The woman who laughs that loud laugh and cries that ugly cry. The woman who craves authenticity in a world that eats facades. The woman who is finishing this read with a heart inked by lovers past and lips stained from red wine.



Writer First, Blogger Second Pt. 2

August 25, 2015

writer first blogger second pt 2

It starts somewhere at the base of your belly. Spills out in half-written sentences and metaphors without context just yet. Thoughts shrieking behind cages and begging to get out. Writing begins as a glorious mess, but it always comes from that shrine at the base of your belly.

My writing process is living and breathing. Existing in the same fractured world we’re all in and itching to vent about it. My process is throwing up the words violently, even when they come to me at an inconvenient time like right now as I sit in the Wegman’s parking lot, the minutes from my lunch break dwindling. I have to unload the words, otherwise they escape my memory as quickly as they appear.

My inspiration is every ugly thing. Every beautiful thing. Every gritty thing. Every monotonous thing. Every day that pushed me to the edge and every experience that took me to the cliff. Every young man who stained my heart with skepticism. Every love story I ache to have. Every observation I make about the person in the car next to me at a stoplight. Every verse and every refrain. Every tear and every cackle. Every night with a glass of wine. Every moment I catch his eyes for a second too long. My inspiration is a mosaic of what life offers most people. Except I grip the moments that others let slip from their fingers. If you’re a writer, you’re also an emotional hoarder.

My soul does not operate with any rhyme or reason. My mind thinks things through, but my soul just pours things out. It never sleeps. People ask me when did I know I was a writer. I want to tell them that there is never a distinct moment of revelation for an identity that has been brewing in your blood since you were born.

I understand why people take the word “writer” seriously. I understand why everyone is not quick to snag the title. Because once you say you are a writer, you can’t ever say you aren’t. You can’t ever back down and you can’t ever go back to seeing the world in pure black and white. When you call yourself a writer, you sign your name in ink and surrender your story to the masses. You become a sacrificial lamb, someone who will confess and express if it means  leading another human being to lay her burdens down.

When you call yourself a writer, that title demands your honesty–with the readers and with yourself. You can’t produce something if it’s not there. You can’t feign writer’s block because you’re lazy. You can’t write piece-of-shit listicles, at least not without feeling a white hot streak of guilt pass through you. You can’t publish anything if it didn’t rise from the depth of your soul and that base of your belly. But, every time you write, you have to carry yourself to the hot hell of your spirit. You have to be willing to go there. All the way. Not just when it feels good. Not just when it’s convenient. Not just when the words flow freely. Not just when it hits you. No, all of the time.

anais nin quote

There are entire courses dedicated to tell you how to become a full-time entrepreneur or how to run a webinar or how to build your email list. You can teach those sciences. But, it’s not so easy to teach this art. You can’t always teach someone how to pen the story shouting from their spirit. Some people spend entire lifetimes deaf to the tone of their own souls. Sometimes you have to learn on your own how to push the pen until it reaches that sacred place. You have to learn on your own how to fall at the altar of your own vulnerability. You have to learn on your own how to seize confidence from corners of yourself that were once cloaked and decrepit.

When I say writer first, blogger second, it is a disclaimer: don’t come here expecting pretty pictures or “10 Ways to Get Your Lipstick to Last During Your Night on the Town.” I made a promise not to barter my soul for hits or clicks or the draw of potential clients. Maybe that doesn’t make me marketable, but it damn sure makes me, me.

When I say writer first, blogger second, it means strap on your boots and be ready to trek through the mud with me.

When I say writer first, blogger second, I am telling you that once you come here, I have already peeled back my layers. I am letting you peer at my core. I’m reminding you that my core only reflects some of the stories inside of you that you have yet to tell.

When I say writer first, blogger second, it is so I can express my strongest, loudest and most prominent identity, the one that keeps me up at night and stirs me awake in the morning.

When I say writer first, blogger second, it is to declare that I have had a love affair with the way words work since I learned how to sharpen a pencil. So, by the time these words have reached you, they have saturated my spirit and spilled through my fingertips. I didn’t pull them out of my ass. I took my time with them.

Because when I say writer first, blogger second, I am telling you that this is some strangely spiritual experience for me. A calling from some being high in the sky. A compass that leads me out of the tunnel. Writing is how I rise from the ruins.

So, I take it seriously. I take you seriously. I take the extinct art of human connection seriously.

The blog is only the medium. But, the words are the message. When I say writer first, blogger second, it means I will always honor the message over the medium.

When I say writer first, blogger second, it is never to diminish the role and work of a blogger. I have a hell of a lot of respect for (most) bloggers. Bloggers are the connective tissue of the Internet. And, I am one of them. So, I say all of this to draw the distinction. Because writers are artists. And artists are the connective tissue of the world.


A Generation Drunk Off Dreaming

August 20, 2015

drunk off dreaming

I’m waiting for someone to start telling the truth. I’m waiting for an entrepreneur to emerge from the woodworks and tell us all that six months ago she was forced out of a job and left up shit’s creek without a paddle. I’m waiting for someone’s success story rooted in mayhem and built from the storm. I want that story now. While she’s knee-deep in mud and neck high in uncertainty.

I’m waiting for something other than a quote urging me to rise and grind.

I’m waiting for people to stop trying to monetize every single thing. I’m waiting for people to produce work that is truly worth investing in. See, when I start suffocating under the pressure to make money, I remind myself to never forget job number one: write good shit. Tell beautiful stories. String together strong sentences. Pen essays that vibrate and linger. Whip up soul food in a world that binges on cotton candy. The money will come. The growth will come. But never forget job number one.

I’m waiting for the moment when we stop drinking dream propaganda and start feeding ourselves substance. I’m waiting for us to stop deifying leaps of faith while we denounce good old common sense. I’m waiting for someone to say that dreams never paid bills and Sallie Mae never accepted “living the life you love” as currency. I’m waiting for us to declare that there may indeed be a long and windy road from the life you’re living to the life you love. And I’m waiting for us to say that is OK. There are levels to this shit.

I’m waiting for us to stop overdosing on Instagram inspiration and start healing our wounds. Doing the real work. Laying our burdens down.

I’m waiting for us to be more patient with ourselves and even more patient with out dreams. I’m waiting for the day when we say “stay low and build” and we truly stay low and build. Not stay low and get rich quickly. Not stay low and quit your job tomorrow. Not stay low and learn how to earn $1,000 dollars in one hour. But truly stay low and build. Brick by brick. Layer by layer. Day after day. Year after year.

I’m waiting for us to unsubscribe from the bullshit.

I’m waiting for you to tell me the truth. And, if you won’t, I will keep telling you mine.


Your Heart Is No Longer My Home

August 18, 2015

your heart is no longer my home

I write sometimes because it’s the only way to return to you, a medium that lets me shout from the grave. Time marches on and medicates the desertion we feel when we’re suddenly miles away from a heart we used to call home. See, I used to call your heart home. I unpacked every single one of my boxes and let my emotions fill your blank walls. I affixed colorful paintings to your empty space. I knew it wasn’t really my residence to occupy. I knew there were entire rooms dedicated to her. But she was a room of beige and I was a wall of red. Most people can’t create comfortable spaces next to red walls. But, still, I let myself call your heart home.

I write because it closes the gap and furnishes the void. It makes all of the stories I’ve wanted to tell you and all of the things I’ve wanted to say vanish into thin air. I write because it makes it all OK. I write because it feels less dangerous than texting you, less perilous than calling you, less threatening than putting my hand back into your hand.

I write because it’s the only way to relive the memories of you, ones I’m reluctant to admit I have. Dark nights and dim lights and hushed tones. To the moon and back. Bad choices and good outcomes. Every bit of my surface area standing at attention.

I write because sometimes I’m a complex son of a bitch who shrugs my shoulders at the prospect of airing dirty laundry.

I write because it’s the only way to toy with the idea of you, this idea that you could be my shelter from the storm, my New York City cab on a rainy day. When I write I do not have to play it cool. I do not have to cock my head back and laugh at your jokes. I do not have to try. I write because it’s the only way to tell you that I have thought about you more times than the law or good lord should allow.

I write because it reminds me that the road to happily ever after winds, twists, turns, dips and detours. And when they ask me who I wrote this about, I will tell them that it was you, you and you too. I will tell them that for a woman who writes, every man leaves an impression. Every interaction lingers. Every sweet nothing echoes. And, when love has hoodwinked her enough times, she realizes there were a lot of ill-equipped hearts that she used to called home.

I write because it’s the only way to remember you, to ensure that I don’t lose sight of the bread crumb trail of mistakes all the way from your heart to a better place. I write because it brings me out of the dust and out of the abyss. I write because somehow it always brings me back to you. And when I return to you, I realize that is no longer my home.


Catch Up On The Blog Tour!

August 13, 2015

blog tour promo final

We’re about halfway through the Womanhood, Writing, and Relativity Blog Tour! Thanks to a set of wonderful and amazing bloggers, I’ve had the chance to chat about the book, my creative process, going from a blogger to an entrepreneur and the million dollar question…will there ever be a Thirties Unscripted?

Here’s a quick recap:

Google Hangout with Erica Nichole

Much love to Erica Nichole of Everything EnJ for being the brains behind our very first Google hangout! We chatted with some lovely women–Yetti of YYetti Says, Lauren and Lindsay of Twenty Something Living and Ericka from Empress Designs. There was wine, laughter, lots of head nods, inspiration, quotes, f-bombs and tons of love and encouragement. Check out the entire hangout below.


The Feisty House | DREAM JOB Interview // Tyece Wilkins of Twenties Unscripted

the feisty house image

“This year is the first year I’ve received a profit from Twenties Unscripted, and it has not been a consistent stream of income at all. In fact, last month after I published my book was the first time I really sat down and tracked my expenses. That was a sobering experience! I am in that awkward, tough, inevitable and important phase of starting to truly see Twenties Unscripted as a business, which is difficult for someone who has been accustomed to marketing free content. The process of going from personal blogger to entrepreneur is not easy because you’re conditioned to underestimate the worth of your words and knowledge.”

Read the full Q&A here.

Queentrepreneur: The Lady Boss Series ft. Author Tyece Wilkins 

“Twenties Unscripted: A Journey of Womanhood, Writing, and Relativity is more than a compilation of blog posts. I also now don’t see them as blog posts, but really as essays. I took time to think through the architecture of the book–everything from the “Beyond the Essay” snippets, to the sections I developed, to the layout. I breathed a new set of life into the work and truly reinvented it. I extracted myself from my journey as a writer and thought about the experience of a reader—what sections would resonate with them, what essays deserved amplification with the “Beyond the Essay” sections and how I could cultivate something that would translate into the best reading experience possible.”

Read the full Q&A here.

Womanhood, Writing, and Relativity with Briana Ford

“Writing in second person is one of my writing weapons of choice. Some writers are storytellers; others are lyricists. Some know just what to write in an opening paragraph to draw you in; others know just what to plop in the closing paragraph to keep you enthralled. We all have techniques and tools unique to our writing styles, and writing in second person is one of those tools for me. I’m not sure exactly when I started doing it, but it became a way for me to still tell extremely personal stories without feeling overly and overtly confessional. I reached a point where I wanted to move from telling everyone my business, so to speak, to letting personal experience influence more universal and timeless posts.”

Read the full Q&A here.

#HerStory with Tyece of Twenties Unscripted

herstory image

“Think about distribution, production and marketing. When I started the book, it was a small scale project–something I thought I would only offer as a limited edition item for my blog’s third anniversary. But the more time I invested, the more I embraced this project as my first book. However, by the time I embraced it as my first book, we were knee-deep in layout and graphic design. I had not given enough thought to things like the platform we chose to use (which had its advantages and also had its setbacks) or how I would promote and market beyond the release. You can’t ever know everything in advance, but knowing a bit more of the ins and outs about distribution, production and marketing would have saved me some time.”

Read the full Q&A here.

And, don’t forget you can purchase the book on Amazon, snag a signed copy from me or get the discounted PDF version.

Hang out with me for the rest of the month as I hog other people’s blogs and continue talking about the zany and never-ending learning process of writing a book. Still have six stops to go!