This post is an excerpt from Twenties Unscripted: A Journey of Womanhood, Writing, and Relativity. The full essay is available in the book, which is currently available for pre-sale here.
My writing has surfaced as a topic of conversation with many men who fall somewhere into the love/like/lust division. Sometimes, it’s a directive: “Don’t write about me.” Other times it’s a more indirect reference to my ambition: “Tyece, not everybody can be like you.” One time it was an email after we parted ways referring to me as the “Twenties Unscripted writer.” And, sometimes, it’s just an innocent query: “Are you still writing?” I’ve had these conversations on couches, in cars, sprawled across sheets. But, perhaps what puts me most at ease is that I’ve had these conversations where my writing has bubbled up to the top. My writing and I, the inseparable package. Till death do us part. In the words of Lupe Fiasco, wherever I go, she goes.