Building Character

“What if I am cursed?”

I thought as life seemed to pummel me. I was leaving my apartment complex when I discovered someone had slashed one of my tires. This was after getting in an accident weeks prior. I would be calling into work again as I had just recovered from being sick. Rent was nearly due. I barely had anything to eat. Depression weighed me down.

Before too long, the thought of being cursed drifted into the creative machinery that is my mind. I couldn’t hold onto it long enough to feel the hurt it should have prompted. I decided to figure out if that was healthy at a later time. The story I was creating blossomed more and more. The possibilities excited me, giving me rejuvenation I so desperately needed. At that moment, I decided what to do. Write a novel.

Out of those thoughts came my first novel entitled “Then, A Boy”. Then, A Boy tells the story of Braxton Tatum discovering a mystical substance within him. He is then informed by his older sister that she subjected him to an evil ritual when he was just an infant. Braxton and his best friend set off to undo the effects of the ritual. Soon after their journey begins, they find out things are worse than they could have ever expected.

This story was important to me for several reasons. First, Braxon was loosely based on my life. With my limited experience in writing, I felt safest starting that way. Secondly, I had not seen many heavyset Black teens as the protagonist in a story of any kind. My takeaway from life and media was an overweight person could only be comic relief. I intended to do away with that. Additionally, I wanted to give a more accurate description of what I believed happened to heroes. I must be cautious not to go far beyond that in hopes not to spoil the story.

My endeavor was a trying one. I had never written anything like Then, A Boy before. I didn’t want to distract myself with research of other people’s experiences. Sheer ignorance protected me from delving deeper into the difficulties of the task. I just wrote. I wrote recklessly. The words, and even the act of writing itself, became a form of telling the truth for me. The story had to be told. For my sake as well as Braxton’s.

What I failed to realize at the time was the fact that the story was writing me back. Every groggy morning, every sleep-deprived night, every time I had to look my thoughts in the eye and genuinely describe what happened to me, it all became part of the foundation of the man and writer I am today. I was oblivious to the fact that how you do anything is how you do everything.

After two years of eternity, I held within my hands the physicality of my perseverance. I admit fault with its production. My caffeinated self was the editor. I designed the cover myself. I also came head to head with the behemoth known as formatting. I was tired. But not tired enough to rely on the outsourcing of essential tasks to delay the release. Like the life of its author, the novel was quite imperfect but honest.

I am pleased to say many readers have enjoyed the novel. I have had much support from people I have never even met. Readers have shared my work with members of their communities. I’ve been congratulated on the creation of the novel itself. Someone even called me their favorite author after reading the story.

All the voices of resistance were wrong. The belief that was rooted within me telling me I didn’t deserve achievement withered. I held my story in my hands. Now I can look in the mirror at the character I built with confidence, answering the question that once plagued me.

“No. I’m not cursed at all.”