Well-meaning mentors have, over the years, steered me in the direction of different authors I may benefit from reading. And I dutifully studied each one of them. Most, if not all, were giants of Western literature – not surprising, as my first degree was in English Literature.
The only writers I could deeply connect with on a soul level were John Steinbeck and Flannery O Connor. I still think that Steinbeck’ novel, Of Mice and Men, is a masterpiece. In it he condensed so much that appeal to me: great characters, deep insight, etc.
Then in research for my slave novel I re-discovered Tony Morrison’s writing and experienced this quiet excitement at meeting someone who could touch the soul writer in me.
I have long been dismayed by the implicit criticism embedded in the text of some black writers when they invent characters that resemble their kin. I suppose it’s a pre-emptive strike, an effort to appease the white gaze then get back to the story.
I have never subscribed to denigrating one’s own to appeal to others. It takes some maturing I guess but I’m there where I unapologetically exist without burdens of shame for who I am. I may not be perfect but I am just fine thank you very much.
To get back to Toni Morrison, when I read her work I meet a writer who looks at her characters in the way I hope to, with gentle understanding, even if through a sardonic lens.
Cornelia Smith Fick 