...my Heart May Have Been In It

I Wanted To Be A Writer. I Wanted To Say Something About Home.

Now, About That Mulatto Teacher And Me. There Was No Love There For Each Other. There Was Not Even Respect. We Were Enemies If Anything. He Hated Me, And I Knew It, And He Knew I Knew It. I Didn't Like Him, But I Needed Him, Needed Him To Tell Me Something That None Of The Others Could Or Would.

Don't Tell Me To Believe. Don't Tell Me To Believe In The Same God Or Laws That Men Believe In Who Commit These Murders. Don't Tell Me To Believe That God Can Bless This Country And That Men Are Judged By Their Peers. Who Among His Peers Judged Him? Was I There? Was The Minister There? Was Harry Williams There? Was Farrell Jarreau? Was My Aunt? Was Vivian? No, His Peers Did Not Judge Him, And I Will Not Believe.

I Believe That The Writer Should Tell A Story. I Believe In Plot. I Believe In Creating Characters And Suspense.

I Write To Try To Find Out Who I Am. One Of My Main Themes Is Manliness. I Think I'm Trying To Figure Out What Manliness Really Is.