Ya'll know I'm straight salty about those Black Weblog Awards, right? Salt. Y. Three nominations and not one diggity damn trophy? I hate to lose. Anything. An argument, an earring, a tennis match on the Wii. At least I lose graciously [pauses to grind teeth and kick over small plant], I will say that I was all "I'm so happy for the winners, it was an honor to be nominated" while in the background 3N was pouring shots and pelting me with cupcakes hoping my mood elevated.
AND, I'm tart I'm not on the New York Times Bestsellers' List. Okay, I know that's a stretch but if you're going to dream, dream big - right? A Michele Grant book in every household. Who knows how much better the world would be if our men were a little more like Grown Man Steven and our women less like Renee. If you have no idea who I'm talking about... Le Boo.
Moving on. So I was approached by a well-known publicist who told me that if I just made a few "tweaks" to my overall style, I could have more pageviews, more readers, more fame, more fortune, more fabulosity all the way around. Her idea was to make me the next [insert name of popular writer that I don't I really care for here] but with a bougie twist. All I had to do was... be a little more sexy and a little more controversial.
"Instead of talking about what you don't like about Kim Kardashian, why don't you write some sex tips for her?"
"Instead of blogging about your love of black men, why not tell them what they can do to be better men for the sisterhood?"
"And in your books, instead of making all your characters so upwardly mobile, why don't you make them just regular people and add in some more drama. Maybe a sexy minister who cheats on his pregnant wife or a trash collector who is sleeping with the women on his route and they all find out about each other?"
**really. pissed. off. crickets**
"Michele, are you there?"
"Uh yeah, listen... I don't think we're on the same page. I'm not [insert name of any blog that gives out regular sex tips] - there's nothing wrong with that, it's just not me. I don't tell black men what to do unless they ask for my advice because I don't want them telling me what to do. And I don't and won't ever, ever, ever plan to write about cheating ministers and pimpin' azz garbage men. Not. That. There's. ANY. DAMN. Thing. Wrong. With. That. It's just not me."
"I think you're missing out on a great opportunity here. I'm talking talk shows and magazine articles and guest spots on the Steve Harvey show. Who knows, maybe you could write a show for BET or VH1. You could be huge!"
**praying brain doesn't explode** "Thank you so much, I appreciate the call. I don't think I'm ready for all of that. Buh-bye now."
Folks, I gotta be me. I shall not be blogging about the Mandingo Chronicles and my next book will not be titled "Pastor, can you spare a condom?" No. I can't. I shall not be moved. If that means I never win a damn thing and my books languish like left over King's Cake four weeks past Mardi Gras... so be it.
What say you? Is someone seriously waiting on me to break out Bougie After Dark - The CocoaSmoothe Collection?