On the Blog

The Mischief That Started It All My art story didn’t begin in a classroom or under a teacher's guidance. It started with a bit of mischief. I was five years old when I borrowed—without permission—my mother’s architectural drawing tools. Those cool, shiny rulers and mysterious drafting gadgets felt like treasure to my small hands. While she searched for what had gone missing, I was already sketching worlds that had only existed inside my imagination. I didn’t know it then, but

When I think about what sparked my connection to existential poetry, it mainly relates to how I felt while growing up. Relatives told me that as a baby, even before I learned to speak, when I wanted to show anger—usually when I lacked the space I needed from others—I would curl my fists, tense up, and shake so much that my whole body would “vibrate.” When I felt like I was unheard, my family said that once I could speak, I would “storm out” of rooms and refuse to be ignored a

I had always thought I was ready. I didn’t know when I was beckoning God to open a door for me to publish a book, that it was my waiting season. Since age seven, I knew I wanted to be a writer. When a relative told me, “Fix your mind on doing something else,” because she thought writing was out of reach for a Black girl growing up in a housing project, I didn’t let her words deter me. I could not deny the calling to be a writer in my life. With a sense of pride (especially ar

My adult daughter, who finds a creative use for most things, says, “You are not artistic.” However, I reject that and insist that I am artistic. I AM a creative! My art is expressed through language and the written word. I write to explore my feelings and clarify my thoughts. Writing helps me unlock colour, shape, and sound from within. There's a rhythm and flow to my writing, with a baseline and harmony. More than just a creative outlet, writing serves as a connection to the