Alretha Thomas's Blog - Posts Tagged "alretha-thomas"

It was while watching an episode of “Seinfeld” that I first heard the phrase, “man hands.” The episode, like all Seinfeld episodes, was hilarious. Jerry was dating a woman who had massive hands, and the oversized hands really stood out, because everything else about the woman was attractive and in proportion. I remember looking down at my hands while watching the show and it dawned on me that I could have played the part.

Yes, I have “man hands.” They’re large, rough, and claw-like. Go to the Contact page of my new author website, www.Alrethathomas.com, and take a gander at my hand grasping my laptop. I told you! LOL. I’ve always had large hands. In the fifth grade my classmates and I were introduced to the violin, and the man who was making the presentation gave our hands the once over to determine what size violin would be the right fit. He took one look at my large mitts and exclaimed, “You’ll need an adult size!” His devastating words slapped the smile right off of my face. I glanced around at the other students with tear-filled eyes, wondering if they had heard him and what they thought. I wanted to slip into the crack on the floor. That incident reminds me how important it is to be careful about what we say to children who are impressionable and most times insecure.

Another incident that comes to mind was many years later. I was in my twenties and hanging out at a local nightclub. I thought I had it going on that night. My weave was laid, and I was wearing a cute two piece Capri set with my midriff exposed. As I walked past this group of people, a jerk in the bunch screamed, “Ugh, she has man hands. Look at her hands!” My flat stomach sank as his mordant words reverberated on my eardrums. No he didn’t just put my hands on blast! The others snickered, and I slinked back to my seat at the bar, humiliated and full of questions about my deformed hands.

My sister told me that my stepfather used to beat on my hands, and I also recall a window at our house falling onto my hands. So it’s no wonder they’re tore up from the floor up. The right hand is worse than the left, and at one time in my life, I would keep it hidden. That was a long time ago, and since then I have done a lot of emotional healing and growing . Today, I’m happy to announce that I’m proud of my “man hands.” It’s the manly fingers on these man hands of mine that are typing this blog. I used these big hands to write “Married in the Nick of Nine,” the first standalone book in the Cass and Nick series, and the sequel, “Baby in the Window,” and the third and fourth novels, “One Harte, Two Loves,” and “Renee’s Return,” respectively.

Today I know that I’m blessed to have hands period! Not just hands, but feet, legs, and all of my limbs, no matter what shape they’re in. I cringe when I think about the people who lost their limbs in that horrific Boston bomb attack. God help us all.

Today I don’t think about my “man hands,” I think about lending a hand, giving someone a hand clap, experiencing something first-hand, knowing something like the back of my hand, and being in God’s Good Hands

“Maybe you’re just like my mother. She’s never satisfied.” If you know anything about Prince, you’ll recognize the aforementioned line from his song “When Doves Cry.” A conversation with a co-worker this morning made me think about this lyric. Prince has a point. Like the mother in “When Doves Cry,” oftentimes we’re never satisfied. I took a moment today to assess my gratitude level. Do I have more ‘tude than gratitude? Do I whine, complain, and roll my eyes at the least of inconveniences? If I get honest with myself, on a gratitude scale of one to ten, I’m probably a five. That number surprised me, because I actually thought I was a very grateful person. But when I reflected on my overall attitude, I’m really just a five and that’s unacceptable.

God has truly blessed me and that’s no cliché. It’s real. Twenty years ago, I was living in a one room dive, driving a hooptie, and working for minimum wage. I spent most of my days thinking about myself and what I was gonna wear to the club and who was gonna buy me a drink. I was disconnected from God and my true self. It took me hitting bottom to get a clue and to get my life together. Since that time, my former self and life seems like a dream—no, actually more like a nightmare. God has since blessed me with a wonderful husband, a beautiful home, a reliable car, a good job, and good friends and family. More importantly, I am spiritually connected and now know the importance of being there for others. I have to remind myself from time-to-time, how far I’ve come. If it doesn’t get any better than this, I should have no complaints.

I want my gratitude level to soar to the point that I don’t sweat the small stuff. I don’t want to huff and puff when I get caught by the traffic light. Instead, I want to smile at the thought of having a car. No eye rolling, when I drop my cell phone. Only big smiles for being able to afford one. Cease with the head shaking at the bumper-to-bumper traffic. Only gladitude (new word…okay it was until I just looked it up on the Internet. Wow, there ain’t nothin’ new under the sun...I mean great minds think alike.) for having a job to go to. No more complaining about having to clean the house, wash clothes, and buy groceries, but cheers for having a home, clothes and food. No more yelping when paying bills. Only thanks for having the money to pay them. No more crying about low book sales. Praises to the Most High for giving me the ability to write and follow my passion. I’m sure you get my point.

Yes, I want to increase my gladitude level! I know it’s easier said than done, but in the words of Nike—Just do it! Alretha.

Is it just me, or have we become a password-driven society? I have more passwords than I can remember and all the identity theft experts caution against writing them down. I’m like the woman in the shoe who had so many kids she didn’t know what to do. I have so many passwords I don’t know what to do. I need a password to access a plethora of financial, literary, and social media websites. To manage, I’ve tried to use only a few different passwords for my various accounts, but even then I forget them. This leads to a nerve-racking guessing game that ends with me being locked out. I invariably sit at the computer gaping at the screen, feeling like a dunce. It’s the same feeling you get when you inadvertently close the door while going to retrieve the mail, not realizing that it’s locked, or when you’re in a hurry and you lock your keys in the car. It’s that feeling of being on the outside and wanting in, but dreading the changes you’re going to have to go through to be readmitted into the club. And that leads to major frustration, especially when I’m trying to pay a bill online.

I can’t even get the security questions right and oftentimes, I don’t recognize them. 1) What was your favorite flavor of Now and Later Candy when you were in middle school? Are you serious? That couldn’t possibly be my security question. I can’t answer that now, later, or ever. 2) What was the name of the jerk in high school that promised to take you to the prom but stood you up and took the girl voted most popular instead? You got to be kidding. 3) What’s the name of your favorite author and the name of their latest novel? Okay that’s a no-brainer—Alretha Thomas and “Married in the Nick of Nine.” I know…shameless plug. But really, there has to be a solution for all these passwords. It wouldn’t be as frustrating if passwords could belong to us in perpetuity, but they expire and every few months you have to create a new one.

Password creation is no joke. It takes finesse. Like a lot of people, I’ve been guilty of ignoring the rules. You know those insidious instructions: Use at least one upper case letter. Use no more than three lower case letters. Include a punctuation mark, but no commas allowed. Your password should be at least eight characters, but not ten, and so on. On one occasion, I spent thirty minutes—I kid you not—trying to come up with an acceptable password. It was for the Library of Congress Copyright Page. Before it was all said, and done, I thought it was going to take an Act of Congress for me to get registered.

Okay, I’ll calm down. If being pissed at passwords is my biggest problem at the moment, I’m a blessed woman. I’ll close by saying: Peter Piper picked a peck of prickled passwords; A peck of pickled passwords Peter Piper picked; If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled passwords, where’s the peck of pickled passwords Peter Piper picked? Probably Expired.

Thursday Americans celebrated the Fourth of July with food, fun, and fireworks. But for Paula Deen, the rockets, missiles, and cherry bombs, were set off over two weeks ago when word got out that she had admitted to using the N-word. That confession catapulted her into the hall of shame, where she now holds court with Michael Richards (Kramer in Seinfeld), Mel Gibson, and Don Imus. Hey, wait a minute. Shouldn’t a host of African-American rappers and celebrities be in the mix as well? What’s going on here? According to street rules, ramifications for using the N-Word are determined by the hue of a person’s skin. If you’re white, using the N-Word just ain’t right, and if you’re black, when using the N-word you get a lot of slack. Is it fair that black people get to use the N-Word with impunity, but if a non-black person spews the wretched word, they’re banished to the lowest echelon of society? Based on everything I’ve read and heard, the jury’s still out. But personally, I feel the word is atrocious no matter who says it.

My first experience with the N-Word took place when I was fourteen-years-old, shortly before my mother passed away. I had been accepted into Lowell High School in San Francisco. It’s a prestigious high school with a racially mixed student population. My best friend had also been given admittance and we were ecstatic. My elation quickly dissipated when I happened to look at the back of the envelope that contained by acceptance letter. I rubbed my eyes not believing what I had seen. There scribbled on the back of the envelope was the N-Word. The first thing that crossed my mind was how did they know I was black? Of course they’d know. Whoever had written the ugly word had access to student records and how many white, Asian, Indian, or Hispanic girls are named Alretha? The culprit had surmised correctly that I’m black, but had incorrectly deemed me to be the N-Word!

I held the envelope in my trembling hands wondering if I should alert the admissions office. I thought about telling my mother, but she wasn’t well and I didn’t want to upset her. At that moment, I didn’t even want to attend the school. It was obvious to me that I wasn’t wanted. Sure, I shouldn’t have concluded that the entire school didn’t want me because of the actions of one idiot, but at fourteen, I was hard pressed to come up with any other conclusion. All I could see was a bunch of people wearing white hoods and carrying torches waiting for my arrival.

My second encounter with the nefarious N-Word came many years later. It happened while I was at dinner with my best friend at the time and her parents. They had come to see a play I was in and we were all still abuzz with excitement over the performances. I was just about to bite into my steak when my friend’s elderly white father asked, “What kind of ‘N’ is juror number two?” When his words fell on my ears, I thought I was going to throw up. I shook my head, thinking that I had misheard him. Did he just ask me what kind of “N” is juror number two? And he used the entire word. It flowed out of his mouth effortlessly. And it was apparent to me that he had used this word before. I shot my girlfriend an incredulous look wondering how many times she had used the “N” word behind my back. I sat there wondering what to do. Do I scream, go off on him, and put him on blast? Do I storm out of the restaurant? Was my girlfriend’s father a racist or was he just an old man stuck in a time warp—not realizing that it was not politically correct to refer to an African-American person as an “N"? Not only was it not politically correct, but it was despicable, particularly so, because I wasn’t just an African American woman breaking bread with him, but I was his only daughter’s friend!

Not wanting to cause a scene, I sat there quietly and picked over my food. You could cut the tension with a hatchet. My eyes shifted from the offender to my girlfriend, to her mother. I felt like I had been betrayed. As soon as we were done, I gave them a perfunctory hug and goodbye and bolted. A few days later I spoke to my girlfriend about it and she apologized and chalked his “faux pas” up to senility. It took me awhile to get over it, and our friendship was never the same and ended a few years after that unfortunate experience.

So, you see, the N-Word is poisonous, no matter who uses it. With only six letters, it’s not one of the longest words in the English language, but its horrendous history has far-reaching implications and that alone should be enough to keep all of us, black, white, purple, or red, from using it.

What’s the Crying Doves Syndrome? Remember Prince’s mega hit song, “When Doves Cry?” It’s the lead single on his Purple Rain album. Music aficionados are probably rolling their eyes and shaking their heads right now, saying, “Who doesn’t know the song.” Well, let me not digress. The one line in that song that jumped out at me the first time I heard the joint was, “Maybe you’re just like my mother, she’s never satisfied.” Why that line? Because unfortunately it resonated with me. I hate to admit it, but lately I’ve come to realize that there may be a thin line between a person who’s driven and a person who’s never satisfied.

When is enough enough? In our society there seems to be this unrelenting push to obtain more, more, and more. When does one finally say I have it all? I can rest. Even God rested after seven days. And He created the world. Talk about branding. Do you really need a dozen pairs of red bottom shoes? Is there really that much difference between the new iPhone you hanker for and the iPhone you currently have? How wide does your television screen really need to be and do you actually need highER definition? Have you not had enough hit records? How many more billions can you make? Why can’t you be satisfied with a hundred million Twitter followers? Is not one television network enough? Do you really have room on that shelf for ten more Grammys, Oscars, or Tony Awards? What is it about human nature that makes us strive? Why can’t we just BE? After all, we are human BEings.

In 2008 I self-published my first novel, Daughter Denied. I erupted into rapturous applause when it made its way to Amazon. Then a few days later, my excitement dissipated while I anxiously awaited my first sale. Then review. And before long I felt compelled to write another book—Dancing Her Dreams Away. Again, I was elated when it debuted. Excited after the first sale and triumphant upon receiving my first five-star review. Not so thrilled when I received my first negative review and that review and similar assessments, motivated me to write another BETTER book. While I’m flopping down this rabbit trail, I’m still longing to be a published author, and I’m fantasizing about getting a huge book deal.

Then in 2012 I finally landed an agent and in 2013 that agent managed to get me a multibook deal for my four-book Cass and Nick series! Wow, I made it. Finally. I should be happy. I should be SATISFIED! Well, the first book, Married in the Nick of Nine debuted on Amazon on June 30th and is doing better than any other book I’ve had on the market. It’s presently #17 on the list of 100 hot new releases in African-American Women’s Fiction and #38 on the list of 100 top African-American Women’s Fiction books. I just received word regarding the release of the remaining books in the series: The Baby in the Window, October 2014, One Harte, Two Loves, January 2015, and Renee’s Return, April 2015. This is amazing news. I’m SATISFIED right? Well, I should be, but, but, I want Married in the Nick of Nine to be #1 in all categories. I want it to be optioned for a movie deal. I want, I want, I want. Enough already! I need, I need, I need to be GRATEFUL, not just SATISFIED.

Yes, I had to check myself before I wrecked myself. Over the past fifteen years on my literary journey, with God’s help, I have accomplished a great deal! I’ve made a commitment to stop and smell my progress. I’ve made a commitment to appreciate where I am today and what I have today. Tomorrow will take care of itself. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to grow, to achieve more, but we have to keep balance, keep it in perspective.

My mother said when she was in labor with me, I flew out of her womb like a little person being shot out of a cannon. The doctor and nurses had to scramble to catch me before I landed on the floor. Talk about hit the ground running. I’m sure if I had been able to run, I would have— straight into this business we call life. I’ve always been raring to go, chomping at the bit (forgive me for the idioms) — but they’re so true. I remember when I was in grade school I looked at my mother pointedly and asked her “How will I get a job, an apartment, a car…?” I was dead serious. At the age of ten I wanted to start planning, creating a to-do list, getting organized. Like the lightning-fast newborn that had come into the world a decade prior to that moment, I wanted what I wanted right then and there. Wait, hold on, take a minute, step back, and the dreadful be patient, were not words or phrases in my vocabulary. Where I get this need to keep it moving, I’m not sure, and I’m less certain if it has served me or hindered me thus far.

As a writer, lack of patience can definitely cause one consternation, especially when pursuing the Literary Grail—a top agent, a multi-book deal, and a bestselling novel. The publishing industry by nature is a slow business. And with the advent of e-books it’s pretty much come to a grinding halt, and during the holiday season it’s pretty much nonexistent or rather, responses and replies or nonexistent. To be fair, I can’t fault those who make a living in the literary world—the agents and publishers. I can imagine after sorting, sifting, and reading, countless query letters and manuscripts, throughout the year, they welcome the holiday season with open arms. After all, contrary to some disgruntled writers’ opinions (present company excluded), they are human and need and deserve a break. On the other hand, eager beavers such as myself are still making moves, strategizing, making lists like Santa, and checking email, not once, twice, but a hundred times, hoping to receive a reply from that dream agent, telling us that they absolutely love our latest work and that they want to talk to us about representation!

With the aforementioned in mind, I have made an early New Year’s resolution. I am going to BE PATIENT and squash the vision of book deals dancing in my head. I am going to enjoy this holiday season, spend time with my family, eat until I burst, and have a jolly good time. The New Year will be here before I know it, and I’ll have plenty of time to continue chasing my dream.

Have a safe and blessed holiday season.

Well, I’ve done it again. I’ve given birth to another literary baby. This one is called “A Penny For Her Heart.” She’s the third book in my standalone Detective Rachel Storme series. She’ll be coming into the world July 2017. And I am her proud mother. For those of you who have actually conceived and given birth to flesh and blood babies, please know that I’m aware that giving birth to literature pales in comparison to giving birth to a human being. However, there are many similarities. Like a child, a novel starts as a little seed. For me, it’s a thought, an idea, a hunch. It starts deep within. That’s how the idea for “A Penny For Her Heart,” began. It’s the story about Penny and Vanessa, two best friends on the same career trajectory. They both want to be chief of staff for the POTUS, and they’re both working in City Hall in a small town, working their way up the political ladder. Unfortunately, Vanessa finds her best friend, Penny, murdered at work. Their dreams suddenly become nightmares.

Like a child, the story slowly developed over several months. Once it was solid in my mind, I introduced and developed additional characters—Vanessa’s family, Penny’s family, the Mayor and his staff. And of course, all your favorites from the Detective Rachel Storme series are back: Rachel, Herb, Victor, Carlos, Burt, Barbara, Cassie, and Clarice. After completing my character list and developing each person, I constructed an outline that included all the red herrings and plot twists. This is the fun part. As I revealed in a previous blog, I vacillate throughout the novel as to who will be the culprit. Sometimes, I don’t make a final decision until I’m more than halfway through the book. This time, I decided early on and it’s definitely going to be a surprise.

Once the outline was completed, I began writing—labor! And like a woman giving birth to a child, I pushed and pushed sometimes into the wee hours of the morning, writing nonstop, getting this book out of me. I couldn’t rest until every last word, sentence, paragraph, scene, page, and chapter was put on paper. I was antsy, restless and sometimes irritated when I couldn’t write. The story was forcing its way out. It had to be born. Once I got the first draft completed, I felt fifty pounds lighter, and I was on cloud nine. I had given birth to my baby. And of course, she had to be cleaned up. That’s when the editing began. Once I got through more drafts than I care to mention, I let my beta readers at it. Then finally my development editor took over. After making note of her corrections and suggestions, I got busy getting my baby in tiptop shape. We’re just about there! She’ll be ready for her introduction into the world in July 2017!

As for her name, I believe you’ll appreciate it after the first four chapters or so. There are a few surprises involving Rachel and Cassie that I’m sure will raise brows. And like all the other books in the series, this one will keep you guessing until the very end. I can’t wait for you to read it. Please check back in early July for the exact release date.

Please know that I appreciate your longtime support!

In 2016, if you had told me that in 2021 I would be on national television (BET) singing with superstar singer and actress, Tamala Mann (r) and the uber talented actress, Jen Harper (l), I would have laughed you out of the room. In 2016, I was an executive assistant at a financial firm in Century City. I would get up at dawn and drive more than thirty-five miles to my day job. It would take two hours to get there. My work days consisted of answering phones, setting up meetings, putting together reports, and myriad other office duties. I’d spend the majority of my time in the production room binding presentations. Invariably, I would get lost in the task and spend most of the time in my head daydreaming about turning in my resignation.

I appreciated having a job, but what I really wanted to do was pursue my dream. I wanted to return to acting, and I wanted to write fulltime. While binding presentations, I’d be on automatic pilot with visions of going on auditions dancing in my head. I’d laugh to myself while I fantasized about being on set and the director saying, “Action!” My heart would bloom with joy when I’d imagine myself having an international bestseller and going on a national book tour. Then someone would come through the door with a look that umistakeably said, "What's taking you so long to finish those presentations?" At that moment, I’d be hit with the heartless hammer of reality. I’m dreaming! There’s no way at my age I could return to acting after being away from the business for more than 20 years. I’d missed my window of opportunity. How could I make it financially without this job? There’s no way I’m ever going to get a good literary agent or land a book deal. I’m delusional.

Yes, that’s what I told myself. But then there’s God and His promises. So in February 2016, I took a leap of faith. I leaned on Jeremiah 29:11 where God says, “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Yes, God had plans. I turned in my resignation and I returned to acting and started writing fulltime. I was blessed to land a great agent and I started auditioning and querying literary agents. It started out slow and steady, but I stayed the course. Yes, there were bumps in the road, but I remembered that God said He wouldn’t harm me. So I stopped grumbling at the bumps in the road and saw them as part of the process. God was leading me to the Promised Land and those bumps would give me the strength I would need once I got to my destiny to persevere.


And then in 2020 the pandemic hit!!! God truly has a sense of humor, because it was in 2020 that I landed the role of Anastasia Devereaux on Tyler Perry’s Assisted Living. And while filming season three this year in Atlanta, I received a call from a major New York literary agent about my book. WOW, WOW, WOW. Look at God. Look at what happens when you don’t give up on your dreams! What are your dreams? What is your passion? I’m here to tell you to never give up. It’s never too late and you’re never too old!!! Just ask Sarah and Abraham. Sarah was 90 years old and Abraham was one hundred years old when they gave birth to Isaac. Nothing is too hard for God. Absolutely nothing!

Have an amazing Christmas and a Happy New Year. May all your dreams come true in 2022!