Introducing LeNora Jaye

I'm pleased to announce that I'm launching a Publicity and Promotion service, Keneritz Media. My first client is the dynamic, Indie Nubian Soul Singer, LeNora Jaye, who will release her first album in July 2008.

Visit her MySpace page and listen to several of the advance tracks, and see if you don't share my opinion that she will soon become a force in the music industry.

She's already an Internet and United Kingdom deejay favorite!

Contact me at publicity@lenorayjaye.com or keneritzmedia@aim.com for media inquiries and booking requests.

Morningside Writers' Group - Seats Available

We have openings in all three current Morningside Groups for writers in the metro New York City area.

Morningside Fiction Group has two seats available for male writers in our biweekly Thursday evening workshop in Midtown Manhattan. Interested writers please visit the site for application details, or click here.

Morningside Screenwriters and Playwrights Group has two seats available for female writers in our biweekly Monday evening workshop in Midtown Manhattan. Interested writers please visit the site for application details, or click here.

Morningside Memoir/Creative Nonfiction Group has two seats available for female writers in our biweekly Wednesday evening workshop in Midtown Manhattan. Interested writers please visit the site for application details, or click here.

We look forward to your applications and writing samples.

Learning Curve - Adventures in Filmmaking

My roommate and I decided to produce, direct, and film our first collaborative feature-length script this past winter after several delays and questions on whether the story would be received by Christian and secular audiences. We felt that the story was original and would stand the test of time, but how would it play in the Bible belt of the South and the cornfields of the Midwest?

The synopsis: Fallen From Grace is the story of a married immigrant's spiritual separation from his Christian beliefs as he navigates the sometimes turbulent terrain of married life, immigration, and life in the metro New York City area as he pursues the sometimes elusive American Dream. Along the way, he meets and interacts with an assortment of characters that tests his emotional and physical resolve as he works a variety of jobs to remain afloat while pursuing his creative dreams and American citizenship.

The script wasn't the problem, not even the scenes calling for tasteful semi-nudity. It was our process. We were first-time filmmakers who'd jumped headlong into producing an independent feature without having attended film school or with completed projects on our resume. We thought it enough that we had faith in God and each other to make the project successful. It didn't happen as we'd thought or planned.

One of the first tests was finding a reputable producer and talented volunteer technical/production crew and passionate, not necessarily religious actors. We were too trusting (re:naïve) when we met a well-meaning older director who took on the role of mentor. What he said at Starbucks made sense, but during the filming of two promotional trailer scenes my roommate and I felt sporadically overwhelmed by chaos on the set.

My friend donated his swanky high-rise apartment on the Upper West Side for two of the three scheduled scenes intended to garner additional producers, investors, and donations. My focus was split between the bedroom where we filmed a sensual massage scenario and what was going on just outside the room. I didn't want to be a mean or intolerant director. I'd had a few of those back in my early days as an actor, but a film set with multiple personalities isn't a place for a Southern schoolmarm. I should have asserted myself and taken control of my set as the director. I had no place being a people pleaser on that set. My roommate shouldn't have allowed others to touch and manipulate his camera. We were too concerned with being nice guys and not offending any of the volunteer crew and actors.

I don't want to seem ungrateful after the fact. This isn't about naming names or assigning blame. I wasn't scarred by anyone or anything during the filming, but we were left dazed and confused when the producer announced via e-mail that she was withdrawing from the project after our second day of shooting at yet another friend's apartment in Brooklyn. We were devastated, just devastated in that stereotypical southern way. I remember staring at the monitor when the e-mail arrived and calling my roommate to stand at my side as we mouthed the words together. What had we done to deserve this? Was God punishing us in some way for airing our dirty laundry? Was the devil to blame for the producer's unexpected withdrawal?

What I know now is that we should've waited until this summer or fall to begin filming after having raised money and perfected the semi-autobiographical script. It was interesting and odd auditioning actors who were to have played us on screen. Reliving our past setbacks, triumphs, and things we said required stiffening our upper and lower lips.

Writing a story based on real people and events that just happened to be you isn't easy. Self-doubt and judgment crept into each successive draft. We constantly revised potentially embarrassing scenes from real life to make them more digestible and realistic, even though some of things we endured were unbelievable.

My roommate felt that there were too many crew members, but my thoughts were that I'd rather have too many people committed to the project, than not enough. One of my biggest mistakes was wearing kid gloves when I should've bared my knuckles. Southern guy moves to the East Coast and tries his hand at directing a feature film. It's not crazy, but I will do things differently when we restart this project.

There are no classes or books that will help on a live set. There are no case studies or mock sessions that will come in handy. Anything and everything should've been committed to memory before the assistant director calls quiet on the set.

Now that we know, we'll move forward with our on-the-set training of defined professional and personal boundaries and lessons learned, and rise again from the ashes like the mythological Phoenix.

Recovering Packrat

It seems that I woke up one day and was knee-deep in boxes, colored folders stacked on top of the file cabinet, and bags of stuff that I don't remember hoarding away. I've repeatedly promised myself that I'd eat my Wheaties, take my Mega Men multi-vitamins, and ruthlessly clean my home office, bedroom, and living room, and I'm just getting around to sorting through the accumulated mess two years later.

I wasn't a packrat (hoarder as it's also known) as a child. I wasn't allowed to be because my mother ran a tight ship. Why then as an adult has my living space fallen into disarray?

Next to the wall is an old three-tier TV cart that I use as a table that's overrun with all sorts of madness (tropical fish food, aquarium supplies, and binders) that needs major dusting. I hope there's nothing alive on the lower self! My tropical fish are outgrowing the tank, but until I clean this mess, there'll be no room for a larger aquarium.

Why did I buy this handcrafted wooden Mexican bench from an online discount site? Was I planning a picnic on my third floor fire escape and forgot to invite guests at the last minute? It's been a storage space for a 20" Dell monitor and duffle bags filled with Xeroxed handouts from my days tutoring ESL and GED in Spanish Harlem.

I'm at the point now that I don't want to be in here, preferring instead to travel to coffee shops or lounges to write longhand or on the laptop. I dare not work through the list of literary hot spots recently featured on Writer's Digest online as an excuse before cleaning up my pigsty. I also think I was embarrassed for recent tearful and apologetic hoarders on Oprah. I pointed, jaw lowered, "Oh my gosh, look at her mess!" And then I turned around and looked at my mess and closed my mouth and sat in solidarity as I stared at junk that filled one of those public storage rooms.

I didn't set out to become a hoarder, and heaven knows if I knew how exhausting sorting through these bags, boxes, and folders would be, I'd have shredded utility bills as soon as I paid them, rather than file them for months on end.

If there any other hoarders out there, I feel your pain, but know that holding onto clothes you can't wear, media or writing magazines, won't do anything for you. Close your eyes and clench your teeth if purging the junk is painful, but just do it.

Back to the trenches. Wish me luck, or better still, come over and help me!

Why Do I Write?

I've sometimes wondered why I write when I could take the easy route and stifle my creativity as so many people do. Since the advent of blogging and online magazines, artists, political pundits, and those with an axe to grind connect and commiserate online. I had initial reservations about creating a blog, and didn't know if I'd be able or wanted to maintain a regular online presence. Who would want to read what I have to say about anything? Are there others out there who feel the same as I do?

I didn't dream of a writing career as a child as others do and have. I thought I'd be a (famous) actor on Broadway, film, and television. And then I met Dr. D. Joeris, my high school junior English teacher. She was a throwback to English teachers of yore, chignon bun, large eyeglasses, and snazzy matching business suit. Prior to her class, my attempt at keeping a journal was limited to a locked diary I hid in a dresser drawer.

In Dr. Joeris's magnet school English class in Houston's tony River Oaks neighborhood, I learned to trust myself on the page, traveling to distant lands, and commuting with things natural and otherwise. She'd post a journal prompt in her perfect teacher cursive on the board, and we'd have to write a few pages. One such entry posited: If you could travel with E.T. outer space, where would you go, and what would you do? I don't remember my response, but that was typical of her offbeat nature. It's years later that I realize she wanted us to be imaginative, and always treasure the child within us.

Looking back on her now, she made a lasting impression on me. I didn't know who Joyce Carol Oates was in high school, but in the time following, made the connection to the similarity in their appearance. Dr. Joeris used a microphone from her desk sometimes because of fragile voice, and referred to as little ones.

Dr. Joeris and I exchanged a few letters after I moved to New York, all of which I still have safe in a letter bound case. I know we had an affinity for each other, extending to her gifting me a subscription to Daily Word. Was she concerned for soul in New York, away from the bible belt of Texas?

I write to create, recreate, or redefine people, places, and experiences from my past and present. I write because Dr. Joeris gifted me a monogrammed silver Cross pen and pencil set (which I lost one of the two on a subway seat, and was agitated months later), and I love the feel of the pen when writing longhand.

I write to record my place in time on earth. I write to communicate with others who share and oppose my views. I write because it is as natural breathing or walking. I write because I can sometimes transport myself back in time to Dr. Joeris's class, as she walked about the room, shaping our sentences, and encouraging each successive paragraph. It's all about the sentences that become paragraphs, and the paragraphs then become pages.

Southern Methodist in New York City

I have been on a spiritual quest as of late, unlike ever before, seeking out a new church home in New York City. I'd prefer Manhattan, but would travel to the Bronx, Brooklyn, or even Queens. Trekking to Long Island would be asking a bit much for Sunday morning service.

I was raised Southern Methodist, which isn't the end all to be all, but has instilled in me certain beliefs (and prejudices). Church life was simpler back then as a child. I wasn't concerned with moral codes or eternal damnation because I left that to my mother and other adults in charge. I excelled in Sunday school and Vacation Bible School, participated throughout year on various programs, and enjoyed my time in church.

I don't think I consciously sought to rebel against anyone or anything when I relocated to the East Coast. I just didn't make the time or felt the need to go to church (hopefully Granny Gums isn't turning over in her grave). As I aged, I began asking questions that were difficult that no one was able to answer to my satisfaction:

• How old is the earth?
• Were there dinosaurs on earth?
  
• Did we evolve from other creatures?
• How do we know that the bible is accurate?
• Is God male or female?
  
• How can there be a God with all the murder, mayhem, and chaos in the world?
  

There are so many things we don't know. If we're intelligent beings, shouldn't we question the bible, or accept it verbatim as fact of what happened and what's supposed to happen in future? I was given this link to a YouTube video that adds to the expanding dialogue on religion and Christianity. I'm not going to suddenly abandon everything I've been taught, only that I'm going to reexamine who I am, what I believe, and how I will govern my life.

I fell out of love with church because of some of the hypocrites I encountered back in Houston. How can a minister who's then current wife seduce him away from his previous wife preach and/or lecture on the sanctity of marriage? I believe that all humans are flawed, and it takes more than a public apology by a televangelist to erase the fact,too, that we are all sick with sin, lust, jealousy, insecurities, and thoughts of revenge.

Navigating the bible, churches, religion, and faith can be a very daunting task. What do we believe? Who do we believe? Where do our beliefs end and another's begin? Do we need to see God once, twice, or three times to accept that He is real?

And on the question of gender. The bible tells us that God is masculine, however I recently attended a church in Harlem where some of the assistant pastors repeatedly referred to God as She. Is it subjective based on our personal tastes or belief systems? This same church has a system in place for membership that includes a personal interview and a Saturday class prior to joining, which seemed rather corporate to me. I've not been back since. I visited this church several times because it's within walking distance of home, and I had the intention of joining. I expected I'd have to provide personal and contact information, but not attend a class on how to join their congregation. Is there a certain type of personality or educational background that would count against a perspective member?

My primary goal in attending was to find a public place of worship, not be rallied to protest local, national, or international political and social injustices. I went to congregate, not apply for an office in the religious black panthers.

Over the years in NYC, I've asked friends and colleagues about faith, religion, and spirituality. It's been a mixed bag of responses: I'm more spiritual than anything else. I'm agnostic. I used to go to church, but not anymore.

My southern identity is concerned that some will look at this entry as sacrilegious; that I'll burn in hell for posting this public query. I watch nature programs and think humans are no better than leopards, lions, tigers, or bears that hunt and kill daily. Humans are just as ruthless and savage in corporate America and the inner cities. Maybe I'm still naive in my thinking that the world ought to be a safer, kinder, friendlier place, and that carnivores should start eating vegetation and fruits. Leave those poor gazelles, wildebeests, and deer alone. The child in me thinks and shudders: God created predators and prey. Don't these creatures deserve to live their life in peace (without being chased at breakneck speed, dodging, bobbing, and weaving) just as I aim to do daily?

My search will continue for a congregation that shares enough of my core beliefs, not necessarily religious, that my soul would feel light and free to rejoice at the mysteries of life, earth, and the universe. There's a place of worship in Midtown Manhattan that has evening and regular Sunday morning services that I'll next investigate. Wish me luck. Feel free to join me!

What Would You Do?

ABC News correspondent John Quioñes has conducted a hidden camera experiment on What Would You Do? in various social and cultural situations over the last two years.

One situation focused on mean girls verbally harassing a less popular girl in a public park. Only women, not men, stopped and intervened to breakup the confusion. I don't think I'd have gotten involved, especially living in New York City where some teens carry weapons. My thoughts would've been more on my personal safety versus rescuing a stranger. If I were with someone else with a cell phone, I'd stand at a distance until park officials or NYPD arrived. Why are men less likely to help men than women? Are men not emotionally or spiritually equipped as women are in these situations? Or perhaps men aren't as patient or nurturing as women? Whatever the case, I wouldn't risk my life when a group is on the attack like a wild pack of hyenas on National Geographic.

The next situation took place in a Texas bakery when a man repeatedly refused to serve a Muslim woman dressed in traditional clothing. I'm originally from Texas, and know all too well about the blatant and subtle racism. Is it less likely that a person stopping in for coffee, bagels, or donuts will have a pistol strapped to his leg or shoulder? In Texas, anything is possible. I remember how it felt when a white student in high school called me boy while I gathered my things at my hallway locker one day after school. He shook his head like a shaggy dog after having swam in the school pool. I was on the other side of town in River Oaks, but this wasn't 1950's Texas, but the 1980's, and he apparently had been raised racist. The sting of racism revisited upon me these many years later. Words linger and haunt.

The third scenario featured an African American couple in a park fighting, the female was verbally abused and spanked with a belt. All but one lone female walked by the arguing duo. Two white men approached and advised that this isn't the place or the time for that sorta thing. They were saying that it was acceptable for the man to assault the woman, but just not in the park in front of others. Private lives, public people.

The final segment showed drunken people struggling to unlock a car door while passersby looked on in disbelief. I think a drunk wouldn't be as threatening as a belligerent racist or bully. It'd be easy to commandeer a set of car keys, and/or nudge them to sit on the sidewalk or in a chair.

Thankfully for the sake of the televised experiments, the victims and abusers were actors, and weren't in real harm. The show raised important questions that I think everyone should ask and answer. What would you do?