Still Sharpening

Vreeeeeee-tzzzt! Vreeeeeee-tzzzt! Vreeeeeee-tzzzt!

The mechanical pencil sharpener sounds-off. One after another my classmates sharpen their instrument of choice—a perfectly balanced #2 pencil—in preparation for our fourth-grade writing assessment.

A common scene from my childhood under the portents of the Bushes' literacy and comprehension agendas in the early 2000's. 

At the time I had no idea that this repetitious exercise—building narratives and expository essays—would become the foundation of how I present myself to the world. Or that it would light the fuse to a career as a published author, with global distribution and collaborations with well-known collectives of literary creatives, like Black Writers Weekend. 

Established in 2010 by Tamika Jamison, Black Writers Weekend began as a flagship festival in Atlanta and has since extended its reach through popups in Washington D.C., Newark, Dallas, Chicago, and Los Angeles. Tamika has authored 17 novels and published nearly 300 books through her publishing house. But credentials only tell you what someone has done. What they don't tell you is how someone moves through a room they built—whether they stay elevated or remain present. Tamika remains present. She walked the floor of her own event among authors far earlier in their careers, accessible and unhurried. The kind of person whose accomplishments you learn after the fact because nothing about her manner announces them first.

That quality is what made me want to be present—not just as an attendee but as someone with something to contribute to what she has built. 

919 Morrell Avenue

This past Saturday the popup took place at Apprentice Creative Space in Oak Cliff—a building that has been standing since 1921 and has absorbed more of Dallas's history than most people walking through it will ever know. 

Through the 1960s and 70s, as Black families became the majority demographic, the Zion Hill Missionary Baptist Church purchased the building and made it their own for decades. Until recently the aging congregation and financial instability led to the sale and conversion of 919 Morrell Ave into a community arts space. 

And on this weekend, whether by design or divine providence, the space was reclaimed by Black creatives, who may not even know the full arc of what they were standing inside of, but it could be felt emanating from the stone walls. 

The Practicing Patient

I was the first vendor to arrive.
I set up on the patio just outside of the main meeting space. I stood behind a table adorned with a navy-blue tablecloth, a clear acrylic book stand stacked with copies of The Practicing Patient, bookmarks, and decorative medicine vial pens and syringe markers—my wife's addition, chosen deliberately, in colors bright enough to pull a stranger close.

Before the first attendee walked through, I introduced myself to every vendor in the space. Learned their names and what they were building. 

When people came to my table, I followed the same routine because of my genuine interest to connect with other creatives. 

And when it came time to share what I had built—a memoir borne from a dual perspective on both sides of the pharmacy counter, as pharmacist and patient—most visitors anticipated a wellness story rather than one about living well. I gently redirected—the book is less about diet and exercise and more about mental framing, shared decision-making, and the structural barriers patients face just trying to access what they've been prescribed. 

Once clarity was achieved, the conversations had the room to deepen, and I heard stories of others living with disease at different stages—from needing advice, to diagnosis cycling, to resilience through uncertainty.

One of those conversations began with her interest in the colored pens. Her sister was sick. Had undergone brain surgery and still had no diagnosis, no name for what her body was doing to itself. She found something in the story worth passing on and bought the book for her.

If you are a creative reading this—whether you are two years into your first manuscript or three projects deep and looking for a room that reflects your work back at you—find Black Writers Weekend, the Writers Garret, a host of other organizations that champion creative connection.

Find your space, the way I found mine—and treat collaboration not as a shortcut to your goals but as part of the work necessary to reach them.

I have since retired the pencil and its sharpener, but the work it started continues.