The Sessions: The Redline

Thunder could be heard in the distance. It was a cold Memphis midnight and drafts were spread across the table. Rosa Mae just read Chapter 9 and she wasn’t smiling. A heated debate over a controversial chapter in one of my upcoming books began.

“You serious with this? You really just gonna end the chapter with her calling herself ‘his possession’?” She locked eyes with me and slapped the manuscript. “This shit right here? This’ll split your audience down the damn middle,” she continued.

I leaned forward with a half-smile. “And? That’s the point.” I paused. “Sometimes submission is power. Sometimes bein’ claimed is chosen. And bein’ chosen is the goal. Besides, I’m not here to write what’s safe. I’m here to write the truth.”

Zeke leaned back with his arms crossed. “He ain’t wrong, but the framing? Something’s kinda off. Right now it reads like he owns her. But bruh, you want readers to feel tension, not write think pieces about toxic shit you ain’t mean.”

Cellie sat across from me unfazed. She took a sip of wine and remained still.

“What’s goin in that noggin of yours, love?” I asked.

“From a PR standpoint? Controversy sells if…if the writing can hold it. You’re givin’ ‘em ammo, not art.” She leaned in.

“Meaning?” I furrowed my brow.

“Meaning that it’s not seductive enough. It’ll give the “sistahood” as some of y’all toxic motherfuckers call it, ammo to fuck you up before you even get off the porch. Make it intentional or rewrite it like a line you’d whisper in someone’s ear, not some shit they’d screenshot to cancel you.”

I hated to admit it but she was right. I grit my teeth and agreed. “Aight, alight. Let me rework it. Same heat. Same danger. But I’ll make it clear that she chose the fire, not me.”

“You walkin’ a thin line, Creed. But if anyone can dance on it barefoot and leave the crowd breathless, its you,” Rosa Mae said softly buy firmly.

I went back to what I did best, making words sing and sting.