Who is the world?

I'm in the process of writing a novel. Probably one of the most terrifying and illuminating ventures I've ever engaged with. When it first came to mind, I pushed it to the furthest corner toward that place we put all dreams, of which we are afraid. Then, I started to place pieces together in that same corner until it consumed all parts, forcing itself onto a yellow legal pad. I won't give anything away, as I genuinely have little idea how much breath these characters will push into the world through me. However, I woke one night, literally mid-dream, grabbed my pad, and began to scribble the words my protagonist and his grandmother yearned to tell.

Set in 1940s Fort Worth, Texas— the novel begins with death and heartbreak. "Love doesn't hang there like this," someone says as all behold a beautiful Black boy suffering under the brutality of lynching, his body left limp, his love dripping down. His lover, the protagonist, releases from the pit of his soul a yelp of mourning, which only the dead and those who speak with them can hear. Much of the novel is his battle with love and lovelessness, contempt and hatred, revenge, and redemption; St. Joseph must find a way to forgive, if not the men who killed his beloved, but himself for loving in secret. Perhaps— for he has yet to reveal this to me— neither is possible, but without the journey toward his calvary, St. Joseph will crumble under the weight of his mourning. Read More.