Jedah Mayberry in conversation over The Unheralded King of Preston Plains Middle at the Book Lounge in Brattleboro, VT, June, 2016 (Photo credit: Dede Cummings)

By Jedah Mayberry

We are told writing is a singular endeavor, a chiefly lonesome pursuit. We go about the business of writing with this understanding in mind. Toil mostly unseen, working the whole while to keep that inevitable sense of lonesomeness at bay. Along the way, we encounter hubs of activity, organized around some event or association, some singular point of connection interlinking groups of writers. Invariably another, better-known writer sits at the center of this activity, embodies the hub from which this interconnection among writers seems to emanate.

As writers, our role in this arrangement is to be good spokes; to contribute something toward making this small universe function. Our role is to pull equally from all sides and keep the wheel spinning. Its steady rotation depends on quiet diligence from us as good spokes to maintain even tension.

The pandemic has afforded opportunities I hadn’t before counted on. With the world on lockdown, most events have moved online. I’ve attended craft talks, panel discussions, book launches, a virtual literary festival or two, introduced to scores of notable debut authors, a collection of our most lauded book luminaries appearing in a Brady Bunch collage of head and shoulder images. We peer into their living quarters in hopes of getting a glimpse of the interior spaces they inhabit, scan the books lining their shelves, and work to identify the artwork adorning the walls visible in the background. We examine how the choice of art might reflect their work if not inform their writing style altogether. We imagine what it’s like to be a hub, stretch our spokes a bit further in their direction.

Though lacking in most meaningful regards, the virtual world has enriched the writing community in unforeseen ways. Roxane Gay drops in regularly to help soothe frayed nerves with her candid, off-the-cuff IG-live streams where she takes on many issues affecting not just our creative selves but our existence as thinking, feeling beings; each of us working to maintain a level of sanity in the face of the countless challenges confronting us each day.

We huddled together to welcome the Twentieth Anniversary Edition of Bernice McFadden’s debut novel Sugar. We are granted permission to eavesdrop as McFadden and longtime friend, Terry McMillan, picked up the threads of conversation, one that seems to never lose steam regardless of how far either ventures from the other. We pressed palms to cheeks in adoration as Rachel Eliza Griffiths gushed over a chance encounter with Toni Morrison, then an emerging poet, she recounted having been called over from across the room by Edwidge Danticat, a gush-worthy hub in her own right. We were treated to Scott Heath in conversation with Kiese, Rion, and Jason. It was like being granted a front row seat to OutKast and Goodie Mob alongside Wu-Tang and The Roots, accompanying Chuck Brown, Rare Essence, Trouble Funk, and E.U. — a gathering of superheroes without question.

And I have written (as all good spokes must do) head down, my mind twisting out a narrative I feel deserves to be told, is capable of withstanding outside scrutiny, carries sufficient heft to stand up to harsh outside air. I drafted a short fiction piece in response to an online workshop prompt where Nana Kwame instructed us to picture a beach. Oh, Blessed Bri’land (Brittle Paper) draws on experiences from my first trip to The Bahamas, home to my eventual in-laws. I persevered with a manuscript, first submitted well over a year ago. Felt the aim of the story shift in search of a point of comfort on the heels of the murders of George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, Rayshard Brooks, Breonna Taylor. Weeks Away (Solstice Magazine) features a group of teens winding down the last few weeks of summer before embarking on their first year of high school together. It is the last time I can recall having felt a sense of innocence, nestled among the group of kids I had known most of my adolescence. It’s a story to which we can all relate.

Like anyone, I long for a return to some sense of normalcy. To stand shoulder-to-shoulder with fellow writers. To sit attentive in the presence of those better-known, each of us pulling with equal strength to remain attached to their hub, to keep the universe spinning about them and the work they inspire those in their midst to produce. Meanwhile, I’ll continue to relish in the increased access lockdown has afforded us, to delight in the writing world seeming temporarily just that much closer-knit.

Jedah Mayberry is the author of two novels: Sun Is Sky, due in 2020 from Jacaranda Books, The Unheralded King of Preston Plains Middle, River Grove Books 2013. His work has appeared at Linden Avenue, Brittle Paper, Black Elephant, A Gathering Together, and others. Follow Jedah on Twitter and Instagram.

Good Spokes

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