CAROL TAYLOR

Right Back Where I started From, Dwell Magazine, 2001
In America, Canada and England, many West Indians grow up in houses filled with pseudo French Provincial furniture wrapped up tightly in a protective plastic skin that clings to the body in summer like a wet tongue kiss. West Indians love to live in a faux world: Faux mahogany dining sets, nestled comfortably in retro Edwardian living rooms. Implausible ornaments crowded ten deep on a side table. Elaborate wicker displays and fake-flower arrangements. Wall-to-wall carpeting protected by plastic runners, crisscrossing every possible walkway.

In my West Indian family, I was definitely the apple that had fallen far from the tree. Actually, I'd fallen and rolled all the way down the hill. For me, plastic was for storing food, not covering furniture. Inconceivably, I was born a minimalist into a family of ceramic figurine collectors. My childhood bedroom, incongruous in my parents' overstuffed world, was a monastic, whitewashed space embellished only by the black-and-white Ansel Adams photographs I'd cut out from a wall calendar. My wooden floor, polished to a high gloss, was a natural oasis in a world of wall-to-wall. I lived "less is more" long before I knew who to attribute the quote to. I was eight years old.

Today I am an unrepentant aesthete. I can tell an Eames from a Saarinen. I can discern the curvature of a Jacobsen fro the sharp lines of a Mies van der Rohe. And these pieces would all go well in my place, for I am a loft dweller in Manhattan, at a time when only the rich can afford to live this way.

Yes, I live alone in a loft on Millionaire Island. I am decadent, important, powerful, like a media mogul, a dot-com maven, or a trust-fund baby. But I am none of these things. In fact, I am as far from them as you can get. I am a writer, who somehow lives alone in a 2,000 square foot loft in the East Village, which now seems to be the most expensive neighborhood in New York. Three floors above Avenue A and Second Street, at the crossroads of affluence and apathy, I live and work under 14-foot ceilings and windows that are six feet tall, the light flooding in from three exposures.

I have a bathroom about the size of most Manhattan studios, a bedroom the size of most apartments, a dining room, an open kitchen, a walk-in closet, a guest room, two separate offices, and not one but two living rooms, one at either end of the loft, which runs for a quarter of a block.

Don't hate me because I have square footage. I get up and thank God every day for it, believe me. And no, it wasn't easy. I lived for two years in a construction zone of plaster dust and Sheetrock, paint cans, and joint compound. Two hard years of working 9 to 5 during the day and then 7 to 11 on the loft at night. Years of paint fumes and sawdust, of broken nails and smashed fingers, of putting up walls, painting, and plastering. But it was worth it because I can never take what I have for granted.

When I moved in six years ago, on the cusp of the great East Village makeover, I was struck dumb by the soaring space. Not knowing which end to walk to first, all I could do was stand in the center of the loft and turn slowly around. When I first moved in I kept losing things. I'd put down my toothbrush and it would disappear, or I'd spend half the morning looking for my coffee cup. Now, when I go away on vacation I come back and am struck again by those first moments of space a height. So I understand when people come over and float disbelieving from room to room, repeating, "You live here alone?" My answer is always the same: "I can't believe it either."

Oddly enough when I look around I see that my place, though light-years from my parents' house, is not so much unlike it. I have my father's love of plants and antique rugs, for example, and I've inherited my mother's eye for pictures, which we both frame and arrange in hanging collages. While researching pictures for this piece, I was rocked when I saw, in a new light, the photos of the house I grew up in. The living room was almost the exact same aquamarine blue of my bedroom, and the kitchen the same burnt sienna as my kitchen and bathroom. And so it goes. The further you go away from your origins, the closer you get to finding yourself right back where you started.

And, you know, it's not such a bad place because I now know where I got my style.

RAWSISTAZ INTERVIEW
2008

RAW: Tell us all about you, the author. And then tell us about the person behind the author.

CAT: I'm an author and an editor, sometimes I'm and editor and then an author. My background is as a book editor with Random House for 6 years specializing in books of black interest. For the last 6 years I've been the editor for the BROWN SUGAR, 4 book erotic black fiction series, and most recently the WANDERLUST erotic travel anthology. I've just finished my first novel THE EX CHRONICLES (March 2010).

RAW: How long have you been writing and what has the experience been like for you?

CAT: I've been in book publishing for over 12 years, first as a book editor and then as a freelance editor, writer and anthology editor. The experience has been great for me, probably because I have an inside track. I know agents and book editors from my work as an editor so in most cases the work and the clients come to me. I also know what a book proposal and finished manuscript should look like and have contacts within the industry who knew my work and were willing to take a chance on me as an author when I was just starting out.

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EROTIC WRITING Q&A
Tango Magazine 2009

1. How did you get into the field?

I’ve been in the writing business for over 12 years: As a book editor at Random House, then as an editorial consultant and a writer. My first book was BROWN SUGAR: A COLLECTION OF EROTIC BLACK FICTION published by Viking/Penguin. It became a best seller that spawned a 4-book series. I then published WANDERLUST a travel themed erotic collection. The success of my books have made me a “sexpert,” the go-to person for all things erotic. My first novel, THE EX CHRONICLES will be published March 2010.


2. Have you always thought of yourself as a sexually adventurous/open person? Or does writing erotica come from a different place—-more of a cerebral one?

Before writing erotica, I wouldn’t have thought of myself as overly sexually adventurous, probably average. I’m willing though, to try anything, at least once. I’m a private person but in my writing I’m quite open. Writing in general is cerebral; that’s writers are so internal. Writing erotica, or any fiction, comes from somewhere outside of yourself, or actually somewhere deeper inside. Ultimately, writing gives you the freedom to be anyone or do any thing.

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MARRYING WITHIN YOUR RACE: BIGGER THAN BLACK AND WHITE?
Tango Magazine 2009

Is there a crisis in black relationships? Despite millions of examples of loving couples, do black women and men still have negative perceptions of each other? If so, where did they come from and are they true?

Donna L. Franklin’s 2001 book, What’s Love Got to Do with It? shows that 7 out of 10 black mothers give negative messages to their daughters about black men. Did my mom give me negative messages about black men? No, she didn’t have to. I got them from watching my parents’ relationship.

My father was a “player” proving his manhood through multiple families and women as so many West Indian men of a his generation did. My father’s philandering definitely had an impact on how I viewed men in general and black men in particular: They were duplicitous, cheaters, liars who used black women, really all women for their own needs and egos. I would see this again when my brother cheated repeatedly on his wife and then left her for——you guessed it——a white woman. This is probably why I’m still unmarried, that and because I can’t seem to find any black men to date in my social circle.

As a successful black woman in corporate America I had a very hard time finding black men who understood and weren’t intimidated by my busy lifestyle, weren’t already dating or married to white women and who weren’t gay. When I left the corporate world, and moved to Black-man-friendly Brooklyn, I had a much easier time finding black men, unfortunately far too many of then were players. I’ll admit though, I’d often choose a “bad boy” over a good prospective partner and had a bad experience, which then created a bad perception. That said, it seemed the odds were often stacked against me: 9 out of 10 times, the good-looking, smart, articulate, cultured black men I met were in multiple relationships, or either had a girlfriend or were married and “forgot” to tell me. In fact, had it not been for the tattoo of his wife’s name on his arm, I might not have known that the last man I was out on a date with was married.

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MY LIFE AS AN EROTICA WRITER
Tango Magazine 2009

Writing about sex has always been an honorable tradition. Just like good sex, good sex writing is in the details, the images, the scenario, the melding of reality and fantasy. We read erotica for inspiration, sometimes to lose ourselves, though we often find parts of ourselves within the story. Good sex writing paints a picture; it shows as well as tells, and it connects your mind to your body.

*****

I wake the next morning, sore and satisfied, my muscles aching from all night of lovemaking. I lay naked and sprawled out, the sheets a mess. A smile bright as the morning is on my face as I feel the weight of his body pressing down on mine.
I look longingly into his eyes before dropping my gaze to his firmly muscled chest, narrow waist and the sexy triangle of hair leading down to his…”

*****

Sounds good right, the life of an erotica writer. Can’t you see me in my sexy lingerie, sitting at my laptop, popping bonbons from a heart shaped dish into my mouth, porno playing as I sample sex toys for research. Unfortunately the reality is very, very different.

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A DEBT TO PAY
Bronx Biannual Literary Journal #2 2007

A devilishly handsome man Diamond Don also had the gift of words. Back in the day, the girl’s weren’t above murder to get into his stable. And he’d never been above murder for any reason. He chuckled evilly: This one ‘ho he’d had to beat down almost dead to keep her black ass acquiescent. Hell, back in the day, he’d been the biggest Mack Daddy Pimp uptown. Bitches was standing in line to suck his dick. And he had plenty dick to go ‘round. Diamond chuckled again. Ah those was the days. But now, times they were a changin’. Fewer girls on the stroll. The ones walkin’ wanna work for themselves. Could you imagine, whores pimpin’ themselves? This feminist shit was gettin’ way outta hand.

But that was the least of his problems right now. He had Black on his ass, ‘bout close to a week now. It had to be Black. Diamond could smell him on him. And everybody avoiding him like the fucking Plague. And when Black took your contract it was the muthafucking Black Plague cause somebody was gonna end up dead fo’ sho’. Yeah, the writing was on the wall. His number had come up. But Black had better be man enough to take him. Diamond didn’t become one of the top pimps in Harlem to go out like some bitch. And for some dead ‘ho. Shit, plenty dead ‘ho’s in his past. But this one had to be kin to Black. He laughed, even murdering muthafuckas got family too. Just his dumb luck.

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OFF THE HOOK
1. HE'S GOT WEDDING JITTERS

Dear Carol,

My boyfriend and I have been together for three years. Last August he proposed to me. We set the date for 6 months later. The day after Valentine's Day he called the wedding off. He told me that he wasn't ready for marriage and he wasn't sure what his feelings were for me. A week later he came to me and said that although he wasn't ready for marriage he wanted to try and work things out. I have no idea what to do. He is 27 years old and I feel like if he isn't ready now he may never be. Not only that but he keeps flip-flopping from mood to mood. One minute he is all over me and the next minute he seems 20 miles away. Any advice?
-- Lisa



READ THE ANSWER IN MY COLUMN. GO TO THE HEADER AND CLICK ON "COLUMN" THEN ENJOY. GOT A LOVE/LUST DILEMMA OF YOUR OWN SEND IT ON OVER.

THE EX CHRONICLES
Precious, a struggling writer, discovers her fiancé Darius in bed with another woman, though she ends the engagement it doesn’t stop her from wanting him. Bella, the wise-cracking, over-indulged child of an absent diplomat father and pill-popping socialite mother, knows her musician boyfriend Julius is using her, but before she can give him up she has to give up her first love, alcohol. Half-British, half-Jamaican, Zenobia, sacrifices a successful modeling career for Malcolm, her overly critical boyfriend, but when he strays she fears she’s made a terrible mistake. Bourgie Hope, the creative director of a high fashion magazine, is working double time to hide the effects of caring for her dementia-ridden mother and her own debilitating depression, while trying to resist a strong attraction to her new driver Derrick, a single dad from the projects.

Funny and sexy, heartbreaking and inspiring, the Ex Chronicles is a novel about faith in one’s self, trust in one’s friends, and the sacrifices we make in the name of love.

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WANDERLUST EROTIC TRAVEL TALES
Part erotica, part travelogue, these edgy, atmospheric, and sexually charged stories explore the desires that are awakened when we are away from the confines of home. Penned by best-selling and up and coming authors, these contemporary, sexy and sophisticated tales take you on trysts around the globe--from the streets of Paris, to the sun-kissed beaches of Jamaica and Hawaii, from the hidden caverns along the Mediterranean to the forbidden banks of the Nile.

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Brown Sugar A Collection of Erotic Black Fiction
Plume, 2001

Silk sheets, jazz playing softly on the stereo, black silk against brown bodies in warm sticky embraces. Brown Sugar brings together eighteen original stories by America's premier black authors. Their stories cover the full spectrum of black experience and identity as they reveal sexuality and sensuality in all their myriad forms. Whether you are male or female, gay or straight, this joyous celebration of erotica will transport you to a realm beyond the limits of your sensual imagination. It is a must have book for every lover, as well as every lover of good fiction.

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Brown Sugar 2 Great One Night Stands
Simon & Schuster December 2002

If the first Brown Sugar left you wanting more, then feast your senses on Brown Sugar 2 as 18 bestselling black writers celebrate a great one night stand. Their stories set the stage for seduction with a distinctly new flavor, and they are as insightful as they are sexy.

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Brown Sugar 3 When Opposites Attract
Simon & Schuster December 2003

Focussing on the universal theme of opposites attracting Brown Sugar 3 continues in the tradition of fresh and sexy black fiction written by best selling authors you know and love.

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Brown Sugar 4: Secret Desires
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Introduction

The Blacker the Berry, the Sweeter the Juice by Carol Taylor

"I'd just finished breakfast and was sitting with my morning paper in Dimitri's Cafe on Prinsenstraat, when I saw the most beautiful man at the window. He was tall and thin, as many Dutch are, with a long face and narrow sloping nose. Stop there and he'd be just one of the many beautiful people I'd seen all over Amsterdam into Rotterdam and in parts of Belgium.

It was the potent mix of African and Dutch blood running through his veins that composed his features into an odd and wonderfully poetic juxtaposition. He had skin the color of rich cream with a sprinkling of nutmeg freckles across his nose. His eyes were the most astounding shade of blue I'd ever seen. His long nose was offset by full, thick lips and above his prominent forehead sat the biggest, most gloriously kinky, dirty-blond Afro I'd ever seen.

He was beautiful, like rain after a drought, the sun after a storm. He was a gift dropped at my feet and he was looking at me as though I was too.

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Harlem Homecoming
As I sat in first class, I couldn’t believe I was heading back to the States. I’d been living in Paris for six years, working as a stylist at a fashion magazine when I got my mother’s letter. We’d been in contact since I’d left, but now she wanted me to come home. She didn’t say why, just that she had to see me.
My mother so rarely asked for anything that I knew I’d be on the next flight back. Honestly, I didn’t mind taking a break. My job kept me busy; always packed and ready to leave for a shoot at a moment’s notice. No room for relationships either, but I didn’t mind. If you didn’t care, you didn’t get hurt. I’d been hurt enough. The last time I almost didn’t make it. And here I was heading back to New York, back to Harlem.
***

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Roots and Culture
"In America, Canada and England, many West Indians grow up in houses filled with psuedo French Provincial furniture wrapped up tightly in a protective plastic skin that clings to the body in summer like a wet tongue kiss. In my West Indian family, I was definitely the apple that had fallen far from the tree. Actually, I'd fallen and rolled all the way down the hill. For me, plastic was for storing food not covering furniture. Inconceivably I was born a minimalist into a family of ceramic figurine collectors."

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Luscious Jones
"I wonder if you taste as good as you look, Luv," He whispered in his rolling cockney accent. Reggie was a Brixton boy, unassuming but full of surprises, I'd met him at a Moshood fashion show: You know the scene: Niggerati and Afrocentric back-to-the-Motherland, Kente cloth-wearing types. And of course plenty of yummy muscled Homeboys, fashionistas, Mack Daddy's in full pimp gear, and music video 'hos with weaves for days on the stroll with their producer pimps."

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Double Dutch
"I’d been in Amsterdam for 2 months and had decided I’d never leave. I’d fallen in love with the delicious ganga, and the even rows of sharply dressed houses pressed up tightly against each other. I loved the glittering canals and the cheery houseboats bobbing on the water, at night, lit from within like fireflies in a jar. I’d also fallen in love with the strange beauty of the Dutch people. Actually, I’d fallen in love with one Dutch in particular. His potent mix of African and Dutch blood had composed his features into an odd and wonderfully poetic juxtaposition. He had café con leché skin and nutmeg freckles. His eyes were light brown and luminescent like molten honey. His long nose was offset by thick lips and above his prominent forehead sat the biggest most gloriously kinky dirty blonde Afro I’d ever seen."

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