The High-Caliber Room

There are moments in a writer’s life that quietly rearrange things.

Not in a dramatic, lightning-strike way..but in that slower, heavier way where you know something has shifted and there’s no un-seeing it. Today was one of those days for me.

I spent the afternoon in an amazing workshop spearheaded by someone who I admire not just as a Hoodoo, but as THEE griot of all griots, and alongside people who don’t just read for enjoyment..they interrogate the text.

They don’t skim. They don’t guess. They don’t write vibes and call it a day. They ask hard questions and expect real answers. Watching them break a piece apart wasn’t about nitpicking or flexing intellect. It was watching people think deliberately, out loud, with intention and care.

..and instead of leaving feeling exposed or behind, I walked out energized. Lit, honestly.

For a long time, I’ve approached writing like a craft problem to solve. Tighten the dialogue. Fix the pacing. Clean the sentences. All of that matters, and I’m good at that part. But today pushed me past the mechanics and into something deeper. The conversation wasn’t about how the story was built; it was about why it exists.

Why this metaphor?
Why this voice?
Why this moment in time?
What belief is sitting underneath the narrative?
What question is the story actually wrestling with?

And that’s when it clicked: the writer in me can only go as far as the thinker in me is willing to stretch.

I’ve always known that I’m a gifted writer, so make no mistake…this isn’t that. This isn’t me feeling like I don’t have what it takes. However, I am aware of how life has caused me to let things that I really care about like reading, writing and expanding my mind take a backseat in order to survive.

Putting words on the page has always been the easy part. The harder part is deciding what you actually stand for on the page. What ideas you’re brave enough to explore. What truths you’re willing to examine without softening them to be more palatable.

Being in that workshop makes it clear that writing..real writing, isn’t just expression. It’s engagement. It’s conversation. It’s critique. It’s philosophy wearing a narrative mask.

There’s a dope kind of adrenaline that comes with realizing the standard is higher than you thought. Not in a discouraging way, but in a way that wakes you up. Like a “oh… I gotta STEP” kinda way.

Being surrounded by people who display rigor, clarity, and depth didn’t feel like pressure. It felt like permission. Permission to stop choosing the easiest idea. Permission to move past the first thought, the safe thought, the pretty-but-empty thought. Permission to slow down and think harder about where I want to take The Foolishverse.

Lately, I’m less interested in just finishing my short stories and Foolish 3, and more interested in doing the intellectual heavy lifting that makes a story feel necessary. The kind of work that requires reading things that challenge me. Sitting with discomfort. Questioning my own assumptions. Letting my ideas get sharpened instead of protected.

This workshop is shifting how I understand my work. The work isn’t just the hours at the keyboard. It’s the hours spent learning how to think better. How to ask better questions. How to look at the world and myself with more honesty and precision.

And I don’t feel insecure about where I am.
I don’t feel like I’m lacking.

I feel aware of my potential.

There’s something powerful about recognizing the standard you want to rise to and realizing you’re no longer afraid of it. I can see the writer I’m becoming more clearly now. Not just someone who tells stories, but someone who knows why those stories matter and why my storytelling is conjure.

The fire is lit.
Now it’s about what I let it forge.