Archive for March, 2014

What was so crazy is that I believed my son. I had been reading the word for years and of all the lessons I learned constantly was don’t follow the woman. A man must  be the head of his household. When my son blamed it on my wife I looked at her and she walked away. I stood over my son long enough to let him know who was the head of the house and then left him to live in his sorrow.

“What are you doing?” I asked Jameela.

“I am packing a bag!” She said with my mother yelling over Curt Franklin playing on the stero.

“Your not going anywhere,” I demanded with a strong jerk on the arm she was picking random items out of the drawers with.

There was nothing I could do to stop her. Her minds was made up. So I said, “Please don’t take my son?”

With a chuckle, her and my son was plowing her range rover out the drive way.

I walked a few blocks today. It was inspiring. I live where there is still snow piles in the corners of the city, very small patches of ice, mixed with old dried up leaves blowing ever so. The birds chirp for warmth, the sun beams; but, dully. The sky holds promise of warmer days close to coming. “What a story” I ask the trees. There leaves distinct to there piece of Mother Nature; this puzzle of leaves, and trees, and grass, and dirt: can come to life just like a gig saw. I could write of the timeless story of squirrels chasing nuts, the ground hog that finally wants to show up when it’s too late. The history and facts that these streets are fairly new, for thousand years with out them and the couple hundred or so they have been here. Now I jumped on a bus, and not because I was heading anywhere, but because it was there. At this time on this day this bus wants to take me places I can not take my story alone. I am a writer a means of transportation for my words. This is my duty to chase my story. The Darwin Theory. Search deeper then any other writer, change history with the power of words. Who cares who is listening, each one a small piece of my gig saw, my story, and I can tell it how ever I want to. I am not asking for discovery or to be respected for my opinion. I write the things I know. I write the unknown. I create! I write! Oh I ended up at a bar. What a drunk of a writer!

Terrence Baker


I hadn’t come home that night after church. Maria understood me, and even after 17 years, a few extra pounds and crows feet, she is still my loyal friend and confidant. The fact that she doesn’t list to or want to hear anything about my church, made it easier to be myself around her. I always regular slacks and sneakers even at times when around her; I also keep a change of clothes in her townhouse up state so that after the 2.5 hour drive, I could kick back into my doubled life.

“Where have you been?” Jameela screamed at me visible shaken. “I want him out of this house!”

“Shhh!” I said trying to embrace her.

She jerked away, and said, “Your son got into the bed with me naked, Micheal.”

“What do you mean?” I asked but didn’t hear my words coming out. Before she could answer me I took the spiral stair case up to his room. The door was locked. “Open up this door, Malcom”

“Micheal! Wait!” Jameela screamed in my wake.

The door opened up, and no sooner did it, did I cross my now 15 year old in the face. Another right to the stomach, which folded him into  two, then I finished him off with a uppercut. “Boy I will kill you in this house!” I yelled standing over my son, my wife behind me, pulling at me, causing the normal reaction of a hostile man. I pushed her back and she hit her head on the door fame and fell out cold.

“Dad!” he crawled back from me with eyes squinting. “Don’t  kill me!” Malcom, yelled through his muffled cries and grunts. “She is evil! I am your son! I am Gods son!”

The words pierced my ears like a loud m80 going off inside a car. I had done that once and thought death would follow. These words sounded the same. too be continued…

Terrence LeRoy Baker 3-24-14

I wanted to stand up for myself, but the moment my special illegitimate son stood up, the entire congregation stood up and clapped. The smirk on his face wasn’t one I had seen before, maybe because I never seen myself preach before.

Malcom used his hands to calm the crowd like a pro, then said, “Today, we will speak from the book of Ephesians 6:1-4. “Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right.” He held the crowds gaze after speaking these words then followed they eyes as they reached me.

My chest was hollow, my palms sweating and visibly shaken up, but not by my son it was the word of man the was coming out of my son naturally.

He continued, “This is the first commandment with promise.”

The crowd was screaming, my body went limp. My mother was in the front row, and even with dementia, she knows her unwelcome grandson was special. She had a look in her eyes that matched mines. I didn’t want to but I stood up. She did too! Her hands high in the sky screaming the name of God.

“That it may be well with you and you may live long on the earth,” he finished with a look into my eyes that reached deep into my soul. He opened his arms and held the mic up to me. The crowd muffled the words that perched his lips, “See what you started?”

“Thank you!” I mumbled into the mic with a chuckle to clear my throat. Then after taking a sip of my ready water, I finished where my son left off, “And you, fathers, do not provide your children to wrath, but bring them up in the training and admonition of the Lord.” to be continued… 

Book reviews:

Target small news papers first! Then with there references move forward!

Writing is a business like no other and any business owner will tell you that you have to network to make money. The reference game is the best promo you as a author has! There is no greater feeling then your name and book being in everyone’s mouths…

Make sure you say local when contacting papers. Now that goes far and wide. Being local could mean your from the east coast or like my self mid west. Being from a small town like south bend is not the place for a author, so I make sure to associate myself with the local college (#NotreDame) when I call places and they ask where I am located. This may not sound important but if your not in New York City you will never be taken serious as a starting writer, so make sure you act like you know you need they help to sell…

Now this is where it gets tricky. No review mag or literary mag will review a book with a cover on it. This makes sense to if you think about it, because no one wants to read your book or waist there time, so if you are getting a review from them, they want it to show up in the book or on the cover of the book if there respected like publishers weekly or the southern review, so when dealing with self publishers make sure you get manuscript emailed to you after editing is done and before you put the cover on. This is vital for appearing in Barnes and Noble and books a million. My book “The Son of the Streets” is in Barnes and Noble but they only carry it because my distribution deal with bookmasters, until then they would never and walmart or target would never. Now if I had all the great reviews I have recieve from the NAACP and many other respected sources which, would typically be placed in my next title as praise for the author. Now I am a publisher too, so I am reaching out to the self publisher in you and want you to capitalize on your self publishing experience…


I lately have been in search of that next great story, and the further I try to go into a successful good life, with characters that make a living doing what the love, or went to school to learn, I find my self with a story going nowhere. As a writer we are obligated to the story and as readers we want normality. So I parked my benz, put my visa in a safe, and I ride the bus. Since started riding the bus stories are everywhere. The people are real, and patient. They are not racing around running from the stories, they live them. I missed my connecting bus because I was to busy typing away at my iPhone, but owe well another hr writing great will not hurt me. They have a stale coffee maker, only .75 might I ad, and security that looks like they would tackle a bear or wrestle the beer out of the drunk bastards hand that tries to hide it, everyday same drunk same security guard. They love each other, they live to cross paths . That’s a story worth telling! Not the same one of cocktail dresses and champagne, Lamborghini’s and Mansions. This is normal, I wonder who else here is looking for normality? Or is there another writer here looking for a story? Either way! Find your story even if you have to take the bus. I just found mines…






I read an article today in #thewriterdigest and it confirmed that the way to the literary world is via literary mags. Editor of Barrelhouse mag, Dave Housley said, “I can’t imagine not wanting to be a part of that community.” I agree… Pick up the latest literary journal and get up to date on writing and our world of writers. It’s your duty. My indulgence in this community of literary journals is where i have gained most of my confidence as a writer. Just the normality of the editors and contributors makes me feel good about my future endeavors.

It’s now been seven years since the day my “illegitimate” son took over my congregation. I say took over because that is literally what he did. Malcom had true natural talent. He was my son and my direct descendant. Lil Anthony was now 7 and Jameela also came to church with us every Sunday. Everyone seemed to come to church not for me, but for that last 15-20 minutes that my son, now a deacon would preach.

“Malcom,” I asked my son who now lives with Jameela and myself. His mother couldn’t take another one of us, she saw it coming. “Where is my diamond cuff links?”

“I’m wearing them today!”

“Excuse me!” I asked him. His back was to me as he used my dressing closer to get dressed in one of the many suits if mines that he claims as his own.

“I said I am wearing them rev.”

“Don’t you with me, Malcom,” I snapped firmly. “This is my house and you will respect me!”

Malcom slowly faced me, silent for the most part, then out of nowhere, he brung his hand up to my face, causing me to flench. With a chuckle her turned and left the room with my cuff links on.
The ride to church was different, hearing the choir through the open stained windows made me want to run my c300 into the side of St. Andrews, the church I was raised in, the church my family was raised in, and the church that enabled me.

“Rev,” Malcom said standing up and getting a standing ovation. “I think I can take over first then you can have the few minutes at the end that you been pacifying me with.”

“You!” To be continued..





This Sunday was like no other. For 11 years I pastored this church, and for 11 years I have done everything but been good to my congregation. They don’t know the half of the mess I’ve created. Its like every time I sit across the pool pit and look over my followers, its hard to stay focused on the word: I have an illegitimate son, a mistress, and crooked politicians looking me in the eyes for answers.

My wife, Jameela, doesn’t even come to church with me anymore, because she is too ashamed. I don’t blame her either.

“Holla Luya, salvation and glory,” the choir sang. “Honor and power unto the Lord our God. The Lord our God, he is wonderful.”

As always I let the choir die down before I spoke, “May we all bow are heads.”

The crowd always seems to wait in silence with me, but half the heads in the crowd aren’t bowed.

“You may all be seated,” I say as always. It’s the same every Sunday week after week after week.”

My father was a pastor and so was his, back before it was ok for a black man to have a church. My blood line of preachers dates back to the 1800’s, but I doubt that any other one of the great men I came from was as crooked as me, or more anointed at that.

I had a very huge following in the beginning, but lately, almost all the original families that I grew up with, left the congregation because of all the talks of scandals, money laundering, and, supposedly use of whores. Nothing ever proved, might I add, except for my 7-year-old son, Malcolm, that the church seems to forgive me for.

After speaking from the book of Job 9:10 I ask the crowd to bow again.

“You see the Lord does great things that are unsearchable and miracles that cannot be numbered,” I read again this time slow enough for the crowd to take in what it was that I was saying. I continued, “ You see every 7 years or so the Lord will make a great man. A man like no other man. This man will be given more talents, more skills, more strength than any other man he knows. This great man will be tested time and time again, and these tests will only make him stronger because he will have been told already by God himself that he is great.

No one seemed to be really catching the word. As a preacher and a toastmaster certified speaker, I know when and how to engage my crowd. It was my gift, my calling, to preach.

“Is there any great men here today?” I asked knowing that this humble crowd would never put themselves on a pedestal. I knew that most of my congregation was laborers and employees within this blue-collar community.

“Before we cut to tides and offerings I would….” I started.

“I am!” a familiar voice called out from the crowd. “I am great.”

I looked at him and then my secretary/his mother, then slowly said, “Malcom, you are great. Would you like to come up to the pool pit and tell the crowd what makes you special?”

He looked at his mother who nodded. The whole church was on their feet clapping as he made his way up to the pool pit, looking just like me might I add. After taking the microphone out of my hand he first bowed his head ever so slightly, as if he had studied me for his whole life. He held the mic in his hand to adjust it to his face with so much ease, a tear came to my eyes… to be continued…

Terrence LeRoy Baker 3-17-14