As I said in my introduction, I am an aspiring author. I lean toward urban fiction because that’s the best way to turn a negative in to a positive
by telling my stories without putting myself or other people under the bus, its also a way to reach my intended audience, which are people who can relate, incarcerated brothas and sistahs, people who don’t actually live the life described in the books, but for some reason are intrigued by it, and people trying to get an authentic understanding of how we think, live, and what fosters these characteristics. But I don’t like to limit myself to this genre because there much more to me than that. And I aspire to be much more.
I was locked up in the Indiana State Prison in Michigan city, Indiana when a friend of mine by the name of Rio started writing a series of books called the King Neil conspiracy, starting with the Cocaine Princess, which was published by Leo Sullivan. Once I saw him published I started to dig back down within myself and chase a drem I had long ago burried, to author a book. I started penning a novel called Mannish From The Womb, a story loosely based on my life grow in up under my grandmother who was a gangster and a bootlegger, who I lived with in a duplex where we lived on one side and her establishment was on the other side.
At times I would have writers blocks where my creative juices just woipuldnt flow the way I wanted them to, so instead of just writing to fill pages, I would put that project down and start on another one of my ideas, which was a book called Tattle Tale; The Evolution Of The Snitch Game, which was a walk through the years of the crack era where the act of snitchin went from being something rarely done, and when it was done, the snitch was either dealt with or skipped town.
In the process of writing Tattle Tale, my son Qur’an was killed on December eleventh two thousand fifteen at the age of nineteen. This crushed me, I dropped my pen and didn’t pick it up for six months. My thoughts were consumed with what had happened to my son, who had did this to my son, and why. I had to accept the fact that I had some responsibility in what had happened because I was his father and I had left him out there from the time he was eight years old, to do it himself. All I had left him was my name and reputation to live off of and this ultimately got him killed.
For months I beat myself up, I was almost mute, I refused to smile or be happy about anything , whenever I would smile I would hear his voice asking me what the f#$k was funny, how could I let anything cause me to laugh and smile knowing that my only son was gone?
After months of mourning while isolated in the SHU ( secured housing unit) a level five prison within a prison, still consumed by thoughts of Qur’an, I picked my pen back up and began my most favored piece of work entitled SON OF A GOON.
Rico Comer #732167
Toledo Ohio Corr. Institution
2001E. Central Ave.
Toledo, Ohio 43068
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