July 22, 2025 • 15 mins
In this episode, bridgette shares five powerful personal lessons from How We Do It: Black Writers on Craft, edited by Jericho Brown. With insight from writers like Rita Dove, Frank X Walker, and E. Ethelbert Miller, this episode explores how Black writers define craft on their own terms, offering healing, joy, revolution, and permission to speak directly to your people.
Visit thepoetrylab.com to find the Show Notes for this episode. The Poetry Lab Podcast is produced by Lori Walker and Danielle Mitchell. Hosted by Danielle Mitchell and Lori Walker, with special guest hosts bridgette bianca, Leonora Simonovis and Ravina Wadhwani.
Theme song: "Simply Upbeat" by Christian Telford, Kenneth Edward Belcher, and Saki Furuya.
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
(00:00):
(00:00):
If you're like me, you've probably attended
a craft talk or 200
and have devoured an alarming number of
essays, articles, and books,
all promising to unlock the secrets of
writing.
Whether we walked away skeptical,
scandalized, or schooled,
we continue to search for answers, advice,
and assurances.
(00:20):
Well, friends,
I'm here to add another tone to your TBR.
Welcome to the Poetry Lab Podcast.
The Poetry Lab started 11 years ago to help
dedicated, self-taught, and formally
trained writers find a place in their
(00:42):
community to write,
read,
learn,
and collaborate.
We help writers tap into their craft with
radical self-compassion,
unlike anything you've ever seen in a
creative writing classroom before.
If you're a creative person trying to
establish a writing practice in the real world,
this podcast is designed to help you carve
(01:05):
out the time,
the courage,
and the inspiration to keep writing your
new shit.
Are you ready, poet?
Let's get into it.
The book,
How We Do It, Black Writers on Craft,
(01:26):
Practice, and Skill,
edited by Punitzer Prize-winning poet
Jericho Brown.
This collection of just over 30 essays
features contributions from poets like Rita
Dove and Evie Shockley,
novelists like Ernest Gaines and Tiare Jones,
and non-fiction writers like Morgan Jerkins
and Mitchell S.
Jackson.
(01:46):
I was especially excited to find writers
integral to my education at Howard
University,
E.
Ethelbert Miller, who I've mentioned here
on the podcast before,
Tony Medina and Dana Williams,
all brought together and presented by the
historic Hurston Wright Foundation.
After all of my years of study, I can
honestly say this book is
unprecedented.
(02:07):
I don't know of any other book that
contains so many black writers discussing craft.
Usually, I have to dig around several
books, blogs, magazines, and fuzzy YouTube
clips to come up with any of these riches.
But it's all here, packed in a beautiful
fuchsia violet book.
A wealth.
But don't worry, folks, this is not just a
book review of how we do it.
(02:29):
I won't bore you with that.
Instead, in this episode of the Poetry Lab
Podcast,
I'd like to share with you five things I
learned and applied
to my writing practice after reading this book.
and then you can check it out for yourself
and take what you need.
Deal?
Deal.
One.
(02:49):
My first lesson came not from an essay at
all, but from the creation of the book
itself,
specifically the titles and other nods to
African-American vernacular English
and culture.
Immediately, the title of this book brings
to mind two of my favorite literary
tributes to my hometown
of South Central Los Angeles.
The 90s classics, You Know How We Do It by
(03:12):
Ice Cube and
This Is How We Do It by Montel Jordan.
But how we do it is more than just a wink
or nod to refrains in those songs.
It is an invitation to sit in on a
conversation between elders,
older siblings, and big homies as they lay
out their lessons, the recipes, and the
(03:33):
histories that connect us.
This isn't just about writing.
This is about how we do it.
And the section titles continue this
primarily in the form of questions that
sound like the kind of things an auntie
would ask me if she bumped into me out and about.
For example, the first section asks...
(03:54):
Who are your people? before it delves into
character development, while a later
section gets into form by asking what it
looked like.
The use of AAVE in common sayings continues
to reinforce that this is how we do it.
This is how we
communicate.
So my first lesson from this book was to
(04:14):
know my audience and speak to that audience
unashamedly.
Or, in the words of many a black elder,
what's understood don't need to be
explained.
As a black writer, as a black woman writer,
as a black woman writer of a certain age, I
find myself constantly shuffling between
writing for an audience that understands me
(04:35):
and my work
and spending more time translating,
explaining, or even removing elements from
my work to make it more accessible for
outside audiences.
And by not explaining its titles, how we do
it models the former so well.
Their primary audience is obvious, and they
remain the primary concern.
(04:55):
That doesn't mean that other people can't
read or glean anything from it.
This is as much an invitation to black
writers
as it is a declaration to other writers
that we've seen countless craft books about
how they do it.
Now, this is how we do it.
The next lesson comes from Seven Brides for
(05:15):
Seven Mothers,
an essay by the incomparable Rita Dove.
This essay appears in a section called How
You Living,
dedicated to what it means to live and work
as a capital W writer.
I can almost hear Ms.
Rita's no-nonsense tone when she begins the
essay with,
I do not like how to write manuals.
(05:37):
a daring declaration roughly 1/3 of the way
through what is, for all intents and
purposes,
a how we write manual.
I knew then that she was going to rock my
world, and she did.
She gives us a list, and dear listener, you
know your girl BB loves a list.
It's a list of seven declarative statements
she delivered at a seminar.
(05:58):
opening with the phrase, no excuses, which
still echoes in my head every time I think
of giving up a project,
and ends with the unironically poetic,
silence is the shadow of the word,
which gave me the poet tingles.
Of those seven gems, two of them actually,
though, gave me pause,
one of which actually kind of hurt my
(06:20):
feelings, if I'm being honest.
I won't spoil it for you, but it kind of
dismissed something that I love
and have shared here with you all.
It stung a bit to read and I almost
stopped.
This is where the lesson comes in first.
Ms.
Reader already told us
she does not like how-to manuals because
they tend to present a single writer's takes
(06:41):
as the gospel for all to follow.
So these seven statements may be her
commandments, but they don't have to be mine.
And that was okay.
She goes on to reflect on the experience of
sharing those statements so many years ago,
follows up with another updated list of
what she calls positive rifts
on the first list.
(07:01):
And here's where the second of many lessons
from her
comes in.
How-to lists don't have to come in the form
of reprimands or finger wags.
They can look like a list of loves.
Think about it.
Writing is so often posited as a painful
thing, something we do in agony or despair, or
we face agony and despair if we don't write.
(07:24):
But what about the joy?
Ms.
Rita doubles back to that list and offers
us a softer place to land.
And there is the third thing I took away
from her essay.
It's okay to change your mind, change your
approach, and change your perspective.
Three.
Last year, long after I pitched this
(07:45):
episode on how we do it, and after I'd
combed through it, mining for jewels, I
returned to it again.
This time.
looking for comfort.
In the essay, Writing Through Loss and
Sorrow, Poetry as a Practice of Healing,
poet Frank X.
Walker reminded me of how I came to write poetry
in the 1st place as a nerdy middle schooler
(08:06):
with a love for books.
I was grieving.
The year was 1999, and I lost my maternal
grandmother.
And here it was, 2024, and I lost another
grandmother, paternal this time.
In this time,
I really needed to be reminded
about writing
and that writing poetry was how I dug my
way into, through, and out of grief before.
(08:29):
Though I would also argue that grief never
leaves us.
Walker shares his own experiences with loss
in mourning and how poetry served him
during his healing journey.
I say that I went to this essay in hopes of
finding something that would make me feel
better, but dear listener,
it didn't.
Not at first.
See, I've been ducking and dodging my grief
(08:50):
like some type of restless animal just to
flinch away from sprinting in any direction
that wasn't
here.
where things were sad and dark and felt
bottomless.
I filled my space, both physical and
mental, with noise.
Music,
audiobooks, podcasts,
commitments to friends and family and work.
(09:11):
And through his own bereavement, Walker
says he was advised by a soon-to-be
departed relative to find some quiet.
And for him, that was the blank page.
Dear listener, I
sighed,
heavy.
As I highlighted that portion, I just
stared at it,
fighting with the truth of it.
(09:31):
Tears pricked my eyes, angry tears.
What do you mean I need to find some
quiet?
Couldn't he see that I needed the noise?
I can't write about this grief.
I'm too busy.
Later, when discussing the kind of creative
shutdown
that I'm talking about, Walker notes that
shutting down like this can mean shutting
off from the balm or the cure just when we
(09:54):
need it most.
And there I was,
stuck.
How could I deny it?
I knew writing was a bomb.
I'd done it before.
Thankfully, Walker didn't leave me hanging.
The second half of this essay offers a
writing exercise for folks healing after loss.
Again, I won't spoil it here, but it is one
that I go back to
again and again.
(10:17):
Four.
The next lesson comes from the ever
evocative Evie Shockley,
a poet's poet if there ever was one.
Her essay, Nothing New, Black Poetic
Experiment,
opens the penultimate section, how to read,
influence, and how writers use their
reading
to lead to new writing.
I walked into that essay like the
(10:39):
know-it-all I am, like a deaconess on the
front pew, ready to shout amen and wave my
fan at just the right time because I'd heard
the sermon before. Hell,
I've given the sermon before.
In classrooms, in bookstores, in random
alleys, I've said, if you want to write,
read, so many times, the crude outline of a
(10:59):
book in a quill
just might be in hieroglyphs carved into my skull.
And then, shockly,
shocks me.
A delicious jolt that makes me sit up
straight and forget all about my fan and my
position on that pew.
This isn't just an essay about why writers
should read or even who they should read.
(11:19):
It's more than that.
It's truly an experiment, an exploration of
language, flouting convention.
Shockley grabs me by the shoulders and
shakes me when she says,
an experiment is useless to someone who
supposedly knows everything
because an experiment emerges from
a question.
I keep reading, poised to highlight the
(11:40):
steps to asking such an important question
and where and when and to whom
to lodge that question and await an answer.
And this is where
the lesson comes in for me.
We read craft essays looking for answers.
This essay offers
none.
Instead, it gives us this,
(12:02):
permission to question.
Honestly,
as I say permission, I think I really need
a command to question,
a mission even.
Wield your curiosity like a sledgehammer or
a chisel.
Uncover something within the language slowly
and gently or smash it to bits to see what
(12:23):
it's made of.
And finally,
Evie Shockley issues an edict to read,
not the essay she's written,
but the work that's out there,
the poetry.
My last and final preview here of the
lessons I learned from how we do it
comes from yet another award-winning
writer,
Mitchell S.
(12:44):
Jackson.
The aptly titled Revision
isn't a standard list of revision tactics.
This isn't a guide to what to keep or what
to keep in if you want to be a bestseller.
Instead,
Jackson enters stage left
and swaggers into the spotlight as a young
dope dealer in the moment before his arrest
and incarceration.
(13:05):
Something that I'm sure you know he's
written about before.
But this is different.
We know the story and we know the man, but
we don't know the rough draft of his
worldview,
the rough draft of his life.
In bold font, Jackson announces, revision
is a philosophy.
Revision is revolution.
(13:26):
And as the old folks would say on Sundays,
it's the second half that blessed me.
Jackson is talking revolution, but it isn't
the leather jacket,
beret, bullhorn revolution that usually
comes to mind.
He presents a scenario in which he can
speak to the homies, young men like he used
to be, and convince them that they are
(13:46):
still in medias res.
He marches out three such homies and pairs
each of their stories with a stage of
revision.
The stories are heavy
and hard to hold, sharp edges of
incarceration and death waiting to snag
and rip at you.
But when taken with the language of
revision, they offer hope.
(14:07):
Jackson says, hope for more and for better
is at the heart of
revision.
And I say, and that is at the heart of
revolution.
And that's when I realized the lesson for
me in this,
that sometimes what you have facing you on
the page or in life
may be rough,
but there is hope.
If not for this piece, then the next one,
(14:29):
and the next one, and the next one,
because there is always
a next one.
Well, that's my time, folks.
I highly recommend checking out How We Do
It, Black Writers on Craft, Practice, and Skill,
published by Amistad Books, an imprint of
HarperCollins.
If you enjoyed what you heard today, check
(14:50):
out past episodes like Episode 29, where
Lori shares six books to jumpstart your
creativity,
or
Episode 43, where Leo reflects on creative
practice as a form of resistance.
Be sure to like and follow us for more.
We have some great episodes coming up that
you don't want to miss.
If you really want to get a gold star in
our hearts, share this with a friend to
(15:10):
help us grow our community here.
For more information about the Poetry Lab
podcast, check us out at
www.thepoetrylab.com/podcast.
And you can find me, your girl Bebe, on
Instagram @BridgetBianca. And
you can add me to your bookshelves by
grabbing the second edition of my book,
Be Trouble, published by Writ Large Press.
(15:34):
Talk to y'all later.
Happy writing.
(00:00):
If you're like me, you've probably attended
a craft talk or 200
and have devoured an alarming number of
essays, articles, and books,
all promising to unlock the secrets of
writing.
Whether we walked away skeptical,
scandalized, or schooled,
we continue to search for answers, advice,
and assurances.
(00:20):
Well, friends,
I'm here to add another tone to your TBR.
Welcome to the Poetry Lab Podcast.
The Poetry Lab started 11 years ago to help
dedicated, self-taught, and formally
trained writers find a place in their
(00:42):
community to write,
read,
learn,
and collaborate.
We help writers tap into their craft with
radical self-compassion,
unlike anything you've ever seen in a
creative writing classroom before.
If you're a creative person trying to
establish a writing practice in the real world,
this podcast is designed to help you carve
(01:05):
out the time,
the courage,
and the inspiration to keep writing your
new shit.
Are you ready, poet?
Let's get into it.
The book,
How We Do It, Black Writers on Craft,
(01:26):
Practice, and Skill,
edited by Punitzer Prize-winning poet
Jericho Brown.
This collection of just over 30 essays
features contributions from poets like Rita
Dove and Evie Shockley,
novelists like Ernest Gaines and Tiare Jones,
and non-fiction writers like Morgan Jerkins
and Mitchell S.
Jackson.
(01:46):
I was especially excited to find writers
integral to my education at Howard
University,
E.
Ethelbert Miller, who I've mentioned here
on the podcast before,
Tony Medina and Dana Williams,
all brought together and presented by the
historic Hurston Wright Foundation.
After all of my years of study, I can
honestly say this book is
unprecedented.
(02:07):
I don't know of any other book that
contains so many black writers discussing craft.
Usually, I have to dig around several
books, blogs, magazines, and fuzzy YouTube
clips to come up with any of these riches.
But it's all here, packed in a beautiful
fuchsia violet book.
A wealth.
But don't worry, folks, this is not just a
book review of how we do it.
(02:29):
I won't bore you with that.
Instead, in this episode of the Poetry Lab
Podcast,
I'd like to share with you five things I
learned and applied
to my writing practice after reading this book.
and then you can check it out for yourself
and take what you need.
Deal?
Deal.
One.
(02:49):
My first lesson came not from an essay at
all, but from the creation of the book
itself,
specifically the titles and other nods to
African-American vernacular English
and culture.
Immediately, the title of this book brings
to mind two of my favorite literary
tributes to my hometown
of South Central Los Angeles.
The 90s classics, You Know How We Do It by
(03:12):
Ice Cube and
This Is How We Do It by Montel Jordan.
But how we do it is more than just a wink
or nod to refrains in those songs.
It is an invitation to sit in on a
conversation between elders,
older siblings, and big homies as they lay
out their lessons, the recipes, and the
(03:33):
histories that connect us.
This isn't just about writing.
This is about how we do it.
And the section titles continue this
primarily in the form of questions that
sound like the kind of things an auntie
would ask me if she bumped into me out and about.
For example, the first section asks...
(03:54):
Who are your people? before it delves into
character development, while a later
section gets into form by asking what it
looked like.
The use of AAVE in common sayings continues
to reinforce that this is how we do it.
This is how we
communicate.
So my first lesson from this book was to
(04:14):
know my audience and speak to that audience
unashamedly.
Or, in the words of many a black elder,
what's understood don't need to be
explained.
As a black writer, as a black woman writer,
as a black woman writer of a certain age, I
find myself constantly shuffling between
writing for an audience that understands me
(04:35):
and my work
and spending more time translating,
explaining, or even removing elements from
my work to make it more accessible for
outside audiences.
And by not explaining its titles, how we do
it models the former so well.
Their primary audience is obvious, and they
remain the primary concern.
(04:55):
That doesn't mean that other people can't
read or glean anything from it.
This is as much an invitation to black
writers
as it is a declaration to other writers
that we've seen countless craft books about
how they do it.
Now, this is how we do it.
The next lesson comes from Seven Brides for
(05:15):
Seven Mothers,
an essay by the incomparable Rita Dove.
This essay appears in a section called How
You Living,
dedicated to what it means to live and work
as a capital W writer.
I can almost hear Ms.
Rita's no-nonsense tone when she begins the
essay with,
I do not like how to write manuals.
(05:37):
a daring declaration roughly 1/3 of the way
through what is, for all intents and
purposes,
a how we write manual.
I knew then that she was going to rock my
world, and she did.
She gives us a list, and dear listener, you
know your girl BB loves a list.
It's a list of seven declarative statements
she delivered at a seminar.
(05:58):
opening with the phrase, no excuses, which
still echoes in my head every time I think
of giving up a project,
and ends with the unironically poetic,
silence is the shadow of the word,
which gave me the poet tingles.
Of those seven gems, two of them actually,
though, gave me pause,
one of which actually kind of hurt my
(06:20):
feelings, if I'm being honest.
I won't spoil it for you, but it kind of
dismissed something that I love
and have shared here with you all.
It stung a bit to read and I almost
stopped.
This is where the lesson comes in first.
Ms.
Reader already told us
she does not like how-to manuals because
they tend to present a single writer's takes
(06:41):
as the gospel for all to follow.
So these seven statements may be her
commandments, but they don't have to be mine.
And that was okay.
She goes on to reflect on the experience of
sharing those statements so many years ago,
follows up with another updated list of
what she calls positive rifts
on the first list.
(07:01):
And here's where the second of many lessons
from her
comes in.
How-to lists don't have to come in the form
of reprimands or finger wags.
They can look like a list of loves.
Think about it.
Writing is so often posited as a painful
thing, something we do in agony or despair, or
we face agony and despair if we don't write.
(07:24):
But what about the joy?
Ms.
Rita doubles back to that list and offers
us a softer place to land.
And there is the third thing I took away
from her essay.
It's okay to change your mind, change your
approach, and change your perspective.
Three.
Last year, long after I pitched this
(07:45):
episode on how we do it, and after I'd
combed through it, mining for jewels, I
returned to it again.
This time.
looking for comfort.
In the essay, Writing Through Loss and
Sorrow, Poetry as a Practice of Healing,
poet Frank X.
Walker reminded me of how I came to write poetry
in the 1st place as a nerdy middle schooler
(08:06):
with a love for books.
I was grieving.
The year was 1999, and I lost my maternal
grandmother.
And here it was, 2024, and I lost another
grandmother, paternal this time.
In this time,
I really needed to be reminded
about writing
and that writing poetry was how I dug my
way into, through, and out of grief before.
(08:29):
Though I would also argue that grief never
leaves us.
Walker shares his own experiences with loss
in mourning and how poetry served him
during his healing journey.
I say that I went to this essay in hopes of
finding something that would make me feel
better, but dear listener,
it didn't.
Not at first.
See, I've been ducking and dodging my grief
(08:50):
like some type of restless animal just to
flinch away from sprinting in any direction
that wasn't
here.
where things were sad and dark and felt
bottomless.
I filled my space, both physical and
mental, with noise.
Music,
audiobooks, podcasts,
commitments to friends and family and work.
(09:11):
And through his own bereavement, Walker
says he was advised by a soon-to-be
departed relative to find some quiet.
And for him, that was the blank page.
Dear listener, I
sighed,
heavy.
As I highlighted that portion, I just
stared at it,
fighting with the truth of it.
(09:31):
Tears pricked my eyes, angry tears.
What do you mean I need to find some
quiet?
Couldn't he see that I needed the noise?
I can't write about this grief.
I'm too busy.
Later, when discussing the kind of creative
shutdown
that I'm talking about, Walker notes that
shutting down like this can mean shutting
off from the balm or the cure just when we
(09:54):
need it most.
And there I was,
stuck.
How could I deny it?
I knew writing was a bomb.
I'd done it before.
Thankfully, Walker didn't leave me hanging.
The second half of this essay offers a
writing exercise for folks healing after loss.
Again, I won't spoil it here, but it is one
that I go back to
again and again.
(10:17):
Four.
The next lesson comes from the ever
evocative Evie Shockley,
a poet's poet if there ever was one.
Her essay, Nothing New, Black Poetic
Experiment,
opens the penultimate section, how to read,
influence, and how writers use their
reading
to lead to new writing.
I walked into that essay like the
(10:39):
know-it-all I am, like a deaconess on the
front pew, ready to shout amen and wave my
fan at just the right time because I'd heard
the sermon before. Hell,
I've given the sermon before.
In classrooms, in bookstores, in random
alleys, I've said, if you want to write,
read, so many times, the crude outline of a
(10:59):
book in a quill
just might be in hieroglyphs carved into my skull.
And then, shockly,
shocks me.
A delicious jolt that makes me sit up
straight and forget all about my fan and my
position on that pew.
This isn't just an essay about why writers
should read or even who they should read.
(11:19):
It's more than that.
It's truly an experiment, an exploration of
language, flouting convention.
Shockley grabs me by the shoulders and
shakes me when she says,
an experiment is useless to someone who
supposedly knows everything
because an experiment emerges from
a question.
I keep reading, poised to highlight the
(11:40):
steps to asking such an important question
and where and when and to whom
to lodge that question and await an answer.
And this is where
the lesson comes in for me.
We read craft essays looking for answers.
This essay offers
none.
Instead, it gives us this,
(12:02):
permission to question.
Honestly,
as I say permission, I think I really need
a command to question,
a mission even.
Wield your curiosity like a sledgehammer or
a chisel.
Uncover something within the language slowly
and gently or smash it to bits to see what
(12:23):
it's made of.
And finally,
Evie Shockley issues an edict to read,
not the essay she's written,
but the work that's out there,
the poetry.
My last and final preview here of the
lessons I learned from how we do it
comes from yet another award-winning
writer,
Mitchell S.
(12:44):
Jackson.
The aptly titled Revision
isn't a standard list of revision tactics.
This isn't a guide to what to keep or what
to keep in if you want to be a bestseller.
Instead,
Jackson enters stage left
and swaggers into the spotlight as a young
dope dealer in the moment before his arrest
and incarceration.
(13:05):
Something that I'm sure you know he's
written about before.
But this is different.
We know the story and we know the man, but
we don't know the rough draft of his
worldview,
the rough draft of his life.
In bold font, Jackson announces, revision
is a philosophy.
Revision is revolution.
(13:26):
And as the old folks would say on Sundays,
it's the second half that blessed me.
Jackson is talking revolution, but it isn't
the leather jacket,
beret, bullhorn revolution that usually
comes to mind.
He presents a scenario in which he can
speak to the homies, young men like he used
to be, and convince them that they are
(13:46):
still in medias res.
He marches out three such homies and pairs
each of their stories with a stage of
revision.
The stories are heavy
and hard to hold, sharp edges of
incarceration and death waiting to snag
and rip at you.
But when taken with the language of
revision, they offer hope.
(14:07):
Jackson says, hope for more and for better
is at the heart of
revision.
And I say, and that is at the heart of
revolution.
And that's when I realized the lesson for
me in this,
that sometimes what you have facing you on
the page or in life
may be rough,
but there is hope.
If not for this piece, then the next one,
(14:29):
and the next one, and the next one,
because there is always
a next one.
Well, that's my time, folks.
I highly recommend checking out How We Do
It, Black Writers on Craft, Practice, and Skill,
published by Amistad Books, an imprint of
HarperCollins.
If you enjoyed what you heard today, check
(14:50):
out past episodes like Episode 29, where
Lori shares six books to jumpstart your
creativity,
or
Episode 43, where Leo reflects on creative
practice as a form of resistance.
Be sure to like and follow us for more.
We have some great episodes coming up that
you don't want to miss.
If you really want to get a gold star in
our hearts, share this with a friend to
(15:10):
help us grow our community here.
For more information about the Poetry Lab
podcast, check us out at
www.thepoetrylab.com/podcast.
And you can find me, your girl Bebe, on
Instagram @BridgetBianca. And
you can add me to your bookshelves by
grabbing the second edition of my book,
Be Trouble, published by Writ Large Press.
(15:34):
Talk to y'all later.
Happy writing.
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