The Heart of a Woman

“Remarkable . . . a great lady moving right on through a great memoir.” –Kirkus Reviews “Maya Angelou has . . . achieved a kind of literary breakthrough which few writers of any time, place, or race achieve. . . . What makes [her] writing unique is . . . a melding of unconcerned honesty, consummate craft, and perfect descriptive pitch, yielding a rare compound of great emotional force and authenticity.” –The Washington Post Book World “To say that Angelou is a living legend is in no way an exaggeration. [She is] one of the great voices of contemporary literature.” –The Voice “Angelou is one of the geniuses of the Afro-American serial autobiography.” –The New York Times “A uniquely gifted wordsmith and storyteller.” –The San Diego Union-Tribune Maya Angelou was raised in Stamps, Arkansas. In addition to her bestselling autobiographies, including I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings and The Heart of a Woman, she wrote numerous volumes of poetry, among them Phenomenal Woman, And Still I Rise, On the Pulse of Morning, and Mother . Maya Angelou died in 2014. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. The Harlem Writer's Guild was meeting at John's house, and my palms were sweating and my tongue was thick.xa0xa0The loosely formed organization, withoutxa0xa0dues or membership cards, had one strict rule: any invited guest could sit inxa0xa0for three meetings, but thereafter, the visitor had to read from his or herxa0xa0work in progress.xa0xa0My time had come. Sara Wright and Sylvester Leeksxa0xa0stood in a corner talking softly.xa0xa0John Clarke was staring at titles in thexa0xa0bookcase.xa0xa0Mary Delaney and Millie Jordan were giving their coats to Gracexa0xa0and exchanging greetings.xa0xa0The other writers were already seated around thexa0xa0living room in a semicircle. John Killens walked past me, touching myxa0xa0shoulder, took his seat and called the meeting to order. "O.K.,xa0xa0everybody.xa0xa0Let's start." Chairs scraped the floor and the soundsxa0xa0reverberated in my armpits.xa0xa0"As you know, our newest member, our Californiaxa0xa0singer, is going to read from her new play.xa0xa0What's the title,xa0xa0Maya?" "One Love, One Life." My usually deep voice leaked outxa0xa0high-pitched and weak. A writer asked how many acts the play had.xa0xa0Ixa0xa0answered again in the piping voice, "So far only one." Everyonexa0xa0laughed; they thought I was making a joke. "If everyone is ready, wexa0xa0can begin." John picked up his note pad.xa0xa0There was a loud rustling as thexa0xa0writers prepared to take notes. I read the character and setxa0xa0description despite the sudden perversity of my body.xa0xa0The blood pounded inxa0xa0my ears but not enough to drown the skinny sound of my voice.xa0xa0My hands shookxa0xa0so that I had to lay the pages in my lap, but that was not a good solutionxa0xa0due to the tricks my knees were playing.xa0xa0They lifted voluntarily, pulling myxa0xa0heels off the floor and then trembled like disturbed Jello.xa0xa0Before Ixa0xa0launched into the play's action, I looked around at the writers expecting butxa0xa0hoping not to see their amusement at my predicament.xa0xa0Their faces werexa0xa0studiously blank.xa0xa0Within a year, I was to learn that each had a horror storyxa0xa0about a first reading at the Harlem Writers Guild. Time wrapped itselfxa0xa0around every word, slowing me.xa0xa0I couldn't force myself to read faster. Thexa0xa0pages seemed to be multiplying even as I was trying to reduce them.xa0xa0The playxa0xa0was dull, the characters, unreal, and the dialogue was taken entirely off thexa0xa0back of a Campbell's soup can.xa0xa0I knew this was my first and last time at thexa0xa0Guild.xa0xa0Even if I hadn't the grace to withdraw voluntarily, I was certain thexa0xa0members had a method of separating the wheat from the chaff. "The End."xa0xa0At last. The members laid their notes down beside their chairsxa0xa0and a few got up to use the toilets.xa0xa0No one spoke.xa0xa0Even as I read I knewxa0xa0the drama was bad, but maybe someone would have lied a little. Thexa0xa0room filled.xa0xa0Only the whispering of papers shifting told me that the juryxa0xa0was ready. John Henrik Clarke, a taut little man from the South,xa0xa0cleared his throat.xa0xa0If he was to be the first critic, I knew I would receivexa0xa0the worst sentence.xa0xa0John Clarke was famous in the group for his keenxa0xa0intelligence and bitter wit.xa0xa0He had supposedly once told the FBI that theyxa0xa0were wrong to think that he would sell out his home state of Georgia; he added that he would give it away, and if he found no takers he would even payxa0xa0someone to take it. "One Life.xa0xa0One Love?" His voice was axa0xa0raspxa0xa0of disbelief.xa0xa0"I found no life and very little love in the play from thexa0xa0opening of the act to its unfortunate end." Using superhuman power, Ixa0xa0kept my mouth closed and my eyes on my yellow pad. He continued, hisxa0xa0voice lifting.xa0xa0"In 1879, on a March evening, Alexander Graham Bellxa0xa0successfully completed his attempts to send the human voice through a littlexa0xa0wire.xa0xa0The following morningxa0xa0some frustrated playwright, unwilling to buildxa0xa0the necessary construction plot, began his play with a phone call." Axa0xa0general deprecating murmur floated in the air. "Aw, John" and "Don'txa0xa0be so mean" and "Ooo Johnnn, you ought to be ashamed."xa0xa0Their moans were facetious, mere accompaniment to their relish. Grace invited everyonexa0xa0to drinks, and the crowd rose and started milling around, while I stayed inxa0xa0my chair. Grace called to me.xa0xa0"Come on, Maya.xa0xa0Have a drink. Youxa0xa0need it."xa0xa0I grinned and knew movement was out of the question. Killens came over.xa0xa0"Good thing you stayed.xa0xa0You got some very important criticism." He, too, could slide to hell straddling knotted greasy rope.xa0xa0 "Don't just sit there.xa0xa0If they think you're too sensitive, you won't getxa0xa0such valuable criticism the next time you read." The next time? Hexa0xa0wasn't as bright as he looked.xa0xa0I would never see those snotty bastards asxa0xa0long as I stayed black and their asses pointed toward the ground.xa0xa0I put axa0xa0nasty-sweet smile on my face and nodded. "That's right, Maya Angelou,xa0xa0show them you can take anything they can dish out.xa0xa0Let me tell youxa0xa0something." He started to sit down beside me, but mercifully another writerxa0xa0called him away. I measured the steps from my chair to the door. Ixa0xa0could make it in ten strides. "Maya, you've got a story toxa0xa0tell." I looked up into John Clarke's solemn face. "I think Ixa0xa0can speak for the Harlem Writer's Guild.xa0xa0We're glad to have you.xa0xa0Johnxa0xa0Killens came back from California talking about your talent.xa0xa0Well, in thisxa0xa0group we remind each other that talent is not enough.xa0xa0You've got to work.xa0xa0 Write each sentence over and over again, until it seems you've used everyxa0xa0combination possible, then write it again.xa0xa0Publishers don't care much forxa0xa0white writers." He coughed or laughed.xa0xa0"You can imagine what they think about black ones.xa0xa0Come on.xa0xa0Let's get a drink." I got up and followed him without a first thought. Read more