Deidra D. S. Green is highly sought after as a lecturer, educator, and presenter. Her command of the podium, extensive knowledge base, and ability to effectively communicate, has both informed and captivated audiences. They leave challenged, inspired, and wanting more.
Deidra was born in E. St. Louis, IL to the proud parents of Robert W. and M. Catherine Smoot. She is the eldest of the three children; her younger sister Robyn Kaye has been resting with God since 1999. Her baby brother Patrick Schayne, is an educator, author, and a dynamic speaker. Deidra, her two children VcToryann and Kamerron, and her brother reside in Atlanta GA.
Deidra has continued her literary prowess as a freelance writer, literary coach, ghostwriter and professional editor, as well as authoring several books for all age groups. In 2009, she founded The Mahogany Writers Exchange, a writing group for adults interested in honing their writing craft.
Other works by Deidra include:
- From the Outside In (non-fiction, true crime)
- My Forever Airplane (children’s non-fiction)
- Smallest Superhero (Children’s fiction series)
- Smallest Superhero and the CBU (Children’s fiction series)
- Epiphanies While Driving (inspiration/motivation)
- Closet Issues: A Poet’s Journey into the Dark Places (prose/short stories)
- Wordsmithin’ (poetry)
- Twisted Sister (Adult fiction, first installment of Anthology of a Trick)
Where does your passion for writing come from?
My passion for writing emanates from my love of words. I am in awe and understand the power of the written word. And as many writers before me have said, I have always written; not for the viewing public, but for myself. Writing has been my peace in the storm; my respite from anything and everything that has gone on in my life. Regardless of my emotions, whether happy, sad, excited, ambivalent, writing is how I have always expressed myself. Writing for me is like breathing. Without it, I would cease to exist. The passion for writing derives from that internal place, that place of knowing…
If your passion for writing was a color, what color would it be and why?
If my writing were a color, it would be black. Some people see black as a flat, one dimensional color. But black is a penetrating color and mixed with anything changes the context of what it is mixed with. Black has depth and dimensionality, and dependent on whether there is a shine put on it, can be reflective…
How do you keep the passion burning in your relationship with storytelling?
I keep the passion burning for my relationship with storytelling because I genuinely enjoy it. I don’t write for pride or vain glory. I don’t write for money or fame. I write because I was gifted by the Most High with the gift of expression through the written word, through storytelling. When a person writes from an honest, unadulterated and pure place, the rest follows.
It’s very quiet where I am now. I can no longer hear the thud of wet dirt, and the lingering trickle of the last pebbly remainders left on the grave diggers’ spade. At first, the noise was loud, and if I could feel, I would have been very scared. But as the hole started to fill up, even the full spade of dirt seemed far off. I wasn’t afraid of the sound… I couldn’t be. If I could breathe, I would have been holding my breath. But I can’t breathe anymore. It’s actually been a while since I breathed on my own. My ability to see ended a long time ago too. I couldn’t see like everybody else sees; you know, through my own eyes. But I could see in a way. I could see from the outside in. I could see me; lying in a wooden box; made fancy with gold trinkets, and little cupid like angels decorating my new home. I could see the burgundy velvet dress, matching Raggedy Ann hat, and big bow that slightly hid my head that was so crooked. My head hurt then, and I remember the pain. It hurt sooo bad…. I could see all the flowers around me, and with my mind, I could smell them. I had to use my mind to remember what flowers smelled like. My nose no longer worked…it was broken; broken to the point that it no longer had a bridge, broken.
I couldn’t see the shoes I was wearing because the box I was in was only open enough to see the top part of my body. The bottom half of me was covered by the box, and the flowers on top of the box. That was probably best. I had to say goodbye to that half of my body oh so long ago. And even though I can no longer physically feel, I can remember. My memory hurts… I don’t want to talk about that anymore right now.
Before the darkness came, I could see the little chapel. There was no music. I saw the man in the front saying something, but they were words I didn’t understand. It sounded as if he was talking about me, but not really talking about me. I saw the people in the seats; some of them I knew, some I didn’t. I saw my grandma. She had a big smile on her face. She seemed to be in her own world; rocking a little from side to side as if she had her own happy song in her head. I saw my Auntie, who I hadn’t seen for a very long time. She left home before I was born. I’ve seen her mostly in pictures. But I remember her, and she never forgot me. She remembered every birthday, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, and every other holiday. She always seemed to remember me… and she remembers me now.
I saw my Grandpa. He was wearing his favorite suit with the preacher’s collar and big shiny cross on his neck. He was quiet, looking straight ahead; not left or right but straight ahead. The top of his body was really stiff, but at the bottom, his right leg seemed to have a mind all it’s on. It was bouncing up and down really fast, like he was nervous or something. Maybe it was hard for him to see me like this. Maybe…
I saw another man I’d only seen one time before. He looked really sad but I’m not exactly sure why. He was holding a picture of a baby girl who looked a lot like me… like I use to look…but I’m not sure.
And I saw my mother; sitting on the third row. I wondered why she sat so far away from me… why she wasn’t looking at me… why she wasn’t crying for me… Did she miss me?
I’m tired now. I want to rest now. Someone else will have to tell the rest of the story for me; it’s only so much that I know; only so much that I remember…
Besides… I was only five years old when I was murdered.
The evening was drawing to a close and Holly and Blythe waited outside Ms. Catherine’s for a taxi. Blythe lived on the east side of town with her boyfriend and Holly lived closer to midtown. They would need to take separate cabs but as always, agreed to text or call each other as soon as they made it to their respective residents.
The ladies hugged as Blythe jumped in her taxi and headed home. It wouldn’t be long before Holly’s taxi arrived. Holly waited in front of Ms. Catherine’s. She could still hear the music pouring from inside the restaurant. There were plenty of couples out; some arriving at Ms. Catherine’s and some leaving… cozied up next to each other, hugging or holding hands, moving in rhythm to their next destinations. Although it was a week night, there was plenty of activity downtown.
Suddenly, Holly had the feeling she was being watched. It wasn’t like the quick glance someone would take as they passed you by but more like an unbreakable stare. She looked around but didn’t notice anyone noticing her. Although there were a number of people on the street and Holly was not alone or isolated, she hoped the cab would hurry and arrive.
Instinctively, Holly was on high alert. She repositioned herself closer to the door of Ms. Catherine’s and physically leaned against the building… that way; no one could walk behind her and catch her off guard. She continued to scan the street and people in front of and around her. Holly didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone somewhere was watching her.
Holly was becoming increasingly unnerved as she stood in front of Ms. Catherine’s. The night air was brisk, giving Holly a chill. The people around her continued to go on with their lives, the music continued to pour out of the restaurant, and Holly continued on high alert. Finally, the taxi cab pulled up. It couldn’t have arrived soon enough. Holly was relieved to climb into the back seat, lock the door and make her way home.
She didn’t engage in conversation with the cab driver, she was much too on edge for idle chatter. She just wanted to get home.
The cab moved swiftly through the dimly lit streets. Holly was glad for the free flowing traffic; so different than it was during the hustle and bustle most typical of the work day.
Even though the taxi ride was smooth and uneventful, Holly was still having a hard time relaxing. Her body was tense and her mind was filled with speculation. Holly still felt a little chilly; the goose bumps on her arm still raised from the briskness of the night air. Then she realized why. She had inadvertently left her suit jacket hanging on the back of her chair. Any other time Holly would have instructed the driver to turn around so she could retrieve her jacket. But Holly had been so uncomfortable and still a little on edge, she made the decision to just call Ms. Catherine’s when she got home and have them hold it until she could get back there in the next day or so to pick it up.
The cab arrived in front of her building. Without an exchange of words, Holly paid the driver, and made her way out of the vehicle. Holly’s focus was getting her keys out of her clutch, and getting into her apartment as fast as she could. As she scurried toward the door to her building, her phone began to buzz. Taking the phone from her purse, she instantly recognized the number. It was Blythe. Holly was fumbling with the keys and trying to answer the phone when she saw him… it was Trent… standing in the darkened shadows cast by Holly’s high rise luxury apartment building. Holly was shocked.