Literary Works
Abstract
I would like to introduce you to SoulShaker, a creative non-fiction manuscript about desire, envy, and a penchant for deceit.
Based on my own experiences as a classical and gospel pianist, back-up singer, lead vocalist, songwriter, and producer, my objective is to share the sacrifices and rewards of being a crossover artist, the challenges facing women in music, and how the many misconceptions about musical talent diminish the industry's ability to address it effectively. 

That said, I want my writing to be notable for the way in which it explores the search of artistic and personal integrity, and in particular, the complex social pressure related to being a woman.
Because I see literature as a commanding transmitter of cultural values, it is a privilege to follow the women writers whose work examines some of the ideas, behaviors, and conditions that disable women in their careers, their relationships with men, and with each other.
The voices of the ancestors take over and compel me to write as a way of figuring out my place in this world. I remember when our music allowed us to survive the loss of our history. I write by remembering.
LaForrest Cope
New York City, January 2021
Precis
In SoulShaker, Lala is a independent young woman who happens to be a professional musician with years of experience as a singer, songwriter, and one of this country's first woman record producer in the 1980s. This bildungsroman opens in New York City’s borough of Queens in the 70s during her early teens. In the process, she forms her own band, tours and records her own songs; songs that sprout wings and soon “crossover” from the “chitlin circuit” all the way up the charts at a time in American history when black lives always seemed to matter whenever it came to our musical culture.
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Lala’s meteoric rise to success demonstrates that the career of bright lights, which a million wannabes would die for, can often lead to a lethal jolt of high wattage. The difference between being an artist and a star often consists of stoking that penchant for deceit.
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 After years of "basement" band practices and gigs, Lala's songs “crossover” from the chitlin circuit onto the pop charts, all at a time in American musical history when R&B music, the corporate product of the post 1970s era, blended with other styles of funk and rock, to create a new pop music sound and global cultural phenomenon generating billions of dollars in corporate revenue. 
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This narrative chronicles the moral and emotional journey of Lala, from her parents' flawed marriage to the realization of her boyfriend's individual success. Her attachment to both inform her agency both in and outside America. As a backup singer on tour traveling light, LALA confuses her personal and professional desire, as both feed into her search for musical recognition.
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Her dysfunctional past provides the tools necessary for her to navigate the mediocrity, greed, and genius in the music industry. Her greatest lesson is to learn the difference between being an artist and a star. 
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SoulShaker probes the agony of doubt and the silence of God. Through it all, Lala’s meteoric rise to success demonstrates how a career of bright lights that a million wannabes would die for may just kill her. And even if she survives, she has to decide whether or not it is worth the price of her soul...
The Piano Lesson
by
Romare Bearden
PUBLISHED LITERARY WORK:
Newtown Literary
So pleased to be asked to contribute to a literary journal and have my first chapter of Soul Shaker published on my birthday. Holla!
Poems
Church Girl in Stripper Heels by LaForrest Cope
She dips the microphone back into its boom stand, red hair blazing, upturned palms stretched out to catch the spirit while she is in its path.
Rattling inside her gold bangles inside her micro mini skirt and ruby stilettos strapped at the ankles, she pants like a gazelle with nothing to hide.
Strutting swiftly, she wields wild rhythms (a lifesaving device) meant to belie anything resembling fear; lost without that note.
At the foot of her stage, bodies in motion beckon her overexposed ebony ribcage to resonate out to the dance floor pulsing with noise as they yield to her incantation:
If ya’ll know what I’m talkin bout say yeah! And with no solace to be found, this church girl in stripper heels reaches into an abyss and calls forth a voice that speaks
the language of the soul and snatches that microphone out of its stand..she knocks you out like a boxer in a ring.
She knocks you out like a boxer in a ring, she knocks you out like a boxer in a ring. Fighting for her life
You Think You’re Tired? One Single Mother’s All-Nighter
Two o’clock in the morning. This is not gonna last. Hurry up sleep come on. And make it sooner than later. At least he has finally closed his eyes. Wonder what makes my precocious son want to stay up past a normal bedtime. Is it the thought that he might be missing something? It is as if he thinks a part of life will be passing him by, or perhaps it has to do with his measureless curiosity. Whatever it is he sure keeps me on my toes. Always asking questions: “Mommy, what does vice versa mean?” “How come we drive on a parkway and park in a driveway?” “Which Pokémon you wanna be, huh, huh, huh? I’m Charizard.”
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Rummaging through my brain for the right answer, I say, “Jigglypuff.”
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So much energy inside that pint-sized body. Forty-eight inches tall and look at him already. Reaching for the sky. If he knew what I know, he would greet sleep with open arms and welcome its arrival like a visit from a fine friend. Nah. He’s much too young to think that way. He has miles to go before he adopts such a train of thought. There are times—like right now—when I would much rather be asleep than awake. Then I could break up this monotony of my daily routine.
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What time is it? Two thirty? Oh God, I forgot to do the laundry. Tomorrow is gym, and his gym uniform is dirty. Thought it was yesterday and what I keep putting off until tomorrow is due today. I’ll just wake up an hour earlier to wash that uniform, or else he’ll be even more of an outcast than he already is being the only nappy headed child in his entire grade up in that private school. Can’t have that.
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One day he will be older and like Emerson become more self-reliant, allowing me a lighter schedule. I hope. I wish. I could be a stay-at-home mom, but somebody’s gotta pay the bills. Seems like none of our mothers ever worked when we were kids. But then again, they were not tryin to own everything in sight either. Why do we live our lives caring so much about what we own? Material things. The big house, the big car (what’s the gas mileage on that Hummer again?) taking big vacations, and don’t forget the big bank account (wonder what happened to my forty acres and a mule, never mind my 401K) Still can’t believe I did not do that laundry? This is the third time this month. Lately, I’ve been forgetting everything.
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Could be something Freudian? Maybe I’m just sick and tired of having to be and do it all: the madness of the never-ending cleaning (where does dust come from anyway?); the fifty ways to cook chicken; the dreadful 6 a.m. bedside clock alarm; the stopping whatever I’m doing to put him to bed; the scheduling of the doctor and dentist (aren’t
those his permanent teeth, yet?) appointments; the dressing up for church (thank God we converted from Baptist to Catholic); the dressing down for play dates; the dropping off; the picking up; the tantrums; the comforting, the scolding; the clothes hanger mobile project and so hard-to-find at the last minute Styrofoam Solar System science project; the “don’t forget” to brush your teeth (soon it will be the braces) reminder every single night before bedtime, and the tummy ache every morning before school (who keeps stealing your lunch?) Just shoot me.
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Still, like clockwork we rise with the sun, eat a good breakfast, wash up and head on out the door all set and ready to go every weekday morning no later than 8:05. I’ve never gotten used to rising so early in the morning day after day. Never had to until I had him. Always was a late riser. My head never did and still never hits my pillow until 2:00 a.m. Seems like I always find something else that needs to be done after midnight whether it’s business or pleasure. Maybe I’m the one he gets the night owl bug from.
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What time is it now? Three o’clock? This is not gonna last. Hurry up Seep; I need you up in here.
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https://femamom.wordpress.com/2011/06/23/you-think-youre-tired-one-single-mothers-nightly-routine/
Our Song by LaForrest Cope
1. Its Breath
The first time I heard you sing light poured down through a hole in the clouds
Tears filled my eyes, and the wind held its breath
How can I build my hope in you? I will sing in your choir and watch you while you worship
No one will notice
2. In the Center
With just a little luck, we will be another story
The one that was meant to happen. The intended story
We will curl up in the stillness in the center of the dark
where faith sings the tune that we learned by heart
3. The Wreckage
We will become better than
what we are now
When they dig through the ruins
I hope they can use something
that we’ve left behind somewhere in the wreckage
our song.
Diva Envy
Nobody sings the story no more. Think Whitney in her day.
Ain't nobody ever turned the National Anthem
into a top ten song, Momma used ta say.
Very few sisters crossed over & scored, like the Princess of Pop & Soul did so nobody sings the story no more.
Think Whitney on a roll: way off the chain, stylin strawberry blonde, wet and wavy bangs; workin winter white couture evening gowns and sequined slings.
I went to wish her inner peace without all that bling. She said Don't aim for the fame yet spawned her own legacy of divas.
Not one has her gift. Child, please. My girl sang,
but she wasn't tough. She took in everybody, and anybody till
shit got rough
See, there’s somethin bout Whitney's voice when it whispers I ain’t afraid,
So, unless you’re willing to go toe to toe, don’t you set one foot on that stage. Her strength comes from church, Momma used ta say.