I lost a good friend recently. Monica Jackson was an author who could take a basic romance premise and turn it around to a story of social significance without breaking the romance rules. She created characters who made you want to spend more time in their presence, whether they had a small role or a large one. I can’t tell you the number of times I pointed to this person or that and said they need their own novel, or at least a novella. People will want to hear their story, I said. Monica would laugh and say she could never write all the stories I’d asked for if she had two lifetimes.

She had vision and drive to grasp this new world we’re teetering on the edge of in publishing, quick to move forward with the titles she’d reclaimed, but determined to do what was necessary to make them shine…grumbling the whole way that she’d expected it to be easy.

But Monica was so much more than that. She was sharp, intelligent, and aware. As a black author and a black woman, she had experienced the world through different eyes than mine, which led to fascinating discussions about race, gender, religion, sociology, politics, and what have you. There was nothing we couldn’t talk about and explore. She didn’t have it in her to sit back and let things happen. She felt passionately and made no bones about speaking her mind, even while she laughed about the flack she got some of the time.

She was a proud and loving mother. Though I never spoke with her daughter, Monica told me about her often, cheering her successes and supporting her through the times when what should have happened didn’t, usually for reasons that made Monica rant. Often we talked about our kids and their dreams and aspirations, along with the barriers that stood in their way. Nothing made her prouder than when her daughter tried for something that seemed out of reach. It didn’t matter the outcome. It mattered that she didn’t sit by and let the world happen to her, but acted.

Monica had so many plans: plans for her writing, plans to help those in her community who wanted to start their own writing careers, and plans to offer options for women who felt trapped by what society allowed. Even with her health issues, she never stopped thinking beyond herself, as close as to her daughter’s life and as far as the ongoing differences in the opportunities offered black women and how she could help.

That was Monica. I didn’t know her long, but in that time we became daily IM chatters and good friends. We made plans to get together, to take on the world, and just enjoy. When she had a rough time, I supported her. When something kicked me in the teeth, she was quick to return the favor. The world is a dimmer place without her in it. The things she wanted to accomplish, the ideas she had, and the stories she leaves unwritten are lost. No one can step easily into her footprints. She was unique in so many ways, a product of her skin color, her upbringing, her life experiences, and that little extra that comes from how she chose to react and learn from everything she lived.

There is no way I can capture the essence of Monica for you. If you were lucky enough to meet her at some point in your life, I hope you’ll look back on the experience fondly. If not, then maybe some of her energy will filter down through those of us who did so we can continue some of what she started.

The posts I’ve read so far about Monica just go to show that I’m not the only one she connected with, not the only one she made a difference to. To see some of them, you can start here, where I found out what had happened: http://pbackwriter.blogspot.com/2012/05/monica.html