Memoir writer. Expat. Millennial. Sarcastic as hell. Black & female. Survived love, loss, and trauma—now turning it into two raw, funny, heartfelt books.
This is just a teaser…but keep reading to see the real cover of Extraordinary Machine!
The Big (Stupid?) Idea: Do It All Myself
When I first started writing my memoir, I had this brilliant stupid idea: I was going to do everything myself. Yes, including the book cover.
I figured—why not? I had some basic Photoshop skills, a decent eye for design, and a working knowledge of Canva thanks to my Sims modding days. So I turned to AI and generated an image for the cover of Extraordinary Machine.
It wasn’t great.
Garbled Text and a Messy Heart
The original AI mockup of my concept for the Extraordinary Machine book cover.
While I loved the floral aesthetic and the concept: a mechanical heart surrounded by gears, the final image looked messy. And AI, at the time, wasn’t great at rendering readable text; it has actually improved in the months since then.
I spent two hours in Canva trying to make it work. But eventually, I had to face the truth: this wasn’t my lane. My lane is storytelling. I needed help from someone with artistic talent.
Finding Help: Enter Reedsy (and Avoiding Fiverr Fails)
I discovered Reedsy, a platform that connects writers with freelance professionals, including cover designers, editors, audiobook narrators, and more. The process is simple:
Write a pitch for your book
Choose five professionals whose work speaks to you
Wait and hope that at least one replies, fits your budget, and vibes with your vision
I also checked out Fiverr, but it was a no for me. While there are some legit artists on there, it’s also flooded with scammers and Canva bandits passing off stolen work. I literally saw someone using a Toni Morrison cover in their portfolio. Absolutely not.
Love at First Scroll: Finding Nick Low
Artwork by Nick Low for YEVU Clothing’s 2021 fundraising campaign supporting LGBT+ Rights Ghana. Inspired by the photography of Joseph Abbey-Mensah.
On Reedsy, I found five artists I liked—but one stood out immediately. Nick Low, an American expat living in Sydney, just like me.
His art was stunning: vibrant, emotional, and rich with depictions of Black women and joy.
I hadn’t thought about it consciously before picking an illustrator. Still, I realised in that moment that it was meaningful to collaborate with a fellow person of colour on something as personal as my memoir about my life.
And I realised that even if Nick didn’t take the job, I still thought that I’d love to buy his artwork and hang it in my apartment.
I sent him my pitch. He replied within a few hours. He got it—all of it. The heart of the story, the symbolism of the mechanical heart, and the shared experience of being people of colour in Australia. His price was fair, and his energy was warm. Still, I did my due diligence and waited to hear from others.
Only one other artist from Reedsy replied and immediately talked down to me. While I was transparent about this being my first book, he was oddly condescending and treated me as if I were an idiot.
Nick, on the other hand, treated me like a creative equal.
Collaboration Magic: Building the Cover
Saying yes to Nick was one of the best decisions I’ve made so far on this self-publishing journey.
He was patient, kind, and intuitive. He never once made me feel foolish or inexperienced. We worked collaboratively; he created the initial mockups, and from there, we refined the design together through several iterations.
And then… the final version arrived.
I cried.
Why This Cover Means So Much
Writing Extraordinary Machine has been a painful, healing, raw, and empowering experience. It’s a memoir about my trauma, my mother, my Nana, and my becoming. There have been days when I’ve questioned everything, as recently as this weekend.
But one thing that has kept me going is the image in my head: me, holding this book in my hands.
That image got me through the hard chapters. And now, thanks to Nick’s incredible talent, that image is real.
Meet the Artist
Nick Low is a brilliant painter and illustrator!
Please support him and follow his work on Instagram at @NickLowPaints, visit his website here, or explore his Reedsy profile if you’re a creative looking for stunning artwork.
I can’t wait to fill my apartment with some of his art.
The Reveal: Extraordinary Machine Cover
The official cover of Extraordinary Machine: A Memoir of Trauma and Resilience by Brittany Brown. Illustrated by Nick Low.
Final Thoughts: Let Yourself Be Helped
To my fellow writers, artists, and stubborn DIY-ers: you don’t have to do it all alone (I wrote more about this here: DIY vs. Outsourcing: What I’m Doing Myself for My Memoir (and What I’m Not)). Let those who are brilliant in their respective fields do their thing. You’ll end up with something better than you ever imagined, and you’ll make meaningful connections along the way.
This book is my heart. And now, it has a face.
✨ Want to Follow the Journey?
Extraordinary Machine is still in progress—but the heart is beating and the story is coming to life.
If you want a front-row seat to the writing process, behind-the-scenes sneak peeks, or just want to cheer me on as I build this dream:
Me now—in full bloom, in full colour. I’m not in Kansas anymore.
I’ve always loved The Wizard of Oz—the original 1939 version. I remember my mom showing it to me when I was little, or maybe I just caught it on TV. They used to play it every Thanksgiving on Turner Classic Movies. I vividly remember watching it as a child, my bedroom completely dark except for the glow of the TV. The grayscale flickered across my face as I sat back on my heels, chubby little cheeks wide and grinning, mesmerised as Dorothy stepped from grey into full Technicolor.
It wasn’t just the visuals that drew me in. Even at five years old, I felt a deep longing, a connection to Dorothy.
If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow, why, oh why can’t I?
That lyric cracked something open in me. Even at that age, I had already seen too much, felt too much, and I knew it.
As I got older, The Wizard of Oz kept showing up.
I was also obsessed with The Wiz—of course I was. A Black version of The Wizard of Oz? With Michael Jackson, my favourite singer of all time? It became just as beloved to me as the original.
In my senior year of high school, our school musical was The Wizard of Oz. Everyone had to audition for Dorothy to be considered for any role. I knew I wouldn’t get it. I was a decent singer but not confident enough to really nail “Over the Rainbow.” My voice cracked when I auditioned.
And this beautiful girl in my year looked like Judy Garland reincarnated and had the voice to match. Spoiler: She got Dorothy. I didn’t.
But I got a significant background role. Two other girls in the choir and I sang harmonies throughout the whole show: we were the background vocals, the poppies, the flying monkeys, everything. It was technically challenging: harmonising, matching the leads, and constant costume changes. But it was so much fun.
I’m at the top right during our high school’s The Wizard of Oz production. I didn’t get Dorothy, but I got harmonies, costume changes, and a further connection to Oz.
That show ended up being more significant than I realised. One of my lifelong friends came into my life because of it. He’d graduated the year before but returned to help with the production. I had just moved to Reno at that point, so we’d never met before, but The Wizard of Oz brought us together. We stayed friends for 20 years. That show changed my life.
Even as the years passed, I never stopped caring about Oz. I didn’t rewatch the movies repeatedly like I did as a kid, but I always stayed tuned in. I watched The Wiz! Live a few years back. It was okay. I’ve listened to dozens of “Over the Rainbow” covers on Spotify. And, of course, I’ve seen Wicked—the movie version, not the stage musical (somehow, I’ve missed it every time it’s come to a city near me).
When I finally watched Wicked, I saw myself in Elphaba. For once, I didn’t relate to Dorothy; I related to the so-called Wicked Witch. But that’s the whole point of Wicked, isn’t it?
I came out of a really deep depression in 2024.
One of the ways I coped was going back to childhood loves—mainly Michael Jackson (I’m working on a piece about this, too, stay tuned). I did a huge deep dive on his unreleased and demo tracks, and that’s when I found “You Can’t Win” from The Wiz again. Of course, I already knew and loved the song. Michael kills it. But I hadn’t heard the extended version before—the second part: “Can’t Get Outta the Rain.” It had been quietly rereleased on Thriller 40.
I started playing that second part obsessively. It was so hopeful, and it made me feel happy; joyful in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time.
But “You Can’t Win” kept following me. I’d be on the way to work and suddenly have it stuck in my head. I’d put it on and wonder, Why this song? Why now?
It was the first time I openly shared my writing with people who knew me, the first time I told my story without a filter—the trauma, the joy, the grief, the grit, all of it. It was also the first time I publicly and proudly claimed my identity as a writer. And the imposter syndrome was brutal.
At 37, I struggled to really step into myself as a writer. I became especially sensitive to people who didn’t seem to take my dreams seriously. No one said anything overtly negative, but I had this moment at work where I casually mentioned that I was planning to print business cards for Brittany Brown Writes. A few colleagues laughed. Maybe it wasn’t a mean laugh, but it stung.
I went home and cried. I’m sensitive. Sometimes, I come off a bit airy-fairy, but this isn’t a hobby. I have an ABN, a website, and a logo. I have over 200,000 words across six viable memoir concepts, not including the fiction and other nonfiction I’ve planned. I’m not just publishing books—I’m building a business. I’m branding myself as an author, editor, mentor, speaker, and ghostwriter.
So yeah. I’m going to print those business cards.
That day, “You Can’t Win” hit different. The scarecrows in the song? They were those coworkers—but they were also me. My imposter syndrome. My inner critic.
And because I’m a deep thinker (read: chronic over-analyser), I realised something: my whole life mirrors The Wizard of Oz. I am Dorothy.
My life has mostly taken place in grayscale—dusty-ass Kansas. But I’ve been walking down the Yellow Brick Road for years now. And when I finally got over the rainbow, I met the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion. Some of those are real people. But mostly, they’re me.
I’m the Scarecrow—I doubt my intelligence.
I’m the Tin Man—I question whether I can give or receive love.
I’m the Cowardly Lion—I’m afraid of everything.
But I’m also Dorothy. I keep walking. Like Dorothy, I’ve had the power all along. I just needed to believe.
Life is the Wizard of Oz.
My mom was the Wizard—a loud, terrifying illusion.
My trauma is the Wicked Witch.
I’m still working on this metaphor, but I know this: I’ve walked through grayscale, and I’ve decided to live in Technicolor.
And no, I don’t want to go back.
I never understood why Dorothy would go back. In the original film, sure—she’s a kid, she has no choice. But in The Wiz? Why would she go back to Harlem after experiencing Oz?
Oz was bright. Oz was alive. Oz was freedom. Why go back to a world that never saw you?
Even rewatching The Wiz recently as an adult, it made even less sense. Her friends (Scarecrow, Lion, Tin Man) said, “Let’s stay here in Oz.”
The Emerald City in The Wiz. I don’t know about you, but this looks fun AF. I, too, want to be dancing in gold all day with sexy black people and seemingly no other cares in the world.
And I get it. I want to stay here too.
Grayscale life had me in bed in 2023 for two and a half months, wanting to die.
Technicolour life is scary, yes. It’s overwhelming. But it’s life. It’s mine. And I’m choosing it.
I’m wearing ruby slippers. My cat, Max, is my Toto. I’m wearing my blue gingham dress. I’m walking forward.
I’m not fully over the rainbow yet—there’s still more Yellow Brick Road ahead. I’ll still nap in poppy fields. I’ll still get scared and want to run home. But for the most part?
While the memoir mainly focuses on my relationship with my mom, this chapter looks at a quieter, unexpected relationship that took time, awkward meals, and a shared dislike of peas to develop into something meaningful.
When my Nana (my grandmother on my mom’s side) married Perry, I wasn’t ready for him. He wasn’t Johnny, the warm grandpa I was used to. Perry was quiet and reserved and didn’t seem interested in the role I expected him to play. I wasn’t very excited about letting him into my life, either.
But as you’ll see in this excerpt, connections have a way of happening unexpectedly. Through small gestures, surprise laughter, and a surprise Goosebumps box set, Perry became more than Nana’s new husband—he became my grandpa.
A Substitute Grandpa
I initially hated my Grandpa Perry.
“I want Johnny!” I remember crying during my first overnight stays with them while they danced to soul music in the living room. It was one of the few times I saw them show affection.
From my perspective, Johnny had just disappeared. He wasn’t just anyone; he was Nana’s long-term boyfriend and the closest thing I’d ever had to a grandfather. I’d grown up with him, wrapped in his unconditional love and impossibly spoiled. So when I met Perry, and Nana told me she and Johnny had broken up, I felt blindsided. I was only seven, and either I was too young to understand the details, or Nana left them out entirely.
All I could think was, ‘What happened to my beloved Johnny, with his warm hugs and Gatorade? Why wasn’t he with us here? I hadn‘t even had a chance to say goodbye. And why had he been replaced with this beer-bellied, boring man who spent all his time glued to ESPN?’
Perry never seemed to get over my first tearful outburst. So, he approached me carefully.
He seemed exhausted by the mere idea of me. His kids were around my mom’s age; one daughter lived in San Francisco with her partner and had no kids, and I think his son was estranged. He hadn’t been around a child my age outside of a classroom in years. He only knew how to connect with me when I got bored enough to flip through his old yearbooks. I’d sit at the kitchen table, pointing to random faces.
“Did you know this person?”
“Yes,” he’d grumble, barely looking up from the football game.
Eventually, though, we bonded—over Nana’s cooking, of all things. She was an incredible cook, but she had a habit of deciding the menu every night without consulting us. She’d always pile my plate high with peas, even though I hated them. She’d do the same to Perry despite him being a grown man and hating them, too.
“I said I didn’t want any peas,” he’d mumble, shifting them around on his plate.
“Well, too bad,” she’d matter-of-factly reply as she sat down to eat.
One night, I tried to hide my peas under my mashed potatoes. As I poked at my plate, I saw something soft hit the table. I looked up to see Perry doing the same thing: hiding his peas. One had escaped and rolled onto the table.
We locked eyes and laughed. Quietly at first, then uncontrollably. Nana looked up, her face brightening with a smile. “What are you two laughing about?”
“Nothing, right, Brittany?” Perry said, winking at me.
“Yeah, nothing,” I giggled back, pushing another pea under my potatoes.
Perry figured out that I loved to read. One Christmas, he surprised me by handing me a gift he had bought himself, not something Nana had purchased, and he had put his name on.
My hands trembled as I unwrapped the box, and then I saw it: the complete set of Goosebumps books. I held them like they were fragile, my fingers running over the colourful spines.
I glanced at Perry. He stood awkwardly by the dining room table, anxiously watching my reaction, his hands nervously stuffed in his jeans pockets.
I rushed towards him, enveloping him in a hug, wrapping my arms tightly around that beer belly I once hated. “Thank you, Perry,” I said sincerely, my eyes wet with tears of happiness.
It was the first time I hugged him. He hugged me back, hesitantly at first and then tighter.
Though he was retired, Perry occasionally worked as a substitute teacher. One morning, I walked into my third-grade classroom, and to my surprise, I saw him sitting behind the desk.
He winked at me; I winked back.
At recess, he pulled me aside. “I didn’t know I’d be in your class until this morning. Don’t tell anyone you know me. I don’t want them thinking I’m playing favourites.”
He still looked proud whenever I raised my hand to answer a question. After lunch, though, I overheard some girls giggling about him.
“He’s so boring,” one said. “I think he fell asleep during class!” another laughed.
My face burned. “Shut up,” I muttered.
“Why? He’s weird!”
“He’s not weird!” I yelled, tears streaming down my face, my hand balling into a fist at my side. “He’s my grandpa!”
So, the secret at school was out: my grandpa was our substitute teacher.
But, more significantly, it was the first time I’d referred to Perry as my grandpa.
In this blog, I’ll share what parts of my self-publishing journey I’m tackling myself and what I’m outsourcing.
When I first started writing my memoirs, I quickly decided to self-publish. Right after that, I decided I was going to do everything myself.
Part of that is a trauma response—I handle everything on my own because I can only trust myself to do things the way I want them done and on my timeline.
However, another part of me had this naive idea that I could be the Black author version of Eric Barone. Barone, the creator of one of my favourite games—Stardew Valley—not only solo-programmed the game but also created the music, wrote the dialogue, did all the artwork and animations, and self-published it.
I can do that too! I told myself on Day 1.
🚧 The Reality Check
However, I quickly realized a few things:
🕔 Five years of work: Eric Barone spent nearly half a decade creating Stardew Valley.
💪 Relentless schedule: He worked 10 hours a day, seven days a week.
🎨 Diverse skills: He already had expertise in programming, art, writing, animation, and composing.
🎯 Mastery through practice: He invested extra time refining those skills to achieve perfection.
I want to release my memoir within a year. I’m still working a full-time job; I’m married, I have four cats to raise, and a social life. I don’t have 10 hours a day, seven days a week, to devote to this. Plus, I don’t have strong enough design or audio production skills or the time (or desire) to learn them.
⚖️ Could I DIY Everything? Technically, Yes. But Should I?
🎨 Book Cover: I could use AI and Canva free trials… but would it have that bookstore-quality feel? Probably not.
🎙️ Audiobook: I could record it myself… but do I have the time, equipment, and voice skills?
So, early on, I compromised: I’ll DIY what I can and outsource what I should.
🛠️ What I’m Doing Myself
I feel confident handling these tasks because of my background, experience, and passion for learning—especially in writing, editing, and digital creation.
✅ ✍️ Writing: Obviously! The heart of this project is mine alone. ✅ 📝 Editing: Thanks to my experience in editing and tools like Grammarly! ✅ 📖 Formatting: I have software to format the book’s interior. ✅ 🌐 Website: I built my author website (shoutout to my 2004 Myspace HTML skills!). ✅ 📣 Marketing: I plan to handle my social media promotions myself. ✅ 📚 Publishing: I will self-publish on Amazon and other platforms.
💼 What I’m Outsourcing
I’m outsourcing these tasks because I value the expertise professionals bring. Their specialized skills will elevate my book’s quality beyond what I can achieve alone, making it more polished and professional.
💳 🎨 Cover Design: I’ve hired an illustrator for my book cover—and I’m so excited about the design! (I pitched to 11 different illustrators before finding the perfect match!) 💳 🎙️ Audiobook Production: I’ll hire a narrator through Audible’s ACX program. (Truthfully, I’m still deciding on this…) 💳 📑 Beta Readers: Close friends, family, and experienced beta readers will provide valuable feedback. 💳 ✔️ Final Copy Edit (Optional): I may hire a copy editor for a final polish.
💡 The Bottom Line
This experience is shaping my memoir and building my confidence as a self-published author (and a business—I’m creating my own business and brand now!).
💰 I track my budget diligently in an Excel spreadsheet. ⚖️ I balance my dream of DIY-ing everything with the reality of limited time and skills.
This process has taught me that it’s okay to focus on my strengths—writing my story—and let professionals help with everything else.
🗨️ What About You?
Would you ever self-publish? What parts of the process would you DIY, and what would you outsource? I’d love to hear your thoughts! Please share them in the comments below. 💬👇
A serene image of a candle glowing in the dark, surrounded by beautiful flowers, evoking a peaceful, calming atmosphere. Photo by stefzn on Unsplash.
This is an excerpt from my upcoming dating memoir. It does have a title, and I’m excited to reveal it soon 😉 For now, let’s call it my dating memoir.
I don’t consider myself a poet. Still, I wrote this free-thought the other day: I was reminiscing about one of my past relationships. It came out more flowy and lyrical than my typical prose. However, this gave me the idea to include little lyrical interludes between significant chapters!
I also wanted to share something a little softer than my recent excerpt from Extraordinary Machine. I’ll be posting more from that memoir soon, but I love the idea of showcasing different styles. I am also trying to hype up anticipation for both of my books 🥰
Here’s a lyric interlude about one of the past loves of my life:
Lyrical Interlude: The Scent of Your Cologne
I can still smell your cologne.
The way it burned my nostrils and smelled like home at the same time. The way you rolled up the sleeves of your cardigan, your light brown skin peppered with coarse, dark hair.
The sharpness of your jaw, the way you smiled, your crooked teeth—your whole face lighting up just for me.
The way you’d hold me so tightly when we hugged, pressing my chest against yours, squeezing me a little tighter before letting me go—like I was the most special person in the world.
The glint of the lamplight reflecting from your glasses. The way you’d subconsciously wipe your lips when you thought no one was looking. Did anyone notice that but me? The stubble on your chin when you hadn’t shaved for a few days. Your dark, mysterious eyes, the piercing stares I’d catch you giving me when you were lost in thought.
The memory of you feels so close and yet so far, a nearly tangible moment in time that I can never recapture, never replace. I loved you endlessly. I still crave your crooked-tooth smile, sharp jaw, stubble, your touch.
A simple mantra has echoed in my mind for weeks: I’m not new to this. I’m true to this.
As I dive deeper into memoir writing and establishing my brand, Brittany Brown Writes, imposter syndrome lurks in the background, whispering: You won’t get this done. You’re not good enough. Nobody cares.
My rational part knows that these are just doubts trying to break me down. However, tangible reminders throughout my life have shown me that writing has always been my purpose.
My Writing Roots: From Childhood Stories to Fan Fiction Fame and Reviews That Paid
I’ve been writing since I was five. I still remember my first “story”—bare bones and barely coherent, but I was proud. Writing became my lifeline, something I’ll share more about in Extraordinary Machine, where I’ll dive deeper into how writing saved me and shaped my life.
As a teenager, I started writing beyond the pages of my diary or Nana’s old Windows 95 programs like Word and MS Publisher (oh, I made so many fake newspapers for our amusement). I discovered Epinions, a site where I wrote music reviews and earned enough to fund my CD obsession. Over a decade, I wrote over 400 reviews there.
I also have an embarrassingly extensive career as a Harry Potter fan fiction writer. I would downplay it, but I looked at the site the other night, and it still lives online. My longest story (71k words) has over 120,000 views, a solid 5-star rating amongst 172 readers, and fan art! I still get emails from people asking if I’ll update fics I abandoned in 2009. I won’t share the URL, but if you’re clever, you’ll find it.
When Epinions shut down, I pivoted to writing about video games on Hubpages, earning up to $900 USD monthly at one point. Laziness—and that relentless imposter—made me slow down, but I still earn residuals today. A few weeks ago, I got a $90 payment for articles I wrote years ago. That’s not bad, especially when that money goes into my publishing fund.
My Journey to Memoir Writing and Establishing Brittany Brown Writes
This a private journal entry from October 2009, when I first dreamed of turning my life into a memoir. Some info is redacted, and excuse the typos!
I’ve always dreamed of being a published author but never thought I could sit down and actually do it. I always thought that fiction wasn’t my strength (though now that I’ve embraced my calling as a writer, my creativity has flourished, and I now have two children’s book ideas).
Sure, E.L. James made it big off what was essentially Twilight fan fiction with the Fifty Shades series. Still, I wasn’t going to try and publish my Harry Potter fics (though, if we get down to it, isn’t The Cursed Child just a glorified fan fic, too?).
However, I’ve leaned into my talent—write what you know. I’ve always expressed my life, experiences, and flaws through writing. Journaling about my desire to write a memoir started over a decade ago, and even my therapist at the time encouraged me.
At 24, I knew I could write a memoir about my crazy dating life. Thank goodness I waited and didn’t write it then because not long after, I met and fell in love with Phil. That’s the most epic love story of all time! I’m glad people will have to pay for that chapter.
Writing Extraordinary Machinewhile my mom was alive wouldn’t have been possible. I needed time and distance to reflect on our complicated relationship. Now, nine years after her passing, I’m ready to share my truth.
This past weekend, an indie singer-songwriter messaged me on Instagram and asked me to review his new single after reading my old music reviews on Snippets, my side blog. Snippets, my forgotten archive with 400+ reviews, still draws organic traffic. This reminded me that I already have a brand built over years of writing—Epinions, where I was a lead reviewer, video game articles, fan fiction, and more. Writing has always been my constant.
I’ve been writing online since I was 14 (yes, NSYNC fan fiction counts). Now, I’m refining Brittany Brown Writes.
Building My Writing Legacy
My new journals, waiting to be filled with stories, memoirs, and dreams.
This week, I’ve made more progress: my dream illustrator is designing the Extraordinary Machine book cover with my mockup in mind, I’m getting a custom logo created for my brand, I’ve registered for an ABN, and I’m applying for a grant (I didn’t know I could get money to fund my dream career! Still seems surreal). Phil’s Valentine’s Day gift—two beautiful journals for my ‘new career’—was the sweetest reminder that I’m embracing who I’ve always been.
I’m ready. When someone asks what I do, I’ll hand them my business card with a QR code linking to my website, where my books, reviews, and blogs will live. By day, I handle complaints. By night, I am Brittany Brown Writes—a writer—true to this from the start. ✨
🗨️ I’d love to hear from you! Drop a comment below if you’ve ever battled imposter syndrome or have dreams you’re finally pursuing. Let’s inspire each other!
Jimi thinks he’s my co-author. Honestly, he’s earned it with all the ‘help’ he gives me while I write.
First and foremost—I want to thank everyone for the massive outpouring of love, support, and encouragement on my first excerpt from Extraordinary Machine (more on that title below!).
Every comment, every message, every word said to me in person truly touched me. You reaffirmed my belief that sharing my story and publishing this book (and the next!) is the right path. 🙌
I’ve also had a few people mention they were hesitant to read the excerpt since it’s from Chapter 6, thinking it might be a spoiler. Don’t worry—it’s not! 🚫 I won’t be sharing anything that ruins the full experience. Just small glimpses to give you a taste of what’s to come—and of course, my writing style. ✍️✨
📋 What I’ve Accomplished So Far
I officially started this project on January 25, 2025 (though, to be honest, I’ve been writing bits and pieces since June 2020—and journaling since 2004). 🗓️📝 Since then, I’ve:
🔍 Endlessly researched the self-publishing journey
📝 Came up with my book titles
🎨 Potentially secured an illustrator for Extraordinary Machine’s cover
🛠️ Learned to use new tools to assist with my writing
🧬 Dug deeper into family history
💔 Relived a lot of painful memories and trauma—but worked through them!
🤝 Reconnected with old friends who I’m writing about
😴 Lost a ton of sleep
🧠 Gained a ton of wisdom about myself
I’m serious about this. When people hear, “I’m writing a book,” I know some think, “Oh, sure…” 🙄
But this has been my lifelong dream. 💫 Writing is my passion, sharing my story is my mission, and being a published author is my goal. 💖
🎉 The Title Reveal
Here’s a mockup of what Extraordinary Machine might look like on your bookshelf someday…ignore the AI mess, my illustrator will do a much better job!
I’ve been pacing myself this past week—making more time for my husband, my cats, my friends, and myself. 🐱💑 But I’m still as focused, motivated, and inspired as ever. And now…
I’m ready to share the title of my memoir about me and my mom.
It’s called “Extraordinary Machine: A Memoir of Trauma and Resilience.”
The title is a nod to one of my favorite songs by Fiona Apple. 🎶 It’s become a life motto for me, especially these lines:
If there was a better way to go, then it would find me I can’t help it, the road just rolls out behind me Be kind to me, or treat me mean I’ll make the most of it, I’m an extraordinary machine
I’ve had a hard life. I’ve had terrible things happen to me. But I always get back up, dust myself off, and try again (shoutout to Aaliyah). 🎤✨ No matter what happens to me or around me, I come back out on top. 👑
And that encapsulates my story—my trauma, my resilience. 💥💜
🗓️ What’s Next?
I’ll be updating here regularly. I’ve designed a schedule:
📅 1st Saturday of every month: A book excerpt (either from Extraordinary Machine or my dating memoir—btw, I named that one way back in 2009, but I’ll reveal it later). 😉
📅 3rd Saturday of every month: A personal update about my writing and self-publishing journey. ✍️✨
💥 Plus, a few spontaneous posts in between (like today’s!).
I hope you stick around for it all. I hope you cheer me on. I hope you keep me motivated. I hope you keep me grounded. 💕
Thank you all again—your support means the world. 🌍💜
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My mother always taught me to be proud of being Black—but also to know the world wouldn’t always see me as I saw myself. This photo, with her wearing a ‘Jesus Is a Black Man’ shirt, captures so much of what she instilled in me. This moment, and many like it, shaped the memoir I’m writing today.
My mother taught me many things—some I carry with me, and some I’ve rejected. One of the biggest life lessons was about race, identity, and survival.
She wanted me to be proud to be Black, but she also wanted me to know that being Black meant the world wouldn’t always see me as I saw myself.
And so, she prepared me the best way she knew how.
Code-Switching and Other Race Lessons from Mom
Mom taught me a lot about race. Obviously, we’re Black. We should be proud to be Black. We’re descended from Africa, Jesus was a Black man, we have the best music, the most rhythm, the best fashion sense, and the most fabulous hair—and everyone in society wants to copy us.
But there was also this underlying (and sometimes blatant) feeling of not wanting to be Black—at least, not the “typical“ kind of Black. There was this constant reframing of our Blackness—we’re Black, but we’re not that kind of Black. We speak proper English. We’re well-educated. We don’t live in the ‘hood. We’re not ghetto.
“Life is hard enough because we’re Black,” she’d explain. “Don’t give anyone a reason to make it harder.”
It was confusing as a child. We were Black and proud, but my mom dyed her hair honey-blonde and spoke like a white woman when she took important phone calls.
From a young age, Mom drilled into me the art of code-switching long before I knew there was a name for it. It started with my name, actually. Mokie picked it out—she was 12 and named me after her favourite Alvin and the Chipmunks character, naturally—but Mom co-signed it because it sounded like a white name. How many Black girls do you know named Brittany? I don’t know any.
Mom said a white-passing name was ideal for navigating our world. I’d never have a teacher stumble over my name like they did the LaShauntas and Creontas in my class. Most importantly, when I got older, I’d never have a future employer skip over my résumé, deciding they didn’t want Jhermanique working in their corporate office.
“There’ll never be a President Shaniqua,” she’d say smugly. “But there can be a President Brittany Brown.”
Then there was how to speak. Mom drilled it into me young: When we’re out in public with normal people, don’t use slang, speak politely, and bump your tone up a few octaves so you sound pleasant and unopposing. Not that lower timbre I’d naturally use.
I saw her do it firsthand—when she was on the phone late at night, laughing with her best friend, Anita, it was all, “Girrrrrl!” and “Ain’t that some bullshit!”
But at my school’s parent-teacher conferences? She was dignified and refined—she sounded like a meek white secretary. “It’s so lovely to meet you, Mr. Mayer; Brittany speaks highly of you as her teacher.”
Looking back, it kind of makes me sad—being told I could be myself but also not be myself. That the way I was born, the way everyone else who looked like me existed, was something that needed to be hidden or masked.
But I know it came from a place of experience, of wanting to shield me from the things she’d faced. And it’s probably a much more universal experience than I realised. We all know the world is harder when you’re a minority. And in the United States—a country built on the backs of enslaved Black people? It was even harder.
When Nana, Troy, and Mom first bought a home in Bakersfield, it was the early ’70s—technically past the Jim Crow era, after Martin Luther King and the Civil Rights Movement. But racism didn’t just disappear because laws changed. The KKK still burned a cross on their lawn. They still threw a rock through their window. Parts of Bakersfield were still segregated for much of Mom’s childhood.
So I understood she was trying to protect me.
It just didn’t work.
Mom placed me in predominantly white schools growing up. It was intentional—they had better facilities and curriculum, and I think, in her eyes, less chance of me falling in with the wrong crowd.
But I was always the odd one out. The one Black kid in a sea of white and beige. I didn’t belong with them, and they were sure to remind me.
“Eww, why is your hair like that? It looks like snakes,” some girl sneered about my braids in 5th or 6th grade.
Another time, a girl grabbed the end of my braids and noticed the tip was burnt—that’s what you do to hair extensions to keep them from unravelling. “Oh my God, did you burn your hair?!” she gasped, nose wrinkled in disgust.
“It’s not my real hair….” I muttered, pulling my braid back.
“It’s not?! Did you shave someone’s hair and put it in yours?”
“No,” I sighed, exhausted, even though I was only nine. “They’re called extensions. It’s fake hair.”
One day, a boy floated over at the local pool with a cheeky grin. “Brittany, I think one of your braids fell out!” he teased.
Mortified, I looked over at his hand, but he held up a stick.
If that wasn’t bad enough, the Black kids didn’t accept me either.
Usually, the white schools Mom enrolled me in weren’t in our neighbourhood, so she’d use a friend’s address or whatever loophole she could find to get me in.
But one year, she couldn’t cheat the system. She had to enrol me at the local school after our latest move. The duplex we lived in was in the ghetto (and I truly mean ghetto—our unit was overrun with cockroaches, instilling a lifelong fear in me, and there was a drive-by shooting a few blocks away just weeks after we moved in). The school was predominantly Black.
These weren’t Black kids taught to code-switch. They weren’t named after ’80s cartoon characters. And they did not like me at all.
“Why you talk like a white person?” a girl bluntly asked me on my first day.
“I don’t know…I just…talk this way.”
Soon, a little clique of girls started a rumour that I thought I was better than them because I was bookish, well-spoken, and “acted white.”
One girl, in particular, hated me. She’d mutter threats in class under her breath, throw things at me when the teacher wasn’t looking, and one day after school, she tried to jump me. She followed me home, taunting me and throwing things at my back.
Crying, I went home to my mom and told her. “The Black kids hate me. The White kids hate me.”
A few weeks later, she pulled me out of the school, and we moved again. “This neighbourhood is too ghetto, anyway.”
I never got away from this feeling.
I had a brief reprieve at the start of high school in Sacramento. I got into a gifted school with smart, well-spoken Black kids like me, whose parents also taught them how to code-switch.
I joined the Black Student Union and made my first real Black friends. Our school was diverse. We weren’t judged for being Black—not by each other, not by the other kids. We could be Black and also like rock music. Or watch Jackass. Or date white kids and no one cared.
But then we moved to Reno.
Reno is a very white place. If you see a Black person in public, it’s rare.
My high school had—maybe—five black kids. Two of them were related to one another.
There was no BSU. No real sense of belonging. There wasn’t overt racism, but
microaggressions were constant.
“I forget you’re Black sometimes. You’re just like us!” one of my (white) best friends told me, meaning well.
When I was in college, two older Latina women at work listened to rock music as we prepped the restaurant for opening.
“You know this song?” Betty asked incredulously as she heard me sing along.
“Yeah,” I said, shrugging as I peeled an onion. “I like this kind of music.”
Betty turned to Rosa, and they said something to each other in Spanish. Despite my four years of Spanish in high school, I couldn’t decipher it, but I could tell by their tone and the sassy looks on their faces that they were gossiping about me.
Laughing awkwardly, I asked Rosa, “Hey, what are you saying about me?”
Rosa set aside the lettuce she was working on and grinned ruefully. “Oh, nothing…Betty was just saying she didn’t know Black people liked this music. And I said you’re not really Black anyway.”
My ears grew hot. I wanted to ask, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” But another of my mom’s lessons was respectability politics. Push it down. Don’t be the stereotypical angry Black woman they expect you to be.
I just shrugged, said I liked all kinds of music, and returned to peeling the onions.
But later, I cried.
It wasn’t until 2020, after George Floyd was murdered and Black Lives Matter forced these conversations back to the forefront, that I felt brave enough to address anything publicly.
I made a Facebook post:
“The microaggressions (intentional or not) lead to bigger hatred, reinforcement of negative stereotypes, selfishness, ignorance. Those ‘I didn’t mean it that way’ comments continue to lead to diminishment, ignorance, and bigotry…flat-out racism. I can’t tell you the amount of ‘little’ things people have said to me (yes, even some of you I’m friends with on this very site) that were racially insensitive, hurtful, and based on stereotypes. I’ll give some examples:
People commenting on the way I talk. ‘You sound so well-educated.’
‘You act so white.’ Been told this my whole life.
There are so many more examples, but I’m mentally and emotionally tired.”
It got a lot of reactions. A lot of heartfelt ones. Some of the people who replied were guilty, thinking I was referring to them when I wasn’t. Some friends I had been talking about acknowledged it. Some ignored it completely.
That’s fine.
I wasn’t trying to assuage their white guilt anyway.
But Mom was always right—life is harder when you’re Black.
She never told me that sometimes, it’s hardest when you don’t fit into anyone’s expectations of what that means.
I’m Brittany Brown, and I’m so excited to have you here on my little corner of the internet. This blog is where I’ll be sharing the stories, thoughts, and reflections that shape my life as I work to self-publish my memoirs—a journey of love, loss, and personal transformation.
A Bit About Me: Memoir Writing, Family, and Self-Discovery
I’ve always been a storyteller. From a young age, I found comfort and meaning in writing. Whether it was journaling my innermost thoughts (both privately and publicly), writing fan fiction, working for my college paper, or getting paid to write about music and video games, writing has always been my escape.
As an expat living in Australia, I’ve experienced some pretty wild adventures. I moved across the world for love—yes, I met my husband on Twitter (trust me, it’s worth the read, and you can learn more in my memoirs!). As an only child growing up with an unmedicated, mentally ill single parent, I also faced heartache, trauma, and unique family dynamics—along with a fractured version of love.
I’ve gone through the highs and lows of relationships, overcoming trauma, and navigating the messy middle of adulthood. I’m currently working on not one but two memoirs—one about growing up with my mom, my family, and the weight of generational trauma, and another about my misadventures in love and dating. (It’s a mix of heartbreak and humour, promise!)
What You Can Expect Here: Raw, Real, and Ridiculous Moments
This blog is where I’ll share the raw, real, and sometimes ridiculous moments as I take this journey—finishing two memoirs simultaneously (it started as one, then I realised my story is too big), aiming to self-publish them, and embracing the joys and pain that come with it. And yes, you’ll probably see a few cat photos along the way.
I also plan to share teasers from my memoirs—something to whet your appetite and get you excited for the full release!
Join Me! Subscribe for Updates and Sneak Peeks
I invite you to subscribe to my blog so you don’t miss any updates, sneak peeks, or teasers from my memoirs. Let’s keep this journey going together! If you want to chat, ask questions, or share your own experiences, feel free to comment or reach out via my contact page. I love hearing from readers and fellow creatives who are on their own journeys of self-discovery, love, and healing.
Thank you for stopping by. I hope my stories bring a little light, laughter, or comfort into your life. I hope I touch you with my words. Let’s make this space one of connection and inspiration.
Stay tuned because the best stories are always the ones that are still unfolding—and I can’t wait to share mine with you.
