Thoughts on African American Literature

The category of ethnic literature that focuses on African American literature is many times defined as literature that tackles subjects of black identity, oppression, segregation, and civil challenges.  Historical events such as slavery, Jim Crow Laws, and Supreme Court cases that favored African American individuals helped influence the growth of this literature.  Many African Americans participated in announcing their voice to the public because of these events.  Mothers, fathers, students, scientists, business owners, and artist forced their expression on the subject during the decades that built into the establishment of African American literature.  As African American literature grew to challenge discrimination and social enforcing laws, so did the popularity of its writers.  From the beginnings of Harriet A. Jacobs and Frederic Douglass, to contemporary authors Terry McMillian and Alice Walker, each has contributed to defining the scope of African American literature and what it means in America.  Some may consider this form of literature limited in its subject matter, themes, and conventions as it portrays one condition of the American experience; however, through careful literary conventions and material that echo historical and socio-political events, African American literature presents boundless voices similar to those of “traditional” literature.  

There is much to consider when one embarks on understanding African American fiction.  Like “traditional” American fiction, literary conventions, and themes must be taken into consideration as well as the tone and voice of the material.  Themes spreading from any amount of literature, informs readers what the material is about.  Layers of the writer’s construction through dialogue, setting, and narrative form the theme.  Many times readers decide, through his or her interpretation, what the theme of a novel is.  Nevertheless, theme drives the material just as well as literary conventions.  Therefore, themes ground literary material regarding its reason, and conventions guide readers through the “rules” concerning each event that takes part in the story to make up the theme.

Three examples of African American literary fiction that display an array of literary themes and conventions are "Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl" by Harriet A. Jacobs, "Sweat" by Zora Neale Hurston, and "We Wear the Mask" by Paul Laurence Dunbar.

Before African Americans experienced freedom, they largely experience slavery.  Harriet A. Jacobs’s “Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl” provides a clear illustration concerning the struggles and mistreatment during a period when human rights were of no consideration.  As a memoir detailing the accounts of a slave girl who hid away from her master for seven years, the conventions Jacobs provided to motivate her theme were consistent with the troubles slaves faced.  Her memoir is also driven by concepts of family and separation as well as the confinement one must endure (as well as escape) in his or her pursuit of freedom.  Because the material is a biography, Jacobs chronologically manages to move her material through each preceding event that affects her resolution and purpose in telling her story.

Examples of Jacobs’s chronology of events are the swap between her experience with new masters, her incidents in Philadelphia, and her eventual escape.  These are successfully employed the biography’s convention to uncover the purpose of her biography as well as the theme.  Through expressing the theme of the desire for freedom during the horrors of slavery, Jacobs captured the attention of a period filled with historical and socio-political discord.  Her autobiography persisted with the country’s urging for change during the Civil War era as well as becoming a staple for the nation to consider the horrors of past events when making changes for its future.

Zora Neale Hurston’s “Sweat” features Delia, a washerwoman, and her abusive husband.  It takes the desperation for family from “Incidents” and illustrates a painful view of it.  The washerwoman’s husband is abusive to his wife, angered by her desire to keep the clothing of white people together and in order.  He also cheats on her repeatedly.  As the story progress, so does the time.  The readers see Delia continues to wash, and she remains secondary to her husband as he continues to fulfill the needs of his mistress.  It is when her husband brings home a rattlesnake that Delia’s side of the situation changes.  Through a turn of events, her husband is bitten by the snake, and instead of sending for help, Delia simply watches him die.  She escapes another form of confinement: marriage.

As a fiction story, “Sweat” offer readers a subtle set of themes to explore.  One will start with Delia’s husband’s dependency on his wife as the breadwinner and how this often made him angry.  In large part he is inept in their family situation; therefore, he sought the attention of another woman.  Even the men outside the marriage, who were aware of Delia’s husband’s affection with another woman, choose not to impose on the marriage to save Delia.  However, during the period in which the story was written there were no convenience divorces, especially at the request of women.  This concept was more extreme in the case of African American women.  Therefore, Delia found her way out through the snake that bit her husband, reiterating both the desperate attempts she would take for freedom.

"We Wear the Mask" by Paul Laurence Dunbar follows “Incident” and “Sweat” as a poem that furthers the African American experience by best describing the emotions within the two.  “We Wear the Mask” illustrates the African American experience of hiding oneself to appeal to the public, particularly during slavery, and the Jim Crow era.  Dunbar wanted to express how a person will look one way in his or her outer appearance but what goes on inside is of a different accord.  Much like Jacobs’s narrative, and Hurston’s character of Delia, the women have to resource to containing her inner struggles because of the consequences expressing them will have.  However, when desperate, their true feelings emerged at the thought of freedom from suppression.  Nevertheless, Dunbar’s poem encompasses the struggles of many African Americans throughout history.  These individuals relied on inner strength to battle persecution, and Dunbar asks that individuals of the present learn from the past to no longer hide themselves or suffer through the ideal that an individual cannot be free from another.

African American fiction employees a variety of literary conventions, themes, and subjects to make up the entirety of American literature.  Whether the material is a biography, piece of fiction, or poem, its purpose is to provide a voice to a group of individuals who remained disregarded in “traditional” literature as well as reality.  Providing elements of myths and traditions, this category of literature is filled with messages related to family and self-acceptance.  It is literature that stretches the problems faced during slavery to the conditions faced in return during today’s era.

Along the Way

Having grown up in Florida, Blias felt better outfitted to navigate the death trap of I-95 during tourist season, not winding Connecticut highways during a loose snow storm.  All she wanted to do was go back home to Jacksonville.  This singular wish ruled her thoughts as she squinted through the out pour of white powder smothering the windshield of Mick’s truck; the wiper blades cracked like concentrated lightning in an attempt to clear her view.

Home was where the heart was--as well as suntans, thatch palms, and sandy beaches.  And besides the ugliness of this thing called snow, Connecticut contained her in-laws.  In many respects, this undoubtedly traumatizing drive back to her husband’s parents’ house wasn’t as terrifying as her destination.  Should she be lucky, Mick’s truck would spin out of control and flip into a hill of snow to spare her the unpleasant scenario of sipping wine across the table from two pre-geriatric control freaks with a less than tampered need to remind her that she was not of a wealthy assort.  Those recriminations delivered over fine china, of course.

“At least the heat is working okay.”  Blias told herself with a fading sneer at the thought of her in-laws.  There was no turning back at this point.  She was on the road with Mick and they were coming back to her in-laws house after a night out.  She fought the urge to yawn from the coziness of warm air blowing in her face instead, deciding then to adjust the air vents away from her just a little.  “Maybe a little too hot, though.”

The snow kept coming, as if God stood ripping apart reneged contracts before chucking the shreds down in fury.  And if the snow was truly God’s doing, then Blias was certain that it was his way of broadcasting displeasure at her husband’s drunken state.  Dancing in those thoughts, she spared yet another dark glance toward the passenger seat as an inner burn tugged at a muscle in her right arm.  

Releasing the steering wheel with the risk of drifting off the road, Blias rocketed a hot--yet sloppy--backhand across Mick’s dozing, pale face.  Blias quickly pulled the truck to a gentle left, nearly sending them into the neighboring lane.  She regained control of the truck with a satisfying grin on her lips as Mick scrambled alive with a terrifying cry and a choke.  His eyes widen as one hand lost the lifting of his glasses and the other braced into the door handle.  And although the truck had yet to roll outside of his muddled awakening, he anticipated the first tilt with a glisten of slob lining his o-shaped mouth.

Heart hammering, Mick waited.  He closed his eyes, tight.  Caught his breathe.  Winced at the burn in his nostrils.  And waited again.  Nothing.  No crash.  So what had hit him hard enough to sting his sinuses bringing tears into his eyes?

The truck rattled over an island of powder, and Mick hurled his hands and fingers around the JC handle with a whine.

“Jesus ain’t coming to save you yet, Mick,“ Blias said.  “But I’ll slap you again if you don’t wake your ass up and help me keep him from coming to collect us both.  Well, me anyway.  I don‘t see why Jesus would come and try to save some old slumped fool like yourself.”  Her grip curved over the steering wheel and she lowered her chin to screen her focus as a veiled bend in the road came about.  Her footing loosened on the gas, she applied easy pressure to the brakes.  Focused.  

The truck continued to rattle and bounce, eating up patches of powder as it went pass exits where the barest snow-globed vision of hotels, gas stations, and diner lights could be seen.  Blias drove forward, reminding herself that she was grateful for the heater working and grateful that she remembered the exit number.  Or hoped she did.  And if she wasn’t close enough by now, God forbid they would have to swoop into an exit and get a motel room.  She didn’t like Mick’s parents, but her luggage was at their house.  With her luggage, came a cab, and with a cab came a trip back to the airport so she could get back to Jacksonville.  Preferably tonight.

“That Jesus stuff again, huh?” Mick’s voice croaked as he relaxed, still gathering his surrounds.  He blinked a few times, patted a hand against his stinging nose then pulled it away.  As if blood was on his palm, he frowned.  “I’m starting to think you slapped me, but I know better, B.”

They each cut their eyes at one another, but saw neither expression.

“Had to,” Blias said.  “And I’ll hit you again if you don’t help me figure out how to get back to your devilish parents’ house.”

“You ‘had to,’” Mick’s voice mocked with disbelief.  “Whatever happened to just shaking my shoulder?  Or hollering my name?  Matter-of-fact, aren‘t you not suppose to hit people?  Did Christ every hit anyone?”  He leaned back to wait for his wife’s answer.

Blias reached to turn the heat down.  She needed to be awake.  To be slightly chilled.  To give herself time to think of something to change the subject.  There came nothing, so she let her chin remain high.  At least Mick was up and running like usual, challenging her at whichever turn he could.

Eyes pinching from a sneaky wave of nausea, Mick rubbed the back of his head as the liquor started to bubble back across his senses and memories became muddled with thick questions.  He was seconds behind realizing that his wife called his parents devilish, and fighting off a passing upchuck to respond at the moment. 

Blias swallowed within her focus, chin still high.  

For the pass hour since Blias hauled Mick into the truck and away from his hometown drinking buddies (who kept giving her looks for what she perceived was because she was black and married to Mick), she let him doze, hoping it would taper down on his beer intake.  With him awake now, she couldn’t judge whether the doze worked.  However, the guilt inside her was there.  While she tried to get to know some of Mick’s friends’ wives, she should’ve been regulating Mick reliving his college days at the bar, chugging and taking shots.  Just the thought that she should’ve been watching him, instead of worrying about what his friends thought of her, upset her more than him being drunk.  Blias was upset that she let Mick’s friends intimidate her from stomping across the bar and taking her husband by the collar.

Guess there was nothing she could do now.

Rising himself up just enough to give his diaphragm air, Mick looked out over the road and broke the silence asking, “Are we in the I-95 corridor, because I can‘t really tell?”

Blias shrugged.  “I guess, Mick.  Does it look like I’m from Connecticut?  Do you think I can tell with all this snow falling?  Maybe if you would’ve-”

“Alright, I got it.  You‘re pissed at me,” Mick cut her off.  He raised a traffic hand to pause her mouth, then turned to use it to smooth down the crown of his head before taking a large breathe to soften his tone and nausea.  “But seriously, how fast are you going, B?  There could be black ice forming over the roads.”

Giving her seat belt a ginger tug, Blias didn’t answer.

Mick sighed.  “All right.  Get us killed then.”  He slammed his back into his seat after catching a peek of the speedometer.  Blias was doing nicely, as he knew.  He just couldn’t stand the hush.

Silence spread between them, except for the scratching snow and the roar of tires breaking through street powder with a clank in the undercarriage.

Mick shuffled in his flannel hunter’s jacket, watching the road carefully for signs.  “Mind me asking do you even know the exit?”

“You’re asking me this now, Mick?” Blias turned to look at him with a  jerk of her head.  Her dreads slapped back into her face and she threw them away with a huff.  “Matter-of-fact, are you too drunk to drive?  Do you want me to pull over so you can get us out of this?”

He looked at her without a shift in focus before crying, “I just asked a question.  You want us to get to the goddamn house don’t you?  You miss the exit and we’re gonna have more problems up the road in this snow, smartass.”

“Oh, I’m the smartass?  You’re the bastard that should’ve thought about what you were doing throwing up beers like you’ve got no sense.”  Blias had the mind to swerve into a bank of snowy mounts on the edge of the road, but managed to contain that rip of desire.  Instead, her jaw tensed, then unlocked to say something far more deadly.  “I watched you sit there like a fool, getting drunk with those scary, prejudice freak-buddies you call friends looking back at me while you were glass-eyed and twisted.  Were you even thinking about your wife when you were up there getting laughed at, thinking you were laughing with them?  Do you even remember what you were laughing at when they kept sliding that devil juice in your face?  Huh, Mick?  Tell me what you remember since you were having a good time being the punch line to a joke, or four?”  Satisfied, Blias kept her chin up and breezed pass Exit 54 in Branford.  

Mick’s eyes narrowed, searching left to right as if trying to pull in and compute what his wife had said.  At first he thought maybe the beer distorted his hearing.  But when it clicked, “What the hell are you talking about my friends for, B?  Prejudice?  Really?  My friends?  I haven’t seen them since I moved to that backward ass city in Florida where your home girls,” Mick emphasized this with widen, exaggerated eyes, “tried to get rid of me so that they could hook you up with a brother instead.  Do you ever see me bitch about them, or tell you what you should do about them?”

Blias’s eyes flinched.

“No,” Mick spat.  “I don‘t, nor have.  Even though I know they’re always talking about me to you and anyone else that‘ll listen.  So you talk about my friends, who were cool with you the whole time, even their wives but-”

“You were drunk, Mick,” Blias shouted, blinking as if to keep herself clear and reasonable.  “You didn’t see how your friends kept looking back at me while I had to listen to their stiff wives talk about orangutan sanctuaries and early bird prices.”  A hot breath went into Blias’s lungs straight from the heater‘s burning scent.  “You were just up there, slapping the bar and chugging them down while your buddies looked back at me smiling over your back.”

Mick’s face screwed up in confusion, fingers spreading aside his head as if he could pull out the answer before gasping a resounding: “HUH!?  Because they looked at you!?”

“Yep,” Blias was unrelenting.  “They looked at me.  I know that kind of look.”

Mick settled back, scaling his wife with wide eyes, as if she were someone else.  

That’s when the truck’s shocks absorbed something large and thick in the road.  Whatever it was caused both Mick and Blias to gasp out, their heads barely scrapping the roof of the truck as it bounced.  In her fury, Blias hadn’t seen what she ran over, and it all happened to quickly to calculate.  Whatever she hit was eaten by the front wheels of the truck, rattling underneath like wooden spoons on pots, before throwing the rear of the truck up then down.  Blias cried out as both her feet slammed on the brakes while her hands struggled to tug the wheel in place as she feared they were about to plummet over and sideways.  The brakes didn’t seem to stop the truck, however.  Blias’s nightmares were coming alive as the truck skidded through the snow like an Iberian bull prepping for a fight, tossing powder onto the windshield.  At some point the truck had stopped, but it felt like whatever she hit was inside the car and they still weren’t safe.  Blias’s eyes were pinched and she recoiled when she felt Mick’s warmth reach for her, whispering that he had her.  That they were okay.  A voice that seemed distance over the clicking of the engine.

“What the hell was that?” Blias finally hissed.  Another fear rose up in her mind.  What if she ran over a dead, frozen body?  

To afraid to look back, she left that up to Mick as the shift of his head grazed her face when he turned to look back at the road.

“I don’t know,” Mick said, his voice slow with fear and wonder.  “Probably some kind of… animal.”

Blias’s lips pursed.

“I’ll go see,” Mick said, moving his warmth from her.  He wasn’t surprised when Blias suddenly grabbed for him, and it set her a little at ease to hear his chuckle.  “You watch too many scary movies, B.”

“And the black person always die first,” she retorted.  

Mick peeled from her, taking her face in his hands, waiting on her to open her eyes.  And when she did, he kissed her forehead.  “Chill,” he said into her face.

The smell of beer took to Blias’s nose and she held back a cringe before nodding.  “I’ll come with you.”

When Mick looked ready to protest, he knew better seeing the glare in Blias’s eyes.  So he nodded, reached to shift the truck into PARK, and took his wife’s hand.


The cold ate them the minute they stepped out of the truck only to find nothing in the road behind them, but the sound of a baby wailing over the wind.

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Another writer's workshop drafting piece used to bring a little productivity to the blog.  Eh.  It is what it is.

Text Message Rant & September Reads

It’s Saturday and I’m off work!  WHOOT!  One day--real soon--all Saturdays will be like this.  At least in the context of me making money doing something I actually love to do and not being tied down to making money for someone else’s grand business.  With that aside, I’m happy to have the interest of several people reaching out to me these past weeks.  A few commission ideas have crossed my path, and now is the perfect time to get started on a few new projects.  Nevertheless, before September closes I want to do a blog post featuring my September reads.  Accompanying the post is a new video detailing these reads and my view on them.  However, a small text message rant introduces the video, so beware of language.  It was unavoidable, seeing that have yet to practice editing videos.  Nevertheless, let’s commence.



The books:

1.  A Tale for the Time Being by Ruth Ozeki  

2.  When the Night Whispers by Savanna Welles

3.  Voodoo Season by Jewell Rhodes Parker

4.  W is for Wasted by Sue Grafton

5.  The Shining by Stephen King

6.  Doctor Sleep by Stephen King

7.  Deadline by Sandra Brown

8.  Sailor Moon Short Stories Volume 1 by Naoko Takeuchi

As always, HAPPY READING!

Subjective Term? Literary Masterpieces?

I remember a literature teacher asking the class what makes a literary masterpiece.  Of course the class had to write and share an essay on the topic.  At the time I simply thought the answer lie in how well a piece of popular literature is written.  As well as how popular some generation of culture and society thought it as, placing it on a pedestal for whatever determined reasoning.  However, I later learned that it remains a subjective topic.  What I may consider a masterpiece may differ from another's thoughts on the same subject.  And all too often I don't even use the term "masterpiece".

Nevertheless, I'd like to share a few of my thoughts.  Many literary masterpieces gather critiques as either presenting lackluster material, or the complete opposite, over-enthused writing.  Therefore, there are several combined elements that may “constitute” a pleasant reading experience, or a dull one.  As an author’s style and syntax continues to be the defining factor in a reader’s experience, other essential ingredients determine how well the message of the novel obtains reception, ingredients that work in conjunction with an author’s choice of words.  This combination of properly used elements helps the reader appreciate the context of a literary masterpiece.  

The Joy Luck Club.  I would consider it a masterpiece.

Long passages of description often cause readers to skim text, missing quality pieces of an author’s message.  Many times description merges with narrative, making it difficult for readers to separate the two.  However, description has the tendency to imply itself throughout a novel, whereas narrative has a way of giving character (often character specific) to a novel, essentially presenting itself as a secondary role in the process.  A character’s role in the pleasantness or dullness of a literary masterpiece brings success to the experience if the character creates speculation within the reader.  Characters that appear predictable to readers may become to contrive to drive a literary masterpiece, as readers are looking to explore the setting within someone he or she can identify with or grow to identify.  A careful balance of inner and outer character statements contributes to a well written literary masterpiece, as character statements create speculation of the character’s actions throughout each manner.

Characters use dialogue to relate their terms to a real life translation for readers.  As many readers skip through narrative and description, it becomes dialogue that catches the reader’s knowledge of the novel’s presence and direction.  Much of this has to do with how text appears on a page, as dialogue tends to be “easy on the eyes.”  However, dialogue is not the absolute to a literary masterpiece, as much of the message infuses into the reader’s ability to visualize the setting and inner monologue of the available characters.  This requires structure, as authors who produce literary masterpieces must maintain a balance of dialogue, narrative, and description to bring pleasure to many readers’ experience.  Character structure allows the information of a novel to become clearer while bringing passion throughout the reading and analysis.  Messages readers receives from a novel is through each passage or piece of dialogue.  It's here that we search for powerful passages to evoke our emotions, not so much to spend time decoding an author‘s material. 

Many find word choices and their meaning brings the biggest appreciation into literary masterpieces.  Though description, character, dialogue, and structure are powerful characteristics that attribute to what an author should focus on when creating a literary masterpiece, these elements are just as important in an author who chooses to explore in other genres of fiction.  Literary masterpieces become important because of the words and meaning they evoke in readers.  Because of this they explore social and personal changes.  Modern contemporary authors like Amy Tan [The Joy Luck Club] and Toni Morrison [Beloved] introduced literary masterpieces that unveil the complexity of what it means to be of an ethnic minority [Chinese, Chinese-American; African, African-American].  Then authors like F. Scott Fitzgerald [The Great Gatsby] provided a glimpse into his concerns about the corruption of the American dream.  An author such as Ralph Ellison [Invisible Man] attacks both social issues and individual conflict within many of his novels.  Then classic masterpiece of Oedipus the King [Sophocles] asks readers to question their purpose in life in modern times.  

With an author’s use of word choice and meaning, his or her messages become striking and clear.  Not understanding the careful use of the two sometimes fails an author.  There are moments when an author does not fully understanding the meaning of a word and uses it.  Granted, a single word can have multiple meanings, but literary masterpieces must use words that remain in the context of the passage.  The message obtains clarity this way because with words used properly in the context of the text, there are no alternatives for the reader to misplace its meaning.  Nevertheless, there are abstract attempts at words designed to further the reader’s contemplation of the material, but a careful use will drive the text to its clarifying end.  Possessing a strong vocabulary (combined with imagination) to draw from authenticates (as well as distinguish) an author’s voice and ability to drawing meaning from his or her masterpiece.  Operating consciously or unconsciously, the arrangement of an author’s word choice takes intuition and observation.  An author who writes to challenge a reader’s personal beliefs or social conditioning takes the advantage by introducing words, meaning, and context.  This careful use supports his or her argument for change, or insight into other cultures and ideas.

Whereas numerous elements such as character, dialogue, narrative, and description goes into creating powerful pieces of literary works, those masterpieces that challenge readers with their use of words and meaning appear to generate cross-cultural conversations.  It is these words that contribute to the greatness of an author’s character, dialogue, narrative, descriptions, and use of metaphors.  Literary masterpieces are important in the sense that they often create changes in real life, just as they gather inspiration from a life in need of change and progression.

Totally Random: Sharing Some Crazy Metaphors

Something I love to do is eat up words and language; tubular pasta mixed with Pesto sauce.  Much of it clings uneaten to the corners of my unaware, child-like lips.  But I live in the chewing, even if I sometimes choke in the swallowing.  Nonetheless, it's about the taste of words and language, similar to the extra delight of Swiss cheese sliced before laying sweet on bread.  

Sometimes you study those sweet pieces, peeking through holes that you wish to have filled as you wonder if those holes of inconsistency actually attribute to the flavor.  So on occasions I snack on words and language incorrectly, like empty calories found in a grab bag of Halloween candy.  It can be that sweet to be so wrong.  

Once a writing teacher told me that my material was convoluted.  Was it because of my misuse of words?  It didn't matter.  I told her I loved words too much to hold back, thinking maybe she was a lazy reader.  I have acknowledged that my writing is often like a cosmic, excited sun climbing over wrung rain clouds.  It glares at streets filled with puddles.  It beams its damnedest to soak up every single drop, hoping each drop has absorbed a piece of the people walking along these streets.  Absorbed, I can then fill my stories with more convoluted lives.  As well as lies.

So then I smile and keep writing.

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Your turn.  Be totally random.  Pick a certain topic and writing some crazy metaphors.

Writing a Paper?

I don’t really like writing papers all too much.  I’m not that much of a fan of the procedures and technical structures (I may actually be lying because I love learning about writing).  Maybe if the subject matter is fun then my efforts in writing a good paper would be stronger.  Should I be allowed to just write what I think, it would not be so bad of a process.  However, even just writing your thoughts about a subject requires some level of research.  So I suppose you can't escape needing supportive material to back your claims/ideas.

School is starting next week for many, and since this blog touches a little on writing, I wanted to share a part of my process of researching for a paper.  At least for me these ideas alleviated the anxiety I used to face with a paper approaching its due date.

But first… if you have a paper to write, don’t wait until the night before it’s due to write it...  

Working on a paper, I make sure that I am clear about the source material I am working around.  This way I know specifically what I am searching for.  Once I wrote a paper on Foe, by J. M. Coetzee.  Of course that book is teeming with subjects worth exploring. Therefore, I had to be specific about what I wanted to propose in my paper, unless asked otherwise by my instructor.  Usually that involves completing and understanding the source material (Foe) to the best of my abilities first.  Then I can create and focus specifically on the areas I want to draw my thesis statement from (“Interracial Dating and Feminism in Foe”).  I keep notes of the material I want to use from the source (quotes, etc.), dividing each branching related subject to be disturbed throughout the paper to support my thesis.  Examples would be character studies for Susan and Friday, race relations, sexism, and so forth.

Now I have a clear list of focus topics related to the novel that I've gathered to support my thesis.  

From here I do a general search on the areas I want to cover in the paper so that I can define them clearly.  I ask myself “what are feminism, sexism, and race relations?”  Once I have the basic definitions of what I want to put in the paper, I start my other search for readers' feedback.  I start with Google because I want to find other readers' point of view and reviews on the material I will be writing about.  If I find something useful I save it to help craft the tone of my own paper.  Or, unless it is scholarly or peer reviewed, I hold on to it as “focus” material (meant to keep me on track) never to be used or quoted in the paper.  

When I have a clear definition of the issues I will use to support my thesis, I then move into searching for scholarly sources that relate both the issues (sexism, race, etc.) with the source material (Foe).  So if I want to find feminism presented in Foe, I will use search engines such as Google Scholar, Project MUSE, or JSTOR, to find online journals and articles that will be useful as scholarly references.  I further search through something that is called the ISI Web of Knowledge, which links source materials.  Most of these search engines are provided exclusively through schools or by other means.  Nevertheless, this is mainly how I conduct online research, particularly when it comes to writing papers.

So...

1.  Understand my source material first -- Foe

2.  Develop my thesis and name my topics

3.  Define my topics

4.  Review readers' feedback on the source and my topics to shape the tone of the paper

5.  Nail and support my research with peer reviews and scholarly sources

Hope this helps you like it used to help me.  Like anything in life, it's just a matter of breaking things down into smaller bites.