Tiffany Nicole Robinson’s debut novel My Own Terms was meant to be a wondrously triumphant tale of one woman’s attempt to re-discover the meaning of life and what it means to be happy, single, and free. But, because of bad writing, underdeveloped characters, and lack of a strong plot (or any plot for that matter) Robinson’s book reads more like a banal collection of private journal scribblings and trite diary entries rather than an actual concentrated effort to produce a serious and intelligent novel.
Shana is on the run from a fruitless marriage, abusive husband, lackluster life, and east coast living. With no plan, no money, or final divorce, she flies 3000 miles in search of a new and inspired life in California. Upon arrival, she hooks up with good friend Africa (who she hasn’t seen in seven years) and is given refuge at her expensive Barham Villas apartment which is located in the princely suburbs of beautiful San Diego. Just like in the Calgon commercials, Shana whimsically banishes away her Philly past for the more desirous predilections of one-night stands, shopping sprees, and 22 inch rims.
Yet, beyond the sex, rims and haute couture dreams, there isn’t much that Robinson does to illuminate Shana to provide her some sense of depth. There is no plot, no direction, structure or focus, and her characters are ultimately left to fend for themselves. Neither Jay, DeShawn, Aiden (Shana’s one-dimension fan club), or Africa (Robinson’s worst and best creation) seemed believable or made any sense. At no point in the book could we see ourselves or our stories or our lives in any of these characters. All we get is an ambiguous character named Shana who is presumably educated, sophisticated and classy, but acts and behaves like a streetwise, gold-digging, hood girl who will fuck at the drop of a dime (Robinson unconscionably juxtaposing wild, dangerous, unprotected sex with some uncritical notion of revolutionary feminist freedom).
Is My Own Terms the best that Robinson could do with a story about a young, educated, classy, Philly sista? It’s bad enough that our literary appetite is soured by the usual suspects
- T. Nicole Robinson
of hypersexual brothas with smoked out dreams and 22 inch rims, and weaved-out ghetto queens with vanity-chased ambitions, but – worse – we are left to assume that Shana represents the educated, classy, sophisticated 21st century African American woman. That’s not to say that black women are perfect but with Robinson’s stereotypical depiction of black womanhood we get no real convincing idea of what it means to be a 21st century African American woman. Her treatment of black sexuality is limited to cheap, random, pornographic moments and suicidal sexual encounters – and the gratuitous sex-scenes further marginalizes the book under even greater ridicule because Robinson’s technique for eroticism and romance is unconvincing and uncreative.
Finally – for me, personally, the real disappointment comes from the character whose namesake should’ve evoked something more meaningful, philosophic, and even spiritually redemptive. With such a beautifully provocative name like Africa, I’d hoped her to have some depth or metaphorical magic that might assuage the mediocrity of Robinson’s terrible writing – and possibly save the book! But even Africa fails to deliver the book from the imminent shelf of eternal obscurity. With no meaning, purpose or substance, My Own Terms and its Lolita-like protagonist amounts to nothing more than bad writing.
Wow!