Searching out new books from black authors – the raison d’être of this little blog – often feels like combing through the stars for alien contact. No, really. Stay with me. If you’ve seen the 1997 sci-fi film, Contact, you’ll remember Jodie Foster lying on the hood of her car, parked in the middle of a field of giant telescopes, her headphones on, eyes closed, listening to the skies. There’s an awful lot of noise out there, but she’s sifting through it, listening for a pattern, a rhythm, an alien signal. Jodie Foster is me. Except I spend my time scanning a mishmash of social media, blogs, daily papers, podcasts and FM radio, my ears and eyes perked for The Signal. That rare mention of a new black book. And when I spot it, like Jodie, I swing into action, racing to trace the message back to its source. Who sent it? Why? Is the referenced author established or a newbie? Which publisher? Genre? Release date? The level of excitement is like NASA finding ET. …