Episodes

  • When the Plan Falls Apart

    When the Plan Falls Apart
    Jun 24 2025
    It probably won’t surprise you—at least not once you’ve met me—that I’m a planner. My name is Vanessa Riley, and I’m a serial planner. There isn’t an outline I don’t love, nor a spreadsheet that doesn’t call my name. If I could design a map of a map of a map of systems accompanied by a flowchart—I’d consider it bliss. Come to one of my book events and ask what kind of person or writer I am, and I’ll often tell you: I’m a nerd’s nerd, a meticulous nerd. That’s right—pocket protector-level nerd. I love formulas and systems. I love figuring things out and then optimizing them.Why? Because we only get so much energy, so much time, and so many resources in this life. I want every ounce I give to have maximum effect. If you can show me how to reach more people, make more impact, or spark more meaningful change, I’m listening. I’m all in.But what happens when the plan doesn’t work?Devastation. Armageddon. World War 3. In other words, I don’t take it well.Yet I listened to Meghan Sussex, yes Meghan Markle on the Emma Grede’s podcast, Aspire, talking about failing as winning.It sounds crazy at first.I mean carefully charted course falls apart. How is it winning, when something completely unexpected hijacks your progress and leaves you scrambling? For those who “pants” their way through books—that is, write without plotting—this kind of disruption might just feel like a quirky detour. But for a planner? It’s devastating.Life is unpredictable and messy. You pour energy into structure and logic and find out the world has other ideas.And if the detour is because of people— you know the ones who don’t behave the way you think they should. Those people who’ve bought into that notion called free will, it can be devastating.You don’t know who to trust. Or if you should trust it all. If the past year has taught us anything, it’s that people often act in ways that defy their own interests. They cling to ideals or narratives that make sense only to them. And we have to let them. As a famous poet, Bobby Brown used to insist, that’s their prerogative.For those of you who know the chaos of watching a plan implode, I see you. I’ve lived that upheaval, and I want to offer a few steps I’ve found helpful:1. You did your best.Even if the outcome wasn’t what you expected, you gave it your all. The plan didn’t play out perfectly, but you showed up. You tried. And it’s OK to take a moment to lick your wounds.2. Mourn what was built and what was lost.It’s perfectly valid to grieve the work, the dream, or the strategy that didn’t survive. Tend to your mental health. Sometimes, starting over means burning what didn’t work to the ground. This can feel extreme, but it’s also freeing. When ego is stripped away, what’s left is humility, hunger, and a wide-open future.3. Learn the lessons.Every failure teaches us something. Maybe you trusted someone you shouldn’t have. Or maybe you missed an opportunity to include a partner who would have made all the difference. The lesson might be to trust more wisely. One of the best lessons is to pay attention not just to the bottom line, but to everyone on all sides.4. Stopping is not quit.Unless you’re physically in the grave, the game is not over. You might feel tired. You might feel lost. But you are not done. Separate the strategy from the strategist. It’s not a failure if you’ve learned to do better.5. It’s okay to begin again.Being brand new is not failure—it’s freedom. There’s a joy in learning, in discovering new spaces, in making new connections. Walking away and choosing the right season to begin again is a win.6. Accept that all spaces aren’t meant for you.When I look at that portrait of Ruby Bridges (The problem we all live with), as she’s being escorted by guards to integrate a classroom—people are screaming, writing nastiness on walls. But she and her parents decided that was the place for Ruby to be.Honestly, I don’t know if I’d make the same call. Ruby’s treatment was horrific. Adults who should be protecting children were monsters in plain sight.That’s hard. I’d question if that sacrifice is worth my peace?Sometimes, the brutal truth is that the path you planned wasn’t yours. Stopping doesn’t mean you lost. It might mean you’re closer to the path that you’re meant to take. And in this day and age, that place needs to be loving, edifying, and safe. You have to feel you can bring all of you, not just fragments. Not just 50% of your gifts. All or nothing.Writers know this well. Sometimes, we have to throw out what doesn’t work. I deleted 50,000 words from a manuscript that wasn’t working. That kind of heartbreak required ice cream and chocolate, and maybe a few deep sighs—but it made the book stronger. With my upcoming novel Fire Sword and Sea, the original plan didn’t hold. It took me two years, and several rewrites, to get it right.Because I’m writing ...
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    11 mins
  • Sexual Chocolate Please

    Sexual Chocolate Please
    Jun 17 2025
    If you don’t recognize the phrase “Sexual Chocolate,” then you might be too young or too sheltered—or simply overdue for a viewing of Coming to America. The phrase hails from a hilarious moment in this 1988 cult classic when Prince Akeem (played by Eddie Murphy) attends a church service in Queens hoping to find a “good woman.”He does find one—but not before the audience is treated to a cringe-worthy performance by a band called Sexual Chocolate, fronted by the deluded Randy Watson (also played by Eddie Murphy in disguise). Randy sings off-key, struts like a super star, and owns the moment.He even drops the mic to a silent crowd. Except one diehard fan leaps to his feet, clapping and shouting, “That boy is good. That boy can sing!”It’s iconic, ridiculous, and strangely affirming. Because in a world that’s often silent—or even worse, critical—every writer, every artist needs their own version of that one fan in the crowd. Every writer needs a little Sexual Chocolate.In today’s publishing landscape, the pressure to produce, perfect, and promote your work can be overwhelming. The road is long, the milestones are often invisible, and the validation? It’s often non-existent.And even those at the top of their game need well wishes and love. I send some now to Ali, a real advocate who has people so pressed that find fault over ridiculous things. Ali, you are love and light. Signed, your Atlanta Hype woman.That’s where your hype person comes in. We need a cheerleader, someone who sees your potential even when your proses are shaky, your plot is flat, your characters are still finding their rhythm. These cheerleaders shout encouragement when you feel invisible. They believe in your words—even before they’re ready for the world.But this kind of fandom isn’t just blind praise. We have rules.Rule #1: Be Sensitive.A good hype person knows the difference between when a writer is ready to hear feedback and when they just need a boost. Some days are for critique; others are for comfort. Sometimes what we need most is for someone to say, “Keep going. I see you. You’ve got this.”Rule #2: Be Strategic.Cheering doesn’t mean enabling bad decisions. Don’t let your writer friend send out a draft that isn’t ready. Don’t let them self-sabotage by skipping the hard (but necessary) parts of the process—like working with an editor, developing a marketing plan, or cultivating industry relationships. Praise their progress, yes. But also give gentle nudges to help them remember to do the work that success requires.Rule #3: Know Their Creative Love Language.Every writer is fueled by different things. Some need words of affirmation. Some need gifts (like good chocolate, please and thank you). Some need a like or share of a post. Some need you telling one person or one library about their books.Others need quality time—just someone to sit with them in the mess and say, “You’re not alone.”The truth is, even the strongest voices waver. Even the most confident writers have moments of doubt. That’s why it’s more important than ever to be a person in someone else’s corner. Check in on your writer friends. Call up the creatives. Remind them they’re not crazy for chasing the dream, battling blank pages, or daring to tell a story that hasn’t been told before.So today, be someone’s fan. No matter how off-key they feel, your belief in them might be the thing that gets them through.Now say it with me: That writer can write.Some books to help us be better encouragers are:Keep Moving by Maggie Smith it’sa collection of affirmations and reflections that feel like encouragement from a friend.Untamed by Glennon Doyle is especially for women creatives, teaching how to step into your power—and to surround yourself with people who cheer for you, the fully realized version of yourself.The Light We Carry by Michelle Obama is not just for writers but this beautiful meditation offers hope and helps us navigating tough seasons.This week, I'm highlighting Kindred Stories through their website and Bookshop.orgHelp me build momentum for Fire Sword and Sea—spread the word and preorder this disruptive narrative about female pirates in the 1600s. This sweeping saga releases January 13, 2026. The link on my website shows retailers large and small who have set up preorder.Show notes include a list of the books mentioned in this broadcast.You can find my notes on Substack or on my website, VanessaRiley.com under the podcast link in the About tab.You can guess my love language? Go ahead and like this episode and subscribe to Write of Passage so you never miss a moment.Thank you for listening. Hopefully, you’ll come again. This is Vanessa Riley. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit vanessariley.substack.com/subscribe
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    8 mins
  • How to Let Go

    How to Let Go
    Jun 10 2025
    Whenever I finish writing a manuscript, there’s always this unexpected wave of sadness that hits me. It shouldn’t be unexpected. This is like my 27th or 28th book.But yes. You heard me right—sadness.Because now I’m done with these characters.Characters I’ve lived with for three, sometimes four months. Characters whose voices echoed in my head, who made me laugh, who made me cry, and made me question everything. And once I’ve typed “The End,” there’s a sudden stillness. And in the silence, creep doubts:“Could I’ve done this better?”“What if I’d added one more scene?”“Did I do them justice?”But here’s the truth—you need to let it sit.You need space. You need time.You need to send it off to your editor, beta reader, or mother, and let someone else hold the story for a while, because you’ve been holding it close for too long. And when it comes back—marked with notes, questions, maybe even a few praises—you’ll be ready. You’ll have distance. And perspective to guide you.Still… I get a little sad. Because I’ve grown attached.My brain still wants to write more scenes, dream up alternate endings, give side characters more airtime. But the book is done when it’s done. There’s no need to stretch a moment or linger more than necessary.⸻With A Deal at Dawn, I’ve wrapped up the Betting Against the Duke series.It’s been a journey.• A Gamble at Sunset was Georgina’s story—a fake courtship that turned into something real, when she found her voice.• A Wager at Midnight followed Scarlet, a woman fighting for public health alongside a handsome doctor and the complicated Duke we come to love.• But A Deal at Dawn… this one’s different.It’s a second chance romance, yes—but one that deals with what happens when forgiveness feels impossible. When tomorrow isn’t promised. It asks: what does happily ever after look like when you’re living with chronic, debilitating illness?Maybe that’s why this book lingered. Because it’s heavy. It’s real with my trademark foolishness thrown in.I want to be respectful of those finding themselves in this position. I want to tell a story that isn’t often told in historical romance. A story about two people—Jahleel and Katherine—who’ve made serious, tragic mistakes. Who are struggling. And yet… still worthy of love.It was hard to write.But I think you’re going to feel every bit of it.⸻Now that the manuscript is done, I ask myself:What comes next?The summer months are my time to dig into the “wish list” projects. Those ideas that won’t let go. Stories that whisper in the back of my mind. The ones I dream about while I’m supposed to be sleeping. Between conferences, revisions, and promo—it’s my time to play again.But also… it’s hard not to look around at the world and feel the weight of everything. We’re pretty cooked.The news? Bleak.Protests are erupting. People suffering from natural disasters are being ignored. Prices rise. Patience runs low.It’s like we’re all trapped in satan’s pressure cooker. I don’t want be chopped steak. I want off the menu. Please rewind the clock to a time when we were all filet mignon—delectable, tender by nature, and expensive by choice.But I watched a reel the other day—just a young woman speaking truth.She said:“If our ancestors survived war, enslavement, displacement, disease…If they survived laws written to break their spirits—Then so can we.”And she’s right. We have survived darker days.So I have faith that we’re going to get our acts together.That somehow, everything will shake out.That it’s going to be okay again.So take a deep breath with me—Everything is going to be all right.⸻But in the meantime, preserve your mental health.Hold close the things and people you cherish.And let yourself rest. You’ve done a lot.You are doing a lot.And then—when you’re ready—start asking:What’s next?What project is going to consume you for the next three or four months?Which story or idea wakes you wake up early?What is it that keeps tugging at your thoughts like a child in want of attention. It needs nurturing.It needs your love to be poured in to it. lt cries out for your energy, and clutches at your heart until it’s finally complete.That’s where I’m headed.That’s what I’m looking for right now.Even while revising, promoting, preparing for launch days—I’m dreaming of that next passion.And speaking of what’s next—I’ve been talking a lot about Fire Sword and Sea. We’re getting closer to a cover reveal, and I can’t wait for you to see how that story’s shaped up . It’s going to be a wild ride.⸻So, I’ll leave you with this:Don’t give up.Find that passion.Let it move you, stretch you, heal you.And when it shows up? Let it consume you—in the best possible ways.Books to help us let go are:Still Writing: The Perils and Pleasures of a Creative Life by Dani Shapiro. It’s a deeply personal ...
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    11 mins
  • Fellowship and Flowers: A Weekend That Filled My Soul

    Fellowship and Flowers: A Weekend That Filled My Soul
    Jun 3 2025
    Have you ever not known how empty you were—until a weekend of feasting showed you just how hungry you really are?That was me, this weekend. I spent it in the company of 1,500 readers and fellow authors at the Black Romance Book Fest, and I left with my heart and spirit overflowing. Now, you might say, “Vanessa, I get your newsletter. I follow you on Instagram and Threads. I see the pictures. You go to a lot of events.” And yes, that’s true. I do. I’m the type who soaks everything in—the people, the place, the energy, the reason we gather.But this? This was different.When you're marginalized, stepping into spaces where you're one of only a handful can be daunting. I still remember sitting in a ballroom at an RWA conference, surrounded by people who wouldn’t meet my gaze—blue eyes turning away, avoiding eye contact as though acknowledgment might cost them something. In those moments, I’ve wished for a sign that read: Conversation is free. I don’t bite.And then back in my hotel room, I’d recite poet Gwendolyn Brooks’s work, To Black Women. She begins with:“Sisters,where there is cold silenceno hallelujahs, no hurrahs at all, no handshakes,no neon red or blue, no smiling faces prevail.”It’s as if Gwendolyn herself had walked the conference floors with me. You learn to prepare yourself, to build armor against the lack of hurrahs, the absence of handshakes. You remind yourself that rejection isn’t always personal—people read what they relate to. Unless they choose to diversify, most gravitate toward characters who look like them or have shared lived experience. Unless, of course, if we're talking werewolves or vampires—those stories get an all-access pass, while Black, brown, or queer stories are often left outside the gates.And then there was this weekend.At Black Romance Book Fest, no one turned away. People smiled. They hugged. They talked to everyone.You heard Nice boots, cute T-shirt, Girl!!! those nails, and cool—a pirate costume, etc.The halls were crowded with people, laughter, and cheer. Hallelujahs rang out online buddies met in real life. Hurrahs echoed down halls. It was a beautiful thing—to feel welcomed and seen in a space filled with so many faces who wanted to get you. There was a collective joy, an ease in being present, that’s hard to put into words, but you feel it. It vibrates across your skin and sinks into your soul.The breadth of representation moved me. Every genre and subgenre had a seat at the table—fantasy, paranormal, historical, contemporary, romantic suspense. I remember chatting with a fantasy author who was stunned, and delighted, to see how many Black readers were there for fantasy and speculative fiction. No genre was out of bounds. Everything—every moment—felt welcoming and grounded in sisterhood and solidarity.Of course, no event with 1,500 people and limited elevators can escape a little drama. But that’s every conference. I’ve experienced worse. I remember once, dressed in full Regency garb for a costume party, being stopped at the door because someone assumed—that I was in the wrong place. Apparently, I didn’t look like the kind of person who belonged in a Regency gown. That’s the kind of foolishness many of us with Black faces in literary spaces are familiar with. And unfortunately, it still happens, it just looks different—lack of support, lack of proper editing and marketing. Or simply turning the other way at a book signing. But that’s why I pour so deeply into my people, if you’ve made it this far, you are my people, but I especially want to bless the Black sisters who’ve supported me across every step of my career.They honor that I write something different. They honor everyone who does. They uplift the wide spectrum of Black storytelling—because at the core of it all is love: love of beauty, love of self, love of each other. And that love creates room for fantasy, horror, sci-fi, thrillers, historicals—genres long denied to us but reclaimed through our voices, our pens, and our varying visions.Gwendolyn Brooks ends her poem with these lines of quiet hope:“But there remain large countries in your eyes.Shrewd sun.The civil balance.The listening secrets.And you create and train your flowers still.”This weekend helped me remember my own gardens. That I can conquer large territories or conferences. Black Romance Book Fest refreshed my soul. It restored my balance. It reminded me that I’m still called to create and train my flowers. That even in the face of rejection or erasure, there are places for my stories—and yours.To my fellow authors: you’re not crazy. Your readers are out there. They are waiting, hungry for what only you can bring. And they’ll be (mostly) patient while you take the time you need to grow and train your flowers.Because they believe in the bloom that’s coming. And so do I.Books to help us to grow and train our minds are:To Black Women by Gwendolyn Brooks, it can be...
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    10 mins
  • Nine Minutes, Five Years – Still Breathless

    Nine Minutes, Five Years – Still Breathless
    May 27 2025
    n 2020, America and the world were spiraling. COVID. COVID shutdowns, high COVID deaths, and the divisive uproar over wearing masks frayed nerves and divided communities. Then, in the middle of the chaos, we witnessed the killing of a man.George Floyd, a man who’d run afoul of the law in the past, was approached by police under the false suspicion of using a counterfeit $20 bill.At 8:20 p.m. on May 25, 2020, outside Cup Foods in Minneapolis, Officers Tou Thao, J. Alexander Kueng, and Thomas Lane encountered George. Kueng and Lane approached first, with blue lights twirling—maybe even a siren. George was visibly distressed and repeatedly said, “Please don’t shoot me,” referencing past traumatic experiences with the police.At 8:21, officers attempted to place him in a squad car. George, unwisely, resisted, expressing intense anxiety and claustrophobia. “I’m not a bad guy… I’m scared, man,” he said.By 8:25, Officer Derek Chauvin arrived. George was dragged out of the squad car and forced to the ground. Chauvin then placed his knee on George’s neck.George was already handcuffed. Already on the ground. Already submissive. But Chauvin kept his knee there, applying his full weight to George’s neck.Kneeling is supposed to be an act of humility—of reverence, of supplication, a gesture one might use to beg God for mercy.But Chauvin wasn’t begging God. No, it was George who begged for his life. He cried out in search of humanity—for his humanity. He said more than 20 times: “I can’t breathe.”Still, Chauvin didn’t move. George then cried out for his mother: “Mama, I’m about to die.”A grown man, pleading for a breath, for his mother. Yet Chauvin kept kneeling, confident that no one would care about this Black man. To some, a man with a record deserves no second chance. So Chauvin kept kneeling, submitting not to justice but to cruelty—for 9 minutes and 29 seconds—until George Floyd died.This moment shattered the stillness of a world already shaken. For a brief period, it seemed like nearly everyone agreed: This was wrong. This was murder.I vividly remember the black squares on Instagram. The companies racing to fire employees who lied on peaceful protestors or weaponized stereotypes to suggest somehow George deserved this.Companies finally acknowledged what many of us had known for years: that they had a diversity and inclusion problem. They made promises.Penguin Random House pledged to increase diverse representation in its workforce and publish more books by Black authors and authors of color.HarperCollins promised to amplify underrepresented voices in acquisitions, create fellowships, and increase donations to racial justice causes.Simon & Schuster announced a new imprint for social justice and pledged to acquire more BIPOC authors. They donated to We Need Diverse Books and Black Lives Matter.Macmillan acknowledged the lack of representation in its publishing and staff. They committed to more inclusive hiring, employee training, and outreach to BIPOC writers.Hachette created a Diversity & Inclusion Council and mentorship programs for BIPOC employees. They donated to civil rights organizations and promised to publish more Black and Brown voices.It wasn’t just publishing jumping to be counted in the righteous number. Target, Microsoft, Apple—major corporations pledged millions to diversity initiatives and underserved communities.But here we are, just five years later.Reports from The Washington Post, Reuters, and business analysts show a corporate backslide. Hachette has made notable progress in BIPOC hiring and acquisitions. But others—Penguin Random House, HarperCollins, Simon & Schuster, and Macmillan—have not provided updated public reports on their commitments. There’s a lack of transparency.And when BIPOC authors speak up about their experiences with these opaque publishers—about the lack of marketing, the minimal support at launch, the inadequate investments in advertisements—it becomes clear that many of those 2020 commitments were performative. Empty, breathless gestures.The biggest offender? We all know—Target. After loudly promoting their DEI programs, they rolled them back—loudly and publicly. And sales have significantly declined. I doubt they’ll ever fully regain the trust of the loyal customers they betrayed.There’s been talk that Target’s retreat has caused some Black authors to miss major bestseller lists. That’s not the full story. The truth is: momentum makes the difference. Local bookstore buys matter count just as much—often more.Don’t get me wrong—I love walking into a big store and seeing my book face-out on the shelf. I’m deeply grateful to every bookseller, clerk, and sales rep who’s done that for any of my titles.But let’s be honest: many Black and BIPOC authors lack consistent support from publishers. A publisher can create magic. They can generate momentum—or they can smother it. And I’ve wondered,...
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    12 mins
  • Fire, Frolic, and the Fragile Threads of Humanity

    Fire, Frolic, and the Fragile Threads of Humanity
    May 20 2025
    This week, I went through a whirlwind of emotions—yes, whirlwind. That’s the word. It captures the highs and lows, the unpredictable moments, the shared grief, reflection, and the surprising grace that shaped these past few days. All these feelings—they live in pictures.Picture this: an artist gifted in creating larger-than-life floral and celebratory installations-roses, sunflowers, and even huge gift boxes with perfect bows. I found one of her creations buried among the thousands of photos on my phone. I went searching for it after hearing she died—suddenly—of a heart attack. She was in her mid-forties. I’d only seen her two or three times, but every encounter was vibrant. She was joyful, always present, always tweaking one last detail so others would want to take a picture beside her work. Her name was Mary. She made an impact. I look at that photo and smile, remembering her smile.This loss was sudden. Mary was very close to a friend of mine. Mary was central to my friend’s community. When your friend grieves someone central to their world, you grieve with them. And in that shared sorrow, something happens. You become deeply grateful—not just for what you have, but for the very fact that your people are still here. You reflect. You look at your own life, and the things you were grumbling about five minutes ago suddenly don’t matter so much. Perspective shows up, kicks you in the pants—uninvited, but necessary.Then, another picture: a fire. Not just any fire—the one that consumed Nottoway Plantation, the largest antebellum plantation that was still standing in the United States. A place layered with contradictions, history, and pain. The blaze left it gutted. I studied the photos—before, during, and after. I watched the memes—because TikTok, Threads, and Instagram are unmatched when it comes to irony and reaction. Beyond the satire, there is truth.No one died in the fire. But that doesn’t erase the deaths that still haunt that land—the men, women, and children who lived, labored, and died under a brutal system of forced servitude. Some say Nottoway is haunted. It should be. The owners memorialized the slave drivers' quarters. I like to think the spirits of the enslaved were there, too, watching the flames, bearing witness as the restored “Massa’s house” turned to ash.Nottoway was a tourist site, a wedding venue, a workplace, a symbol. People will be out of work. The state will take an economic hit. These are facts. But there is a deeper truth that sits beside those facts: Nottoway was a sugar plantation. And sugar plantations were among the worst of all plantation systems.I know this because of the research I did for Sister Mother Warrior and Island Queen. The facts still haunt me:* The death rate on sugar plantations in the Caribbean and southern states was three to four times higher than on cotton plantations.* Enslaved people on U.S. cotton plantations had a life expectancy of 30–35 years. On sugar plantations, it was often 10 years or less.* The work was brutal—cutting cane, operating machinery, surviving the suffocating heat of the boiler houses.* If you were sentenced to work the boiling vats, it was basically a death sentence. Dehydration, exhaustion, and the relentless heat killed faster than the whip. And that doesn't count the beatings, the rapes, and the starvation.I made a post about the fire on Instagram. Most of the responses were respectful. But some fixated on the "grandeur" lost—as if it were Notre Dame. Others insisted I should “get over it.” That all the perpetrators are dead. That the world should move on. Let’s put in pin in this moving notion. I’ll circle back.Another disturbing image circulating came from still of Nottoway’s scripted tours praising the "humanity" of the plantation, claiming it trained a nurse and built a hospital for the enslaved. That is a lie. There was no formal training. They likely identified a woman who showed skill with herbs and healing and used her ancestorial knowledge. The hospital was not about care—it was about profit. It was cheaper to repair a broken body than to buy a new one. These “hospitals” weren’t acts of mercy. They were maintenance hubs for human chattel.One of the worst stories I came across still wakes me up at night. A method of execution used on some sugar plantations: the “sugar death.” An enslaved person would be buried up to the neck in sand. Then, boiling sugar syrup was poured over their exposed skin—usually the head. The syrup burned and blistered, but that wasn’t the end. The spilled sugar attracted the ants. The person would die slowly, in excruciating pain, as ants devoured them alive. It was sadism as spectacle. A warning. A lesson. A horror.How exactly do you “get over” that? How do you erase the knowledge that human beings chose to do that to others—and passed it on, generation after generation? How do you get over knowing that, given the chance, ...
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    13 mins
  • What in the World

    What in the World
    May 13 2025
    Funny thing happens when you go outside.You notice that everything is still moving—still shifting, still becoming—and no matter how much I want it to revolve around me, the earth does its own thing. That’s humbling. That’s sobering. And yes, at times, alittle infuriating. Because I want to believe that if I just dream hard enough, andwork long enough, and sacrifice deep enough, the outcome will be what I want it to be.That’s the narrative, right? Manifest it. Hustle for it. Build it and it will show up.But I’m a novelist. And if there's one thing I’ve learned from writing story after story, it's this: you can do everything right and still be surprised by the ending.I begin my novels with a solid outline. I do deep dives into my characters—their goals, their beliefs, their relationships, and internalized lies. Yes, the lies we carry. The ones that sit rotting in our guts. They’re the lenses through which we interpret everything.You’re smart… Smart for a girl. That builds a complex—not about excelling, just about measuring up.Men don’t cry… So they keep loss inside until it breaks them.You get the picture.For each character, I must know the lies they’ve accepted as truth, the wounds they carry that must be healed by the journey or story arc. These are full psychological profiles that I develop, mind you. I'm thorough. I think I know these imagined or fictionalized versions of real people better than they know themselves.And still—those characters go off and do whatever the heck they want to do. They have free will.These changes—the veering off course—happen in a world I designed. And in some aspects, I’m their creator.If this happens in fiction—fiction—why do I expect real life to follow a given path?This is where we, as creatives, have to hold two truths at once: We have incredible power to imagine and make. And we have almost no control over how the world will respond. That is not a contradiction. That is your calling.This is the battle. Creativity is under assault. Let’s not pretend otherwise. Books are being banned. Funding is being slashed. Whole histories are being erased or whitewashed. And in my case, as I’ve shared openly with you words, I need to use for my stories are being banned. (See podcast episode- Welcome to Censorship)But despite all that—people are still painting. Still writing, publishing, creating. We still feed our families and their spirits with meals inspired by faraway places.I may make more food at home right now, but with lovely spices? Oh, they’re Caribbean, Italian, French, Indian. I’m not limited. We are not limited.And I refuse to give away my power because someone with a louder megaphone thinks yelling is the same as truth.Recently, the world changed again: We have a new pope.A 133 cardinal electors gathered in the Sistine Chapel to choose to choose him. Cardinal Robert Francis Prevost of Chicago, Illinois, has been elected the 267th pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church. He will be known as Pope Leo XIV—the first pope ever from the United States.An American pope. From Chicago. A man of Creole, Haitian, and Black ancestry. And while this isn’t the first Black pope—history records at least three others:Pope Victor I (189–199), Pope Miltiades (311–314), and Pope Gelasius I (492–496).This election still matters. Why? Because no one saw it coming. Because he is from here. Because he chose the name Leo XIV—following Pope Leo XIII, the pope who denounced slavery. In a world trying so hard to erase the past, that choice feels like a restoration. A breath of truth. A puff of white smoke in a sky of dirty smog and denial.This is what hope looks like: a surprise rooted in deep legacy. A story arc no one plotted, but that landed with power.Now, let’s be real about the work ahead Shake off the shackles. Listen to hard truths.For authors and creators out there—especially us Black folks:* No one owes you anything.Not an award, not a list spot, not a book sale, not a post about your personal life—not even a selfie.* As an author, you have to earn every bit of support, every accolade, every “yes.”That’s the job.* As a Black author, the grind is steeper.You can’t coast on past wins. You’ve got to win readers over—again and again.* If you're not where you want to be—cry, scream, kick a pillow.But don’t quit. And don’t compare. You don’t know the price someone else paid to get what they got.Be thankful for where you are and who’s standing beside you.* Keep writing. Keep connecting. Keep striving.Earn it. Build it. Own it.* Grow the bucket list. Manifest it all.You deserve every win—because I know you’re putting in the work. I’m rooting for you.The world keeps turning. It’s not waiting for me or you. But that’s not terrible. It means we’re part of something bigger than the moment. It means our stories, our voices, our presence—matter.Because even when everything feels unpredictable, we ...
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    10 mins
  • It’s Hard to Disconnect

    It’s Hard to Disconnect
    May 6 2025
    To step away from my desk, from writing, usually takes intention—an obligation, an appointment, an event.But this weekend, instead of rushing back to my hotel room to work, I took a walk in the city that never sleeps.New York City is magic. The lights and screens can mesmerize for hours. The hustlers are everywhere, each chasing their own dream with a specific kind of determination. I melted into the crowd—a sea of people, heads tilted down, grimaces in place, walking like they’re late to a very important date.And yet, as I shuffled forward, I walked with purpose. Certain of my own hustle. Certain that, like the waves of moving feet around me, I’m going somewhere important.Even though these times feel tense and nerve-wracking, this too shall fade. The question is: Who will you be when revival comes?I suggest you should be out walking. Walking to your own tune. Strolling between memory lane and adventure street.We can’t let depression and deadlines keep us trapped on a treadmill to nowhere. We need to be out, moving, seeing the sights, meeting the moment head-on.Downtown New York. Times Square—it’s still vibrant, still electric with people, places, and possibility. One of the places I wandered off to was Broadway. I scraped up pennies and last minute tickets to take in a Broadway Show. My daughter and I caught Gypsy.Gypsy—the revival—is based on the memoirs of burlesque star Gypsy Rose Lee. Originally adapted by Arthur Laurents, with music by Jule Styne and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim, the show first hit Broadway in 1959.Gypsy follows the struggles of a showbiz mother, Rose, and her two daughters: the sweet, spotlighted June and the awkward Louise. Rose devotes her life to making them stars in a vaudeville world that’s fading fast.Rose is the ultimate dreamer—the pushiest of mothers, hell-bent on creating success in a season that’s disappearing as quickly as a stripper’s costume.Gypsy—the cast, the costumes—and especially Audra McDonald—blew us away.Six-time Tony Award winner, now the most-nominated performer in theater history, Audra stepped into the iconic shoes of Momma Rose—a role made legendary by Ethel Merman, Angela Lansbury, Patti LuPone. And she did it with poise, passion, and a voice that reached the heavens.For the first time, Rose and her daughters are being played by Black women.And it feels right.After all, I grew up with a Mama Rose of my own—down South, with big dreams and high expectations. She had color, attitude, ambition, and love. All of that minus the Gypsy Rose stripping.And in the legendary Majestic Theatre, we, my daughter and I, took in the chandeliers, the molding, the velvet drapery. The lights dimmed. The orchestra began. And we were swept away—into songs we half-remembered, dances we instinctively tapped to, that wonder that fills you when you let the noise fall away and become part of the show.This was my daughter first show and she loved every moment.And sadly, if one doesn’t count off-Broadway shows and church basement productions, this viewing was my first too. I loved it but it’s bittersweet to think of the moments I missed because I chose a different, probably work related path.And yet I refuse to beat myself up on the Shoulda, would’ve could’ves that befall us. I went with my daughter now. That’s what matters. And as we left we hummed:Together, Wherever We GoWherever we go, whatever we do,We’re gonna go through it together.We may not go far, but sure as a star,Wherever we are, we’re stronger together.I tweak the lyrics. What can I say, but I’m a writer.Everything’s Coming Up RosesI had a dream, a wonderful dream about you.It’s gonna come true.They think that we’re through, but…Nothing’s gonna stop us ‘til we’re through!Everything’s coming up roses for me and for you!And now, as I sit on this plane, writing to you, my weekly essay, I hope I’ve passed on something else too.That it’s okay to take a walk.That it’s okay to step away from duty, from deadlines, from stress—even just for a few minutes.That rest and joy are worth chasing just as hard as success.That it’s okay to fail, as long as we keep dreaming.My hope is that we all learn to capture that feeling—that joy of being lost in the moment. Of humming. Of strumming our fingers to the rhythm of wonder. Of letting the songs in our soul rise again—when we take care of ourselves.Even if it’s just with a little walk.Books that can help you disconnect in meaningful ways are:Fosse by Sam WassonA sweeping biography of Bob Fosse that explores the grind, passion, and price of perfection in the performing arts.The Women Who Raised Me by Victoria RowellMemoir of a actress raised by foster mothers—explores nontraditional maternal love, ambition, and support.All About Love by bell hooksThis book is about love—for yourself , your children, your lives. This book is the emotional underpinning to a loving journey.Rest Is Resistance: A Manifesto ...
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    11 mins