There is nothing worse than looking into your child’s eyes and realizing they’ve been struggling—and somehow, you missed it. I know that look. And years later, I still carry the guilt.

I read Nikole Hannah-Jones’s devastating piece in The New York Times, “In Fighting for Every Black Child, Did I Betray My Own?”

That part—

I could feel her daughter looking at her. “Did you know…when you decided to put me here?”

The question hit me straight in the heart and took me back a number of years to my own guilt bomb.

Flashback: 2023

My dearest darling daughter was in her senior year of high school, and she was flailing.

I can remember her soft brown eyes glancing up at me, filled with despair, like she had just realized her mother was human and not a superhero. In those small irises were water droplets and the look of failure.

Seeing that in your child’s eyes is worse than a nightmare.

My daughter had been homeschooled from the very beginning, and I can still remember clicking through the web searching for school programs, drilling through curricula—from IXL to Abeka—constructing strengths-and-weaknesses charts, researching resources, all nine yards, trying to choose a program that aligned with our family values and had the flexibility to accommodate an active-duty military man and a scientist-type, consulting, writer mom.

Homeschooling fit the demands and worked until about third grade, when I realized Georgia’s limited homeschooling oversight could allow my child to miss key testing and other things. We decided to switch her to public school.

We lucked out and found a hybrid county public school, Connections Academy. They had everything—or at least promise of everything. High praise from teachers and students, a solid curriculum, and the majority of the classes would still be taught in an online atmosphere . My daughter could continue to be at home or travel with me while attending school.

I believed deeply in flexible, in-depth education. I still do. I believe in investing in my child’s education, so when there were weaknesses and I couldn’t help, I found tutors, sought out additional summer programs like Kumon, and did whatever was required to make sure my baby learned and enjoyed learning.

From third through eleventh grade, my daughter got A’s and B’s.

I thought she was fine.

She wasn’t.

In her senior year, my daughter cracked under the pressure. She had a pile of unfinished assignments, grades dipping toward D’s and F’s because of incompletes, and she started talking about not wanting to go to college. Then she admitted she had trouble reading and keeping up and that, when stressed, numbers floated.

I was in shock.

I reached out to the school for help. It took a while for the emails to return from the void, but there was no real help. Mandated county testing for this type of situation wasn’t a priority for them. Perhaps they, too, were shocked that an A-B student could have such problems. It soon became obvious that this excellent school didn’t have the resources or desire to be part of the solution.

My husband and I had to save her on our own.

We worked with our doctors to get her diagnosed.

I was stunned by the diagnosis. My daughter had a learning disability that had gone undiagnosed for years.

I’m not going to get too deeply into her private medical information. But some of its characteristics look like ADHD. It definitely bears anxious fruit, and it can affect her ability to perform certain mathematical processes. She required accommodations and a learning plan. Hubby and I had to implement them to get my daughter back to wanting to learn.

Back to the Present

I read Hannah-Jones’s piece, and my heart broke for her and her daughter.

A mother’s guilt knows no end.

Something inside crumbles, ripping at our insides, when our child is in agony—or worse, when they look up with failure written in their eyes and they see it written in ours.

How did we let this happen?

These kids are right to put some of the blame on us. We are the busy, opinionated generation with all these high moral principles, but sometimes lacking the time to invest, dissect, and implement.

My daughter is now thriving and enjoying her college experience, but part of me still bears this grief.

How did I not see it?

How many years of suffering happened because I missed the problem?

Then guilt joins in:

How could I have spent this much time thinking about my child’s education and not known?

How could I not recognize that she was struggling? Sorry doesn’t cut it. We can’t give time back.

I’ve learned that looks deceive. I had interpreted working around the clock as passion. You simply do that when you love learning.

Maybe that belief kept me blind.

Achievement can disguise struggle.

You can love your child ferociously. You can research. You can advocate. You can pay attention. You can invest time and money. You can believe you are doing everything you’re supposed to do for them and the next generation—and still fail.

Back to Hannah-Jones

In her New York Times article, Nikole Hannah-Jones talks about the battle of advocating against segregated schools and trying to create an equal, common baseline for schoolchildren everywhere. She had to reckon with the fact that schools with inequities based on the complexion of their student body or a lack of a strong tax base don’t always make it up to snuff. Sometimes folks do the bare minimum, not the unpaid extra that can make a difference. Putting middle-class or rich kids into these schools doesn’t automatically change what’s happening.

And she had to trade her fear of putting her kid in a higher-performing school, where rich kids can exhibit both racism and classism, for the opportunity to give her daughter a competitive, quality education.

She thought she was doing the right thing by placing her only daughter, her only child, in her neighborhood public school. She may have been deluded into thinking that the predominantly Black neighborhood school wouldn’t play in her face because she writes for The New York Times.

Unfortunately, she found that some allowed neglect to fester into behavioral issues at lunchtime; she found folders of ungraded schoolwork, which made it harder to ensure a student corrected mistakes and learned. Hannah-Jones’s daughter fell behind and needed many tutoring sessions to catch up.

The Ruby Bridges Interlude

On September 8, Ruby Bridges turned seventy-two. She was the famous six-year-old who, in 1960, became the first Black child to integrate William Frantz Elementary School in New Orleans. Federal marshals escorted her past screaming white crowds to get her into the building.

I made a birthday post about her, and more than a hundred thousand people on Instagram (and Facebook) have viewed it.

We know the picture.

The little Black girl.

The white dress.

The braids.

Or maybe we know Norman Rockwell’s rendering of that walk, The Problem We All Live With.

But what I wanted people to remember was what existed outside the frame, beyond the braids and the federal marshals.

Picture the crowd.

The slurs. The angry men and women screaming at her. The death threats. The image of a Black baby doll in a coffin. Ruby had nightmares about that.

White parents who defied the boycott and continued sending their children to William Frantz were threatened too. Federal marshals also escorted white children into the school.

All this chaos because people wanted a better education for their children.

Sometimes history is easier to tolerate when we crop the photograph and look at the child, not the system.

Many of us have had to deal with the system, particularly when it comes to education.

We celebrate that courage now because of the success of school integration. But most of us don’t have the guts or the fearlessness it took to be Ruby—or any of the kids who attended with her.

Back to the New York Times

Nikole Hannah-Jones wrote an extraordinary and painful essay in The New York Times titled “In Fighting for Every Black Child, Did I Betray My Own?”

Please read the whole thing.

Don’t read only a headline. Don’t read a social-media snippet. Don’t even rely on the pieces I’m quoting here. Read the essay.

Hannah-Jones wrestles with something that I think is far more complicated than a debate about public schools, private schools, integration, vouchers, property taxes, or school choice.

She’s wrestling with what happens when our ideals collide with our children.

Hannah-Jones deliberately chose a public-school education for her daughter, Najya, while advocating for educational integration and equality. Looking back years later, she confronted the possibility that her daughter had borne a cost for that decision.

Najya told her:

“Sometimes I wish instead of always thinking about other kids, you would have thought about me. I never really got the education I wanted.”

Wow. She might as well have said that she did not get the education she deserved.

I know that Hannah-Jones had to herself:

Why didn’t I see it?

Hannah-Jones apologized to her daughter and admitted that Najya “had borne the cost not only of our unjust society but also of my ideals.”

That’s a transparent admission.

It holds a lot of grief and what-ifs.

I think we are all okay if our values or busyness cost us something.

We are destroyed when they cost our children.

There’s another little girl from New Orleans, Leona Tate, who integrated McDonogh 19 Elementary School at the same time Ruby Bridges integrated William Frantz. She was another of the little Black girls helping to dismantle Jim Crow, but the victory we inherited was purchased partly with their childhoods.

When Hannah-Jones asked Tate about her parents’ decision to put her on that front line, Tate did not condemn them.

She said:

“Somebody had to do it.”

She’s right.

Somebody had to do it.

But I don’t know how any parent can stand by and let their child be miserable for the greater good.

On The View, the ladies discussed Hannah-Jones’s essay, and the conversation quickly exposed how complicated this becomes for actual parents. Sunny Hostin talked about making a different decision for her own children: predominantly white private schools where they excelled academically but encountered racism and struggles around identity. Ana Navarro raised questions about Florida’s voucher system and who can actually afford private-school tuition even with a voucher. Alyssa Farah Griffin talked about choosing public school while also acknowledging that her family chose to live in a well-off community with excellent neighborhood public schools.

Those aren’t identical experiences.

They expose the dilemma.

We want to repair systems.

But we also want to protect our babies.

These two desires will always be on a collision course.

Here are dilemmas I didn’t have the strength for:

If my child could help integrate a school, but she’d be bullied, threatened, psychologically or physically wounded, do I send her?

No.

If my child’s presence could make things better for the children coming ten years later, twenty years later, sixty years later—how much of her childhood am I allowed to spend purchasing that future?

That one, I don’t know.

I simply don’t know.

I want to tell you I would be brave.

I want to tell you my convictions would hold.

I want to tell you I would stand against the darkness and raise a light high enough for everybody behind me to see.

But when it comes to my child?

I’m not a lantern leading the way.

I’m not a flashlight with a steady beam.

I’m barely a candle.

A little one with a flame cupped between two hands, trying desperately to stay lit in the wind.

That’s why I research and write about the women who were lanterns and steady flashlights, who made sacrifices for the race, for women, for all our children.

The Wrap-Up

I understand the argument for equity in the school system. I understand the argument that every place of learning should have excellent teachers, sufficient resources, and genuine expectations for every child. I understand why people advocate for integration, for school choice, for charters, for vouchers, for greater investment in neighborhood schools—and why other people challenge those approaches or their consequences.

Those are public-policy questions, and they deserve serious debate.

But parenting isn’t a policy paper.

Parenting is looking at one particular face.

Your baby’s face.

And catching those eyes.

As for me and this house, my child’s eyes can never hold that type of failure again.

This week’s booklist includes:

The 1619 Project: A New Origin Story by Nikole Hannah-Jones & The New York Times Magazine

A collection of essays, fiction, and poetry that places slavery and its continuing consequences at the center of the American story—and provides essential context for Hannah-Jones’s thinking about race, opportunity, and education.

Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria? by Beverly Daniel Tatum

A foundational examination of racial identity and the psychology of racism, particularly valuable for thinking about what Black children experience while navigating integrated educational spaces.

The Sum of Us: Adapted for Young Readers by Heather McGhee

McGhee examines how racial divisions have shaped American public goods—including schools—and argues that inequality ultimately extracts a cost far beyond the people initially targeted by it.

Other People’s Children: Cultural Conflict in the Classroom by Lisa Delpit

Delpit examines the disconnect that can arise between educators and children from different racial and cultural backgrounds and asks what genuinely effective teaching requires

Writer in Residence by Rhonda McKnight. A struggling novelist escapes to the South Carolina Lowcountry hoping to recover her words, only to find romance, buried family secrets, and teaching opportunities.

FoxTale Book Shoppe, has signed copies of Rhonda McKnight’s books on hand.

And FoxTale Book Shoppe has a few signed copies of Fire Sword and Sea and my other titles.

You can also try one of my partners in the fight, bookstores large and small, who are in the trenches with me.

You can find my notes on Substack or on my website, VanessaRiley.com, under the podcast link in the About tab.

Hey. Let’s keep rising and creating together. I need you. That’s the truth. Like, share, subscribe, and stay connected to Write of Passage.

Thank you for being here.

I want you to 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

Merriam-Webster defines dissatisfaction simply as “a lack of satisfaction.” And yes—that’s accurate. But if you look a little deeper, you’ll find another definition, a lack of contentment, a restless aspiration.

Aspire means to breathe in or out, to draw something toward you or release something from within. So dissatisfaction becomes this restless desire to pull something in or push something out—and that restlessness can freeze you in place.

In the writing world, dissatisfaction usually means that I’m staring at the words on the page, and they’re not capturing the story I know I’m supposed to be telling. Something has failed. And now I must go back, line by line, analyzing the bones of the narrative and examine every part of the story structure.

And for my new writers out there, yes a story or novel should have structure, a framework that keeps the momentum and holds the theme together.

In this analysis, I look at each main character—and often the minor ones too. I check their goals. I review their belief systems. I trace the web of their relationships: who cares for whom, who fears them, who hates whom, and who is silently holding the line of loyalty. All of these connections form the living body of the world I’m creating.

And then there is the lie. Every character has one—the bit of disinformation they inherited or bought into, the wound that warped their worldview. It’s the thing they must confront and be healed of. If that lie isn’t strong enough, or the character has drifted too far from it, the story loses its heartbeat. In my process, that’s when the words feel stuck. I struggle with word count. And I must figure out why.

That’s Vanessa’s writing world.

But in the real world, dissatisfaction hits differently. When I feel that restless ache, I have to look at the characters I’m connected to—the real-life individuals doing life with me or choosing to let me do life with them. How are we connected? Are we missing something? Are there obvious signs of hurt or neglect we haven’t addressed?

Or is it the circumstances we’re all tangled in that’s causing problems?

Let’s be honest: the world is heavy right now. Yes, the government may be back to work, but people are still waiting to be reimbursed for the days they’ve labored without pay. Folks who need food assistance are facing real disruptions. And Thanksgiving is approaching—a time when people gather to share a meal, which becomes complicated if there are fractures sitting around the table. It’s hard to taste turkey if you’ve still got beef with somebody sitting across from you.

And yes, Thanksgiving is about turkey. But if you’re carrying beef, that’s another heavy protein to digest.

The truth is, if we don’t figure out why we are dissatisfied, it will take root. It will grow into bitterness—and bitterness is a treacherous ground to stand upon.

Bitterness wedges itself into the cracks of your soul, sets up spikes, and ensures that every movement hurts. Bitterness requires a sweet form of medicine or self-care to heal—or it spreads. Bitterness touches everything you make, everything you attempt, and everyone you care about.

Thanksgiving is my holiday. I inherited it from my mother. It’s a big deal for me. If you follow me on social media, you’ll start seeing the sample menus, the tablescapes, the design choices—all the details I pour myself into. It’s part of my self-care—the joy of gathering: the beauty and connection of family and friends around my table.

But as much as we gather, we all must admit the truth: Covid changed us. Elections bruised us. Hardness, fear, and callousness ruined how we move through the world.

As we head toward 2026, I believe it’s time to turn a new leaf. To be better than we were in 2025. The first step is breaking up the bitter ground and letting healing in.

So here are my steps to stop being bitter:

1. Admit you’re bitter. Say it outright. Bitterness can’t heal if you pretend it isn’t there.

2. Identify the source. What is making you bitter? Name it so you can face it.

3. Avoid the triggers. Just say no to people and actions that put you back into that headspace of vulnerability. And if you can’t avoid them, minimize them. If you can’t minimize them, prepare for them. Pray. You never know when they just might miss a flight.

4. Give up waiting for the apology. This is the hardest one.We hold on to bitterness because we want that moment—where the foul person, falls upon bended knees and says I was so wrong. In romance books, we wait for the grovel: the moment when the hero finally admits how deeply they messed up. And yes, that moment is sweet. But in real life? If you get it at all, it’s a gift. And this moment is not a guarantee, that the beef won’t happen again. Your life must continue either way. Your goals must continue. Your growth must continue.You cannot pause your wholeness on hold waiting for someone else to gain revelation.

And let me be clear: forgiving and moving on does not mean continuing in the harmful cycles. It means releasing the chain around your own ankle. If someone has shown you who they are, you don’t need further confirmation. You don’t need to go back to the well, testing the water again and again.

Vanessa, you are so mature. At my big age of 21+, no I am not. Do I feel trifling sometimes? Absolutely. Do I want to complain the whole way through of releasing bitterness? Yes. But staying in that cycle only deepens the pain. And when I stay connected to that system, the person, or the circumstance, it will hurt me again. I refuse to let it continue to win.

It’s better for me and my soul to forgive and move on.

In Fire Sword and Sea, Jacquotte Delahaye has every reason to be bitter. Life delivers blow after blow to this young woman’s life. But the evidence of that life—her legend, her accomplishments—tells me she never stayed stuck. She didn’t wait for an apology. She picked up a sword. She fought her way to the next moment, the next rung on the ladder, until she became a pirate captain. And she brought her crew—her chosen people—along with her.

If you read Fire Sword and Sea and take away nothing else, take this:Success, particularly shared success, is the way to defeat bitterness.

And for Jacquotte’s example, I am not bitter at all:

This week’s books to reflect upon are:

All About Love by bell hooksA profound meditation on how love—of self, community, and truth—becomes the antidote to bitterness and disconnection.

The Beautiful Struggle by Ta-Nehisi CoatesA lyrical coming-of-age memoir about healing, survival, family, and forging meaning from difficulty.

The Body Is Not an Apology by Sonya Renee TaylorInvites readers to embrace radical self-love as a path out of resentment, trauma, and social conditioning.

Rest Is Resistance by Tricia HerseyA manifesto urging us to reject grind culture and reconnect with rest, healing, and humanity.

And of course Fire Sword and Sea by Vanessa Riley. Caribbean women pirates—Black women pirates join French and Indigenous women to sail the seas. Fire Sword and Sea releases January 13th, 2026. If you’re a librarian, vote for this book now in Library Reads in Edelweiss and NetGalley. Indie Next is voting now too.

This week, I’m highlighting Book People through their website and Bookshop.org .

Consider purchasing Fire Sword and Sea from Book People or one of my partners in the fight, bookstore’s large and small who are in this with me.

We are less two months away the January 13th release. Come on my crew. Let’s get excited.

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.

If you’re on board my ship, press that like button, subscribe and share Write of Passage. Never miss a moment. We have work to do. And I need You.

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

Originally posted 2025-11-18 14:10:00.

Hey fearless listeners. We’ve made it to another week. That accomplishment isn’t something I take lightly. Times feel perilous. Worries are rampant. I’ve had more conversations where I’ve been talked off the ledge—or where I’ve held up safety nets for others.

But let’s congratulate ourselves. We’ve made it through the fire. California has literally done that, with most of the wildfires now 100% contained. Let me repeat this: We will get through hard times. My faith is strong, my friendships are firm. I believe in doing life with us, helping each other along the way.

Subscribe for free. Get Vanessa’s take on current events, publishing drawing from her journey as an indie author turned traditionally published powerhouse: 25 novels and counting.

As your historically inclined friend, I thought deeply about writers and writing friendships this week. As a writer, I love studying other writers. I look for habits to incorporate or styles to dissect and admire. There is so much that can be learned from reading and studying the craft of other. While there’s nothing new under the sun, some writers have found ways to capture its light and change the world by focusing its heat and power back on to the earth—our neighborhoods, communities, countries—even for just a mere moment.

I draw a lot on images. In my own writing, I want you to feel like you’re in the room where it happens. In Sister Mother Warrior, I make you the warrior Gran Toya, sitting at the table where the boy she raised, Jean Jacques Dessalines converses with the commander of the armed forces, Toussaint L’Overture. They speak about strategies to prosecute the war, and I spend time on the tastes of the foods on the table from broth and its caramelized bits to the roasted pheasant with mushrooms. If this scene were painted or dared to be shown on screen, you should catch the meticulous details and comforts of where they’re sitting, the posturing, even the fumbling of fingers along the buttons of a waistcoat that has crowns or birds or women painted upon them.

Images tell us so much. They are testament to what has been and what could be. Remembering photos of writer friendships like Ralph Ellison (Invisible Man) & Albert Murray (The Omni-Americans) and noting the dapper and different styles of dress. Or photos of James Baldwin & Langston Hughes taking in jazz or supporting a civil rights march—all our precious moments. So for this week’s essay, I went down a rabbit hole searching for images of female writer friendships.

Ralph Ellison, Langston Huges, and James Baldwin

Source: Instagram: @neicyreedus

I started with the Brontë Sisters—Charlotte (1816–1855), Emily (1818–1848), and Anne (1820–1849). These literary powerhouses from Yorkshire, England, originally published under male pseudonyms, but their female forward works—Charlotte’s Jane Eyre, Emily’s Wuthering Heights, and Anne’s The Tenant of Wildfell Hall became classics of English literature. I found myself looking at a painting of the sisters created in 1843 by their brother, Branwell Brontë. He originally painted himself into the portrait but seeing the sunshine, their luminous faces, he painted out his own image, leaving behind a ghostly outline.

Brontë Sisters—Charlotte (1816–1855), Emily (1818–1848), and Anne (1820–1849). Source: Wiki Commons.

Can you imagine Branwell’s humility and protective nature of his sisters and their genius. The portrait now hangs in the National Portrait Gallery in London for all to see.

From there, I dove into Sylvia Plath (1932–1963) and Anne Sexton (1928–1974). The two revolutionized confessional poetry, tackling themes of mental illness, feminism, and personal suffering. They often attended poetry workshops and lectures together, but I couldn’t find any pictures of them side by side. They may exist, but what if they don’t. What does that mean to have a friendship so secretive and private? To not celebrate the unity publicly—what does that say about feminine unity?

In contrast, I did find images of Anne Sexton and poet Maxine Kumin.

Anne Sexton and Maxine Kumin. SOURCE: karenmoline.com

After meeting Sylvia Plath for drinks, Anne still craved company, so she joined a local writers’ group. This where she first heard Maxine Kumin—a quiet but powerful voice sharing a work in progress. They couldn’t have been more different: Maxine, prim and frumpy; Anne, wild and bold. But together, they were yin and yang. They edited each other’s work, co-wrote poems, and built a bond so deep that it became a true creative partnership. You know how rare it is to fully trust another writer with your words? That’s the kind of magic the two had.

One of my favorite modern writer friendships is the trio of Beatriz Williams, Lauren Willig, and Karen White. Their collaboration has produced, several books including The Lost Summers of Newport—one of my favorites. They’re often seen together at book events wearing pearls, sipping signature cocktails, and laughing with the kind of joy that only comes from shared secrets, success and sisterly love.

The Lost Summers of Newport: Beatriz Williams, Lauren Willig, Karen White

Another legendary literary sisterhood? Toni Morrison (1931–2019) & Maya Angelou (1928–2014). These two are iconic, two of the most important voices of the 20th century. I’ve seen photos of them young and free, standing tall in their brilliance. I’ve seen pictures of them in their later years, side by side in wheelchairs, dressed to the nines, radiating wisdom and grace. Their friendship was built on admiration, public support, and deep mutual respect.

Toni Morrison and Maya Angelou. Source: Virginia Tech News.

These images are so encouraging to me. As writers, we often work in solitude, wrestling with words and deadlines. But community matters. These friendships remind me of that.

There’s one more image I found in 2023. —It appeared in the LA Times article, touting a new book, The Sisterhood. The photo, which serves as the book’s cover, captures eight young, beautiful Black women gathered together, smiling for the camera. Let me set the scene…

The hostess, let’s call her June, was waiting for her collection of poems to be published in two months. Every author knows that feeling, the anxiety of waiting for pub day, the stomach-churning dread of the book’s reception, the early reviews. I can imagine June wanting her girls around her for support. She calls her writer friend Alice. Alice is a girl’s girl. She’s written a big exposé for Ms. Magazine and is so close to locating a literary treasure she can taste it. Tasting reminds of her spices. She picks up the rotary dial phone and calls the best cook she knows, Vertamae. Vertamae is a Brooklyn celebrity and a cultural anthropologist, but she brings a pot of gumbo with large shrimp, smoked sausage and proper Geechee rice.

More calls are made, and these writers and activists come to June’s apartment. One friend, I think Toni, who had a couple of books published and a little money in her pockets of her fine leather jacket brings the best champagne she can afford. Maybe one bottle of expensive Veuve Clicquot Brut with the Yellow Label to toast something real special. And then she purchases a few bottles of Moët & Chandon or maybe something sparkling and American like André or California Korbel.

Are you getting the picture? Glasses in hand, toasting each other. A 12-inch long-play album sings in the background Stevie Wonder’s “I Wish” or Rose Royce’s “Car Wash.” If June’s love for Bessie Smith wins out, she will make sure the Empress of the Blues’s “Downhearted Blues plays.” After the dishes were cleared, I can imagine them reciting poems, like Anne and Maxine. They might work on plot points or tweak a line or two, passing it amongst themselves, much like Beatriz, Lauren, and Karen.

And just as they ready to leave and tug on their jackets back to brave the February cold, someone suggests a picture. The ladies group together in the living room under June’s hanging picture of singer Bessie Smith. Click. Someone catches the moment. Much like Branwell Brontë, someone has gotten out of the way to commemorate this moment where the sun shined through and touched legends.

Let me formally introduce you to these women:

· June Jordan – A trailblazing poet, essayist, and activist whose work championed social justice, Black empowerment, and the experiences of marginalized communities. In the picture, she was two months away from publishing Things That I Do in the Dark (1977), a poetry collection reflecting on race, gender, and personal identity.

· Alice Walker – A Pulitzer Prize-winning author and activist, best known for her novel The Color Purple and her tireless efforts in preserving Zora Neale Hurston’s legacy, Alice was an established writer, having published Meridian (1976), a novel exploring the civil rights movement.

· Vertamae Smart-Grosvenor – A culinary anthropologist, writer, and Gullah culture advocate is known for her work blending storytelling with food traditions, including her groundbreaking book Vibration Cooking: Or, the Travel Notes of a Geechee Girl (1970).

· Toni Morrison – A Nobel Prize-winning author and Random House editor celebrated for her powerful novels like Beloved that illuminate the complexities of Black life, memory, and history stands, all cool, in her leather coat. At the time of this gathering, Toni had already gained literary acclaim with The Bluest Eye (1970) and Sula (1973). By February 1977, she was months away from publishing Song of Solomon, which would earn her the National Book Critics Circle Award.

· Nana Maynard – A newbie who would go on to become a scholar and cultural advocate for highlighting the contributions of Black artists and writers is there in the front row.

· Ntozake Shange (Toe-zaka chan-gay) – A poet, playwright, and novelist renowned for her choreopoem For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide / When the Rainbow Is Enuf, which helped redefined the portrayal of Black womanhood in art. She was a household name in the 70s and advanced Black feminist theater.

· Audreen Ballard – A gifted writer and thinker who worked for activism and celebrated Black culture, she became an active voice in literary feminist communities.

· Lori Sharpe – Lori was at the beginning of her career, but she went on to become an accomplished poet and writer whose works explore themes of identity, community, and Black womanhood.

Front Row (L to R): Audreen Ballard, Ntozake Shange, Nana Maynard

Back Row (L to R): Vertamae Smith- Grovenor, Alice Walker, Lori Sharpe, Toni Morrison, and June Jordan – Source LA Times.

This photo means the world to me–legends standing on business, celebrating and communing together. It shouts several things at once:

1. Because writing can be an isolated place, seek out friends.

2. Enjoy the best—whatever that may be—when you gather. Eat gumbo, drink the wine.

3. Differences in levels of talent, stages and stature in careers shouldn’t keep anyone from getting a bowl.

4. Toast every one and every accomplishment with good champagne

5. Record the moment. We need good memories.

When I go places, I’m often that one friend taking a hundred pictures. I try to be quick, and I’ve learned to snap photos in live mode. It’s the best way adjust things to make sure everyone looks their best—eyes open, expressions just right, etc. And sometimes static shots can be turned into video so I can relive the moment. It helps to feel not so isolated.

Lastly, it never hurts to be Branwell or the unknown one who snaps the picture. Don’t worry about hogging the light. Today more than ever, someone will catch you and your moment.

So, dear listeners, writers in the house, do something for me: Get with your friends—those soldiering in the same fields and include a few who are doing something different. Celebrate life. Stay hopeful about the things you’re expecting. You deserve delicious gumbo, champagne, and your best girls pouring life into you, just as you do the same for them.

More about information about sisterhoods and writing friendships can be found in the show notes, along with the reading list.

This week buy select books at Mahogany Books at Bookshop.Org.

Show Notes:

Literary Friendships:

Ellison, Ralph. Invisible Man. Random House, 1952.

Murray, Albert. The Omni-Americans: Some Alternatives to the Folklore of White Supremacy. Outerbridge & Dienstfrey, 1970.

Thorsson, Courtney. The Sisterhood: How a Network of Black Women Writers Changed American Culture. Columbia University Press, 2019.

Hamann, Jamie Lee. “Friendships: Maxine Kumin and Anne Sexton.” HubPages, updated December 2, 2017.

Smart-Grosvenor, Vertamae. Vibration Cooking: Or, the Travel Notes of a Geechee Girl. Doubleday, 1970.

Morrison, Toni. The Bluest Eye. Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1970.

Morrison, Toni. Song of Solomon. Alfred A. Knopf, 1977.

Walker, Alice. The Color Purple. Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1982.

Jordan, June. Things That I Do in the Dark. Doubleday, 1977.

Walker, Alice. Meridian. Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1976.

Williams, Beatriz, Lauren Willig, and Karen White. The Lost Summers of Newport. William Morrow, 2022.

Riley, Vanessa. Sister Mother Warrior, William Morrow 2022.

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

Originally posted 2025-02-04 14:10:00.

The best dress in the room doesn’t need three paragraphs. Jane Austen can slay it in five words: “Their dress had every advantage.” Translation: fashionable, confident, ready for the room—but perhaps not much more.

And Bob Mackie? He could obliterate us all, defining a character or a career with carefully sewn sequins.

Before She Says A Word

What Bob Mackie Taught Me About Dressing a Character

“Their dress had every advantage, their faces were rather pretty, their spirits extremely good, their manner unembarrassed and pleasant; they were of consequence at home, and favourites abroad.”

These lines open the fifth chapter of Jane Austen’s Persuasion. Our heroine, Anne Elliot, is giving us what she saw of the Musgrove sisters, Henrietta and Louisa, as they entered the room—the cottage in Uppercross. Not once does Austen describe what the sisters are wearing, but the rest of the sentence fills our heads with an image. Austen is a masterclass in dressing for the room and the moment.

That’s not a one-off. Austen uses Catherine Morland’s anxiety as she decides what to wear to a ball to highlight what it means for a young woman to realize she’s going to be looked at the minute she enters the room. In Mansfield Park, we get a little bit of color when Fanny Price hopes that her dress, a white dress, is not too fine. Mrs. Norris reassures her, “A woman can never be too fine while she is all in white.” None of this tells us the details, the trimmings of the dress. But again, it expresses the anxiety of a woman wondering if she’s holding up to the rules that society places on her. And it also gives us this very weak reassurance that she’s all right. Yet to the reader, the detail tells us so much about Fanny and Mrs. Norris.

Now, while I love to spill on the details, partially because I’m a fabric-and-notion girly, Austen has made me more conscious of what I want the outfit to say about the person and the moment.

So today’s essay is more about a designer whom Austen, once she got over the shock of the curve-hugging lines, might approve of: Bob Mackie, the gowns he designed, and the messages they spoke to the audience.

Mackie the Industry Vet

Robert Gordon “Bob” Mackie was born March 24, 1939, in Monterey Park, California. He began his career as a sketch artist, working for major costume designers including Edith Head and Jean Louis. While working for Jean, the young Mackie drew the design sketch for Marilyn Monroe’s crystal-covered “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” gown.

His early breakthrough came when Mitzi Gaynor hired him in 1966 for her Las Vegas revue and television specials. His designs became household legends with his work for The Carol Burnett Show. He designed for Burnett throughout the 11-year run, including the legendary green velvet curtain-rod dress for the skit, 1976 “Went with the Wind!”

With Cher, Mackie became known in the music industry. His revealing, beaded designs for The Sonny & Cher Comedy Hour helped make Mackie a household name; later creations included Cher’s dramatic 1986 Oscars feathered ensemble and the gown she wore to accept her 1988 Best Actress Oscar.

Mackie designed for Diana Ross, Tina Turner, Liza Minnelli, Lola Falana, Judy Garland, Barbra Streisand, Bette Midler, Madonna, Beyoncé, RuPaul, and many others. He shared an Oscar nomination for costume design for Ross’s Lady Sings the Blues (1972) with Ray Aghayan and Norma Koch.

He never stopped designing, and younger stars like Miley Cyrus, Beyoncé, Zendaya, and more have taken to Mackie like a rite of passage.

Mackie and the Light

As I’ve studied the designs of the 1600s and the Georgian and Regency periods, I’m fascinated by silhouettes and fabrics. Every article and material indicates not only status but access and even the internals of a character. I’ve studied how candlelight can skip across silk, even change direction based on how the fabric is woven. I’ve learned to notice how the weight of velvet flows differently as a woman comes down stairs. My Lady Worthing mysteries are seasonal, so that is a fun thing to explore.

Mackie knew the importance of light, particularly how beads throw light across a ballroom, how the shimmer can accentuate the length of a leg or arm, how swaying can start before a movement as well as linger when it’s done. His flame dresses, worn by Tina, Cher, Beyoncé, Miley, and probably more, are perfect examples of this balance.

That is one of the reasons I have always loved Bob Mackie. Mackie understood something fundamental about clothes: the dress does not exist separately from the body. The light is entwined with the camera angles and the music, whether the performer is singing, acting, or offering a joke.

Mackie and the Entrance

Something that I pay attention to is how a character enters a room. Is it dramatic? Does it follow a confrontation? And for those of us still hung up on the movie Sinners, we all understand what it means to be invited in.

The entrance reveals so much. Mackie knew this.

Carol Burnett wanted to spoof Gone With the Wind. Mackie knew the iconic green-curtain dress in the movie made Scarlett O’Hara a beauty that Rhett almost couldn’t reject.

The script called for Burnett’s character to come downstairs wearing curtains. Mackie decided simply draping curtains around her wasn’t funny enough.

So the minute Carol had to reveal herself, Mackie knew typical elegance wasn’t the answer. The outfit had to be a part of the joke. Mackie made his curtain dress and insisted the curtain rod remain inside. It’s iconic. It tells its own joke the minute the dress is seen. The resulting green velvet confection—with its sweeping skirt, extravagant tassels, and horizontal rod extending from the shoulders—became one of television’s greatest sight gags.

It is hilarious because it is also gorgeous.

There is volume. There is drape. There are yards of sumptuous fabric. There are tassels and layers and a silhouette that would not be entirely out of place in a nineteenth-century fashion plate.

Until you notice she is wearing the window.

That’s Mackie.

Fabric could create desire.

Fabric could create glamour.

And fabric could deliver a punch line.

The costume is now in the Smithsonian. It was just that much of the moment.

Mackie Made Her The Moment

It’s 1975. Cher is heading for a divorce from TV partner and husband Sonny Bono. Everyone knew Sonny and Cher. Mackie knew the way Cher looked had to show glamour and a woman standing on her own. Bob Mackie was there to dress this new, solo Cher. The internet is littered with reels and videos showing dress reveals, all designed by Mackie. Cher becomes emblematic of sexiness, strength, and beauty while reclaiming the charm and humor everyone knew when she was married.

While working with Cher, Mackie met Tina Turner. Tina and Cher performed together repeatedly, and Mackie was designing the clothes. Mackie later remembered this as an unsettled period for Tina. She’d left Ike and, as Mackie put it, was “kind of hiding out.”

Tina had been working smaller venues to rebuild herself as a solo act. Mackie remembered her as searching for “a different life.” His clothes helped distinguish the emerging Tina Turner from the woman audiences associated with the Ike & Tina Turner Revue.

He designed for her body in motion. Mackie understood that Tina wasn’t going to stand elegantly under a spotlight. She’d strut, kick, and dance around the entire stage. He emphasized her legs with extremely high slits and short skirts, with trunks sewn underneath so she could move freely.

Mackie created a gold-and-silver chain-fringe bodysuit with enormous pleated gold-lamé wings for Tina’s solo nightclub performances, including one at Caesars Palace. He made sure the wings would remain behind her until she suddenly extended her arms and opened them to their full span. When Tina did, the world stopped for just a second. She was a beautiful butterfly. In her 2020 memoir, she remembered wearing the winged costume and feeling as though she were about to take flight and soar.

Mackie knew what she needed, what Cher needed, and made it happen in sequins and shimmer.

When I write, I have to remember that costume design—the clothing that each character wears—becomes part of the choreography. I have to anticipate what the body will do and make sure that the outfit does not compete with the performer but becomes the performer’s second skin.

My Mackie Moment

In 1958, Eunice W. Johnson transformed a charity fashion show into a traveling institution, the Ebony Fashion Fair. Eunice, the powerhouse, went into European and American fashion houses—spaces that had often excluded Black people—and bought couture. She put powerful statement brands on Black models. For fifty years, Ebony Fashion Fair presented Black audiences with an extraordinary proposition: This beauty belongs to you, too.

In 2001, Eunice commissioned Bob Mackie to create an ensemble for the Ebony Fashion Fair. The Chicago History Museum describes the result as a skintight, 1930s-style, heavily beaded gown with a separate face-framing hood and an ostrich-feather coat. The gown was lined with sheer silk selected to match the Black model’s skin tone, creating the illusion of a nude body beneath the beadwork. Virginia Heaven, the costume curator of the Chicago History Museum, described the finished ensemble afterward as “part fairy princess, part Vegas showgirl, part Barbie doll.”

Speaking of Barbie dolls, I collect a few. A few years ago, I found out that Mackie designed an “International Beauty Collection” for Mattel. Fantasy Goddess of Africa originated in 1999. Mackie’s archives describe the Africa doll as being inspired by a “Serengeti sunset.” I had to get one. She’s wearing a fitted, embroidered, and beaded gown, with cinnamon skin, cuffs, neckpiece, and headdress.

I looked at her today. Took her out of her box and smiled at the way the light reflected in her gown. I can’t believe I own a piece of Bob Mackie history, and one that is so personal to me:

Fashion. Black beauty. History. Costuming. Storytelling.

And movement. Plenty of movement. The feathers move.

Mackie Left the Building

Bob Mackie died September 14, 2026, from pneumonia. He left us with a world of pictures of glamour, moments of joy and beauty, and reclamation of power.

Rest in brilliance, Bob Mackie.

And thank you for the shimmer and the sparkle.

This week’s booklist includes:

The Art of Bob Mackie by Frank Vlastnik and Laura Ross. This is a comprehensive celebration of Mackie’s career, filled with photographs, original sketches, and stories behind his unforgettable creations.

Cher: The Memoir, Part One by Cher. Cher tells the story of her childhood, rise to fame, marriage to Sonny Bono, and the complicated partnership that helped create—and eventually forced her to reinvent—one of entertainment’s most recognizable personas.

My Love Story by Tina Turner. Turner recounts her journey from Nutbush, Tennessee, through the Ike & Tina Turner years and into the extraordinary solo career and personal life she built for herself afterward.

Dress in the Age of Jane Austen: Regency Fashion by Hilary Davidson. A richly illustrated exploration of Regency clothing, textiles, and fashion through Austen’s life and writing.

Inspiring Beauty: 50 Years of Ebony Fashion Fair by Joy L. Bivins and Rosemary K. Adams, eds. The book celebrates Eunice W. Johnson and the Ebony Fashion Fair’s extraordinary role in bringing couture, Black beauty, and a new vision of Black America to audiences nationwide.

Writer in Residence by Rhonda McKnight. A struggling novelist escapes to the South Carolina Lowcountry hoping to recover her words, only to find romance, buried family secrets, and an unexpected connection to Gullah Geechee heritage that challenges her to reclaim both her story and her future.

And yes—Sunday, September 20 at 2:00 PM at FoxTale Book Shoppe, Rhonda McKnight and I will be entering the room to discuss her new novel.

RSVP for this conversation.

And FoxTale Book Shoppe has a few signed copies of Fire Sword and Sea and Murder in St. James’s Park.

You can also try one of my partners in the fight, bookstores large and small, who are in the trenches with me.

You can find my notes on Substack or on my website, VanessaRiley.com, under the podcast link in the About tab.

Hey. Let’s keep rising and creating together. I need you. That is the truth. Like, share, subscribe, and stay connected to Write of Passage.

Thank you for being here.

I want you to 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

When I started researching pirates, everyone—and I mean everyone—immediately brought up Pirates of the Caribbean.

And why not? It’s cinematic, dashing, and full of swashbuckling flair. We love that world of yo-ho-ho and pirate speak. But when I dug deeper into the research, I found that most of what we imagine about pirates is more Hollywood fantasy than historical fact.

First all that lovely “pirate talk” we hear on screen? It never really existed. The real pirates of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries spoke with layers of accents and nuances—French, Portuguese, English, and dozens of African and Caribbean creoles mixed in the salty air. Pirates were polyglot survivors of empire, not parrots reciting “Arrr!”

And that infamous “walking the plank”? Another myth. No one was forced to tiptoe off a wooden board jutting out to the sea. Ships didn’t have planks sticking out like that for the purpose of punishment. If a captain wanted to get rid of you, he’d stab you on deck—or maroon you on a sandbar with nothing but a knife within reach. Death by tide, starvation, or suicide is far less cinematic than the plank scene, but it’s closer to the truth.

This gap between history and fantasy fascinates me. But it’s also dangerous. We live in a world where fact and fiction often blur—not just about pirates, but about our past, our identity, even our worth. People resist truth when it threatens nostalgia. And when it disturbs the myths that says your ancestors are heroes and mine are villains…well that’s heresy. Truth matters. I want truth. I seek the truth, the whole truth—the good, the bad, and the ugly—It grounds us. It teaches us both how to persevere and how to survive.

My hunt for truth has shaped my writing journey, too. I will go to the ends of the earth, translate, cross reference, consult with experts—everything to bring you the most authentic story.

But that’s also my Achilles’s heel. I’m a math nerd at heart. I love formulas and theorems, and those constants that prove a system and deliver the same results every time.

One plus one equals two.

One plus one should equal two.

There’s comfort in that. But like life—and like publishing—not everything follows the rules. You can do everything “right,” follow every formula, and still end up with goose eggs.

Publishing isn’t always about the story; sometimes it’s about timing. I’ve known brilliant inventors ahead of their time, missing the boon of the market because they were too early. I’ve seen wonderful ideas die on the vine and then become reborn because of renewed visibility.

Now to hit home. I’ve seen Black and marginalized authors face struggle after struggle—and do everything right and never find that soft place to land. When you’re writing stories that highlight the communities or historical figures that represent 13–20% of the reading public instead of the 80% reading addressable market, the math to visibility is simply harder math. It takes more effort to reach the readers who crave truth and value diversity and depth over myth and comfort.

We compete on a sloped playing field, but we are ridiculed if we acknowledge the reality. It’s not weakness to say the ground is not level. And the math odds say you will stumble, which leads to less support and systems that make the slope more dangerous.

So, to my fellow writers, especially those who are tired and discouraged: sometimes the math just doesn’t add up, and it’s not your fault. It’s not your imagination. And you are not weak for wanting to acknowledge the obvious. You’re navigating a system that wasn’t built for you. Your success relies on beating the odds. That’s tiring.

Does it hurt. Yes.

Do I have answers. No.

But here’s what I do know—you have a choice in how you respond to the system. Do the math. Count the costs. Decide what level of energy you will deliver to this system, and where you want to disrupt it. In the interim, tell your story. Tell them anyway. The 13% are in need of stories that humanize, that restore dignity, and that challenge what “history” has left out.

For Fire Sword and Sea–I had a different plan when I started researching. From the moment I stood in the pirate prison in Port Royal, Jamaica, Jacquotte Delahaye and her cohorts began telling me their lives. The research changed my novel. And it definitely changed me.

I had to write about women pirates who defied empires and expectations. Jacquotte and her sisters of the sea—the risk-takers, dream igniters, and steadfast shields of fiery grace—they deserve to be remembered. They fought for economic freedom for themselves and their families. They shattered boundaries and broke bones in pursuit of survival and the right to live as they chose.

I did the math. I’m doing everything I can to bring attention to their stories that I’ve captured in Fire Sword and Sea—talking about it, planning events, inviting you to join me. Because you, my listeners, my readers—you’re part of my crew.

So, if you’re feeling weary, wondering if your story matters, let me tell you: it does. Maybe now more than ever. Truth-telling, whether in history or art, is rebellion against erasure. It’s how we keep from drowning beneath the tides of comfort and myth.

Do the math. Do the work. And keep going.

This is week forty-seven of the Write of Passage podcast—now at fifteen thousand downloads and over hundred thousand Substack views. Thank you for sailing with me through both storm and calm. Let’s keep breaking the waves together.

This week’s books to reflect upon are:

Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell – Explores how success often depends less on individual talent and more on timing, opportunity, and winning the hidden systems around us.

The Warmth of Other Suns by Isabel Wilkerson – A sweeping history that restores dignity and humanity to those whose stories were buried.

Thick: And Other Essays by Tressie McMillan Cottom – Reflects upon what it meant to live and create as a Black woman in systems designed to misunderstand you.

A Pirate’s Life for She: Swashbuckling Women Through the Ages by Laura Sook Duncombe -Spotlights women pirates who defied expectation and carved out economic and personal freedom.

And of course Fire Sword and Sea by Vanessa Riley. Caribbean women pirates—Black women pirates join French and Indigenous women to sail the seas. Fire Sword and Sea releases January 13th, 2026. If you’re a librarian, vote for this book now for Library Reads in Edelweiss and NetGalley.

This week, I’m highlighting Resist Book Sellers through their website and Bookshop.org .

Consider purchasing Fire Sword and Sea from Resist Book Sellers or one of my partners in the fight, bookstore’s large and small who are in this with me.

We are less two months away the January 13th release.

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.

If you’re on board my ship, press that like button, subscribe and share Write of Passage. Never miss a moment. We have work to do. And I need You.

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

Originally posted 2025-11-11 14:10:00.

To the writers, the creatives: if you’re like me, you possess a deep curiosity about humanity and a desire to do good through your work. But creatives—are you struggling? Are deadlines slipping through your fingers? Is the blank page staring back at you, stubborn and bare?

Do you feel alone, like no will ride out to save you?

The truth is no one is coming, because we are all anxious and distracted. It’s hard not to be. Since our last episode, it feels like a million and one things have happened all at once.

I’ve seen creatives grappling with the still-high price of eggs, building skits about boycotts—or debates about debating boycotts—and the resurrection of TikTok sparking discussions about zombie-like timelines.

Time burns.

Writers wrestle with their roles. We try to create worlds, worlds that feel diverse and welcoming while rage-watching unqualified individuals ascend to power due to the privilege of their bank accounts or honestly whiteness or white associations. I’ve seen a spectacle of posts from people with crosses in their bios making rage filled takes on what Jesus would or would not do.

How do we create, keep creating when everything around us is in flux and chaos? I usually have my act together. I plan and execute. This week I’ve let time get away from me. I’ve written and rewritten this very essay a multitude of times. I want to give you fresh mana every time I step to the microphone.

Then unexpectedly, clarity came during a celebration of life for a dear friend’s grandmother.

Watching a montage of Mrs. Dorothy’s life in photos, hearing testimonies of love, and, most poignantly, listening to the words of her longtime best friend moved me deeply. Her bestie described their years of shared laughter, prayer, and adventures—as missions of foolery at bars, late-night Thelma-and-Louise-style escapades, and their unshakable bond.

When the bestie shared a piece of wall art Mrs. Dorothy had made for her, I choked up. Hung in a gilded frame, the red and orange colors radiated joy. I felt the sisterly love and support. The bestie said that everything wasn’t always perfect between them, but they knew that either would ride to hell and back for the other.

At that moment, I knew what I had to write. The question that cut into my soul—are you someone’s ride or die? Are you someone’s safe harbor, their distraction from life’s destructive winds? Or are you a danger in disguise, someone who, by intent or accident, dims their light?

“Vanessa, why so serious?” We are living in serious times. Everything must be purposeful. We need to think before we speak. James 1:19-20, says something like, brothers and sisters, everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry, because anger does not produce righteousness.”

Why should we do this slow think? It doesn’t feel good. If I just post on social…

No. These social media streets are meaner than ever. And the consequences of a good jab, a quick retort, can have monstrous FAFO reactions. Let me tell you a few short stories to illustrate this.

There was once a phenomenal female painter whose work celebrated women and cultural pride with breathtaking power. At the height of her talent, she was mostly ignored. Society lauded her famous husband as the true genius. She was told to be quiet, to support him, to be lesser. I imagine, she often looked up at the sky and wondered why there wasn’t enough light for two.

There was a humble poet who burned to tell the stories of ordinary people. When she poured her heart into her writing, critics dismissed her. They wanted stories about the elite, not the impoverished. The fire in her soul left no room for compromise, but her enemies sought to bury her work. They succeeded. No one rode to save her. She died impoverished and in obscurity. She closed her eyes knowing her peers had deliberately dimmed her light.

There was once a collector who nurtured others’ prose. She gave so much of herself that her own work was overlooked. After publishing several novels with little acclaim, she gazed at the starry sky and wished there was enough light for her mentees and her too.

Imagine women dying spent of their energy and grace, dismissed, barely acknowledged. Unfortunately for a female creator, these are not anomalies.

Women Who Didn’t Live to See Their Due

Artemisia Gentileschi (1593–1656): An Italian Baroque painter whose powerful depictions of women, such as Judith Slaying Holofernes, were overshadowed by her male contemporaries. Today, she is celebrated as one of the Baroque period’s greatest artists.

Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz (1651–1695): A Mexican nun and writer whose literary works were suppressed by church authorities. Forced to sell her library of collected books, she soon died. Her best known work Reply to Sister Filotea of the Cross is a defense of women’s education. Today, she’s a feminist icon.

Emily Dickinson (1830–1886): The American poet published fewer than a dozen of her nearly 1,800 poems during her lifetime. Today, she’s a legend.

Zora Neale Hurston (1891–1960): A giant of the Harlem Renaissance, Hurston’s work was erased from mainstream consciousness for decades. She died in poverty and was buried in an unmarked grave.

Frida Kahlo (1907–1954): Often overshadowed by her husband, Diego Rivera, Kahlo’s work is now recognized worldwide as a celebration of womanhood and Mexican culture.

There are more—always countless more women who are dismissed and their greatness only acknowledged posthumously. Death and decades of time shouldn’t be prerequisites for a creative to get their due.

Back to my earlier stories, I have some posthumous updates.

The Ignored Artist: Frida KahloAlways in the shadow of her husband, the famed 1920s painter Diego Rivera, Frida’s talents were noted and championed by art-world luminaries like socialite Lupe Marín (Diego’s first wife) and photographer Tina Modotti. Lupe introduced Frida to influential figures in the art world, while Tina captured stunning photographs that catapulted Frida’s reputation. These two women helped elevate Frida’s distinctive style and works, including her 1926 piece, Self-Portrait in a Velvet Dress. Their support was instrumental in promoting her art in Mexico and beyond, eventually earning Frida the global acclaim she deserved.

The Hobbled Writer: Zora Neale HurstonStory two was about the gifted Zora. During her lifetime, Zora was celebrated as a writer of the Harlem Renaissance. However, after the 1940s, her work fell out of favor. She was criticized by contemporaries for not explicitly addressing racism or aligning with the civil rights movement. Her focus was on everyday folk and folklore. This divergence caused the literary elites to push her into obscurity. Shunned and misunderstood, Zora died in poverty in 1960, and yes, buried in an unmarked grave.

Enter burgeoning writer Alice Walker (The Color Purple), who encountered Zora’s Their Eyes Were Watching God in graduate school around the 1970s, a decade after Zora’s death. Profoundly changed by the novel, Alice was shocked that Zora’s legacy had been erased. Determined to restore it, she feverishly researched Zora’s life, eventually writing an essay for Ms. Magazine titled “Looking for Zora.” Alice located Zora’s unmarked grave and purchased a headstone, inscribed with: “Zora Neale Hurston: A Genius of the South.”

The Dismissed Editor: Jessie Redmon FausetJessie (1882–1961) was a vital figure of the Harlem Renaissance, yet her work was undervalued in her lifetime and largely forgotten until the feminist and civil rights movements of the 70s. I recently read an advanced copy of Harlem Rhapsody by Victoria Christopher Murray, which chronicles Jessie’s life. Victoria beautifully highlights how the editor’s dreams were often sacrificed to nurture younger Harlem Renaissance writers like Langston Hughes. Her contributions to literature and her own novels deserve the same spotlight:

* There is Confusion (1924): Examines issues of race and ambition among Black professionals.

* Plum Bun (1928): Explores passing and the complexities of identity, a theme that may have influenced her friend Nella Larsen’s Passing.

* The Chinaberry Tree (1931): Focuses on family dynamics and societal expectations within Black communities.

* Comedy: American Style (1933): A biting critique of internalized racism and the pursuit of whiteness.

Thank you, Victoria, for returning Jessie to our lexicon.

That’s what I love about research and writing. Pen to paper, words forming sentences—we get to take readers back in time and restore women. In Sister Mother Warrior, I rediscovered Marie-Claire Bonheur, the first Empress of Haiti, and Gran Toya, a counselor and African military leader to Emperor Jacques I (Jean-Jacques Dessalines). These two women, connected to the man who liberated Haiti, were crucial to shaping the Haitian Revolution. Within the prose, I built the respect and friendship that developed between these two polar opposites. That’s right opposite can respect and ride for each other.

With fiction based loosely on historical events and people, I ride for the forgotten and amplify sisterly ideals. In A Gamble at Sunset and the forthcoming A Wager at Midnight, I deliberately showcase the Wilcox sisters’ relationship. These Black women are far from perfect. They won’t be painted or captured in a pristine sonnet. They’re messy and passionate. Their ability to listen and not judge is constantly tested, but they will ride at dawn for their sister.

We need that energy now. Listen closely: I’m not interested in performative protests. I don’t want my exhausted sisters lifting a finger for something that’s not well thought out. I refuse to witness the front of a firing line, because the loudest folk dropped away and hid.

Moreover I don’t want to see sisters picking apart another sister or their art for clicks or because they disagree. We’re blessed that Lupe and Tina weren’t judgmental in their love for Frida. Alice didn’t care that Zora wrote differently from her. She didn’t question Zora’s identity or love for her people. Alice stood in the gap and worked to elevate Zora. She returned her to us and bought a headstone to honor a woman, she’d only met in reading the dismissed words of Their Eyes Were Watching God.

What I’m saying is: In these times of turmoil and distress, leave petty differences behind. Ride or die for the freedom, freedom to produce art. Don’t let your sisters die in poverty. Don’t let them leave this earth without tasting the fruit of the seeds they planted. In a world of chaos, be Lupe, Tina, or Alice—or any other writer who restore our ancestors to us.

My dear creatives, ride or die or get out the way.

If you want a deeper dive into some of the books mentioned here’s the list:

The Answer / La Respuesta (Expanded Edition): Including Sor Filotea’s Letter and New Selected Poems. Sor Juana Inez de la Cruz. The Feminist Press at CUNY, 2009. 2nd ed.

The Chinaberry Tree. Jessie Redmon Fauset. Dover Publications, 2013.

The Color Purple. Alice Walker. Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1982.

Comedy: American Style. Jessie Redmon Fauset. Rutgers University Press, 1933.

A Gamble at Sunset. Vanessa Riley. Kensington, 2024.

Harlem Rhapsody. Victoria Christopher Murray. Berkeley, 2025.

Plum Bun. Jessie Redmon Fauset. Beacon Press, 1928.

Sister Mother Warrior. Vanessa Riley. William Morrow, 2022.

There Is Confusion. Jessie Redmon Fauset. Dover Publications, 1920.

Their Eyes Were Watching God. Zora Neale Hurston. J. B. Lippincott & Co., 1937.

A Wager at Midnight. Vanessa Riley. Kensington, 2025.

One additional resource, the additional essay Alice wrote, “Looking for Zora” is in this collection: Walker, Alice. In Search of Our Mothers’ Gardens: Womanist Prose. San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1983.

Thanks for reading Vanessa Riley’s Write of Passage! Subscribe for free. Get Vanessa’s take on publishing and the world, drawing from her journey as an indie author turned traditionally published powerhouse: 25 novels and counting..

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

Originally posted 2025-01-28 14:10:00.

Writers, if you’re letting AI write your scenes, your chapters, or your books, I have one question: What exactly do you own? I went looking for answers and found the bodies—the AI Gamble can cost you everything.

An influencer and trademark lawyer, Jennifer Brantley (@thefineprintlawyer on IG), posted a really interesting reel about why AI might be “hiding the bodies.”

It was provocative, particularly in light of some of the publishing deals we’ve recently seen fall apart.

I’ve talked before about the case of a young Black author reportedly on the verge of a nearly $2 million deal—only for the deal to collapse.

Now, we don’t know exactly why that happened, and I don’t want to pretend that we do. But Brantley’s reel raised an interesting possibility: What happens when an agent or publisher loses confidence that the work they’re buying was actually written by the author?

And more specifically: What happens when they don’t know how much AI was used to create it?

That sent me straight down a research rabbit hole.

Because Brantley brought up something I had not seriously considered before:

AI-generated material may not be protected by copyright.

Now, y’all know I occasionally play a lawyer on Substack. And as a historical-fiction writer, I spend an obscene amount of time researching things, weighing evidence, trying to figure out what actually happened versus what somebody merely said happened.

So I went looking and found facts:

In January 2025, the U.S. Copyright Office released Copyright and Artificial Intelligence, Part 2: Copyrightability.

In this report, the U.S. Copyright Office says:

“Copyright does not extend to purely AI-generated material.” (page iii)

Y’all see that? Getting ChatGPT, Claude, or any of the others to draft a novel means it can’t be copyrighted.

The report also says:

“Copyright protects the original expression in a work created by a human author, even if the work also includes AI-generated material.” This means the lawyers and the U.S. Copyright Office will have to play Solemn and split your baby into pieces, figuring out which parts belong to which mother.

The part of the novel creation process where AI can be used for research and brainstorming is allowed, as I stated in Receipts Please, but if you think your human control comes from designing a prompt for the AI, guess again. According to the U.S. Copyright Office on page 18:

“prompts alone do not provide sufficient human control.”

In other words, simply typing an AI Prompt like, Write me a novel about X or a scene about Y or a chapter with A-P level of specificity, does not make you the author of that expression for purposes of copyright.

Think about the danger you’ve put your idea in by having AI write it. There is a ton of what people call “AI slop” being sold right now—on Amazon and elsewhere. Books and other products that someone may have generated substantially or entirely with AI and then put into the marketplace.

These products make money. Lack of copyright protection doesn’t magically claw back the money somebody already earned selling something.

But what happens when somebody else copies that same AI-generated material?

What exactly does the purported author own? What can they defend?

I’ve had conversations with showrunners, and Hollywood is buzzing, hunting for unique IP, intellectual property. I’m talking about books being acquired for serious money—especially books with film and television potential. Copyrighted books are IP.

Imagine somebody is prepared to invest seven figures in a property because it is deliciously marketable. Everybody can see the movie. Everybody can see the limited series. People want the rights.

Except now, the buyers are asking who actually wrote this?

If substantial portions of the manuscript were generated by AI, those portions may not have copyright protection. No one’s going to pay big bucks for 2/3 of a manuscript. And what stops the studio from now running with the idea without you? They can because there’s no copyright.

Suddenly this isn’t merely an ethical debate about whether writers “should” use AI.

It’s a chain-of-title problem.

It’s a rights problem.

It’s a due-diligence problem.

It’s a very expensive problem.

And to be clear, the Copyright Office is not saying that touching AI makes your book uncopyrightable.

Quite the opposite.

On page 41 of the report, the US Copyright Office says that using AI as an assistive tool does not prevent copyright protection. Human-authored material remains protectable. Human creative selection, editing, coordination, and arrangement may be protectable. Creative human modifications of AI-generated material may also qualify for protection.

But this line drawn in the sand is fuzzy. Figuring out what one actually has is the new problem.

If AI gives you something and you substantially transform it, what portion is yours?

How much modification is enough?

What constitutes sufficient human creative control?

For those who think the courts are already too invasive, wait until they have to start digging into these cases. If millions of dollars are riding on the answer, figuring this out will be extremely expensive.

Which brings me back to that publishing deal.

Could uncertainty about AI have been the reason that particular deal collapsed? I don’t know.

The people involved aren’t actually talking. So none of us knows.

But I now understand a little better why an agent, publisher, studio or producer spending serious money on intellectual property might be deeply concerned about the origin of a work. They aren’t Amazon Indie Publishing or what I like to call the Wild West where just about anything uploaded is sellable.

Today’s markets are not just buying good ideas. They are buying rights.

And they need to know that the person selling those rights actually has something to sell that has protections

So here’s my advice to writers looking for shortcuts:

Don’t.

Shortcuts have a way of coming back and making you bleed in ways you couldn’t see when you took them.

Nothing beats putting your butt in the chair and doing the work.

And there’s another issue writers need to start thinking about.

If you’re working with an editor, a critique partner, or a critique group, establish ground rules about AI.

Prohibit them from feeding your manuscript into an AI system.

Know what tools they’re using.

Know what happens to the material that you’re sharing after the critique or edit.

Your unpublished manuscript is your work. Your ideas, characters, and pages should not become somebody else’s AI input without your knowledge.

That doesn’t mean we should panic. It means writers need to know what is happening to their work.

New technology doesn’t change the hardest part of being a writer.

Creating is scary.

Comparison is inevitable.

And writing can be lonely.

You sit in a room by yourself, putting words onto a screen or paper, wondering whether any of it works.

But that’s the work of being a writer.

This weekend I was doing a little research of my own, and I discovered something that stopped me.

Murder in St. James’s Park is my thirty-first novel. And Lady Worthing belongs to an extraordinarily small group of historical mystery series written by Black authors and featuring Black protagonists as sleuths. There are 5 series.

* 1806 Abigail Carrington Monroe, Lady Worthing, joins:

* 1920s Lanie Price by Persia Walker

* 1923 Annalee Spain by Patricia Raybon

* 1926 Louise Lloyd by Nekesa Afia

* 1948 Easy Rawlins by Walter Mosley

I didn’t know it was that rare.

The discovery made me realize how privileged I am to have sat in a chair, alone, creating and getting published the Lady Worthing Mysteries.

Abigail exists because of my imagination, life experiences, and love of history—and because of the labor.

Sitting in that chair.

Pounding those keys.

Figuring out who she is.

Watching her grow.

Watching her struggle.

Watching her come into her own.

Even if that means the untimely demise of her husband.

I’m just saying.

And now I’m getting ready to write the next Lady Worthing mystery. You’d think after thirty-one novels—and after spending four books with these characters—the beginning shouldn’t scare me, not anymore.

It does.

How do I begin?

Where do I begin?

What belongs in this book?

What doesn’t?

I’m doing my pre-work now. I’m thinking about these characters I know so well and asking what new growth should we see from them.

Because I don’t want them to be stagnant.

And I don’t think you come to these books to read stagnant characters.

But I know this much: No AI prompt is going to write the next Lady Worthing mystery for me.

There isn’t a shortcut around the blank page, but I get to decide what happens next.

That’s writing.

That’s authorship.

That’s the work.

So I’m going to put my butt in the chair and do it.

I suggest y’all do the same.

This week’s reading list is the rare historical mystery series:

Lanie Price Mystery Series by Persia Walker — Set in 1920s Harlem, society reporter Lanie Price uses her journalistic instincts to investigate murder, secrets, and corruption amid the glamour and tensions of the Harlem Renaissance.

Annalee Spain Mystery Series by Patricia Raybon — Set in 1920s Denver, young Black theologian and professor Annalee Spain investigates murders while confronting racism, danger, and the social constraints of the era.

Harlem Renaissance Mystery Series by Nekesa Afia — Beginning with Dead Dead Girls, the series follows Louise Lloyd through 1920s Harlem as she investigates murders threatening Black women in her community.

Easy Rawlins Mystery Series by Walter Mosley — Beginning with Devil in a Blue Dress, set in 1948 Los Angeles, Black WWII veteran Ezekiel “Easy” Rawlins is drawn into finding a missing woman and begins his long career as an unofficial private detective.

Murder in St. James’s Park is out. That’s book 4 in the Lady Worthing Mysteries.

The Book Worm Bookshop is my store of the week. Please support this indie bookstore as well as your own local indie bookstore.

And The Book Worm Bookshop has a few signed copies of Fire Sword and Sea and Murder in St. James’s Park.

You can also try one of my partners in the fight, bookstores large and small, who are in the trenches with me.

You can find my notes on Substack or on my website, VanessaRiley.com, under the podcast link in the About tab.

Hey. Let’s keep rising and creating together. I need you. That is the truth. Like, share, subscribe, and stay connected to Write of Passage.

Thank you for being here.

I want you to 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