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 meditation on writing, grief, self-doubt, and creative renewal.

Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. This is a classic that embraces imperfection, persistence, and yes, the sadness and relief of finishing a project.

Ordinary Notes by Christina Sharpe is not a traditional writing craft book, but it’s deeply reflective, exploring memory, loss, Black life, and the power of language. It’s perfect for writers processing the emotional weight of finishing something.

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

Help 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.

Enjoying the vibe? 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

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 found in the public domain, but

A Street in Bronzeville by Gwendolyn Brooks is available. It’s her debut collection. It that features poems of everyday life with dignity, tenderness, and piercing realism.

For Read Caribbean Month I recommend,

How to Say Babylon by Safiya SinclairA searing memoir about a Rastafarian girl finding her voice against a backdrop of patriarchy.

And lastly, I am asking for your support 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.

Show notes include a list of the books mentioned in this broadcast. This week, I’m highlighting Joseph-Beth Booksellers through their website and Bookshop.org

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

If you believe like me that stories matter—please like, share, and hit subscribe to Write of Passage.

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

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, more than once, if some of these acquisitions with no follow-through are just another version of the black Instagram squares. A performance. “Look, Mama—we did something.” But then the cover’s bad, the e-book or audio launch is botched, and the book disappears, drowning in wrong or limited search results.

So I ask: Did some publishers in 2020 merely shift their knee slightly off the necks of Black writers—just enough to say they weren’t actively killing careers?

George Floyd didn’t deserve to die. He was a man. A father. A person with a past—but one who had a future, until it was stolen.

I use George’s first name throughout this essay because this is personal. I want you to remember how it felt. You saw the video. As a Black woman, that could have been my husband. One of my brothers, my uncles, or my beloved nephews.

I’m not going to lie—my heart still races when I see flashing blue lights. I don’t want to be Sandra Bland. Or Breonna Taylor. I have books to write, stories to tell, a family that I need to be here for. Yet, unless you sit beside me, you’ll never hear the sound I make—the soft, involuntary gasp of relief—when a patrol car passes and doesn’t pull me over.

That breath I’ve been holding finally escapes. And in that moment, I relearn how to breathe.

Books to help us process what happened and where we find ourselves:

His Name Is George Floyd by Robert Samuels & Toluse Olorunnipa is the Pulitzer Prize-winning biography that details Floyd’s life and the systemic racism that shaped it.

Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria? by Beverly Daniel Tatum – Examines racial identity development and institutional bias, including in schools and publishing.

Well-Read Black Girl edited by Glory Edim – Celebrates Black women writers and the importance of being seen in literature.

Help 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.

Show notes include a list of the books mentioned in this broadcast. This week, I’m highlighting The Dock Bookshop through their website and Bookshop.org

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

If you believe like me that stories matter—tap like, share with a friend, and hit subscribe to Write of Passage.

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