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

Originally posted 2025-05-27 13:10:00.

My husband, a retired military man, doesn’t talk much about his service.But when he does, he’s careful—measured—about the details and the conflicts he may have witnessed.

I did get him to share a little about evacuating citizens during Hurricane Katrina.

But then (Saturday) I got a call while I was on the road in Baltimore.

A woman who had been his office mate…a navigator who became a pilot…someone he once gave a check ride to…

She had a beautiful laugh—the kind that filled a room.Always encouraging. Always steady.

She died this weekend.

She—and her crew—became casualties of a U.S. war.

I just came back from a quick dash to Baltimore.I spent time in a beautiful bookstore, wandered through a wonderful library system, and got to greet Maryland readers—people who love stories the way I do.

I brought work with me.My next novel is brewing.

But I didn’t touch it.

Instead, I let myself be wrecked by Kin by Tayari Jones.Because I needed escape.Not distraction—escape. The kind that reminds you why stories matter when the real world feels like it’s unraveling.

Right now, I’m living in a dichotomy.

On one side, there’s the book world—my world.Deadlines. Promotion. Strategy. The constant push to get our stories into as many hands as possible.

On the other side… there’s everything else.

Every time I leave my house, gas costs more. It has jumped from $2.65 to nearly $3.90.Every headline feels heavier than the last.

And now, we’re in a war I didn’t want—a war I didn’t vote for.

Let me be clear—I support the troops. Always.But that does not mean I support everything that puts them in harm’s way.

Because this isn’t abstract to me.

My husband—retired military—flew with a young pilot.She sat at the desk next to his.She is now a casualty of this war.

This isn’t policy.This is personal.

When things get heavy, I put my feelings in a box. I believe in compartmentalization.

Put your grief in one box.Your anger in another.Your ambition somewhere else.

It’s how I’ve survived rooms where I knew I wasn’t valued.Rooms where people smiled politely while quietly wishing I’d disappear.

And yes—sometimes you smile to keep from crying.Sometimes you grin and bear it because the future matters more than the discomfort of the present.

I thought I was good at that.

But this?This is harder.

When things were impossible for Jacquotte Delahaye and Sarah Sayon in Fire, Sword, and Sea, they turned to fire. The wish to burn it all down and clear away the rubbish, that they were presented.

That feeling must be universal. I am very tempted to point out to those who enabled this hellscape why they need fire. It might feel good to curse out the people who deserve it.

You’ve watched the news. I’m sure some very choice words have come to mind.

But that’s not me.

I have faith, a moral compass, a soul that won’t be damned because of enablers.

Which means I enter rooms—and exit them—with grace, poise, and dignity.I will not let anyone steal that from me.

Racism will not stumble me.Misogyny will not humble me.

And those who don’t value stories—especially stories about history, power, and women—will never shut me up.

So I will not let them win by becoming something I’m not.

Nonetheless, let’s not pretend. Let’s open the compartment where the rage is.

The world feels like it’s on fire. Self-inflicted fire.

There’s a part of me that wants to point fingers.To call out everyone who said, “both sides are the same.”Everyone who reduced complex decisions to a single issue.Everyone who believed nothing truly bad could happen.

Because now we are here.We are off the guardrails.

And maybe—just maybe—these are the consequences people needed to feel, and unfortunately, they must bear witness to the blood that has been spilled.

“Vanessa, you are being hyperbolic. No one wanted this.”

Are we sure?

Many of us have been talking about book bans and hiding history. Yet must they see an executive order force the National Park Service to dismantle the panels depicting enslavement at the President’s House on Independence Mall?

“Oh, that’s a one-off, and now the panels are back.” So a cleanup on aisle nine makes everything better?

And let’s look at the rest of the cleanup items.

People say they voted for lower gas prices.But prices in Atlanta climbed from $2.65 to $3.85.

Some say they voted for no new wars.But now we have Operation Midnight Hammer in June 2025—striking nuclear facilities in Iran.And Operation Epic Fury, launched February 28, 2026—starting a war.

And the cost?

A strike hit Shajareh Tayyebeh, a girls’ elementary school, killing at least 175 people—the majority schoolgirls between the ages of 7 and 12.

Thirteen U.S. service members are dead.At least 200 are wounded—many with traumatic brain injuries, burns, and shrapnel wounds.

A nation’s leader—Ayatollah Ali Khamenei—was killed in a precision strike,along with generals, officials, and their families—hardening resolve against the U.S. We are less safe because of this.

And for those who said they voted for a stronger economy—the numbers tell another story:

92,000 jobs were lost in February 2026.Unemployment ticked up to 4.4%.GDP growth slowed to 0.7%.

Inflation, now at 2.4%, is projected to rise toward 3 to 5%, and oil prices could surge past $110 a barrel.

I could add the occupation of ICE in several U.S. cities—American citizens being unlawfully detained and unlawfully killed.

So I ask again—what did they really vote for? Misery? The right to “own” the left? The ability to stew in misogyny and privilege? Or the foolhardy belief that the harm they saw aimed at others wouldn’t boomerang back and hurt them?

Here I thought I was good at compartmentalization. It seems the majority of voters—and those who sat out the election and ushered in this hellscape—are masters at it.

Exhale. Inhale.

I guess it doesn’t matter. We are here.

There are a lot of good books to read and escape into. Amy Barrett has a delightful one that will take us back to the safe ’90s.

Everyone should be reading and writing. Put your insides onto paper. Read and build your empathy and comprehension. Escape to a magical library. Kate Quinn has a lovely one for you.

But more than ever, everyone must create. Creating saves our souls.

I have to believe that creating matters more now than ever. Creating stories helps us remember. We need to remember how things can go horribly wrong—as well as righteously right.

When I write, my characters, rooted in history, show how to resist—how to imagine something better.

So yes, I will keep writing.

For everyone, I will compartmentalize my frustration and fears and keep showing up.

I will be here with grace.With dignity.With truth.

Even now, when it’s hard.Especially now, because it’s so needed.

To the family of Capt. Ariana G. Savino and all love ones of the military men and women killed in this war, I pray for your peace.

This week’s book list:

If I Ruled the World by Amy DuBois Barnett – A fast-paced novel set in late-1990s New York, following a Black magazine editor navigating the cutthroat worlds of fashion and hip-hop while fighting to save a struggling publication.

It’s OK That You’re Not OK: Meeting Grief and Loss in a Culture That Doesn’t Understand by Megan Devine – A compassionate and validating guide that challenges how we think about grief, offering permission to mourn without rushing healing.

Kin by Tayari Jones – A deeply moving and intimate novel that explores family, love, and the enduring bonds that shape identity and belonging.

The Astral Library by Kate Quinn – A fantastical, immersive adventure about a hidden library where readers can step inside beloved books and live new lives.

Consider purchasing these books plus Fire Sword and Sea from Mahogany Books or from one of my partners in the fight, bookstores large and small, who are hanging with me.

Please keep spreading the word. Fire Sword and Sea is the vicarious adventure you didn’t know you needed and a guide to resistance.

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

Enjoying these essays? Go ahead and like this episode, share, and subscribe to Write of Passage so you never miss a moment.”

Thank you for listening. 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

This week, I went through a whirlwind of emotions—yes, whirlwind. That’s the word. It captures the highs and lows, the unpredictable moments, the shared grief, reflection, and the surprising grace that shaped these past few days. All these feelings—they live in pictures.

Picture this: an artist gifted in creating larger-than-life floral and celebratory installations-roses, sunflowers, and even huge gift boxes with perfect bows. I found one of her creations buried among the thousands of photos on my phone. I went searching for it after hearing she died—suddenly—of a heart attack. She was in her mid-forties. I’d only seen her two or three times, but every encounter was vibrant. She was joyful, always present, always tweaking one last detail so others would want to take a picture beside her work. Her name was Mary. She made an impact. I look at that photo and smile, remembering her smile.

This loss was sudden. Mary was very close to a friend of mine. Mary was central to my friend’s community. When your friend grieves someone central to their world, you grieve with them. And in that shared sorrow, something happens. You become deeply grateful—not just for what you have, but for the very fact that your people are still here. You reflect. You look at your own life, and the things you were grumbling about five minutes ago suddenly don’t matter so much. Perspective shows up, kicks you in the pants—uninvited, but necessary.

Then, another picture: a fire. Not just any fire—the one that consumed Nottoway Plantation, the largest antebellum plantation that was still standing in the United States. A place layered with contradictions, history, and pain. The blaze left it gutted. I studied the photos—before, during, and after. I watched the memes—because TikTok, Threads, and Instagram are unmatched when it comes to irony and reaction. Beyond the satire, there is truth.

No one died in the fire. But that doesn’t erase the deaths that still haunt that land—the men, women, and children who lived, labored, and died under a brutal system of forced servitude. Some say Nottoway is haunted. It should be. The owners memorialized the slave drivers’ quarters. I like to think the spirits of the enslaved were there, too, watching the flames, bearing witness as the restored “Massa’s house” turned to ash.

Nottoway was a tourist site, a wedding venue, a workplace, a symbol. People will be out of work. The state will take an economic hit. These are facts. But there is a deeper truth that sits beside those facts: Nottoway was a sugar plantation. And sugar plantations were among the worst of all plantation systems.

I know this because of the research I did for Sister Mother Warrior and Island Queen. The facts still haunt me:

* The death rate on sugar plantations in the Caribbean and southern states was three to four times higher than on cotton plantations.

* Enslaved people on U.S. cotton plantations had a life expectancy of 30–35 years. On sugar plantations, it was often 10 years or less.

* The work was brutal—cutting cane, operating machinery, surviving the suffocating heat of the boiler houses.

* If you were sentenced to work the boiling vats, it was basically a death sentence. Dehydration, exhaustion, and the relentless heat killed faster than the whip. And that doesn’t count the beatings, the rapes, and the starvation.

I made a post about the fire on Instagram. Most of the responses were respectful. But some fixated on the “grandeur” lost—as if it were Notre Dame. Others insisted I should “get over it.” That all the perpetrators are dead. That the world should move on. Let’s put in pin in this moving notion. I’ll circle back.

Another disturbing image circulating came from still of Nottoway’s scripted tours praising the “humanity” of the plantation, claiming it trained a nurse and built a hospital for the enslaved. That is a lie. There was no formal training. They likely identified a woman who showed skill with herbs and healing and used her ancestorial knowledge. The hospital was not about care—it was about profit. It was cheaper to repair a broken body than to buy a new one. These “hospitals” weren’t acts of mercy. They were maintenance hubs for human chattel.

One of the worst stories I came across still wakes me up at night. A method of execution used on some sugar plantations: the “sugar death.” An enslaved person would be buried up to the neck in sand. Then, boiling sugar syrup was poured over their exposed skin—usually the head. The syrup burned and blistered, but that wasn’t the end. The spilled sugar attracted the ants. The person would die slowly, in excruciating pain, as ants devoured them alive. It was sadism as spectacle. A warning. A lesson. A horror.

How exactly do you “get over” that? How do you erase the knowledge that human beings chose to do that to others—and passed it on, generation after generation? How do you get over knowing that, given the chance, there are people today who would do the same?

But then, a final image. This saved my writing week. It was a photo of frolic. Two Black women—one in a sleek column dress, the other in a romantic, flowy one—running joyfully through a green field in Vatican City. The sun is shining. I imagine the smell of olives in the air, the promise of wine at sunset. Gayle King and Oprah, radiant, laughing, free. That image brought me back to smiling Mary. Not because it was glamorous, but because it reminded me of joy, personal joy.

We need joy. We need moments of frolic. In the middle of pain, of grief, of hard histories—we have to fight for joy. We must protect it, speak to it, defend it. Frolicking is resistance. It’s choosing self, choosing family, choosing rest, choosing humanity.

So yes—we mourn. We reflect. We carry reverence for the past, the true past. But we must also touch grass, run barefoot through a field, choosing self, friends, and family.

To those who are grieving, I offer this: find one photo. One memory. One moment that brings you joy. Hold on to it. Then look for more. Or make more, one moment at a time.

Books that can help you focus on joy and history in meaningful ways are:

Before I Let Go by Kennedy RyanA second-chance romance that explores grief, healing, and Black joy.

The Warmth of Other Suns by Isabel WilkersonEpic account of the Great Migration—deeply researched and emotionally charged.

What the Fireflies Knew by Kai HarrisA coming-of-age story told through the eyes of a young Black girl navigating grief and growing up in 1990s Michigan.

The Heaven & Earth Grocery Store by James McBrideA community of outsiders in 1920s Pottstown, PA, comes together around a hidden deaf boy—tender, funny, and full of humanity.

And of course

Island Queen: A historical novel based on the real-life rise of Dorothy Kirwan Thomas—her rise from enslavement to one of the wealthiest women in the Caribbean.

Sister Mother Warrior: An epic saga of resistance, sisterhood, and revolution—based on the true story of the women who helped shape the Haitian fight for freedom.

Show notes include a list of the books mentioned in this broadcast. This week, I’m highlighting Hub City Books 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 this essay touched you or lit a spark, show some love—hit like and 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

Originally posted 2025-05-20 13:10:00.

What if I told you the most dangerous weapon most of us carry… isn’t a gun or a knife?

It’s a keyboard.

Millions of people every day wake up, pick up their phones, and step into a strange theater of human behavior—where cruelty spreads faster than truth, outrage travels farther than kindness, and strangers feel emboldened to destroy someone they’ve never met.

And the worst part?

For some people… it feels good.

That rush. That attention. That viral moment.

Today I want to talk about the dark side of something we all do.

The Vicarious Vicious Keyboard

Human nature is something I study.

It’s one of the tools I use to make my characters feel real—solid… and undeniably human.

People aren’t perfect. So my characters aren’t either.

Sometimes they want to do something selfish. Something indulgent. Something that brings them no real benefit at all.

And that impulse? That foolishness?

It speaks to the heart of all our pent-up reckless desires.

After all, don’t we love reading about things we’d never do ourselves? Not in the real world.

Things we lack the guts—the raw courage—to do?

I remember the first time I learned the word vicarious. It was on one of those weekly vocabulary lists in school. You remember when we had homework, and Mom would drill you on the list, while she cooked.

Vicarious—adjective

According to the Britannica Dictionary, vicarious means experienced or felt by watching, hearing about, or reading about someone else rather than by doing something yourself.

Light bulbs flashed. Thunder rolled.

I understood this. My life changed a little. Suddenly I had a word for something I’d always felt but couldn’t name: and the dangerous desires of the human heart had a vehicle.

That thrill of experiencing something through someone else.

I can be an astronaut. I could be a Duke. I could be a NASA mathematician. I could be a hockey player. I could be a cowgirl riding backwards on a horse. Anything, even a serial killer.

But like most things… we in the digital age take things too far.

We don’t know when to stop.

And the internet—well, the internet makes it easier for us to keep going.

Yes, social media and endless scrolling. I’m look at you.

Have you ever put up a post and suddenly—miraculously—it get clicks? I’m talking serious clicks.

Once I made an IG post about the imagery in the Sinners movie poster; it reminded me of Ernie Barnes and his iconic painting The Sugar Shack—the same painting immortalized on Good Times and on Marvin Gaye’s I Want You album cover.

“That swirl of limbs.

That sense of joy, rhythm, resistance.

The juke joint as sacred space.”

Well, that post—that simple observation—went viral in April of 2025.

Almost a million views.

Over ninety-five thousand likes.

And I’ll be honest… it felt good.

It had me checking the app again and again like an addict. Refreshing. Watching the numbers climb. For a few moments I even wondered—what could I do to capture that magic again?

I liked that rush. If I could do it again, I would. But that’s the magic of viral.

A scroll through threads or a dash through Twitter will show you the posts with the most likes are often vile or viscous.

Some of the most toxic posts go viral. The same feeling I had checking art comments must be the same for those who post hate or speech about harm.

Are people willing to chase the clicks even if it means posting cruelty?

Are these fiends, checking their toxic feeds for engagement? Does negative attention spur them to post something even crazier?

Is there a craving for attention, so strong that negativity will do.

Have we grown so safe behind a a keyboard that we lean in at a greater propensity to bully?

Or is it something darker—something more insidious? Does the hurt inside bubble up until it spills out online?

Do endorphins kick in when the crowd joins the pile-on.

Let’s be honest—every nasty thread post or tweet can’t be a bot.

I keep asking myself: what’s in it for someone to be that hurtful? That’s the part of the vicarious journey I don’t get.

But I do see the consequences:

Actors doing their jobs—playing fictional characters—suddenly have to issue statements condemning racist or homophobic harassment from so-called “fans.”

Any given day on Twitter—and honestly, I don’t recommend it—you’ll see people wishing harm on others simply because they didn’t like a character… or because someone attended an award show.

This newfound comfort with cruelty makes me wonder if our lives have become so hollow that we now live evil vicarious lives, victimizing others with a keyboard?

When I was writing Jacquotte Delahaye (Fire Sword and Sea), I had to wrestle with her darkness.

She’d endured terrible things, the cruel deaths of people she loved. Betrayal. Loss.

And I had to walk a fine line. I don’t do trauma porn. I believe we write of violence without hurting or triggering readers, if at all possible.

For Jacquotte, I wrestled with her resolve to survive and achieve her dreams with her thirst for vengeance.

Jacquotte was angry.

And if she hadn’t had people around her—people to talk her down—she could have become something far more violent.

Yes, she’s a pirate. Violence is part of that world.

But even pirates are human.

I had to find her humanity. I had to lay it bare on the page.

Even the most conflicted person must retain some trace of it. Rage and anger cannot pull you so far away from your essence that nothing remains but darkness.

Today, I read Psalm 38:11–12

My friends and companions stand aloof from my plague,

and my nearest kin stand far off.

Those who seek my life lay their snares;

those who seek my hurt speak of ruin

and meditate treachery all day long.

David wrote many of the Psalms while literally running for his life.

But the line that stopped me was this:

“Those who seek my hurt speak of ruin and meditate treachery all day long.”

Meditate on treachery.

Think about that.

We have too much to do in this life to sit around meditating or posting on someone else’s downfall.

Yes, the world feels chaotic right now. Politics alone can drive you crazy if you dwell on it. Believe me—I want to shout about how I warned …

If I lived inside that frustration every hour, I’d lose my mind. No. I choose to vicariously teleport into a book, movie, or research. I know I will not meditate treachery all day long.

So to the keyboard warriors, I’m asking something simple:

Step up.

If you see a friend posting or sharing nonsense—talk to them. Help them pull back before they become one of those treacherous people treachery.

And if you yourself posted something that seemed funny in the moment but later you realized it caused harm…

Apologize.

A real apology.

Not the fake kind that says, “I’m sorry if anyone was offended.”

And read the Psalms, you will see David fully anguish in his sorrow. He names it. He owns it.

That honesty matters.

When I wrote Jacquotte, there were moments where she was unrepentant in her anger… and moments where she was broken by the consequences of her choices.

I put all of it on the page so readers could see it, feel it, and understand it.

I’m grateful for the technology that allows us to reach people all over the world in seconds.

With that power comes responsibility. We never know what will go viral.

Before you post ask yourself:

Am I posting nonsense about someone I don’t know – delete.

Am I posting something that could cause harm: reputational, self-harm, mobs—delete.

Did I think not only about intent but possible impact—delete.

In the meantime… I suggest we all touch a little grass.

Get some air. Take your allergy meds. And read a good book. This week’s booklist will have some recommendations.

This Ain’t Our First Rodeo — Liara Tamani — A heartfelt contemporary romance where former sweethearts reconnect amid Houston’s rodeo culture. It’s a messy ride.

Hate Crimes in Cyberspace — Danielle Keats Citron — A legal and cultural examination of how online harassment and hate speech flourish on digital platforms and the real-world harm they cause.

Life in Motion: An Unlikely Ballerina — Misty Copeland — A powerful memoir in which the groundbreaking ballerina recounts her journey from a difficult childhood to becoming the first Black principal dancer at American Ballet Theatre.

Consider purchasing these books plus Fire Sword and Sea from Mahogany Books or from one of my partners in the fight, bookstores large and small, who are hanging with me.

Please keep spreading the word. Fire Sword and Sea is the vicarious adventure you didn’t know you needed.

On March 14th, 2026 I’ll be in Baltimore at Mahogany Books.

And on March 15th I’ll be at the Baltimore County Library in Owings Mills for the Book Lovers Bash Author Panel, talking about books, storytelling, and the many-splendored wonder of love—with Wade Rouse and Matthew Norman.

Hey. Sometimes the best antidote to the noise of the internet is a room full of readers.

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

Enjoying these essays? Go ahead and like this episode, share, and subscribe to Write of Passage so you never miss a moment.”

Thank you for listening. 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

Every time the world feels unstable, and an artist dares answer an interview question, we get the same memo: stay in your lane. Entertain. Distract. Don’t dare analyze what’s happening. Don’t name it. Don’t challenge it. Shut up.

I’m sorry to inform you—I’m not your minstrel on demand. If you’re big mad about that, go sit in the corner and think about why.

Art has always been political. Perhaps your outrage is the real performance. So maybe, you need to quiet and listen.

Shut Up and Write

In February 2018, Fox News host Laura Ingraham responded to comments made by NBA superstar LeBron James with a phrase that ricocheted across the culture: “Shut up and dribble.”

She was reacting to an interview James gave alongside Kevin Durant, in which he spoke not only about basketball but about race, leadership, and the lived reality of being a Black man in America. Ingraham dismissed his words as “barely intelligible” and suggested that someone “paid $100 million a year to bounce a ball” should keep his political opinions to himself.

But here’s the thing: the minute you ask a Black person about their experience in America, you are no longer asking about “just sports.” You are asking about history. You are asking about citizenship. You are asking about survival. And you are asking for our truth.

When you tell him or her or them to shut up and dribble, what you are really saying is:

Perform. Entertain. Produce. But do not speak.

That phrasing doesn’t emerge in a vacuum. It echoes a long American tradition—of Black bodies celebrated for talent but silenced in intellect; commodified for labor but dismissed in leadership; applauded for artistry but censored in analysis. From minstrel stages to modern arenas, the script has too often been the same: dazzle us, but do not disrupt us.

And yet, LeBron did not shut up.

He went about his business—on and off the court. He used the moment to amplify conversations about injustice, education, and opportunity. He built schools. He funded scholarships. He made sure that his platform included not just athletic excellence but civic voice. When he was told to shrink, he expanded.

I guess that is what unsettles people. Not that LeBron dribbles—but that he keeps speaking.

So on Threads, Twitter, pretty much all your parasitical streets, I hear authors being told a version of that command:

“Just shut up and write.”

Don’t talk politics.

Don’t analyze power.

Don’t interrogate policy.

Stick to romance.

Stick to fiction.

Tell us about dukes and wagers and stolen glances, but do not dare connect the past to the present. In my June release, A Deal at Dawn, some readers are dying to know if the Duke of Torrance survives a chronic illness Black communities still suffer from today, but many more want to hear about the hurt-comfort caregiving in his bathtub or his foot fetish.

In Fire Sword and Sea, some want to hear about the hijinks of women cross-dressing as men but forget about the systems of government that oppress them and force them into piracy as their way to survive.

And since I’ve been writing to you weekly, I’ve gotten those nasty little emails telling me that I should stick to writing historical fiction and leave politics alone.

To those folks, what the heck do you think I have been writing all along?

When I describe women rising up in hostile systems, about enslavement and trafficking, about corrupt leaders, white supremacy, about diseases neglected because they ravage Brown bodies—I am writing politics. I’m writing about policy. I am writing about power. Corsets and cravats and crowns never dilute the truth.

You cannot celebrate the art and forbid analysis.

You cannot applaud the talent and mute the testimony.

You cannot consume the culture and silence the creator.

The expectation that artists remain apolitical is itself political.

It says:

We want your labor, LeBron, not your leadership, Jasmine

Your imagination, Micheal B, not your insight—Delroy

You are for entertainment, forget the lived experiences that got you here.

But identity is not something I can toggle off between chapters. When you ask me about my work, you are asking about my worldview. When you ask about my characters, you are asking about justice and injustice as much as you reading for love.

And love is power, and it is always political.

We are living in times that feel combustible. Many are waking up to realities they once refused to see.

They don’t know who to trust. They want words of comfort. But where are you going to get that? You told me to shut up and write.

Writers, creators—moments like this, it’s easier to retreat—to binge-watch comfort shows, to lose ourselves in manuscripts, to hide in deadlines and drafts. I, too, would love to stay in my rom-com era. I would love to focus solely on shenanigans and happily-ever-afters. But even I can only binge-watch MythBusters, hockey, and Bridgerton for so long.

So no, I cannot just shut up and write.

I must write. Writing is my blood laid bare on the page. I will not go quietly into the night.

To my fellow writers, artists, thinkers—especially those who are tired, furious, heartsick:

Don’t shut up.

Do keep writing.

Write your joy.

Write your grief.

Write your analysis.

Write your satire.

Write your fury.

Take your rage and forge it into paragraphs that burn the soul of the nation clean. Take your voice and worldview and shape it into essays that clarify righteousness, that take it from the hands of the deceiver. Take your heartbreak and craft stories that remind us what humanity is supposed to be.

Art is our last defense. So players play. Actors act. Legislators legislate. Activists be active.

But writers? Remember. Record. Reimagine. Write.

So speak.

Write.

Create.

Refuse to politely disappear.

This week’s booklist feature Women writers, sheroes:

Sister Outsider — Audre Lorde

“The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.” Essays on identity, silence, anger, and the political necessity of speaking.

Art on My Mind — bell hooks

Directly interrogates the idea that Black artists should be apolitical. She dismantles it completely.

Assata — Assata Shakur

Memoir as testimony. Voice as resistance.

The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois — Honorée Fanonne Jeffers: A sweeping, multigenerational novel that braids Black love, scholarship, and history affirming—there is no separating the personal from the political.

Fire Sword and Sea — Vanessa Riley: A sweeping historical novel that exposes pirates, sisterhood, and survival in the chaotic and diverse 17th-century (1600s) Caribbean.

This week I’m highlighting Loyalty Bookstore.

Consider purchasing Fire Sword and Sea from Loyalty Bookstore or from one of my partners in the fight, bookstores large and small, who are hanging with me.

Come on, my readers, my beautiful listeners. Let’s keep everyone excited about Fire Sword and Sea.

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

Let’s keep rising and creating together. Please like, subscribe, and share the podcast. And stay connected to Write of Passage.

Thank you for listening. I want you to come again. This is Vanessa Riley.

Upcoming Events for Vanessa Riley

Virtual FB chat on Fire Sword and Sea with the Personal Librarians.

Book Lovers at Baltimore Library

Herstory Author Salon: Tanya Time Book Club with host Tanya Sams featuring Sadeqa Johnson, Reshonda Tate, and Vanessa Riley. – March 22

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

Funny thing happens when you go outside.You notice that everything is still moving—still shifting, still becoming—and no matter how much I want it to revolve around me, the earth does its own thing. That’s humbling. That’s sobering. And yes, at times, alittle infuriating. Because I want to believe that if I just dream hard enough, andwork long enough, and sacrifice deep enough, the outcome will be what I want it to be.

That’s the narrative, right? Manifest it. Hustle for it. Build it and it will show up.

But I’m a novelist. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from writing story after story, it’s this: you can do everything right and still be surprised by the ending.

I begin my novels with a solid outline. I do deep dives into my characters—their goals, their beliefs, their relationships, and internalized lies. Yes, the lies we carry. The ones that sit rotting in our guts. They’re the lenses through which we interpret everything.

You’re smart… Smart for a girl. That builds a complex—not about excelling, just about measuring up.Men don’t cry… So they keep loss inside until it breaks them.

You get the picture.

For each character, I must know the lies they’ve accepted as truth, the wounds they carry that must be healed by the journey or story arc. These are full psychological profiles that I develop, mind you. I’m thorough. I think I know these imagined or fictionalized versions of real people better than they know themselves.

And still—those characters go off and do whatever the heck they want to do. They have free will.These changes—the veering off course—happen in a world I designed. And in some aspects, I’m their creator.

If this happens in fiction—fiction—why do I expect real life to follow a given path?

This is where we, as creatives, have to hold two truths at once: We have incredible power to imagine and make. And we have almost no control over how the world will respond. That is not a contradiction. That is your calling.

This is the battle. Creativity is under assault. Let’s not pretend otherwise. Books are being banned. Funding is being slashed. Whole histories are being erased or whitewashed. And in my case, as I’ve shared openly with you words, I need to use for my stories are being banned. (See podcast episode- Welcome to Censorship)

But despite all that—people are still painting. Still writing, publishing, creating. We still feed our families and their spirits with meals inspired by faraway places.

I may make more food at home right now, but with lovely spices? Oh, they’re Caribbean, Italian, French, Indian. I’m not limited. We are not limited.

And I refuse to give away my power because someone with a louder megaphone thinks yelling is the same as truth.

Recently, the world changed again: We have a new pope.

A 133 cardinal electors gathered in the Sistine Chapel to choose to choose him. Cardinal Robert Francis Prevost of Chicago, Illinois, has been elected the 267th pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church. He will be known as Pope Leo XIV—the first pope ever from the United States.

An American pope. From Chicago. A man of Creole, Haitian, and Black ancestry. And while this isn’t the first Black pope—history records at least three others:Pope Victor I (189–199), Pope Miltiades (311–314), and Pope Gelasius I (492–496).

This election still matters. Why? Because no one saw it coming. Because he is from here. Because he chose the name Leo XIV—following Pope Leo XIII, the pope who denounced slavery. In a world trying so hard to erase the past, that choice feels like a restoration. A breath of truth. A puff of white smoke in a sky of dirty smog and denial.

This is what hope looks like: a surprise rooted in deep legacy. A story arc no one plotted, but that landed with power.

Now, let’s be real about the work ahead Shake off the shackles. Listen to hard truths.

For authors and creators out there—especially us Black folks:

* No one owes you anything.Not an award, not a list spot, not a book sale, not a post about your personal life—not even a selfie.

* As an author, you have to earn every bit of support, every accolade, every “yes.”That’s the job.

* As a Black author, the grind is steeper.You can’t coast on past wins. You’ve got to win readers over—again and again.

* If you’re not where you want to be—cry, scream, kick a pillow.But don’t quit. And don’t compare. You don’t know the price someone else paid to get what they got.Be thankful for where you are and who’s standing beside you.

* Keep writing. Keep connecting. Keep striving.Earn it. Build it. Own it.

* Grow the bucket list. Manifest it all.You deserve every win—because I know you’re putting in the work. I’m rooting for you.

The world keeps turning. It’s not waiting for me or you. But that’s not terrible. It means we’re part of something bigger than the moment. It means our stories, our voices, our presence—matter.

Because even when everything feels unpredictable, we still have the power to show up and create—and make something unexpected happen.

And it will feel good and satisfying, even if you are the only one clapping.

Books to help you on your writing and creative journey:

Awaking the Hero Within by Carol S. Pearson

Examines archetypes and how they shape not just stories but our personal transformations

Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear by Elizabeth Gilbert

Encourages writers and creators to keep going, to trust inspiration, and to work without guarantees.

In the Wake: On Blackness and Being by Christina Sharpe

A haunting, brilliant reflection on Black life, history, and navigating systems built to erase.

And Preorders are up fo for my next historical fiction, Fire Sword and Sea. This is A dangerous 1600s Pirate Saga unmasking the truth about women, desire, and freedom. Some folks want to ban this story—so read it first.

Show notes include a list of the books mentioned in this broadcast. This week, I’m highlighting 44th and 3rd Bookstore 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 felt seen or inspired today, like and subscribe to Write of Passage—there’s a place for you here.

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 2025-05-13 13:10:00.

For any writer or creator, the edit is your best tool or best weapon. Every paragraph, article, headline, every broadcast, even every post is a choice—what stays in, what gets cut, who gets protected, and who gets exposed are choices. If you have the power to edit, you have the power to do better. Let’s talk about the superpower that comes with great responsibility.

Fifteen Seconds and a Slur

The edit is intentional.

The greatest tool any author carries is not talent, not inspiration, not even discipline. It is the edit. The edit is where intention meets responsibility. It is where raw creation becomes art.

No one—no one—sits down and instantly produces a masterpiece. Manuscripts are not born polished. They are wrestled into being. They are drafted in confusion, in bursts of brilliance, in gaps of missing facts and half-remembered details. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve left myself placeholders—XXX—so I can go back and hunt down what I actually meant: the correct monetary value of a tavern meal in pirate haven Port Royal, the historical cut of a waistcoat or falls of breaches, the name of a street or rue in Hispaniola. It’s never right on the first go.

Returning to it on the next pass, the next edit—that’s where the magic happens. The edit is the intentional power to clarify what you meant. The power to fix what you missed. The power to elevate what almost worked into what truly does.

I’ve worked with brilliant editors and those who gave me brilliant headaches. I even hire my own. A good editor helps me see what I cannot see. They bring perspective, distance, and rigor. But even then, I choose. I decide what advice to accept, what to reconsider, and what to reshape. Editing is collaboration—but it is also stewardship. Before any manuscript moves to the next level—before submission or publication—it carries the weight of my choices. Another set of eyes will add more to the manuscript. Every perspective reveals something new. That’s how diligent writers reach the best version of a book earthly possible.

Writers are not the only ones who wield this magic tool.

Video editing is editing. What you choose to upload to your social feeds—what you trim, what you blur, what you cut out—matters. I am more conscious of accidentally revealing mailing addresses in the background of one of my post office runs. Everyone should hide vulnerable information that should not be public, and watch for angles that misrepresent.

The edit shapes our experience. On TikTok, Threads, Bluesky, Instagram—even if you wander back to Twitter—you should be curating what we see. That curation, that social edit is power.

Journalists edit, too. They decide:

* Whose names appear?

* Which details matter?

* Which context is included?

* And which bits of info are left out?

That is why it unsettles me when journalists act as if they are powerless—when they behave as though they must show everything, or they both-sides-things normalizing crazy, and seem to be okay with pieces that distort or wound.

When civil rights leader and Rainbow Coalition founder Jesse Jackson died peacefully at 84 on February 17, 2026, after long battles with Parkinson’s disease, the headline was clear: a giant of the civil rights movement had passed, noting Jackson was:

* A key figure in the struggle after Martin Luther King Jr.

* A two-time presidential candidate.

* A successful hostage negotiator (over 100 returned to the US).

* A man whose life reshaped American political possibility.

Yet in a brief radio mention—a mere fifteen-second clip to commemorate his death—the spot highlighted not only Jackson’s death but his son’s past troubles. Fifteen seconds. In a moment meant for legacy, painful and tangential details were inserted. That is an edit. That is a choice.

Editing is not neutral.

The same lesson unfolded at the BAFTA Film Awards. During a broadcast on BBC, Tourette syndrome campaigner John Davidson shouted a racial slur while actors Delroy Lindo and Michael B. Jordan stood on stage presenting an award. Both men—accomplished, respected, peers among peers—were subjected to one of the most dehumanizing words in the English language, the N-word. The live moment was shocking enough. But the editing was worse.

The slur remained in the BBC broadcast and was replayed worldwide three hours later. The corporation later apologized, saying producers in the truck had not heard it. Meanwhile, other moments—such as calls of “Free Palestine”—were edited out of the rebroadcast. Actor Alan Cumming, hosting the ceremony, initially offered an explanation centered on Tourette syndrome and apologized “if you are offended.” Later reactions grew sharper. Producer Hannah Beachler criticized what she described as a throwaway apology.

Editing is a choice.

The decision to leave a racial epithet while removing a political statement is not accidental neutrality. It reveals priority. It reveals what is deemed urgent to correct and what is allowed to linger. The reasoning behind the slur—whether involuntary or not—does not erase the harm of its broadcast. And apologies that focus first on explanation rather than impact misses the point.

As writers, we should understand this. We need to understand that impact matters more than intent. That harm can occur even when harm was not planned. That’s why sensitivity reads exist. In my essay, The Sensitivity of Sensitivity Reads, I have told you the fun and pain of sensitivity reads

I may have disagreed with a line or two of a sensitivity read, but I’ve never dismissed the feedback, especially without sitting with it. Editing with sensitivity returns us to the guiding principle: do no harm.

Editing is how we live that principle.

Where is the editing? It must be gone, and groupthink is in. Old guard systems become blind—or arrogant—about the damage they cause. They forget that every rebroadcast, every headline, every fifteen-second plug can cause curated chaos.

Care about your words as fiercely as you care about being right. Care about your audience as much as you care about being provocative. If something slips through—if harm was done unintentionally—you can always edit—fix what you’ve done. You have a cure—meaningful apologies. Then use the delete button.

If we refuse to edit thoughtfully—if we cling to ego over empathy—we deepen division. Instead of being our brother’s keeper, we are his judge. Why be a critic instead of a caretaker?

Succumbing to editing is not a weakness. It is not censorship. It’s refinement. It’s responsibility. It’s good intention made visible through your craft.

The edit is intentional.

And so must we be.

This week’s booklist comes from Tayari Jones. During her insightful book launch with Pearl Cleage, she shared her desert-island author picks.

Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison-Song of Solomon: A young man embarks on a journey through family history and ancestral memory that leads him toward identity, liberation, and a deeper understanding of love and legacy.

How to Carry Water: Selected Poems of Lucille Clifton by Lucille Clifton: This luminous collection gathers decades of Clifton’s spare, powerful poetry, honoring Black womanhood, survival, spirituality, and the quiet endurance of everyday life.

Things I should’ve Told my Daughter by Pearl Cleage: Part memoir and part intimate counsel, Cleage reflects on love, art, activism, and motherhood, offering hard-won wisdom to the next generation of Black women.

Congratulate Tayari Jones on the new release of Kin.

And Denny S. Bryce for Where the False Gods Dwell. Can’t wait to dive into these books.

This week I’m highlighting Eagle Eye Bookshop, one of Atlanta’s best bookstores.

Consider purchasing Fire Sword and Sea from Eagle Eye Bookshop (they have signed copies) or from one of my partners in the fight, bookstores large and small, who are hanging with me.

Come on, my readers, my beautiful listeners. Let’s keep everyone excited about Fire Sword and Sea.

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

Let’s keep rising and creating together. Please like, subscribe, and share the podcast. And stay connected to Write of Passage.

Thank you for listening. 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

To step away from my desk, from writing, usually takes intention—an obligation, an appointment, an event.

But this weekend, instead of rushing back to my hotel room to work, I took a walk in the city that never sleeps

.

New York City is magic. The lights and screens can mesmerize for hours. The hustlers are everywhere, each chasing their own dream with a specific kind of determination. I melted into the crowd—a sea of people, heads tilted down, grimaces in place, walking like they’re late to a very important date.

And yet, as I shuffled forward, I walked with purpose. Certain of my own hustle. Certain that, like the waves of moving feet around me, I’m going somewhere important.

Even though these times feel tense and nerve-wracking, this too shall fade. The question is: Who will you be when revival comes?

I suggest you should be out walking. Walking to your own tune. Strolling between memory lane and adventure street.

We can’t let depression and deadlines keep us trapped on a treadmill to nowhere. We need to be out, moving, seeing the sights, meeting the moment head-on.

Downtown New York. Times Square—it’s still vibrant, still electric with people, places, and possibility. One of the places I wandered off to was Broadway. I scraped up pennies and last minute tickets to take in a Broadway Show. My daughter and I caught Gypsy.

Gypsy—the revival—is based on the memoirs of burlesque star Gypsy Rose Lee. Originally adapted by Arthur Laurents, with music by Jule Styne and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim, the show first hit Broadway in 1959.

Gypsy follows the struggles of a showbiz mother, Rose, and her two daughters: the sweet, spotlighted June and the awkward Louise. Rose devotes her life to making them stars in a vaudeville world that’s fading fast.

Rose is the ultimate dreamer—the pushiest of mothers, hell-bent on creating success in a season that’s disappearing as quickly as a stripper’s costume.

Gypsy—the cast, the costumes—and especially Audra McDonald—blew us away.

Six-time Tony Award winner, now the most-nominated performer in theater history, Audra stepped into the iconic shoes of Momma Rose—a role made legendary by Ethel Merman, Angela Lansbury, Patti LuPone. And she did it with poise, passion, and a voice that reached the heavens.

For the first time, Rose and her daughters are being played by Black women.

And it feels right.

After all, I grew up with a Mama Rose of my own—down South, with big dreams and high expectations. She had color, attitude, ambition, and love. All of that minus the Gypsy Rose stripping.

And in the legendary Majestic Theatre, we, my daughter and I, took in the chandeliers, the molding, the velvet drapery. The lights dimmed. The orchestra began. And we were swept away—into songs we half-remembered, dances we instinctively tapped to, that wonder that fills you when you let the noise fall away and become part of the show.

This was my daughter first show and she loved every moment.

And sadly, if one doesn’t count off-Broadway shows and church basement productions, this viewing was my first too. I loved it but it’s bittersweet to think of the moments I missed because I chose a different, probably work related path.

And yet I refuse to beat myself up on the Shoulda, would’ve could’ves that befall us. I went with my daughter now. That’s what matters. And as we left we hummed:

Together, Wherever We Go

Wherever we go, whatever we do,

We’re gonna go through it together.

We may not go far, but sure as a star,

Wherever we are, we’re stronger together.

I tweak the lyrics. What can I say, but I’m a writer.

Everything’s Coming Up Roses

I had a dream, a wonderful dream about you.

It’s gonna come true.

They think that we’re through, but…

Nothing’s gonna stop us ‘til we’re through!

Everything’s coming up roses for me and for you!

And now, as I sit on this plane, writing to you, my weekly essay, I hope I’ve passed on something else too.

That it’s okay to take a walk.

That it’s okay to step away from duty, from deadlines, from stress—even just for a few minutes.

That rest and joy are worth chasing just as hard as success.

That it’s okay to fail, as long as we keep dreaming.

My hope is that we all learn to capture that feeling—that joy of being lost in the moment. Of humming. Of strumming our fingers to the rhythm of wonder. Of letting the songs in our soul rise again—when we take care of ourselves.

Even if it’s just with a little walk.

Books that can help you disconnect in meaningful ways are:

Fosse by Sam Wasson

A sweeping biography of Bob Fosse that explores the grind, passion, and price of perfection in the performing arts.

The Women Who Raised Me by Victoria Rowell

Memoir of a actress raised by foster mothers—explores nontraditional maternal love, ambition, and support.

All About Love by bell hooks

This book is about love—for yourself , your children, your lives. This book is the emotional underpinning to a loving journey.

Rest Is Resistance: A Manifesto by Tricia Hersey

Talks about rest as a form of liberation, especially for Black women.

Listen to the album, Sing Happy by Audra McDonald and the NewYork Philharmonic

Show notes include a list of the books mentioned in this broadcast. This week, I’m highlighting Bookmarks NC 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.

Let’s keep resting and rising together—please like, subscribe to stay connected 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

Originally posted 2025-05-06 13:10:00.

Have you ever felt like the walls were closing in — like doors were shutting and you couldn’t figure out why?

Today’s essay is about that season. The P & P season.

Persecution… and the paranoia that follows.

If you’ve ever wondered whether you deserved the storm you were in, this one is for you.

Persecution is an odd thing.

When everything starts going wrong, I feel myself shrink. I feel extremely small. Then every slight becomes magnified. A look. A tone. An unanswered email. And suddenly we’re dangerously close to the other P word — paranoia.

Your once-hopeful persona begins to fade. You start waiting for the next blow.

As a type A person, an engineer at heart, I look for cause and effect. I try to pinpoint the moment I FAed and FOed. While I search, I double down on hope, prayer, and producing. I can be one productive fool when I feel the walls closing in.

Still, I will lie awake trying to figure out what I did to deserve this.

And for the whole of last year, I couldn’t find the culprit. Did I cross a line? I would like to know. Did I cut somebody? Did I punch somebody really, really hard? Did I steal your chair or your parking space?

No.

I didn’t take anybody’s anything. Nope. I have my own.

In our twisted parasocial world, I will wonder if I liked the wrong posts, which now give you beef.

You can see how the paranoia can ramp. Deep down, I think many of us want to feel like we deserve this punishment. If I earned it, at least there’s logic. At least there’s control.

But the painful lesson I’ve had to grapple with is this:

Other than being overly eager and overly enthusiastic, I didn’t do anything wrong. Persecution is not necessarily earned.

Somewhere in the strange karma of the cosmic universe, you were chosen. And we all want to be chosen, right? But just not like this.

Congratulations, you were chosen to have doors slammed in your face. Sometimes your hand was still on the seal — so you get that extra sting. You were chosen to lose. You were chosen to have your integrity questioned. You were chosen to decide whether you were going to grow up, go high… or sink low. If you’ve contemplated being the villain and getting revenge, put it in the comments.

Now I’ve said before — and if you’ve read Fire Sword and Sea, you know — I believe in something called holy anger. There is a righteous anger. As a woman, I was urged to hold it in. To not sin in my anger. Yet, you can be angry and still be whole.

Nonetheless, that is the struggle. How do we keep ourselves together as we wait for relief?

I won’t pretend I’ve mastered survival. I haven’t. But I can say I didn’t curse anybody out — at least not where it could be recorded. I kept my cool for the most part. And when it came time to fight the battle, I didn’t yell. I let other people stand in the gap. I brought my hurt to those who could counsel me. I found fellowship. I found sisterhood. I saw rapiers lifted to defeat an armada.

I found in real time who was on your team, my crew, and who wasn’t.

My blessed crew found the time to encourage me, and gave me grace to rise above every point of contention. The P&P season, it’s very shocking. It’s hurtful.

When you find you’re in the P&P-season, hold yourself together even when you find traitors in your midst.

Persecution shows you who’s pulling for you. You find out who will show up, and the ones who have your back, even when it costs them something.

It’s priceless the perspective I now have. And let me say this clearly: persecution is momentary. It may feel fresh, but there is an expiration date.

Despite the pain, I am grateful for the experience.

Why?

Because it has made me more appreciative of those who advocate for me. It has made me more discerning about praise and opportunity. It has made me double down on what connects me most to you.

This podcast–I do this podcast every week because it allows me to express what I’m going through — not just as an author, but as a human being. And in putting a voice to thoughts and sharing, I feel closer to you. My books may move you, yes. But when I talk about the shared experiences we are all living through — just in different forms — something deeper happens.

We bond. We may commiserate. And maybe I’ve given voice to shared pain, shared struggle.

When I started writing weekly essays, I was angry at the world. Frankly, I was pissed off. Somewhere along the way, this became therapeutic. I often write about the past. This podcast became a bridge to our shared present. It’s our bridge. And this bridge energizes every facet of my heart and mind.

Every week, I look forward to this space, to sharing a revelation. A story. Something that made me angry. Something that brought me joy. Something that might shift your perspective.

Listen to me. I know some of you are hurting. Some of you are still in the storm. I wish you comfort and safety. When you get close to the other side of through, I want you to see the sunlight breaking through the clouds.

I want you to be amazing.

I want you to have clarity.

I want you to be stronger than before.

If you’re in the middle of the dark season, ask yourself:

1. What are the facts versus your interpretation?

2. What was said?

3. What was done?

4. What evidence do I truly have?

Document everything. Emotion fades. Records protect you.

5. Is this a “you” thing or a “we” thing?

6. Have you conferred with trusted people? Not just those who validate you — those who will challenge you gently.

7. Have I accounted for my own actions or inaction?

8. What is within my control?

You cannot control other people’s actions. You can control:

Your documentation.

Your tone.

Your boundaries.

Your next move.

If you’ve done all these steps and sufficient brooding, stop and rest. Don’t spend another minute trying to figure out someone else’s motivations. It’s at best a waste of time. At worst, it becomes a list of things that keep you angry, that shift someone else’s bad attitude, poor behavior, or evil onto you.

Who cares if the persecutor is motivated by fear, competition, bias, malice, or worse? If the response is from the system, higher-ups, etc., you will not change their minds.

A few more tips:

1. Seek grounded counsel. A mentor. A therapist. A minister. Legal advice if necessary. Someone who will steady you.

2. Protect your mental and strategic position.

3. Don’t react publicly in anger.

4. Don’t overshare emotionally. I’m not saying not sharing your feelings or even asking for help in these social streets. I’m saying leave all the emojis and expletives behind.

5. Don’t isolate.

6. Self-preservation is a strategy.

Direct confrontation doesn’t always work, especially in systemic situations. If a system knows you’ve identified it, it may escalate your demise — and by demise, I mean reputation, perception, and future references.

If persecution is real and systemic, you may need an exit plan.

A graceful exit is not defeat. It’s wisdom.

I will say this with my whole chest. My P-season is over. There are big moves ahead, and I can’t wait to share them with you.

So here we are. On this journey. Some of us are on the other side, some—finding a new normal. Some—waiting for daylight. Some—waiting for a breath with no pain, I see you and wish you love and endurance.

And I am thankful, my listeners.

Thankful for the clarity. Thankful for strength. And grateful that even in persecution, there is an end and a hope for a brighter tomorrow. Just know we are writing the future together.

This week’s booklist includes titles like:

The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah — A moving WWII novel about two sisters resisting oppression and finding courage in impossible circumstances.

The Color Purple by Alice Walker — A classic of oppression and triumph, showing how relationships and community empower a woman to reclaim her life.

The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood — A powerful dystopian story about identity and agency under systemic control.

If I Ruled the World by Amy DuBois Barnett — A sharp, juicy coming-of-power novel about a young Black woman navigating misogynoir, ambition, and authenticity in 1990s New York media and hip-hop while fighting to keep her soul intact.

And reposting last week’s:

Keeper of Lost Children by Sadeqa Johnson

Set across postwar Germany and the United States, this novel explores abandoned mixed-race children, chosen family, and how love and responsibility can reshape lives history tried to discard.

An American Marriage by Tayari Jones

A novel that examines how love and trust are tested by systems that refuse to see certain Americans as fully human.

Fire Sword and Sea — Vanessa Riley

A sweeping historical novel that exposes pirates, sisterhood, and survival in the chaotic and diverse 17th-century (1600s) Caribbean.

This week I’m again highlighting East City Bookshop, because I forgot to post about them.

Consider purchasing Fire Sword and Sea from East City Bookshop or from one of my partners in the fight, bookstores large and small, who are hanging with me.

Come on, my readers, my beautiful listeners. Let’s keep everyone excited about Fire Sword and Sea.

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

Let’s keep rising and creating together. Please like, subscribe, and share the podcast. And stay connected to Write of Passage.

Thank you for listening. I want you to come again. This is Vanessa Riley.

Author Talks presents Vanessa Riley, Fire Sword and Sea: One of the best happening Lit/Bookish Scenes in Atlanta is Author Talks – Music, Crafted Cocktails, Tapas, and Great Conversation about Pirates and Resistance! Don’t miss it.

Friday, Feb 20 from 7 pm to 9 pm EST

Register:

https://www.eventbrite.com/e/author-talks-presents-vanessa-riley-fire-sword-and-sea-tickets-1977625097904

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

There is a time and a season for everything.The real question is: Are you ready to move?

Right now, it’s a scary time to be a Black creative. Honestly, it’s a scary time for everybody in the arts. I’ve shared in a previous episode how the Canva bots came for me — they told me that the word slavery was political and banned in their system of tools.Banning books is all the rage. Banning concepts or ideas — stopping the writer or artist at the very beginning — is unfathomable.

Vanessa speaking at the Conyers Book Festival.

You might say, “Vanessa, AI and bots are just part of the times.” And yes, there are many great uses for AI in research and algorithmic approaches. But until we figure out how to train AI without stealing from artists and writers, we are going to continue to have a problem.

If you tell me that the season we’re in now involves AI writing novels and creating drawings and graphics to replace artists, I will encourage you to consider the following:Nothing can replace human creativity, authenticity, and zeal.Those impacted by theft or imitation must press boundaries, pursue legal actions when necessary, and most importantly — outlast the wave.Sometimes, winning is simply about longevity.

Outlasting your haters is definitely one way to gain victory.

For those who follow me, I’m Vanessa Riley. I write in three genres: historical fiction, historical romance, and mystery.

Lately, in the book world, I’ve seen so many friends — so many writers like myself who focus on history — getting hurt. Series are being cut short. Book options aren’t being picked up. Doors that were once wide open are now being slammed shut.

The reasons are many:They tell us the market is soft.They whisper there are “enough” Black books now.They say history—the kind that reveals hidden figures and rich, complicated lives—is suddenly being gutted, looted, or dismissed.

For someone like me, who loves history and is just now finding my footing in historical fiction, it’s dark. It’s absolutely terrifying.

The visual arts, films, and TV have also suffered. In January, I heard similar feedback from filmmakers.

Hollywood is still “recovering,” they say.Budgets are tighter. Risk tolerance is low.Historical pieces, they say, are too “hard to place”—too expensive, too niche.

And then—everyone gets dazzled by Ryan Coogler’s Sinners, a historical piece set in the 1930s that genre-bends horror and drama.The film is a hit.

Annie and Smoke from the Movie Sinners shot by Eli Joshua.

At the time of this podcast, Sinners has grossed over $161 million and is now projected to gross between $300–400 million. A diverse audience of moviegoers—Black, White, Asian, and more—people from all walks of life are coming together to experience this masterpiece of storytelling.

Ryan Coogler, I salute you. You had a daring vision, found or created the systems and opportunities to execute it, and made magic.

Now is the time of opportunity.

We have to shake off our fears and create.We must figure out new ways to tell the stories burning in our souls.To innovate. To evolve. That is pathFinding way through the wilderness is the answer.

Sinners showed us the way—not just by being excellent in storytelling, photography, cinematography, and research—but by knowing exactly who the story was for.

Ryan and his team pushed the right buttons—the necessary buttons. The heart of the film is Black-centered storytelling: Jim Crow South, inclusivity, and vampires.

Because when you know who you’re speaking to and what you want to say, you don’t have to dilute the truth to make it palatable.

As a Black creative, I’ve often been pressured to center pain and trauma in my stories—because that is what some believe (and still desire) is what sells.

Ryan Coogler’s Sinners proves that de-escalating trauma works.It sells.Even in the scariest genres.

He took care in how the story was told.Care in how every scene was shot.Care in the research, the respect.

He cast with authenticity—from hair to skin to clothes to dialogue.He didn’t slap diversity on just for clout—the script lived it.

To succeed only by limiting our stories to an audience that believes in our humanity through our suffering is inexcusable.

We must push boundaries, push different buttons.And I believe it is our mission to find new ways to share the lessons of the past—without reducing ourselves to victims or spectacles.

And if Sinners has taught us anything, it’s this:Audiences will reward care.They will reward newness.They will reward stories told with humanity, dignity, and love.

When I first started writing, my mission was simple:Educate the world about the history of Black people across the diaspora.Show our humanity through love stories.

But missions shift with the seasons.Right now? For me—and this pen or keyboard—it’s time to move, to be more daring, to try new approaches to story.

Looking back, I know there were times I softened words, edited scenes, chose tenderness over rawness—because I wanted to make sure readers were comfortable.I wanted the message to reach as many as possible.And I don’t regret the stories I told. I’m proud of every one of them.

But the filter is gone now.And here’s the hard truth:If you still need convincing of my humanity in 2025, I say this with all respect—You probably aren’t going to get it.Keep your coins.Find your own Damascus road.You need divine intervention.

I’m not St. Peter.I’m not standing at the gate any longer, waiting to explain myself—or my people—to you.If you want my knowledge, you’re going to have to do the work yourself.

This new season? This new phase?My stories will be as unapologetic and as free as they’ve ever been.

Because I am a storyteller.And with that comes a duty:To honor my people.To carry the sagas of our ancestors.To bridge the distance from “over yonder” and back to “right here.”

Of course, I want everyone to feel welcome reading my books.I understand I live in a system I didn’t build—but I’m here, and I intend to win.

But my stories?They’re for my people.

And if you’re still listening, you are my people.I write for you.I labor for you.I see you.

I’m ready to move and adjust.And I will be your guide—to happy-ever-after, happy-for-now, or to some bigger definition of freedom and faith. What say you?

What say you?

Some books to guide you in your quest for more authentic storytelling:

“We Do This ‘Til We Free Us” by Mariame Kaba — Essays on abolition and hope, but also about how storytelling and imagination drive social change.

“Emergent Strategy: Shaping Change, Changing Worlds” by adrienne maree brown — A guide to embracing change and creativity rooted in community and freedom.

And now some fiction titles:

“The Prophets” by Robert Jones Jr. — A deeply poetic novel about Black love and resistance set during slavery but centered on love and humanity, not suffering.

“Bloodchild and Other Stories” by Octavia Butler — Speculative short stories about survival, community, and power dynamics.

“Ring Shout” by P. Djèlí Clark — A daring, genre-bending novel mixing horror, history, and Black resistance during the Jim Crow era (very much like Sinners).

“Island Queen” by Vanessa Riley — A real-life figure’s story told with dignity, richness, and depth.

Show notes are here. This week, I’m highlighting East City Bookshop through their website and Bookshop.org

You can find my notes on history and writing on my website, VanessaRiley.com.

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

Originally posted 2025-04-29 13:10:00.