In writing classes, we are taught to make things as bad for our characters as we can. Honore should have been easy. In A Necessary Deception, in which she made her debut into society, and in A Flight of Fancy, where she rusticates in the country with her injured sister, Honore managed to make things terrible enough for herself.
But I wanted to make her situation even worse!
Lord Bainbridge, the father of the three sisters, is an autocratic man, a political animal who wants things the way he wants them. He manipulates his children to his will as much as he can, and he can do a great deal. But Honore is the baby and pretty and lively and a daddy’s girl. She got away with too much. Daddy cleaned up her messes for her.
So I had to take her daddy away from her.
And then we introduce Americus Poole (Meric to his friends) now Lord Ashmoor. Most men fall at Honore’s feet. Ashmoor looks at her like most of us view rattle snakes—the further away the better. He has his own issues, and Honore’s presence in his life will only make them worse. After all, a man under suspicion of treason cannot be involved with a young lady with a questionable reputation.
Beyond the romance and adventure that springs from Honore and Ashmoor’s stories is the theme of exile. Honore has been exiled from her family and from society because of her past mistakes. In turn, this physical exile makes her feel exiled from God. Everything that happens to her seems to indicate that God has rejected her, and this rejection of the heart and spirit drives her decisions and actions until her very life hangs on the edge.
Cliffs in North Devon (Wikipedia image)
As with Cassandra in A Flight of Fancy, I related to Honore’s spiritual struggle. I attended a Christian college and my friends were going off to be doctors and pastors, and the wives of doctors and pastors. I, however, had no calling that I saw. I interpreted this as God rejecting me. The decisions I made over the next several years—most of them terrible—stemmed from this sense of exile from God.
The simple response is that God doesn’t reject us; we reject him. Romans 8:38-39 assures us that nothing separates us from the love of God. Yet what I had to learn, what Honore has to learn, is that we often have to be taken out of our comfort zone of the life we think we want or should have, to circumstances we can’t control, for the Lord to shape us into the people we are intended to be to thus serve him better.
I hope you enjoy Honore’s journey back from exile.
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At the Super Bowl, it wasn’t about the score. It wasn’t the teams. It was a moment during the halftime show when Bad Bunny turned his back, leapt into the unknown, and believed—without hesitation—that someone would catch him. I don’t have the faith that. Somehow, I’d love to find it again.
Hands. Hands. Hands
Like many of you, I got ready for Super Bowl Sunday. I wasn’t particularly invested in either team—though, fine, go Seattle. Super Bowl LX, played on February 8, 2026, at Levi’s Stadium in Santa Clara, gave us a familiar matchup: a rematch of Super Bowl XLIX between the Seattle Seahawks and the New England Patriots. The Seahawks won decisively, 29–13. But I’m not here for the game.
I’m here for the halftime show.
In a previous essay, I talked about what I half-jokingly call the Kendrick Bowl (and the Beyoncé Bowl)—those halftime performances that feel less like entertainment and more like cultural moments, collective storytelling events we prepare ourselves to receive. We tune in expecting meaning. We expect to be told something about who we are.
Bad Bunny delivered exactly that.
As the solo headliner of the Super Bowl LX halftime show, Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio made history with an almost entirely Spanish-language set—the first of its kind on this stage. The 13-minute performance was unapologetically Latin, deeply Puerto Rican, and expansively American. With guest appearances from artists like Lady Gaga, Ricky Martin, Karol G, and Cardi B, the show pulsed with energy and intention. It honored elders and entrepreneurs, community and culture, sugarcane and sweat—the histories on which this nation, and particularly the Caribbean, were built. The theme might as well have been spelled out in lights: Together We Are America.
But that’s not why I’m writing today.
I’m writing because of a single image—a still photograph taken during the performance—that I will not soon forget.
At one point, Bad Bunny turns his back to the stage and vaults into the air, committing fully to a trust fall. There is no visible harness. No safety net. Just the assumption—no, the certainty—that he will be caught. The photograph captures him midair, body arched, while dozens of hands reach up toward him. Many hands. Many skin tones. All extended in the same direction, united by purpose: we will not let you fall.
It is a breathtaking image.
Ishika Samant’s Getty photograph freezes that moment of collective trust and shared responsibility. It is not about celebrity. It is about belief. And when I saw it, I felt something click into place.
At first, I thought of 2020—the flood of performative black squares, the hollow gestures of solidarity that required nothing and risked nothing. But no, this image goes further back. Much further.
It took me to November 4, 2008.
The New York Times ran a photograph by Doug Mills of supporters of Senator Barack Obama cheering at a rally in Chicago as news broke that he had won Pennsylvania. Hands raised. Faces lit with hope. That night, as Adam Nagourney wrote, Barack Hussein Obama was elected the 44th president of the United States, “sweeping away the last racial barrier in American politics.”
Welp. That didn’t last.
Yet, the photo still exists. The image of hands raised high—reaching, open, expectant. It’s hopeful.
Hope, that’s what the Bad Bunny photograph reminded me of: that version of America, diverse and unfinished, but leaning forward together.
That moment in 2008, or 2026, seems a distant dream.
Leaders chuckle at racist cartoons. Organizations kill Americans because they dared to protect a brother or a sister. Young folks question the American dream and if they’ll be able to afford half the things their parents did. Millions of people don’t know if they will ever be able to retire, because the economy many voted for has stripped them of their dignity and security, and quietly tells us what many of us already suspected—that in the eyes of the state, you are disposable, especially if you are not part of the vaulted class chosen to run industries, sit on boards, or make lists.
I don’t like that picture of America. It’s hollow. It’s performative. It’s as empty as a black square aka 2020 on Instagram.
I want a hopeful America again. I want the shining city on a hill—not the slogan, but the promise behind it. I want to believe that yes we can find unity and forgive division.
Lately, when I talk about Fire Sword and Sea, I use the metaphor of a pirate ship as a meritocracy. Stay with me. Yes, pirates stole other people’s things, and by today’s standards that’s somewhat illegal. In the 1600s, it was disturbingly legal.
A pirate crew survived because . everyone worked toward a common goal. Picture it: Africans, Europeans, Indigenous people, people from across the Caribbean—the very nations Bad Bunny called out in his performance—thrown together with a dream to win. On that ship, you voted. You were equals. No one asked who you were or who you loved. They asked: Can you rig the sails? Can you scrub barnacles? When the fighting starts and you’ve got a rapier or a sword in your hand, can I trust you to strike the enemy and not stab me in the back?
That’s it. Contribution. Trust. Shared survival.
So when I look at that Super Bowl photograph—Bad Bunny suspended midair, many hands reaching up—I want that America again. I want the America of 2008, when people didn’t hate again, so openly or so loudly.
Oh, what a time that was.
And what we see now is how fragile those moments are—how quickly they can erode. Division waits patiently for fear, resentment, and weak thinking to give it an opening.
Division takes root. It’s loathed to let go. It would never trust and dive into outstretched hands, diverse hands, hands with color.
So I want to thank the Super Bowl. I want to thank everyone who stood up during Bad Bunny’s performance and danced, who took in the imagery of Puerto Rico and its rich history, as well as all our neighbors to the south, in the Caribbean—the Americas as a shared, complicated whole.
For a brief moment, we saw unity on that stage, and it was beautiful. I don’t know how we get back there.
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.
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.
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
Last week was a weird one. The algorithms—the bots—seemed to come for me. Canva, of all places, led the charge. It made me feel like I wasn’t just wrong in opinion, but wrong in essence. As if the characters I write—rooted in history, full of breath and heart—were somehow unworthy. Handcuff me now, because it felt like I was being told it was a crime to write them at all.
Caption: Two Scaredy-Cats watching the must see movie, Sinners.
And in this current climate? That kind of doubt sticks. There’s so much anti-DEI noise. So much effort to “protect” people from truth. Heaven forbid someone learns something. Heaven forbid someone dares to be better, more moral than their ancestors.
I thought I’d shaken it off. Thought I’d moved on. I got back work on my manuscript and typed out another 6,000 words. Then came another note from Canva, gently suggesting I find another word—something less “triggering”—than “enslaved” to describe Jacquotte of the upcoming Fire Sword and Sea, who had in fact was enslaved. So I turned to friends and asked them for other ways to phrase “enslavement.” Here’s what we came up with:
* Bond servant
* Stolen laborer
* Forced job training
* People in the condition of slavery
* Held in captivity
* Kidnapped
And y’all—I laughed to keep from crying. Because all I could think of was: Lord, have mercy.
I might have sinned right then—if not in word, then in thought. I wanted to cuss out the machine. I was disappointed in technology. That’s a hard place to be for a data girl. Yet, I was more disappointed in me for even entertaining the idea of appeasing the bot—the faceless, soulless thing that some biased, flawed, or agenda driven human had created and enabled it to think it knows what’s best.
Surrendering is not how we honor truth or the stories we’re called to tell.
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Welcome to the Write of Passage family. Now, back to the podcast.
Fear is a seductive thing. It whispers: Don’t speak too loudly. Don’t shine too brightly. Don’t center stories on Black truth, Black joy, or Black progress.
And lately, I’ll admit—it’s been taking me longer to bounce back. It’s getting harder to hold on to the vision of a brighter morning just ahead when everything feels handcuffed and ready to be jailed or deported.
In the past forty-eight hours. The visuals that I allowed my eyes to see have been, stunning, heartbreaking, and even holy.
On Easter Sunday, my church goes all out for a dramatization of the Crucification: lights, drama, music, the whole thing. But this year, there stood a Black Jesus—bloodied, whipped, brutalized. It hit different, terrifyingly different. Then came Black Simon, stepping in to carry the cross, basically taking on his shoulders the oppressor’s burden given to Jesus. I’m watching it and something cracked, fracture into hundreds of pieces on the inside.
It’s been a long time since I cried in church. The first time was when I said the sinner’s prayer and I admitted that I was scared and I needed salvation.
Side note: Did you know the “Sinner’s Prayer” doesn’t actually appear anywhere in the Bible? There is no biblical record of anyone praying those exact words. It emerged around the Protestant Reformation and took shape in the early 20th century—barely 125 years ago. For context, the Civil War officially ended 160 years ago. Both of those things are not that long ago.
On Easter Monday, I saw Sinners—the Ryan Coogler film with Michael B. Jordan, Wunmi Mosaku, Hailee Steinfeld, Li Jun Li, Miles Caton, and Delroy Lindo. On a gorgeous widescreen, I watched this emotionally rich tale saturated with period details and truths. Spoilers alert: Two brothers are seen watching the sunrise, just in awe of the majesty and their freedom. Then I focused on people dancing, singing, loving.
Then comes destruction.
The movie has all types of monsters. The obvious hate-filled men of the Klan, who are hungry for blood and money. Then monsters disguised as your own kind. The evil is often invited in. He feasts of fear and death.
The violence didn’t make me jump. The gore wasn’t any worse than the makeup used at church for the crucifixion. Eventually, dread arrives. It settles in your chest. It steals all joy before the next morning can come. I found myself waiting for that other foot to fall, for when that bad was coming.
So what does this all mean? Anticipating doom or consequence can be as draining as when the threats or violence comes. We can’t surrender in advance.
It means we must guard our eyes—not to shield them from truth, but to make sure they still see beauty, even in chaos. Still see family. Still see hope.
We must guard our ears—because false praise can lull us into stillness. It can lie to us that we are safe and leave us vulnerable to brokenness. Yet we need music, sweet music, true music, ancestral rhythms. All can cut through the noise and remind us who we are, who we are striving to be.
We must remember:
This little light of mine… I’m gonna let it shine.
A light can be seen.A light reveals what’s nearest—what needs our care.A light casts shadows, warning us of what’s creeping in the distance.A light tells the truth of our circumstances. And it gives us the chance to see the true face of things lurking in the dark.
So keep your light burning. That is your protection.Keep your voice strong. That is how you inspire hope.Then revel in each new day, letting your truth-telling, joy-making, world-building self be known.
To help encourage your soul, try:
Call Us What We Carry by Amanda Gorman – Poetry that engages with history, hope, and the responsibility of bearing witness.
Sula by Toni Morrison – A meditation on Black womanhood, loyalty, and community through beautifully painful prose.
And of course, go see Sinners in the movie theater. Watch creativity and inclusiveness on the widest screen you can find. Thank me later.
The winners will be those who kept their light shining, who believed in truth. And who dared to cry out: It’s me. It’s me, oh Lord, standing in the need of prayer.
Darkness is real. We tend to invite into our life, our work, our sanctuaries.But remember dawn is also real. Dawn, I hear comes with new mercies, too. I pray we find them.
Show notes include a list of the books mentioned in this broadcast. This week, I’m highlighting The Book Cellar 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.
Help fight the bots by hitting like and continuing to share this podcast. You are essential to its growth.
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
As we head into February, Black History Month, remember that this month is short, intentional, and earned—created because Black contributions were systematically erased from American history. My that sort of sounds familiar. Like what’s happening now. Welp, for my part, I’m making a block list. That’s right for all asking performative questions, those too lazy to Google asking for labor or lists. So, if you show up confused, unprepared, or intentionally obtuse, don’t worry—you won’t be staying for long.
Blocking Season
As we enter Black History Month, I find myself both excited and annoyed.
I actually love this month. I hate that it’s only twenty-eight days—unless we luck into a leap year. February is the month my father was born, which establishes my own Black American cred: Caribbean immigrant roots on one side, and on the other, my mother’s people—Igbo transported, South Carolina born and bred. The family name Riley traces Irish roots, because everyone, at some point, was complicit in colonization and enslavement.
But I digress. That’s not the purpose of this essay.
Black History Month did not simply appear—it was fought for. In 1926, historian Carter G. Woodson established what was then called Negro History Week. His aim was simple and radical: to force a nation that had erased Black contributions from its textbooks and public memory to pause and acknowledge the truth. He deliberately chose February to coincide with the birthdays of Abraham Lincoln (February 12) and Frederick Douglass (February 14), dates many Black communities were already honoring.
It was radical to demand national attention on Black contributions. Woodson understood something America still resists: history does not correct itself, nor does it acknowledge wrongdoing, unless it is confronted.
Eventually, that week became a month. A complicated, necessary space to recognize Black history in America—and across the world.
I remember the irony well: focusing the shortest month of the year on Black history, while the other eleven months continue doing what they always do—centering dominant or majority cultures.
Still, I look forward to it. To revel in Blackness. To listen to our music. To laugh at our inside jokes. To not explain ourselves. To exist without translation.
It’s my history month. It’s actually everyone’s history—but truth deniers don’t have the bandwidth for that.
Which is why I am not doing this thing we do every year.
If you have never thought about reading anything by a Black author before, do not log onto social media and ask those performative, empty questions. I saw one just yesterday: “I want to read about Black people, but I don’t want to read about slavery.”
Here’s the thing: Black authors write about everything—just like everybody else. Romance. Science fiction. High-tech thrillers. Family sagas. Hollywood celebrity culture. I guarantee someone is writing about the Epstein saga as we speak.
What we are not going to do is pretend Google or ChatGPT doesn’t exist.
What we are not going to do is pretend libraries are inaccessible or that librarians are scary.
What we are not going to do is ask for free labor from people you have spent your entire big age ignoring.
If you have gotten this far in life without caring to learn about anyone who doesn’t look like you, stay in your lane. You simply don’t need to know. You lack the empathy gene—and that is information we need to know. In pirate terms, you are the person we watch closely when swords are handed out, because history suggests you’ll stab someone in the back.
So go ahead. Self-identify.
Ignore the culture. Remain blissfully clueless. No cookout invitations were coming anyway. You’ve missed nothing.
But if you wander into my lane with lazy, antagonistic nonsense, I will block you. No explanation. No debate. You will simply find yourself gone.
Let me say this clearly: do not play the few Black people who tolerate you with your performative curiosity. Do not ask questions designed to provoke eye-rolling. Do not demand emotional labor disguised as “learning.”
Frankly, I assume half of these posts are bots engineered to raise my blood pressure. But just in case they aren’t—just in case a real person is typing these things—stay home. Stay in your zone. Keep your sheets on. Dust off the cone hats. We do not need you.
Now, for those of us who are actually curious about culture: we read widely. We write widely. Yes, enslavement is a pervasive story—because colonization is a pervasive story. Across history, there has always been a dominant culture with better weapons and a willingness to exploit others for economic gain.
Notice I did not say white people.
Enslavement is humanity’s recurring sin.
One of the most heartbreaking things I researched for Fire Sword and Sea was learning how French governors in the Caribbean actively stole poor French women from the streets of Paris—enslaving them and selling them as wives or brothel workers.
Is it the same as chattel slavery? No.
Could it be brutal? Absolutely.
Accounts describe women shackled, thrown into the holds of ships, and transported across the ocean. Terror looks the same no matter who you are when you are chained below deck in a dark frigate.
The Mughal Muslim empire enslaved infidels. Spanish, French, British, and Dutch colonizers enslaved Indigenous populations throughout Mexico, South America, and every island in the Caribbean. And in that same era, transatlantic slave trafficking—the most horrific form of generational enslavement—expanded and calcified. Power does what power does.
Which is why books like Fire Sword and Sea matter. Not because they lecture, but because they show the choices, the complicity, the sisterhoods, the brutality, and the strange exhilaration of chaotic worlds that formed the foundations of the one we inhabit now. History is not clean. It is not simple. It exists to teach us how not to repeat our worst selves.
But I cannot make you curious about a world you have decided you don’t want to understand.
That choice is yours.
So once again, as February arrives, do not make it your mission to post inflammatory nonsense. It’s Black History Month. Spare us. Spare me.
Or meet the blocking season.
This week’s booklist are books that center different facets of Black History:
A riveting historical novel about a Black woman passing as white whose marriage sparks a sensational 1920s court case that exposes America’s obsessions with race, class, and identity.
Consider purchasing Fire Sword and Sea from The Book Cellar 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.
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.
Upcoming Events:
Coming to a library near you, Feb. 5th at 7:00 P.M. EST
Join us for an unforgettable experience as we chat with Vanessa Riley about her newest book, Fire Sword and Sea, based on the folk story of the female pirate Jacquotte Delahaye. Jacquotte dreams of joining the seafarers and smugglers whose tall-masted ships cluster in the turquoise waters around Tortuga. For twenty years, Jacquotte raids the Caribbean as Jacques, hiding her gender. When her fellow pirates decide to increase their profits by entering the slave trade, Jacquotte must make a change. Thursday, February 5th at 7 PM ET via digital live-stream in partnership with Dougherty County Public Library.
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.
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
Vanessa Riley trying to find peace and missing it.
Nine months away from the release of Fire Sword and Sea, my fourth historical fiction novel, I was using Canva—an online design tool—to create character slides. Each slide was a snapshot of a journey: a woman who rose from enslavement to ship captain, a reimagined heroine defying colonial narratives and gender norms. I hit the “add speaker notes” button, eager to get tips for speaking. I dream big, thinking I’ll be having substantive discussions on my writing and research. And then—Cava flagged me.
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The Canva warning on my character’s slide.
It warned me, that is appears I’m working on a political topic which is not supported.
I paused. Political? This wasn’t a manifesto. I didn’t mention government, war, or even the man in the White House. Just a character arc. A woman doing what men historically claimed as their domain. A woman who had been enslaved, now captain of her own destiny. Was that what triggered the flag?
The slide in question. Yes, I still can’t believe it.
Was it because she was Black? Because she was free? Because she existed at all? At the time of this recording Canva has not responded.
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What Had Happened Was…
There’s a popular phrase in Black vernacular storytelling—“What had happened was…” It’s often said with a chuckle, a smile, a pause before unpacking truth. It’s a doorway to context, a map through what might otherwise get dismissed.
So—what had happened was—I was trying to promote a book.
I wasn’t trying to ignite a movement or start a fire. I just wanted to tell a story that mattered. And the tools I used turned on me. These so-called helpers, these digital platforms that were supposed to amplify my voice, were suddenly filtering it.
It’s easy to say the creator world is dicey right now. We’re all stressed—consumers, readers, artists alike. But we can’t pretend this isn’t something deeper. Truth is under attack. Art is under review. And some of us are being silenced before we even speak.
History Is on the Chopping Block
I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions about why Canva flagged that slide with the magic word enslaved. To me it’s simple and diabolical: history—especially Black history—is being erased. It’s happening now, it’s in real time.
We are witnessing the rollback of truth. Not in some distant dystopia, but here and now.
Books are being banned. Curriculum gutted. The “both sides” rhetoric used to flatten facts into nothingness. Trusted institutions are quiet or complicit. The hunger for moral equivalence is starving out real accountability.
If you think you’re safe, don’t be fooled. They are coming for you, too. Just ask your Grandma or senior friend who can no longer call their social security office, and now must make inconvenient trips to get questions answered.
Art Is—and Always Has Been—Political
From the beginning of time, artists have resisted. Protest art existed long before hashtags and headlines:
* Ancient Egyptians carved critiques into pottery and tombs.
* Michelangelo’s David stood as a symbol of resistance against the de Medici family.
* Picasso’s Guernica screamed against fascism.
* Jean-Michel Basquiat painted the pain of racism and systemic decay on city walls.
Writers too have been on the front lines of protest:
And yet, many of these works were banned, challenged, or ignored until their creators were no longer threats—until they were dead or despaired . We call them legends now, but in their lifetimes, they faced resistance just for telling the truth.
The Risk of Telling Stories in 2025
I’m not comparing myself to these masters. But here’s the truth: you never know how far a writer might go if they weren’t forced to create under duress. What stories never get told because someone’s afraid of losing a contract, a platform, a chance?
As we hurtle toward the release of Fire Sword and Sea in January 2026, I know the stakes. This novel challenges colonial history. It questions gender roles and race. It doesn’t hold back. And yes, that means it may face backlash.
But I owe it to my characters—and the ancestors behind them—to be honest. To be bold. I wish it felt better to be a truth-teller right now. But it doesn’t. It feels risky. Lonely. Like shouting into the wind and hoping the algorithm doesn’t mute you.
Algorithms Are the New Gatekeepers
Back to that Canva flag. Back to the bots.
We like to pretend the internet is neutral. But algorithms aren’t free-thinking. They’re coded by people. People with biases. People with blind spots. People who might think that a Black woman becoming a ship captain is “too political.”
These systems decide what gets seen, what gets buried, and what gets flagged. And in this brave new world, even our tools are weapons of control.
So what do we do?
Honestly—I don’t know. I rely on these tools. I use them to work faster, reach farther. But every time I click “publish,” I wonder: am I aiding my own silencing? Feeding the same beast that’s ready to swallow me?
Still Here. Still Talking.
I have no tidy resolution to offer. But I do have a promise: I’m still here. I’m still writing. Still teaching. Still telling the truth for as long as the bots allow.
Because censorship isn’t always loud. Sometimes it comes as a quiet “warning.” A flagged slide. A ghosted post. A book pulled from shelves.
And sometimes, yes sometimes, protest are simple acts— continuing to paint, dance, and create, continuing to speak, continuing to write, continuing to tell our stories.
Show notes include a list of the books mentioned in this broadcast. This week, I’m highlighting Fountain 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.
Help fight the bots by hitting like and continuing to share this podcast. You are essential to its growth.
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
Researching this subject taught me a new term and concept: Jane Austen para-literature. Oh my. This is a huge topic. I am only able to skirt around it, since to cover this topic completely would take years. The incredible array of sequels and retellings of the Austen ouvre is astounding. I, dear reader am a veritable babe in the woods when it comes to such reading opportunities. I have read a few spin-offs, no sequels, and no retellings of Jane Austen’s novels.
Is there a name for the phenomenon of the fact that a movie is never/rarely anywhere near as good as the book? Extrapolating that thought further tells me there could never be a sequel book as good as the original Pride and Prejudice.
Creative or knowledgeable people: Please come up with a name for the above phenomenon. Mention it in the comments.
Inveterate Austen sequel/prequel readers: Have you read any great ones? If so, please leave the titles in the comments.
READ ON! Much good information coming your way in this post.
From the first link listed above, Ted Adams has a wonderful, comprehensive article slicing and dicing the terminology of Austen para-literature. I have used material from this article below. He said it so well.
“The adaptations, completions, sequels, pastiches and other attempts to tap into the Jane Austen industry … devolve from a most noble sentiment: We have read the six published novels and we want more. We want more and different insights into both the novels and into the type of person that Jane Austen was.
Adaptations are transformations into another medium, e.g., stage, screen and television.
Completions are the finishing off of a novel fragment. Jane Austen’s two fragments, The Watsons and Sanditon have been attempted a number of times.
Sequels are a continuation of the action. To my knowledge, nobody has written a “prequel”, which would be a description of what occurred before the action started.
Pastiches are work written in the style of Jane Austen. Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor is a pastiche. Its premise is that it is a notebook that Jane Austen kept concerning events during a period for which we do not have documentation.
Certainly no Jane Austen pastiche will ever be as good as the original, but that is to be expected. Mind you, when the standard is one of the best writers in the English language, to fall short of the mark is no disgrace. To write with wit, economy, great insight and develop complex and interesting characters is no mean feat. After all, we read Jane Austen with great pleasure 200 years later because she compares well not only with her contemporaries but also with ours and everybody who has come in between.
Personally, I enjoy pastiches for much the same reason that I sometimes enjoy Jane Austen criticism. Even when a pastiche fails or fall short, it can be interesting to try understand how or why it comes up short. And in the meantime, I’ve read a story that really has no requirement to be taken seriously.
The questions I would ask of a pastiche are the same that I ask of criticism: Is the work interesting/entertaining in its own right? How faithful it to spirit of Jane Austen’s novels? Does it provide insights into the work in question and/or the character of Jane Austen? ”
So, dear Austen-loving friends, I highly recommend reading the full text of the Ted Adams article — not the least for the titles of para-Austen books he considers excellent! Thanks for visiting Regency Reflections.
Remember to comment on the questions: What to call the phenomenon when the movie or sequel is never as good as the original AND Give the titles of any Austen para-literature books you’ve read that you think were pretty good.
Susan Karsten
The love of Regency romance lives on today. Comment on any post this week for a chance to win a book by one of Regency Reflections’ amazing published authors. The winner will be emailed the list of available books to choose from. The winner will be announced Monday, August 26th. Winner’s mailing address must be within the United States to win.
Congratulations, Susan Heim, on winning the beautiful hardback copy of Pride and Prejudice. Check your email for details on claiming your prize. See the end of this post by Laurie Alice Eakes for another chance to win a fabulous prize.
Although I have been devoted to the Regency era since the age of fourteen, I never read a book by Jane Austen, nor did I see one of the movie adaptations, for another twenty years. I haven’t even read all of Miss Austen’s books. Instead of this celebrated lady of letters, my attraction to the Regency came through an intermediate step—Georgette Heyer.
Georgette Heyer
For years, I tried to get a copy of A Private Life, a biography of Miss Heyer written by another one of my favorite Regency authors, Jane Aiken Hodge. That tome was never available, so I was thrilled when a new biography by Jennifer Kloester was published. Since I’ve been reading it off and on for the past few weeks (it’s a lengthy book), I thought reviewing it in the month we are celebrating Jane Austen wholly appropriate. My Regency sisters have indulged me, since I am far more fond of Heyer than Austen, as blasphemous as that may be.
Kloester executed a tremendous amount of research for this biography. She must have read a few thousand letters and delved into numerous dusty storage rooms for original documents. The details included are more intriguing—and more edifying—than five minutes of TMZ. This is the book’s greatest strength and greatest weakness. The details about her publishing life, her personality, her friendships and animosities are like juicy gossip, especially to a writer or lover of her books. On the other hand, after a while, as many details as we receive go a little too far. I don’t need endless pages—fortunately scattered—regarding the Rougier (her married name) financial difficulties and mismanagement. Nor do I need the author’s speculation about the couple’s sex life.
More important are the details about her ups and downs as a published author. More ups than downs from most writer’s perspective. She sold her first book when she was nineteen. One of her detective novels was banned by the Irish government as being obscene (it’s not) until the 1960s. And although it rather makes me sad, I like the details about her personal habits such as how she smoked two packs of cigarettes a day for most of her life. It just doesn’t fit my image of this educated and talented Englishwoman born right after the turn of the 19th century. The ways in which she stayed awake when on deadline make me cringe as much as did some of her business decisions.
A business woman she was not unless one counts that she wrote romances, most set in the Regency, for the money, when her heart lay in long historical novels. She did manage to write these, but other than An Infamous Army, these were not the most successful of her books. Readers ate up her Regency and Georgian romances. They also loved her detective novels. To learn that two of her favorite authors were Jane Austen and Raymond Chandler did not at all surprise me.
That others ripped her off didn’t surprise me either. She exchanged letters with publishers and attorneys regarding how closely Barbara Cartland’s books followed Heyer’s, and wasn’t afraid to say the woman needed to do her own research. Cartland wasn’t the only writer who decided to use Miss Heyer’s original research instead of seeking it out for themselves.
Often I have heard that Miss Heyer made up slang terms and even that she inserted false facts to throw off these pretenders to know the time period and write in the same genre Heyer rather developed herself. After reading the biography, I no longer believe these claims to be true. She possessed too much professional integrity to do so.
Although Miss Austen wrote during the Regency era that has become a subgenre of romance fiction, the subgenre itself, for which we and dozens of other authors keep blogs, owes its popularity and stronghold to Georgette Heyer.
The love of Regency romance lives on today. Comment on any post this week for a chance to win a book by one of Regency Reflections’ amazing published authors. The winner will be emailed the list of available books to choose from. The winner will be announced Monday, August 26th. Winner’s mailing address must be within the United States to win.
Revenge isn’t justice—it’s a dopamine hit with consequences.
We love the fantasy of the lick back: the receipts, the public shaming, the Waiting to Exhale moment.
But what happens after the fire dies out and you’re the one standing in the smoke? This essay asks an uncomfortable question: Is revenge power, or is it professional and spiritual suicide?
Revenge, Regret, and a Lick Back
I saw a viral clip from Oprah’s podcast about the science of revenge, and it mesmerized me. It’s a thought or a topic that I deal with when I write. Pro-tip: Real deep emotions that your characters embody resonate with readers.
But back to Oprah.
A woman in the podcast audience recounts a moment when she lost control. Consumed by suspicion, she triangulated her lover’s whereabouts using technology: combing through his laptop, pulling Uber receipts, matching dates to her calendar, and Googling addresses. The trail led straight to his ex-girlfriend. Proof in hand, she didn’t confront him quietly. She burned his clothes—Waiting to Exhale–style—posted flyers in the neighborhood with his photo stamped CHEATER, and I caught the vibe that maybe there was more she wouldn’t say on television.
The anger was palatable. Right, in the United States, anger is rampant. We have more acts of government-sanctioned brutality and murder. Officials are lying. Some folks seeme outraged. Others are looking away, hoping for a reasonable explanation of murder. While the ones once told to be silent are questioning whether all lives really do matter.
Back to Oprah again.
Oprah responded with compassion and hard-earned wisdom. She admitted she’d had a similar moment in her twenties—and learned that instead of tracking someone down, sometimes the bravest act is to stop, to cool down, to get help, and to reclaim yourself before you do something that costs you far more than it costs them.
Have you ever been there?So angry at how someone wronged you that you feel yourself tipping into something unrecognizable?
I’ve written that moment. In Fire Sword and Sea, Jacquotte experiences a rage so pure and sharp it feels righteous. The pirate crew she serves is a meritocracy: everyone is equal as long as they do their job. But one pirate, eaten alive by jealousy, sabotages battle instructions and leaves the entire crew in mortal danger. I won’t spoil what happens—but terrible things follow.
Jacquotte wants to kill him. Not metaphorically. She wants to drive her rapier through his heart, drag it up to his gullet and down into his gut. Based on what happens, her anger is justified. It’s righteous anger.
And yet—she does nothing.
She has to consider the crew. Her leadership. The sacrifices, she’s already made. The futures she fought for can be destroyed with one wrong move. In choosing restraint, something else breaks inside her. She almost loses her sanity.
Revenge might have felt freeing, but it wouldn’t have solved the problem or undone the harm caused by one ignorant, jealous fool.
James Kimmel Jr., author of The Science of Revenge, tells Oprah that revenge is a core emotion—an addictive one—that drives wars and conflicts. Or, as we say in the neighborhood: you can’t help but want to get your lick back.
But revenge is often also professional suicide.
Even when everything and a court of law is on your side, the world gets very small very fast. When word spreads about your clever act of vengeance, who will really trust you? You’re now the person who “crashed out.” Your stability and dependability are questioned. Team chemistry evaporates like smoke.
I’ve had friends who didn’t care. For ten glorious minutes—right up until security escorted them out—they had their revenge.
Before restraining orders are needed, I think we owe ourselves one hard question:Is it worth burning down your world just to set fire to theirs?
The best villains say yes. But is that you? No? So, I’m advocating to turn the other cheek. Forgive. But I don’t know about that forgetting part. We’re not angels. We’re definitely not Christ. Forgetting that someone harmed you can put you right back in danger. They already stole your trust and your time—things you can’t get back.
Yes, second-chance romances exist. But infidelity is a hard one to forgive, but so is belittling your dreams or gaslighting your pain. Refusing to admit wrongdoing while demanding your faith is wrong. When someone cannot acknowledge harm but insists they have your best interests at heart—that’s not a lesson to learn twice. That’s a situation to run from.
So what is the ultimate revenge?
Physical harm is wrong. Social harm is fleeting. The endorphin rush fades. The pain remains. And now you might also have a criminal record for trespassing. No thank you.
At this stage of my life, I don’t actually want revenge.I want regret.
I want a soul-stirring, chest-tightening, sleepless regret. I want them to know—deeply—that if they had only lived up to the values they preached, things could have been different. I want them to awake at night thinking about what could have been. I want my name to give them pause when it appears in lights.
I wish them regret.
I want people who believed themselves “the good guys”—the ones with liberal minds and Black friends—to reckon with how they’ve become tools of the state, how they uphold castes, patriarchy, and misogyny. I want them to rue how their misguided beliefs failed real people. I want them to remember every little lie, every weak excuse. I want them to sweat under the weight of their regrets.
That is a better revenge than anything my small, angry mind could invent.
No one torments the soul better than one’s own conscience.
So no—I don’t want revenge.
I wish my enemies regret.
What about you? Do you need to get that lick back, or could you be satisfied with your own stellar success?
As for me, in this house, that’s my choice. I’m pounding the pavement. I’m keeping my holy fire alive on the inside. I’m building a life so full—career, family, purpose—that those who discounted us, who cast us aside, who counted us out are stunned into silence. Maybe even repentance.
To get there, I don’t have to destroy anyone. I have to succeed.
I’m not wishing sickness or death or ruin on anybody. I’m wishing for my success to be so brilliant it can’t be ignored—and for the quiet, devastating realization that my hopes and dreams were the ones that got away.
This week’s book list is about revenge:
The Science of Revenge — James Kimmel Jr.A psychological and sociological examination of revenge as an addictive force that fuels conflict, cycles of violence, and self-destruction.
Beloved — Toni MorrisonExplores how unresolved trauma and righteous anger haunt both the wronged and the wrongdoer long after the act itself.
The Count of Monte Cristo — Alexandre DumasA masterclass in revenge as obsession, showing how total victory can still hollow out the soul.
Their Eyes Were Watching God — Zora Neale HurstonA story of choosing self-fulfillment over vengeance, and how living well becomes its own quiet reckoning.
Fire Sword and Sea — Vanessa RileyA meditation on righteous anger and restraint, where leadership demands sacrifice—and revenge costs more than blood. And it’s got pirates.
Consider purchasing 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.
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.
Enjoying the essay? 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.
Special Event:
On February 5 at 7:00 PM, I’ll be appearing virtually with libraries across the country as part of the Library Speakers Consortium, discussing Fire Sword and Sea.
Check with your local library for access—and please join me. I’d love to see you there.
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
I have always loved stories set in the Regency period. One of my earliest movie memories is of watching Greer Garson and Laurence Olivier in the old black and white Pride and Prejudice. What a romantic story! I never even noticed that the costumes were definitely not from Jane Austen’s era. Later, I took a graduate class in Austen and loved reading all of her books. When the 1994 A & E version of Pride and Prejudice came on television, I was enthralled by the spectacular production. But I never considered writing a Regency romance because I wasn’t sure I could capture all the nuances of the era. There were just too many details I didn’t know about it.
Who, me?
But then I got tricked into it. I had just completed a Revolutionary War series and was wondering what to offer my editor in my next proposal. She solved my dilemma by asking me to write a Regency novella to be paired one by Deborah Hale, an experienced Regency author. I don’t know about you, but when my editor asks me to write a book, I say yes. The opportunity to share a book with Deb was icing on the cake.
So now I faced a challenge. As a reader, I don’t care much for careless or nonexistent research. As a writer, I endeavor to create interesting stories that take place in realistic settings. You may say, “Well, duh! Doesn’t every author want that?” But haven’t we all been pulled out of a story by some nagging little plot device we know could not have happened in that particular time period? Devoted Regency readers are particularly sensitive to such errors. I didn’t want that to happen with my story.
Louise’s latest Regency offering ~ proof that she mastered the genre.
Help arrives
Fortunately, I had the help of our good friend, Laurie Alice Eakes, an amazing author who knows the era well. She answered my pesky questions and insisted that I join the Beau Monde chapter of RWA. There I could ask the research mavens for help. And believe me, I did!
Well, I finished my novella, and by then I was hooked and ready to propose a full Regency series. After reading in another author’s lovely book that included a rather pathetic minor character who was a lady’s companion, I knew that had to be my subject. I came up with three different aristocratic young women who were forced by circumstances to go to work as companions. As you readers and writers of this era well know, it was shameful for aristocrats to work at any job, so my heroines were all bound to suffer Society’s disdain. Yet paired with the right hero, each lady found her true calling: marriage to the man of her dreams and a happily-ever-after life. So far, only a few tiny errors have crept into my books, but I welcome any corrections so I can get it right the next time.
Success!
By the way, that novella, The Gentleman Takes a Bride, earned second place in the Inspirational Readers Choice Awards, so I was more than pleased with that.
My brand new release, A Lady of Quality, is the third in my “Ladies in Waiting” series. Catherine Du Coeur is determined to uncover the truth about wealthy Lord Winston, who falsely accused her father of treason. But the closer she gets to the handsome young nobleman, the more she wonders how such a benevolent gentleman could have conspired to commit such evil. Baron Lord Winston has had little success in finding an accomplished aristocratic bride who is suited to his diplomatic aspirations. But when he meets Miss Du Coeur, a countess’s lowly companion, he finds that family connections are far less important than matters of the heart.
Award-winning Florida author Louise M. Gouge writes historical fiction for Harlequin’s Love Inspired imprint. In addition to numerous other awards, Louise is the recipient of the prestigious Inspirational Readers’ Choice Award for her 2005 novel, Hannah Rose. With her great love of history and research, Louise has traveled to several of her locations to ensure the accuracy of her stories’ settings. When she isn’t writing, she and her husband love to visit historical sites and museums. Her 2011 Regency novella, The Gentleman Takes a Bride, earned second place in the prestigious Inspirational Readers Choice Award.
One lucky commenter will win their choice of one of the Ladies In Waiting books. Leave a comment telling us why you started reading regencies to be entered to win!
Contest is now over. Look for Louise’s latest novel wherever you buy books.
There comes a moment when the noise fades, the dust settles, and you look around and realize: this is a losing season. The signs are everywhere—opportunities dried up, allies silent or absent, and the very ground that once felt firm beneath your feet feels like it’s shifting. You blink and think, how did I get here?
Vanessa – Out of Coffee
I move through the world on a mission. It’s loud and clear in my heart: I’m here to tell stories that center encouragement and empowerment—especially for Black women. It’s personal. I am a Black woman. And being one raised at the crossroads of cultures—Caribbean roots, the Southern Baptist South, Irish threads in my lineage—I bring a perspective that’s richly textured. I’m a history and STEM girly, someone who gets giddy over tech and deeply moved by stories of women surviving and thriving from the 1300s to WWII. I love the research, the smells, the taste of a scene, the sound of a woman’s laughter echoing through centuries. And yet, in the middle of building, writing, pitching, and praying, I look up and realize I’m in a losing season.
The world right now is showing its cards. Political chaos runs rampant. Corporate agendas have eaten integrity for breakfast. The pressure to tell “acceptable history” rather than true history is real—and exhausting. The DEI moment has slipped into quotas and checkboxes, and alleged allies are revealing their true motivations. Let me be real: some folks were only in the room for the optics.
When someone shows you who they are, believe them.When a door closes, let it remain closed.If the house is on fire, get out and let it burn.
That’s not bitterness. That’s wisdom earned through fiery flames.
As a woman of faith, I know that even the losing seasons have purpose. There are times I ignored the signs and lost, getting smacked with fallout. And there are times I listened—and for a moment blessings flowed like a river. Then the river ran dry.
It’s not always going to be a winning season. Sometimes, you lose. Sometimes, life kicks you in the teeth. And when it does, you have to ask yourself: now what?
What Do You Do When You’re in a Losing Season?
You grieve. You breathe. You pray.
You let the rain come.
Ecclesiastes 3:4 reminds us: There’s a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.Nobody wants the weeping season. No one welcomes the mourning. But the rain is necessary—it releases what’s buried, nourishes what’s growing, and reminds us, we are alive.
Find Ways to Retain Joy – Vanessa with her 26th book taking Car Selfies.
Losing hurts. It hurts to see people you trusted only stand beside you when it’s trendy. It hurts to watch monuments scrub away Black contributions from the record, as if the Underground Railroad, War heroes erased from Arlington National Cemetery because of their sex or color or skin, and the countless other dark hands that built this country are inconveniences to a prettier story.
Let me be clear: this is all American history—Italian migrations, Haitians battling English troops for our freedom. All the Black, Brown, and White stories woven together belongs to all of us. Yet the only narratives being preserved are the ones that make people comfortable. The rest? We’re told to erase, edit, or hide them. And if you’re someone like me, someone who insists on telling the truth with love and power, you can find yourself cast out, put into a rough season where nothing sticks.
But even here—especially here—there’s still something to do. You regroup.
Hope and Regrouping
Losing doesn’t mean you stop. Losing is a pause. A reroute. A holy moment to reset.
Stop chasing folks who never believed in you.Stop shrinking your truth to make others feel taller.You remember your mission.
Yes, it’s a lonely road when only 6% of the room looks like you. Yes, like-minded folks are rare, and genuine support can feel even rarer. But they are out there. I know that because I have readers and listeners who hear me—who see me. That means the world.
And so, we regroup with intention.
We protect our joy.We sharpen our gifts.We build anyway.
We prepare for the next season by shedding the expectations that no longer serve us. We speak truth—the whole truth—because the stories we tell now will shape the world we’re leaving behind.
I don’t pretend to have it all figured out. I just know the losing season doesn’t get the final word. The bumps and the lows on my path are birthing clarity. Resilience is being shaped, and I fall back on my faith and it brings me out of darkness to the sunshine.
Vanessa Riley’s Write of Passage is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
And when the rain stops, and the mourning shifts, we will dance again.
A multigenerational epic that explores identity, belonging, and the burden and beauty of legacy.
Show notes include a list of the books mentioned in this broadcast. This week, I’m highlighting Baldwin and Company through Bookshop.org. You can find my notes on Substack or on my website, VanessaRiley.com under the podcast link in the About tab.
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
Lord Bainbridge, the father of the three sisters, is an autocratic man, a political animal who wants things the way he wants them. He manipulates his children to his will as much as he can, and he can do a great deal. But Honore is the baby and pretty and lively and a daddy’s girl. She got away with too much. Daddy cleaned up her messes for her.
More important are the details about her ups and downs as a published author. More ups than downs from most writer’s perspective. She sold her first book when she was nineteen. One of her detective novels was banned by the Irish government as being obscene (it’s not) until the 1960s. And although it rather makes me sad, I like the details about her personal habits such as how she smoked two packs of cigarettes a day for most of her life. It just doesn’t fit my image of this educated and talented Englishwoman born right after the turn of the 19th century. The ways in which she stayed awake when on deadline make me cringe as much as did some of her business decisions.
Award-winning Florida author Louise M. Gouge writes historical fiction for Harlequin’s Love Inspired imprint. In addition to numerous other awards, Louise is the recipient of the prestigious Inspirational Readers’ Choice Award for her 2005 novel, 