Episodios

  • Hospitality Dead?
    Nov 25 2025
    The gift of hospitality shouldn’t be dead. But if I’m honest, I think in certain parts of the country, and in certain circles I’ve moved through, it might be on life-support. I’ve watched people forget how to say welcome to strangers. I’ve seen other seem oblivious to making room at the table for others. This weekend while I was at Barnes and Nobles, I was handed an orange whistle and given instructions on how to blow it if I see an abduction happening. Because elections have consequences, brown people are not being treated with hospitality. They are literally under assault for being brown.I want off this Ferris wheel of bad karma. I want humans to act with generosity instead of suspicion. I want the world I write about, the happy ever after, the place where victory comes for those who persevere.You see, I am my mother’s daughter.I was raised in the gospel of killing them with kindness—and if you’re still hatefully breathing, I might go in for another round. If you’ve read any of my Lady Worthing mysteries, you know I believe in Columbo-type persistent. And in Jessica Fletcher style, I will stack a body count and keep digging until I find the truth. Determination is my love language. Stubbornness is too.So when I run head-first into metaphorical walls—and Lord, have I met a few this year—it isn’t easy to step back and consider quitting.While it’s natural for me to reflect on what I “might’ve, should’ve, could’ve” done differently, that level of introspection doesn’t just come with right and wrong. It adds farces and facts. Am I supposed to say the truth in a softer voice? Am I to ignore facts and write euphemisms like we don’t know that colonizers like Columbus came to kill and steal?I suppose it would be easier to forget that pirates in the 1600s were Black women, that ships didn’t have an integrated crew, all while sailing with a cargo hold of chattel slaves.Ooops. A company with a $65 Billion dollar market cap instructed me to say a cargo hold of chattel imprisonment.Le Sigh.And then we arrive at my favorite time of year: Thanksgiving, the holiday my mother owned. She held it close to her heart like the pride of a champion athlete. Forget the World Series or the Boston Marathon—Thanksgiving was her event. She trained for it all year. She curated pumpkin ornaments and gleaming charger plates in reds and deep oranges. She laid out gravy boats and soup tureens like treasured relics. And I fought—fiercely—to inherit the Fitz and Floyd pig that keeps the yeast rolls warm. Not just because it’s pretty, but because it symbolizes everything, she taught me: family gathering, long hours in the kitchen, bending over backward to make others feel warm and welcomed and in life pigs are allowed to be pretty.Hospitality was one of my mother’s greatest legacies.I hope—truly hope—that I embody even a portion of that in my life and work. But I won’t lie: this year it has been hard.Hard to be hospitable.Hard to turn the other cheek when the other side of the equation seems intent on destruction.Hard to smile when some would prefer you feel small, insignificant, or silenced.Hard to create when your work is dismissed as nothing or there have been too many Caribbean books.On social media, I may laugh and joke. I may sing polite praises of my enemies—and those who I no longer esteem as highly as I once did. There are exceptions, of course. And y’all know exactly who they are—65 Billion dollar company. But I digress.In a few days, it will be Thanksgiving.And I am giving thanks.I am thankful for my family.I am thankful for my friends.I am thankful for my colleagues—past and present.And I am deeply thankful for you, my listeners and my readers.Without you, I wouldn’t have the hope I carry for the coming year.Without you, there would be no Write of Passage or stories reaching new tables.No late-night messages about characters who’ve haunted me until I shared their story.No shared laughter over inside jokes you’ve begun to catch—because you know me. And I love getting to know you.Thank you for the letters, the comments.Thank you for the likes, the shares, and every conversation you sparked.Thank you for recommending this podcast, or my latest books Fire Sword and Sea, or old favorites like Island Queen or A Duke, the Lady, and A Baby. Your hospitality—your generosity—has lifted the low moments and made the high ones shine even brighter.So as we gather around our Thanksgiving tables, I want you to know that I’m grateful for you. I’m hopeful for the new year—hopeful for the clearing away of old spaces, the opening of new ones. I am happy about the tables I sit at and the ones I walk away from with peace.I am thankful for the power to know who I am.And the courage to become who I want to be.I write about characters who make that choice every day—who decide, despite their flaws and wounds and circumstances, to grow into the person they long to ...
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    12 m
  • Robot vs. Robot
    Oct 21 2025
    It started innocently enough. I’d been away for a weekend of trips. Monday morning, I thought, Let me check my email. That’s when the onslaught began.A note — a perfectly polite one — popped to the top:“Hi Vanessa,Thank you for writing such a wonderful story. I’d love to share my thoughts on Goodreads and help more people discover it.Warm regards,Rachel.”Thank you, Rachel. I don’t know what book you read that moved you to writeright me (yes, she wrote right), but thanks.I kept going through my emails, and Rachel wrote again.“Hi there,Are you around? If you’re interested in getting the review, just reply with the word ‘Review.’ I’ll take it from there!”Now, I already suspected Rachel was a bot. But Miss Rachel wasn’t done. She sent another message — and this time, she rudely implied that I’d missed a deadline.In the entirety of my writing career, I’ve missed exactly one deadline. One. There have been times when I’ve needed more time, but I’ve always negotiated that weeks, sometimes months, in advance. The only time I ever truly missed a deadline — by two weeks — was during COVID, when everyone in my household (and extended family) caught it. It was stressful. I’m a Type A engineer by training, and believe me, that editor reminds me of it to this day.But I digress.As writers, we already have enough pressure. The market is shifting. Publishing lines are tightening. The expectation that social media alone can move huge swaths of books is both ridiculous and still the fairy dust traditional publishing counts on. And beyond all that pressure — the bots are coming for us.So instead of holding a séance for spam or blocking every Gmail address with numbers in it, I decided to sic one robot on another. Thus began the latest episode in my ongoing saga: Robot vs. Robot: The War of the AI Cousins.Now I’ve had my run in with Chat – please listen to Season 1: Episode 42 - AI Can’t Fake the Funk or the Fire. And you’ll see AI it’s everywhere.So, I started by feeding these bot emails into ChatGPT. I wanted to see what it would say about its more mischievous relatives.Take “Lilia C. Oram,” for example — a self-proclaimed Book Marketing Specialist who wrote me an essay-length love letter about my novel Queen of Exiles.Her message read like a Ph.D. dissertation in flattery:“Your novel Queen of Exiles is an exquisite and triumphant reimagining of Haiti’s Queen Marie-Louise Covidavid Christophe…”Can’t you just hear the B.S. in that framing? She continued with alliteration worthy of a thesaurus marathon:“With the right strategy, this extraordinary story can reach readers and institutions that celebrate narratives of resistance, identity, and freedom…”Then, naturally, came the sales pitch — A+ Content Optimization, Goodreads Listopia placement, Amazon keyword targeting. In short, every SEO buzzword known to humankind.ChatGPT barked and said:Red Flags:* Overly formal “praise-bomb” introduction.* Immediate pivot to services.* Fake “strategy” jargon — terms like “visual storytelling campaigns,” “Goodreads Listopia placement,” and “Amazon A+ content optimization” are standard scam-bait phrases. None of those services require outside contractors, and many are impossible or against Goodreads/Amazon policy.* Generic Gmail addresses — a real agency would email from a company domain.* Unrealistic promises — “global recognition,” “reach institutions,” “connect with readers of The House of Eve.” All empty marketing fluff.My goodness, ChatGPT. I like your style. You’re kind of blatant.The Booker Prize BlunderThen came Imran. According to his email, he ran “The Booker Prize Longlist Book Club.”Now, the real Booker Prize is one of literature’s jewels. So when “Imran” wrote to say his club was “captivated by The Bone Thief” and wanted to feature me in an upcoming author session, I nearly spat out my tea.There were several problems. First, I didn’t write The Bone Thief. That’s Vanessa Lillie. And second, The Bone Thief did not win the Booker Prize — that was The Bone People by Keri Hulme in 1985. Well, I’ll be. I guess the bot thought all the Vanessas and people with bone books were the same.ChatGPT wasn’t having it:* You didn’t write The Bone Thief.A real literary book club — especially one invoking the Booker Prize — would never confuse your work with another author’s. This was a mass email sent to hundreds of writers using scraped names and random book titles.* “The Booker Prize Longlist Book Club” doesn’t exist.The real Booker organization has an official site and verified socials. They don’t cold-email authors, and they never host “open author sessions” via random Gmail accounts.* No institutional email address.If it’s not from @thebookerprizes.com or @bookerprizefoundation.org, it’s not real.* The tone is suspiciously perfect.Words like captivated, haunting, moral ...
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    15 m
  • Bitter Ground
    Nov 18 2025
    Merriam-Webster defines dissatisfaction simply as “a lack of satisfaction.” And yes—that’s accurate. But if you look a little deeper, you’ll find another definition, a lack of contentment, a restless aspiration. Aspire means to breathe in or out, to draw something toward you or release something from within. So dissatisfaction becomes this restless desire to pull something in or push something out—and that restlessness can freeze you in place.In the writing world, dissatisfaction usually means that I’m staring at the words on the page, and they’re not capturing the story I know I’m supposed to be telling. Something has failed. And now I must go back, line by line, analyzing the bones of the narrative and examine every part of the story structure.And for my new writers out there, yes a story or novel should have structure, a framework that keeps the momentum and holds the theme together.In this analysis, I look at each main character—and often the minor ones too. I check their goals. I review their belief systems. I trace the web of their relationships: who cares for whom, who fears them, who hates whom, and who is silently holding the line of loyalty. All of these connections form the living body of the world I’m creating.And then there is the lie. Every character has one—the bit of disinformation they inherited or bought into, the wound that warped their worldview. It’s the thing they must confront and be healed of. If that lie isn’t strong enough, or the character has drifted too far from it, the story loses its heartbeat. In my process, that’s when the words feel stuck. I struggle with word count. And I must figure out why.That’s Vanessa’s writing world.But in the real world, dissatisfaction hits differently. When I feel that restless ache, I have to look at the characters I’m connected to—the real-life individuals doing life with me or choosing to let me do life with them. How are we connected? Are we missing something? Are there obvious signs of hurt or neglect we haven’t addressed?Or is it the circumstances we’re all tangled in that’s causing problems?Let’s be honest: the world is heavy right now. Yes, the government may be back to work, but people are still waiting to be reimbursed for the days they’ve labored without pay. Folks who need food assistance are facing real disruptions. And Thanksgiving is approaching—a time when people gather to share a meal, which becomes complicated if there are fractures sitting around the table. It’s hard to taste turkey if you’ve still got beef with somebody sitting across from you.And yes, Thanksgiving is about turkey. But if you’re carrying beef, that’s another heavy protein to digest.The truth is, if we don’t figure out why we are dissatisfied, it will take root. It will grow into bitterness—and bitterness is a treacherous ground to stand upon.Bitterness wedges itself into the cracks of your soul, sets up spikes, and ensures that every movement hurts. Bitterness requires a sweet form of medicine or self-care to heal—or it spreads. Bitterness touches everything you make, everything you attempt, and everyone you care about.Thanksgiving is my holiday. I inherited it from my mother. It’s a big deal for me. If you follow me on social media, you’ll start seeing the sample menus, the tablescapes, the design choices—all the details I pour myself into. It’s part of my self-care—the joy of gathering: the beauty and connection of family and friends around my table.But as much as we gather, we all must admit the truth: Covid changed us. Elections bruised us. Hardness, fear, and callousness ruined how we move through the world.As we head toward 2026, I believe it’s time to turn a new leaf. To be better than we were in 2025. The first step is breaking up the bitter ground and letting healing in.So here are my steps to stop being bitter:1. Admit you’re bitter. Say it outright. Bitterness can’t heal if you pretend it isn’t there.2. Identify the source. What is making you bitter? Name it so you can face it.3. Avoid the triggers. Just say no to people and actions that put you back into that headspace of vulnerability. And if you can’t avoid them, minimize them. If you can’t minimize them, prepare for them. Pray. You never know when they just might miss a flight.4. Give up waiting for the apology. This is the hardest one.We hold on to bitterness because we want that moment—where the foul person, falls upon bended knees and says I was so wrong. In romance books, we wait for the grovel: the moment when the hero finally admits how deeply they messed up. And yes, that moment is sweet. But in real life? If you get it at all, it’s a gift. And this moment is not a guarantee, that the beef won’t happen again. Your life must continue either way. Your goals must continue. Your growth must continue.You cannot pause your wholeness on hold waiting for someone else to gain revelation.And let me be ...
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    13 m
  • Do the Math
    Nov 11 2025
    When I started researching pirates, everyone—and I mean everyone—immediately brought up Pirates of the Caribbean.And why not? It’s cinematic, dashing, and full of swashbuckling flair. We love that world of yo-ho-ho and pirate speak. But when I dug deeper into the research, I found that most of what we imagine about pirates is more Hollywood fantasy than historical fact.First all that lovely “pirate talk” we hear on screen? It never really existed. The real pirates of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries spoke with layers of accents and nuances—French, Portuguese, English, and dozens of African and Caribbean creoles mixed in the salty air. Pirates were polyglot survivors of empire, not parrots reciting “Arrr!”And that infamous “walking the plank”? Another myth. No one was forced to tiptoe off a wooden board jutting out to the sea. Ships didn’t have planks sticking out like that for the purpose of punishment. If a captain wanted to get rid of you, he’d stab you on deck—or maroon you on a sandbar with nothing but a knife within reach. Death by tide, starvation, or suicide is far less cinematic than the plank scene, but it’s closer to the truth.This gap between history and fantasy fascinates me. But it’s also dangerous. We live in a world where fact and fiction often blur—not just about pirates, but about our past, our identity, even our worth. People resist truth when it threatens nostalgia. And when it disturbs the myths that says your ancestors are heroes and mine are villains…well that’s heresy. Truth matters. I want truth. I seek the truth, the whole truth—the good, the bad, and the ugly—It grounds us. It teaches us both how to persevere and how to survive.My hunt for truth has shaped my writing journey, too. I will go to the ends of the earth, translate, cross reference, consult with experts—everything to bring you the most authentic story.But that’s also my Achilles’s heel. I’m a math nerd at heart. I love formulas and theorems, and those constants that prove a system and deliver the same results every time.One plus one equals two.One plus one should equal two.There’s comfort in that. But like life—and like publishing—not everything follows the rules. You can do everything “right,” follow every formula, and still end up with goose eggs.Publishing isn’t always about the story; sometimes it’s about timing. I’ve known brilliant inventors ahead of their time, missing the boon of the market because they were too early. I’ve seen wonderful ideas die on the vine and then become reborn because of renewed visibility.Now to hit home. I’ve seen Black and marginalized authors face struggle after struggle—and do everything right and never find that soft place to land. When you’re writing stories that highlight the communities or historical figures that represent 13–20% of the reading public instead of the 80% reading addressable market, the math to visibility is simply harder math. It takes more effort to reach the readers who crave truth and value diversity and depth over myth and comfort.We compete on a sloped playing field, but we are ridiculed if we acknowledge the reality. It’s not weakness to say the ground is not level. And the math odds say you will stumble, which leads to less support and systems that make the slope more dangerous.So, to my fellow writers, especially those who are tired and discouraged: sometimes the math just doesn’t add up, and it’s not your fault. It’s not your imagination. And you are not weak for wanting to acknowledge the obvious. You’re navigating a system that wasn’t built for you. Your success relies on beating the odds. That’s tiring.Does it hurt. Yes.Do I have answers. No.But here’s what I do know—you have a choice in how you respond to the system. Do the math. Count the costs. Decide what level of energy you will deliver to this system, and where you want to disrupt it. In the interim, tell your story. Tell them anyway. The 13% are in need of stories that humanize, that restore dignity, and that challenge what “history” has left out.For Fire Sword and Sea--I had a different plan when I started researching. From the moment I stood in the pirate prison in Port Royal, Jamaica, Jacquotte Delahaye and her cohorts began telling me their lives. The research changed my novel. And it definitely changed me.I had to write about women pirates who defied empires and expectations. Jacquotte and her sisters of the sea—the risk-takers, dream igniters, and steadfast shields of fiery grace—they deserve to be remembered. They fought for economic freedom for themselves and their families. They shattered boundaries and broke bones in pursuit of survival and the right to live as they chose.I did the math. I’m doing everything I can to bring attention to their stories that I’ve captured in Fire Sword and Sea—talking about it, planning events, inviting you to join me. Because you, my ...
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    12 m
  • Hang the Pictures
    Nov 4 2025
    About nine years ago, my husband, military man, went on several trips and took his camera. He’s a wonderful amateur photographer — the kind who captures dozens and dozens of shots, each one filled with life and beauty… and then does absolutely nothing with them. Hence, the “amateur” part.But I loved those photos. I was proud of him — of the way he saw the world through his lens. So one day, I picked three of my favorites, had them matted and framed, and was so excited to surprise him. I showed them to him, and he smiled, but somehow, we never found the right place to hang them.And then, in 2016, our world turned upside down.Within four months, I lost my mother and my aunt. My husband lost his grandfather, his uncle, and then his father. My mother and his father passed less than thirty days apart. Much of that year is a blur — a fog of grief and exhaustion. I remember canceling conferences, canceling plans, canceling everything.At the time, I was still indie, and thankfully I didn’t have immediate deadlines. But I’d just signed a contract with Entangled, meaning books would be due the following year. I think having that distant goal — something on the horizon — kept me sane. Kept us sane.But I never went back to hanging those pictures.There’s something to be said about starting a project with the best intentions, only to have life — or death — interrupt it. Sometimes it’s loss, sometimes it’s chaos, and sometimes it’s just the price of eggs that knocks us off balance.But at some point, we have to shake it all off and return to the dream.We have to forgive ourselves for the delays, for the detours, for the times we needed to rest. Because rest matters. Detours matter. Reflection matters.If you’re a Type A person like me, it’s hard to stop the world and say, “I’m hurting,” or “I can’t do this right now.” But we owe it to ourselves to take that pause — to grieve, to reflect, to forgive. Forgive the people who hurt us, forgive the ones who didn’t show up when we needed them, and forgive ourselves for stumbling.And when we’re ready, we have to return. To the old normal. To the unfinished dream.Today, I did that.I cleaned the room I’ll forever call Grama’s Room — in honor of my mother — and I finally hung those pictures. After nine years.And when my husband saw them, when he smiled with that quiet pride, I felt something shift. A bit of healing. A touch of restoration. The simple goodness of completion.November is the month where many of us sit down to start something new — the next novel, memoir, self-help guide, or story that might bring hope and light to the world.So, I say this: whatever dream you’ve set aside, whatever picture you’ve been meaning to hang, whatever story you’ve been dreaming of telling — go back to it.It doesn’t matter how much time has passed. You still have another moment. Don’t waste it.Look around. Find the dream that’s been waiting patiently for you. Get back to your first love — to the idea that once made you wake up smiling, that kept you up at night thinking, “What if I really could do this?”Right now, I’m two months away from releasing Fire Sword and Sea. It took two years to write that book — two years of wrestling with story, of getting it right, of honoring the women who risked everything to chase a dream.It’s brave. It’s daring. It’s a little bit crazy.But sometimes, you have to be all three.So I urge you: be a pirate. Command your own ship. Gather your crew. And finish your mission — whatever that may be.This is Vanessa, giving you permission to forgive yourself, to pick up your sword, and to get going.Oh — and hang those pictures, too.This week’s booklist for the writers and the procrastinators:Atomic Habits by James Clear — A practical guide to breaking bad habits and building consistent routines through tiny, incremental changes that compound into remarkable results.The War of Art by Steven Pressfield — A powerful manifesto that exposes the internal “Resistance” keeping writers and creators from doing the work and shows how to overcome it with discipline and courage.Finish: Give Yourself the Gift of Done by Jon Acuff — A witty, motivating look at why perfectionism kills progress and how embracing imperfection helps you actually complete what you start.Living Forward by Michael Hyatt and Daniel Harkavy — A purposeful roadmap for designing a life plan that aligns daily actions with long-term vision, helping creatives reclaim time and focus.Year of Yes by Shonda Rhimes — A candid, joyful memoir about how saying “yes” to fear, opportunity, and authenticity transformed the creator of Grey’s Anatomy into a more confident and fulfilled version of herself.This week, I’m highlighting Eagle Eye Book Shop through their website and Bookshop.orgConsider purchasing Fire Sword and Sea from Eagle Eye Eye or one of my partners in the fight, bookstore’s large and ...
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    10 m
  • Hold Me, Help the World
    Oct 28 2025
    An image. A photograph. Sometimes we take them for granted. We snap our phones so quickly, only to scroll through them for social posts or store them for infinity in clouds. Does anyone remember having to take a roll of film out of a camera with care—rolling it up, taking it to be developed? Anyone remember what it felt like to wait to pick up the prints? Now we have so many at our fingertips that many of these images will never be opened again.Technology has advanced, and we all walk around with a digital lens to analyze the world. Everyone can capture history or life with a click. And especially in our constantly moving 24-hour news cycle, images can start to lose their meaning. Of course, we begin to feel their value again when something like—oh, I don’t know—authoritarianism creeps in and tries to keep us from seeing things and asking questions.Pictures are meant to help us save our moments. I saw one this week, that I can’t get out of my head. It’s not traumatic; it’s not painful. It’s lovely, very heartwarming. It’s of a ballerina and a dancer turned choreographer and teacher.On October 22, 2025, Misty Copeland took her final bow with the American Ballet Theatre in New York. Misty came on stage for applause, and Debbie Allen—the icon—embraced her.The moment stopped me. To see a legend embracing another legend—it’s powerful. It’s the kind of image that reminds you what legacy looks like. It says: You’ve finished this part of your journey, and the next part will be even better. You’ll touch more people, like I have. And you can also take a moment to rest and enjoy what you’ve accomplished. You can feel that warmth, that love, that encouragement radiating through the hug.And honestly, in these times—when the government has shut down, when benefits are threatened, when healthcare costs could skyrocket, and so many people are drowning in anxiety—that kind of reassurance, that quiet “I’ve been there, and you’re going to be all right,” means the world.This week, I went to the 21st Cavalcade in Chicago, hosted by my dear friend, author Lissa Woodson. It was a reunion of sorts—people who were there at the very beginning of my writing journey came, as well as many new faces just starting theirs. It was a good time full of hugs and laughs. Dear author buddy and Fun Friday Girl, Pat Simmons, arrived and brought even more fun. I snapped a selfie of us.Panya, one of my dear friends from college, came, and we shared dinner, more laughter, and stories about our children, husbands, and our global lives. Every small moment is to be savored and captured—not only on phones but in our hearts and minds. And I had the waiter snap a photo of us.A big part of the Cavalcade is being at the convention center and interfacing with the public. All of us, regardless of the stage of our careers—indie, hybrid, or traditional—we all hustled. We all tried to get someone to listen and maybe make a sale.Oh, the memories this brings back.And I hope the new authors there felt welcomed and hugged upon. I want them to know: Hey, it may be rocky right now, but it’s going to be all right.And let me just say this: Author MarZé Scott gives the best hugs known to humankind. I’m convinced she’s secretly a chiropractor because she hugs you just right. You don’t just feel safe—you feel loved, deeply loved, and spine-straightened—even if you’ve only just met. That’s a rare gift: to be medicinal, maternal, and downright cool. I hope she knows how special it is to receive her hug and the impression she leaves with everyone she embraces.Lissa snapped our picture. I’m grateful for each picture, each moment captured now and forever. These stills remind me of the love, the connection, the humanity we share. We’re moving into the holiday season—Thanksgiving’s on the horizon. It’s time to donate hugs—give to food pantries, check in on people who might be lonely or forgotten. Share your time. Everyone’s going through something. And this season, we need to be a little kinder, a little more forgiving.That’s the power of a hug. It wrings out the bitterness from the soul and leaves space for goodness.Now, I’ve added to my phone those pictures of Debbie Allen and Misty Copeland hugging. I even went scrolling to see if Debbie hugged Shonda Rhimes—I’m pretty sure they did offstage at their recent Atlanta/Dekalb meet-up to celebrate The Year of Yes. If not for the Cavalcade, I would’ve been at Shonda’s tour stop.My Year of Yes was 2019, which began my journey into writing historical fiction—finally taking the stories I’d grown up hearing or stumbled upon in research and actually writing them. Before my Year of Yes, I’d been told by agents and editors that there was no interest in historical novels that singularly focused on Black women—particularly of Caribbean descent—as the heroes of their own lives. I’m very proud to have birthed three such novels into...
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    12 m
  • Finding My Jane
    Oct 14 2025
    This marks the third week I’ve been at a conference or retreat—three weeks of sharing my craft and my conviction that writing can, and does, change the world.This past week, I had the distinct privilege of speaking at the Jane Austen Society of North America’s Annual General Meeting (AGM) in Baltimore, Maryland. Picture it: nearly 800 devoted Janeites, many dressed in exquisite Regency attire, their hearts united by a love of Austen’s words and worlds. Together, we gathered to celebrate her 250th birthday, to attend lectures by leading Austen scholars, to browse through stalls of clever trinkets and custom editions—and, to my amazement, to hear my thoughts on Austen’s influence on modern storytelling.I was invited to share my perspective on writing, on adaptations, and the enduring relevance of Jane Austen. As a historical consultant for Hallmark’s 2024 adaptation of Sense and Sensibility, I’ve had the rare opportunity to help bring Austen’s timeless wit and social commentary into our dialogue with today’s audiences. Standing before hundreds of Austen lovers, I found myself reflecting not only on her genius but on how far the literary community—and I—have come.If you had asked me five, even three, years ago whether I could imagine speaking at JASNA, I would have said no. Those years were turbulent for many organizations grappling with questions of diversity and inclusion—questions about who gets to sit at the table, whose stories are valued, and whose aren’t.The Romance Writers of America (RWA) suffered a painful implosion and has struggled to regain its footing. The Regency Fiction Writers (formerly The Beau Monde chapter) took a different path, embracing diversity—of membership, of stories, of the Regency itself—and has grown to over 400 members. And now, seeing JASNA’s visible efforts toward inclusion, I feel very hopeful. From what I witnessed this weekend, it seems as though the Society is choosing the right side of history, the one where everyone who loves Jane is welcomed.When I took the stage in front of more than 700 people, I spoke about my Jane. Not the quaint figure of teacups and curtsies, but a woman aware of her world—a writer who knew not only of tea and indigo, but of war and enslavement. I spoke of the broader Regency landscape, of women like Dorothy Kirwan Thomas, who funded Kensington House a school for mixed-race girls on Marylebone Street in London, and of the Queen of Haiti, whose reign overlapped precisely with the English Regency. Austen’s world, I reminded, was never as small or as whitewashed as it’s often portrayed.When I spoke of film adaptation, I shared how every detail—from hair and costume to script and set design—was chosen with intention on the Hallmark project. The goal was not to modernize Austen, but to honor her and plausibly expand the visible world, that Jane knew as evidenced by her own inclusion of marginalized characters.We wanted to tell stories that reflect pride and power without bowing to prejudice. I think Hallmarks succeeded. Yet, when I showed Facebook responses to the announcement of the film and how vile or witless some can be, I told the audience that the power of adaptation is in their hands. How you respond, what you welcome, makes a difference.On Thursday night, I sat with longtime JASNA members—women who have been part of the Society for ten, twenty, even thirty years. They insisted that the organization wasn’t just a bunch readers in costume; they were true believers in Austen’s ideals: of intelligence, integrity, and independence of thought.If an organization is to thrive, its reach must be more than cosplay. It must open real seats at the table, and its members must open their hearts and minds, actively creating spaces for everyone to feel welcome.I am deeply grateful—to the Jane Austen Society of North America for their warmth, their curiosity, and their courage to expand the conversation. This was so much more than an AGM; it was a celebration of Austen’s 250th birthday, and the exhibition of the living, breathing legacy she continues to inspire.This week’s book list includes:Jane Austen’s Emma: A Sourcebook edited by Paula Byrne – Read this to see how Austen’s most socially astute novel emerges from the same complex world of class, gender, and perception that still challenges us to write—and adapt—with awareness.The Making of Jane Austen by Devoney Looser – This lively history reveals how Austen herself has been continually adapted and reimagined, proving that every era.3. A Guide to Regency Dress: From Corsets and Breeches to Bonnets and Muslins by Hilary Davidson – Essential for understanding the textures and details that bring authenticity to any adaptation.4. Jane Austen: Visual Encyclopedia by Claire Saim and Gwen Giret – A feast for the eyes and mind, this illustrated compendium shows how Austen’s world continues to inspire art, film, and storytelling.This week...
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    10 m
  • AI Can’t Fake the Funk or the Fire
    Oct 7 2025
    I was at the James River Writers Conference this weekend in Richmond, Virginia—one of those places that fills your creative tank. I got to do what I love: hang out with writers. Hungry writers. People on fire to get their words into the world.And of course, on one of my panels, the inevitable question came up: “What about AI? Are writers going to lose their jobs?”Now, let me tell you something. If you opened my email inbox right now, you’d find about eight—maybe ten—AI-written marketing emails. Every single one is bad. Cringeworthy bad. Pseudo-personal, stuffed with buzzwords, maybe even a random line pulled from the blurb of Island Queen to make it sound like they actually know me. But give it a few more sentences, and it’s obvious—they don’t. They just tossed my name into a prompt, hit “generate,” and sent it flying into the void.So I tell authors this: AI might be everywhere. It might be fast. But being everywhere and fast with crap doesn’t win you prizes, and it certainly doesn’t feed the hunger of readers looking for their next great adventure.AI is supposed to save time—or so the marketing folks keep telling us. But when I spend half my morning clearing these AI-spam messages, I don’t see time saved. I see time stolen.The emails all sound the same: “I’ve been following your amazing career!” or “I just loved your latest book!” or “I truly believe your book has the potential.” Or “You deserve more reviews.” That all might be true. Then, two lines later, they’re congratulating me on a novel I didn’t even write. One even mixed me up with another author completely.That’s not artificial intelligence. That’s artificial nonsense.And here’s what gets me. These marketers aren’t even good at using AI. They feed it bad prompts, copy-paste whatever it spits out, and send it to hundreds of people like me. It’s the new form of spam—shiny, overconfident, and hollow.At the conference, one of my fellow panelists said something that stuck with me. He said he couldn’t think of a single real-world problem AI has solved. Investors are pouring billions into it, hoping it’ll fix something. But from where I sit, the only thing it’s “solved”—and I’m using air quotes here—is how to steal everyone’s work faster and give marketers another toy to misuse.Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not anti-AI. It’s a tool, and tools can be useful when used wisely. But we’ve made it ubiquitous too fast, without guardrails or reflection. And those without our best interests in mind are using it to fleece people.So, if you get one of those AI-assisted marketing emails in your inbox—mark it as spam. Don’t be fooled by fake flattery. If they’re offering some “exclusive service,” go straight to ChatGPT or Claude or one of the others and ask the same question. You’ll probably get the same result for free—or at least for a much lower monthly payment.But let’s shift gears—because there’s more hope than fear. At that same conference, I saw what I love most: people learning. People hungry for craft, open to feedback, and ready to chase their dream of writing a book. When writers invest in themselves—show up to workshops, ask hard questions, lean into the fight to say something of value—it gives me hope.When I hear someone say AI will put authors out of business, I just smile. What we do is too special for that. The dreams we carry, the stories only we can tell—AI can’t imagine them. It can remix what’s already stolen, sure. But it can’t reach into the unseen, the unspoken, the wilder parts of the human heart.One of my fellow panelists, R. R. Virdi, put it perfectly: AI can only feed on itself. It can only regurgitate what it already knows. That spark of divine imagination—the moment a story idea hits like lightning—that’s still ours. And as long as we keep creating, we’ll always be ahead.So to the marketers: maybe write your own emails. Try a little authenticity. Readers and customers can tell the difference.And to my wonderful listeners—the dreamers, the students of the writing craft—I’ve got something exciting coming your way. I’m launching a Kickstarter for The Storycraft Writer’s Journal. It’s a tool I’ve built from years of speaking and teaching on writing—packed with my forms, formulas, and geeky plotting tricks to help you organize research, track writing beats, and create the kind of stories no algorithm could ever predict.The best way to make sure AI doesn’t take your job is for you to keep writing and keep growing your talent, creating something only you can make.Oh—and before I continue, reviews are rolling in for Fire Sword and Sea—and people are loving it. If you’re on NetGalley, grab an ARC and take that journey with Jacquotte Delahaye. There’s also a Goodreads giveaway running for twenty copies, but fair warning: I’m missing about thirty-two ARCs that got lost in the mail, so if you...
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