Episodios

  • Between the Book and Me

    Between the Book and Me
    Jan 6 2026
    Someone said, “Reading is elitism,” and I knew immediately—we’re in trouble.When people start calling books the problem, it’s never about books.It’s about control.A mind that doesn’t read is easier to steer.Easier to distract.Easier to convince that vibes are enough and history is optional.But reading—especially our reading—was once illegal.Punishable by death.So no—reading isn’t elitism.It’s survival.I saw a screed on Threads that made me stop and stare.“Reading is elitism,” the post declared.It left me scratching my head.Why now?Why is this sentiment surfacing at a moment when people are desperate to escape the hellscape we’re living in—when they’re trying to learn, to grow, to imagine ways to resist?Is it something more sinister?Because an algorithm shaped by bots and billionaires has no interest in a smart, savvy, or hopeful electorate. It wants control. A mind that doesn’t read—one that lives on vibes alone—is easy to steer. It will thrive on chaos. It shall be misled, distracted, and ultimately enslaved.That post made me angry. The kind of angry that pulls my inner poet out of hiding.Yes, Vanessa Riley has been known to write poetry. If you’ve read Island Queen, Sister Mother Warrior, The Bewildered Bride, and others, you’ve already seen my poetic bent threaded through the prose.And don’t you have a new book out? Fire Sword and Sea, next week, Jan. 13? Ain’t nobody have time for all this.No. Nobody does, but I made time. For I got big mad.I reached for the pen—or rather, the keyboard.What came out was a poem I now call Between the Book and Me.Between the Book and MeReading is a privilege, a refuge, a right sorely won.So miss me with the BS, the apathy.Because I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (Maya Angelou).Maybe it’s my generation.For we came from a time when we were raised as Beloved (Toni Morrison),and hoped for Something Like Love (Beverly Jenkins),Only to learn we were an Invisible Man (Ralph Ellison),Never a Native Son (Richard Wright).We sought out books to find The Souls of Black Folk (W.E.B. Du Bois),but kept our gaze fixed on librarians and mentors,for Their Eyes Were Watching God (Zora Neale Hurston).And they knew what books to pick for our good.They understood which passage would give us hope.When we learned that life—she—was No Crystal Stair (Eva Rutland),They gave us books that fed a Hunger (Roxane Gay),Because they knew we would ache when Things Fall Apart (Chinua Achebe).They understood that verses on a page, in a hymnal, on a screen,would become Kindred (Octavia E. Butler)—Something to remember, to retain, to hug.That touch, that warm embrace, when nouns and verbs paint pictures,Keeps the flames of imagination burning.It will stoke The Fire Next Time (James Baldwin).Reading makes a difference.When peaceful with a psalm or enraged and ready to fight Fire Sword and Sea (Vanessa Riley),Try opening a book—keep going—Fill your soul with words and dreams.Get so full you must Go Tell It on the Mountain (James Baldwin).So it makes me sad when some insistOur whole story lives only in the Narrative of the Life… an American Slave (Frederick Douglass),or the Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl (Harriet Jacobs).No. Black Boy (Richard Wright).No—Black girl.No bright child misled into craving The Bluest Eye (Toni Morrison).Rise up from The Street (Ann Petry).Savor words as if they are rare,Growing sweeter when harvested in the mind like A Raisin in the Sun (Lorraine Hansberry).If you read, you will learn this:That you are more than Sister Outsider (Audre Lorde).You are The Black Jacobins (C.L.R. James).You are an Island Queen (Vanessa Riley),Swaying to a Harlem Rhapsody (Victoria Christopher Murray).You see, Between the World and Me (Ta-Nehisi Coates)—Between a book and you—AreA mother’s prayer,A grandmother’s wisdom,An ancestor’s war song.So don’t turn your back on reading.Don’t dismiss the act our forefathers and foremothers chose, even under the penalty of death.Reading isn’t elitism.It’s essential to survival.It’s defiance, spelled out.It’s the way to live.This week’s book list is in my poem. Go to the show notes. Get the full list. I’m supporting Novel Neighbor through their website and Bookshop.org.We are less than a week away from the release of Fire Sword and Sea. She comes out on January 13th, 2026. Caribbean women pirates—That’s Black pirates, integrated crews, and secrets—of those who sailed the seas for adventure, a better life, or because they darn well felt like it. Read their truth. Get folks talking about this book.Consider purchasing Fire Sword and Sea from Novel Neighbor or one of my partners in the fight, bookstores large and small who are with me.Come on, my readers, my beautiful listeners. Let’s get everyone excited to read Fire Sword and Sea.Show notes include the poem mentioned in this broadcast.You can find my notes on Substack or on my website, VanessaRiley.com , under ...
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    9 m
  • From Hellscape to Angel Wings

    From Hellscape to Angel Wings
    Dec 30 2025
    The title of this essay changed from ‘What the Hell’ to ‘Was I Really a DEI Hire?’—and then reality set in. 2025 was a year of whiplash: pride, disbelief, resistance. But I’m still here, with a new book coming in January, while finishing my thirty-first one. I’m a storyteller. And in 2026, I’m coming in hot. I choose ASCENT.From Hellscape to Angel Wings – 2026, Come Get Me.The title of this podcast essay changed several times before it settled into place. It moved from I’m So Glad We’re Almost Out of 2025 to What the Hell to Was I Really a DEI Hire? I want to talk to the manager—and then, reality and sense came to me.That confusion, the whiplash between pride, dishonor, and disbelief, pretty much sums up my experiences in 2025.Don’t get me wrong—there were extraordinary moments. This podcast and speaking to you weekly is something I enjoy. Speaking in front of a packed ballroom of over 800 people at the Jane Austen Society Conference was breathtaking. Traveling to NY for a girls’ trip and to share the stage with Eloisa James was amazing. Some of these moments I never imagined would happen. When I first began writing Regency-era stories, I encountered resistance from people who insisted diversity in that time period was “fantasy.” As if Black people magically appeared in 1865, to be liberated from talent-sourcing camps by a war between the states. And in 2025, we still love our euphemisms. We’re supposed to forget all the atrocities with no second thoughts about lineage and history.For the record, there are entire civilizations—from African kingdoms to complex global networks—that existed. Beauty and scholarship and faith existed before the transatlantic slave trade and colonization.But we’re encouraged not to think about any of that.When I first said I wanted to write about Black women pirates, I’m pretty sure they thought it would be like the movie Girls’ Trip, just set on the high seas. I don’t think the collective thinking—the industry, the world, the gatekeepers—was prepared for the history I uncovered. I found depth. I chose danger. I decided to make visible a period in the 1600s where women took a stand and chose violence. They fought for what they wanted.And I see the conversations beginning. Folks are judging the women through modern lenses. Unfortunately, women are still critiqued the same way. They are made into third-class citizens for not choosing to have children, for not choosing to be a mammy, for choosing careers, ambition, and self-determination over settling. These are conversations we still need to have.And we will have them—with fire, with sword, and seas of truth.My upcoming novel is a naked exploration of feminine power. It’s leadership forged in chaos. It’s truth standing upright in a collapsing world.Back to Publishing:The landscape for 2025 has been equally surreal. Peers have had books that weren’t available on launch day. Others couldn’t get their advance copies because they were held up by tariffs in Canada. I’ve had porch pirates steal mine. Tracking shipments has become a chase that maybe my Lady Worthing might be able to solve. Who knew that a billion-dollar corporation couldn’t get a handle on UPS? Perhaps this is only affecting a few. Perhaps, it’s only an issue for certain publishers. Perhaps, only certain authors are in limbo. Oh, the DEI of it all.And yet.Here I am, a day or two before the New Year, finishing a WIP, my thirty-first book. Thirty-one. This one will be published in 2027—the fourth Lady Worthing mystery, Murder in St. James’s Park. I don’t think I killed enough people. Severn House will have to tell me. So no matter how chaotic or frustrating the system can be, there’s nothing I would rather do than sit down and write stories.I’m a storyteller.I come from a Southern mother who loved literature and a Caribbean father from who loved—loved—loved—telling stories. Storytelling is not just what I do. It’s what I am.So as I step into 2026, my word—my declaration—is ASCENT.Ascent means growth upward. Earned success. Elevation in status and income. It carries momentum. Inevitability. It is not loud, but it’s unstoppable.My ascent into 2026 will be the manifestation of faithfulness. When you are faithful to your craft, faithful to your words, the seeds you planted return as harvest. The earth becomes gentle because you have cared for it. So no matter how crazy—and I mean crazy—this world becomes, no matter how many disappointments or kicks in the teeth you endure, do not give up.Because if you give up, they win.If you give up, every lie they told gets declared as truth.They don’t care that you’re tired.They never cared that you’re human.They do not care if you’re sane.They will rejoice when you are defeated. That side partied too much in 2025.And I’m sorry. I have my dancing boots on right now. I’m too stubborn to give up. I’ve come too far from where I ...
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    12 m
  • When Records Don’t Exist, Storytellers Do

    When Records Don’t Exist, Storytellers Do
    Dec 23 2025
    I love nonfiction. It plays a needed role in our psyche. I hunt for it and use these tomes in my research.But fiction is as essential as the air we breathe.When lives were never fully recorded, storytellers do the remembering.Still a StorytellerRight before I sat down to finish this essay—and to record this podcast—I completed the copy edits on my thirtieth book. Thirty books. Nine with traditional publisher, Kensington Books. I am proud of all the writing I’ve done, but I’m particularly proud of A Deal at Dawn, a novel I’ll be talking about more in 2026. I’m proud of it for a simple, powerful reason: I told a story, a complete story, one with a beginning middle, climax and end.When I was growing up, being called a storyteller didn’t always carry a positive meaning. Sometimes it was a euphemism for someone who told lies. Years ago, I was interviewed on a podcast by a preacher who genuinely could not understand why fiction mattered. He kept circling back to the same question: Why are you writing lies? As if nonfiction were the only form of truth that could be wholesome or valuable.I love nonfiction. It plays a needed role in our psyche. I hunt for it and use these tomes in my research.Fiction has the ability to transform, to tell a message or moral, and to leave impact in ways nonfiction or true to life people can often miss. When lives were never fully recorded, storytellers do the remembering.Historical Fiction is important for marginalized groups. We often don’t have cradle-to-grave records of most human lives. Especially before computers, there are gaps—vast ones. The Truman Show, was a 1998 movie where Jim Carrey played a man whose entire life was scripted, recorded, and broadcast on television. I found the concept terrifying. And now, in our real world, where our apps listen to us, ads stalk us, and algorithms search for the precise moment where we are most vulnerable to be persuaded the invasion of our privacy is true.I merely wish that all the people watching and recording… that all this was for our good. Instead it shapes narratives—often not to preserve truth, but to exploit it.When I wrote Fire Sword and Sea, I had to piece together the life of Jacquotte Delahaye using the records of her contemporaries—white Europeans like Anne Dieu-le-Veut and Michel Le Basque. These lives. Anne’s and Michel’s were deemed important by the chroniclers. Their records survived. Jacquotte’s did not. That absence does not mean her life was less meaningful or less extraordinary. It means the people left to tell her story were also label unimportant. They weren’t given the opportunity to record and make sense of history.I am profoundly aware of how fortunate I am to be in a position to tell stories like hers, about bold women who dared to dream and live different lives.In the absence of storytellers, we are surrounded by people presenting lies as nonfiction and weaponizing so-called “truth” to influence the next generation.I call on the storytellers to step up and do their job—those who care deeply about history, those willing to tell the good and the bad and, yes, sometimes the ugly, alongside the beauty—need to come forward and write. And if you can’t write, share the stories that moved you. Talk to friends about the storytelling that matters.I watch the news and see stories about modern- or present-day activities being suppressed. There are times in 2025, where I wonder if storytellers will survive. The number of writers particularly in marginalized communities who’ve been impacted, by layoffs, positions eliminated, and those just so tired that they quit—I wonder about those storytellers in the upcoming years. It seems scary.Don’t believe me, track Publisher Weeklys deal announcements or the sections that announce firings.Traditional publishing is hard, impacted by an unwillingness to support authors or that they don’t want the heat that can come by championing true facts in a world where truth is something people want to shut down. I don’t know what it means to exist in a nation where only certain truths are permitted, while others must be redacted, distorted, or denied. How can anyone claim strength if they shatter at the mere presence of truth, hard ones that you want suppress?There are days I look at the screen, I don’t know what to say.Today, as I finish my thirtieth book—a novel that places sickle cell anemia, an ancient disease, at its center—I find myself asking: What is the truth of a “happily ever after” when forever is not guaranteed?That may sound like heavy material for fiction. But that is exactly what storytellers do, make hard topics understandable and compelling. Storytellers want to sweep readers away from the status quo. Storytellers want to bolster a reader’s courage and humor. Sometimes, storytellers show paths where none seem to exist. Storytellers offer encouragement. And we, storytellers honor and tell the truth. All of it.So...
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    12 m
  • Why I Stayed

    Why I Stayed
    Dec 16 2025
    On December 6, 2024, I sat down to write my feelings after licking my wounds from the America I woke up to on November 5. 2024.The country felt less kind. Definitely, less gentle. This America willingly choosing boisterous, noisy incompetence, and the awful idea that your neighbor stole your opportunity. This choice was madeover competence, compassion, and stable beef prices.So I did what I know how to do.I wrote my feelings. I put pen to paper—or more accurately, fingers to keyboard—and I put all my thoughts and my heart on to the page. This essay launched my Substack.I wrote a quote:“But mama, I’m in love with a criminal,And this type of love isn’t rational, it’s physical.Mama, please don’t cry, I will be alright,All reason aside, I just can’t deny, I love the guy.”– Britney Spears, “Criminal” (Femme Fatale, 2011)This was my Luigi Mangione phase.To be honest, I was confused about Substack. Is is a newsletter? Is it a social media? Is it something else. But once, I played with the format and tossed up a podcast post, and you guys downloaded it, I got bigger ideas and turned to you guys for accountability. I would write one podcast essay for a year.So the first podcast episode/ essay was The Weight of “Diverse”. My take of what was happening in publishing. Thrilling. And you tuned in. We’re almost at 17,000 downloads and hundreds of thousands of Substack views.This was a unique challenge. I’m glad I stuck with this form of writing.But, people often say, Vanessa, you write books. You’re always writing your heart. And that’s true. But there’s also a distance when I write about other people’s lives. It’s not me. I’m not the main character. Writing good historical fiction, romance, or mystery requires analysis. It requires restraint. I don’t pass judgment on the lives I’m bringing back to you.In Sister Mother Warrior, I could not fault a Dahomey Warrior from following her king’s orders to sell captives any more than I can pass judgement on a 2025 sailor following his naval chief’s commands to bomb a fishing vessel. It’s the commanders of US Forces in the Caribbean and its chain of command that bringing back pirates.But I digress.If I were Jacquotte Delahaye, I might’ve stayed in the kitchen in Tortuga making soup, not run away to live a dream as a pirate. As a writer, I have to make their chaos—make sense. Otherwise, I’m not doing you the reader any good. And I refuse to dishonor the lives I’ve been entrusted with.Everything I write in those books is layered on hard-fought facts: databases, archival digging, obscure records, and I do whatever it takes to bring readers closer to secret history, closer than they’ve ever been before.Why?I’m tired of women, particularly Black women and women of color, being portrayed as only victims in history. As if they survived history only through endurance, servitude, or some narrow “mammy-fixation” lens. My work insists they were complex, capable, and human.But writing these weekly essay—this space—was different.The first essay I wrote here was messy. Conflicted. It carried my trademark style to walk readers into someone else’s shoes, even when that perspective is uncomfortable. It also came with a promise I made to myself: that here, I would be open. Vulnerable. That I would talk to you as friends—friends willing to sit with my essay and listen.For 52 weeks—an entire year—I’ve shown up. Most Mondays, I record in the evening, setting everything up so that by Tuesday at 9:10 AM, you’d receive something new. A weekly offering. A kind of fresh manna. Each episode was labor but it’s also a small love letter from me to you.I’m, unapologetically, a write-aholic. But keeping that pace hasn’t been easy. There were nights I wanted sleep more than words. Days when another book’s edits or word count loomed. But when I commit to something I believe matters, I show up. I do the work.For 52 weeks, you’ve allowed me to stand on the proverbial rooftop and shout my thoughts into what could have been a void.But it wasn’t a void. You were there—listening, encouraging, learning, reflecting. Thank you.This work takes effort. Real effort. From shaping ideas to wrestling them into coherence, then editing and distributing across platforms. We won’t even get into the technical gymnastics of getting everything out into the world.Still, I’m grateful. I’m grateful we’re on Substack. On Apple Podcasts. On Spotify, iHeartRadio, Amazon Music, Spreaker, and YouTube. Each platform grows at its own pace, each teaches me something new. And I’m especially grateful that you are here.As we head into the final weeks of 2025, I want to be clear: I’m not going anywhere.Season Two begins next week. For the most part, this new year will continue as a weekly offering—my thoughts, shaped into essays. Occasionally, I may invite a guest, someone I’m learning from, someone who stretches my thinking. But ...
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    13 m
  • Get Somebody Else to Do It

    Get Somebody Else to Do It
    Dec 9 2025
    Every writer, whether we want to admit it or not, is an entrepreneur. We create a product—a book—and then we turn around and sell it. Sometimes we sell part of our interest to a traditional publisher like Simon & Schuster or HarperCollins. Sometimes we go the indie route, selling directly to readers through a website or through a behemoth like Amazon. But no matter the path, one truth remains unshakable:We are in business for ourselves.We are the CEO, the marketing department, the shipping department, the PR team, and the person answering emails at 2 a.m.We promote the product lines. We show up to the events. We handshake and livestream and book club ourselves into the good graces of the reading world.I’m doing that now. As we gear up for the launch of Fire Sword and Sea, I’ll will be heading to D.C., Severna Park, Virginia, St. Louis, Mo, Austin, Texas, and of course Atlanta and all her glorious suburbs. Meeting readers is actually one of my favorite parts of the job. There’s nothing like seeing that gleam in a reader’s eye when they tell you what moved them, confused them, or delighted them.There’s nothing like digging into the myths and the hidden histories that shaped a story.And when I say hidden, I mean hidden. I will chase a fact to the end of the earth. I will travel to the places I’m writing about. I will battle through foreign language and archivists to get firsthand accounts. I want to return these people to you whole—the people who lived the stories I’m writing.For Fire Sword and Sea, I boarded an old-time frigate—one that very easily could’ve been a pirate ship back in the day. I wanted to feel what it was like to sleep in a hammock practically touching tens of others, to understand how close the hull was to the crew cabin, to hear the groan of wood and water the same way they did.There is no way you couldn’t hear the moans of the enslaved in the cargo hold. In the 1600s, human beings were the universal coin. People traded enslaved bodies like currency. That’s how they moved stolen property.Moreover, the 1600s were wild. Theft was legal if you called it piracy. Danger was so normal it barely had a name. But it was also a time of reinvention. A time when you might have to disguise yourself—your gender, your class, your entire identity—to have the life you dreamed of.And honestly? It doesn’t feel that far from being a small-business owner today. We change disguises, the various roles, to get our jobs done. And sometimes we forget why we got into this in the first place. We forget passion. And focus on market shifts. We ignore hunger to unleash something new into the world and get stuck in all the boxes that have to get checked—editing, research, marketing, PR, scheduling.Recently I found people fight you or deprive you of resources when they don’t want your story told. In business, a Walmart will come and undercut you to price you out of the market. In the writing world, it will be the use of algorithms or the lack of oxygen to starve a book.Sadly, some folks don’t want the truth. They don’t want to hear of a world where everyone could become a slave. They definitely don’t want to hear women who escaped and became pirates who led and commanded ships. I really think, some wanted me to write about a jolly old male crew singing sea shanties all day.In Fire Sword and Sea, you’ll get adventure. You’ll get sailing crews. You might even get a spirit filled song asking for God’s vengeance. I wrote the truth. You’ll see the complicated leadership choices women in disguise had to make. You’ll see the danger of wanting something so badly that you risk everything to get it.You’ll see the success, the heart break, and the compromises that may rot the soul.Back to my small business.Right now, I’m negotiating dates, confirming travel, juggling time zones, sorting release-week logistics—not to mention championing every other author whose book is coming out in January. It’s prime season. Prime real estate. Everyone wants and needs attention. I am no exception. If you preorder Fire Sword and Sea, I hope you feel the stories worth, believe the hassle, the grind, the late nights, and the tears.But Lord… how many times have I said to myself, “I wish I had somebody else to do this”?Let me bust a myth: even if you’re traditionally published, for the most part nobody is swooping in to handle your career or your new shiny book. You will still grind. You will still hustle. Traditional publishing gives glamorous promises—books everywhere, audiobooks, store distribution—but it does not give you a full marketing staff or sometimes the feeling that they give a damn.Indies wear about 50,000 hats. Traditional authors wear about 32,000. Either way, your neck and back are still tired.And that is why every writer—I don’t care which path you choose—has to ask:What are you willing to do to have what you truly want?What are you willing to carry?How ...
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    12 m
  • Lead Like a Pirate

    Lead Like a Pirate
    Dec 2 2025
    “For the women who do right.For the women who do wrong for the right reasons.For the women who burn it all down, find beauty in ashes.For the dreamers left behind—keep sailing.”That is the dedication of Fire Sword and Sea. Four lines that came to me as a battle cry. It’s a reminder that womanhood, especially when tied to leadership, has never been a straight line. It bends, curves, breaks, and rebuilds. It demands courage. It requires clarity. And sometimes, it lusts for fire.Recently, a friend—someone who does not read much historical fiction—got an early look at Fire Sword and Sea. She’s a reader of self-help, of business strategy, of the occasional thriller you can sneak into her hands. But she said something that stopped me cold:“Vanessa, you wrote a book about leadership—about women’s leadership.”At first, I blinked. That wasn’t the answer I was expecting. Yes, my heroine Jacquotte Delahaye is a pirate captain. And yes, pirate captains are leaders by definition. But what my friend saw was something deeper—something I wasn’t consciously aiming for but had apparently woven into every scene, every strike of a sword.On a pirate ship in the 1600s, leadership wasn’t inherited; it was earned. Pirate vessels operated like meritocracies—any race, any nationality could join, as long as they could pull their weight. Jacquotte rises the only way a woman in that era could: in disguise. Hidden behind lies, she relies on her skill with a rapier, her mastery of the sea, her stamina and grit, and her ability to steer a stolen ship through storms both literal and moral.Pirates didn’t buy their ships. They took them. And Jacquotte climbs the ladder of command one impossible task at a time.Through Fire Sword and Sea, we see her rise, her missteps, her victories, her bruises—physical and spiritual. And that, my friend said, is leadership.But leadership—especially women’s leadership—is a complicated beast.We often talk about the women who lead in boardrooms, in startups, in medicine, in politics. But historically—and even now—women occupy the caregiver role by default. According to the report released in March by US Healthcare Workforce, 87 percent of nurses are women. The Bureau of Labor Statistics says 80 percent of healthcare workers are women. We are the hospice nurses, the physician assistants, the physical therapists. The ones tending to the young, the old, the fading, the forgotten. And in the 1600s, this was even more pronounced. Before physicians, there were women who gathered herbs, mixed tinctures, whispered prayers, held hands, and ushered people into life and into death and sometimes back again.To lead, sometimes that caregiving must be set aside. And that choice weighs heavy on nurturers.Then there is modernity:How does being a mother affect leadership?How does being a wife?How does being the one expected to build the home, nurture the family, care for the elders and in-laws?I remember climbing the corporate ladder and watching women I admired—women who mentored me—delay motherhood until the last biologically viable second. One of my favorite bosses, a brilliant Irish PhD in physics, once had suits tailored specifically to hide her pregnancy. Because at that time, maternity leave and career advancement could not coexist in the same equation.This is the landscape women navigate. A landscape Jacquotte would have known in a different form, in a different century—but it’s still hauntingly familiar.My friend, though, wanted to talk about the dedication.For the women who do right.For the women who do wrong for the right reasons.Because in leadership, there is always a moment—a crossroads—when doing the right thing may mean becoming complicit in something that isn’t right. Sometimes survival demands choices you would never make in a perfect world.We see the consequences of hubris and hard choices in our real world today. Not to get too political, but right now there is a crisis in the Caribbean that breaks my heart. U.S. forces have fired on fishing vessels, claiming they carried drugs. But no proof has been given. Witness accounts suggest at least one boat was attacked without cause, leaving two people clinging for life. It seems a second strike was orders to kill defenseless victims.If drugs were aboard, they now sit at the bottom of the sea—destroyed by the same guns that struck the fishermen. This needless killing violates the Geneva Convention, the rules of war and basic humanity.And now investigations must happen to see how leadership failed and who was complicit in illegal orders. It is a horrible situation when the people in all levels of the chain of command fail. It’s horrid, that those below followed orders that were illegal. Leadership—good or bad—always has accomplices.And that is part of the burden.In Fire Sword and Sea, Jacquotte and her crew face their own moral storms. In the 1600s, the “currency” of the seas was not just ...
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    14 m
  • Hospitality Dead?

    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
  • Bitter Ground

    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
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