A Thousand Revolutions

Stories are acts of rebellion. They always have been. We loved Katniss for her rage against a tyrannical government, we rooted for Princess Leia as she led the rebellion against the empire, we rooted for Zélie Adebola as she reclaimed her heritage and fought to get her magic back from oppressive forces. We even rooted for governments to fear their people as we watched V topple the regime. Lauren Olamina created, loved, survived with empathy and power. So many of our stories parallel our fears, our needs, and the desperation that comes when defiance is the only choice. These stories remind us that fighting back can be as simple as picking a different faction, or speaking out when someone is harming another person. They remind us that our most marginalized voices are often at the forefront of the movements that bring freedom to the people.

That doesn’t stop on the page. The stories we choose to read, and the voices we uplift, are acts of rebellion too.

Every time you pick up a book written by a Black author, an Indigenous author, an author of color who’s been told their stories are “too political” or “don’t matter,” you are helping keep a voice alive. We must see, hear, and bear witness to the voices of marginalized groups. We must give our platforms to people who are inherently silenced by the systemic power. And we must keep access to reading these books. To do that, we have to protect the places that give us access to their voices.

Libraries are temples. Libby, Hoopla, your local branch, they’re all portals into power. Physical books are artifacts of freedom. They cannot be erased by algorithms. They cannot be silenced in an update. They cannot disappear because someone decided you didn’t need to see them on your feed today. The point of keeping them alive is to open windows to a culture or a perspective we haven’t met before.

Books teach us to see. They teach empathy. They show us millions of lives we’ll never live, force us to experience pain we’ll never feel, and show us struggles we may never face in our own lives. When we stop reading widely, we stop seeing other people as human. When the world starts banning books, silencing authors, and rewriting history to fit a narrative, we can no longer sit in silence and watch our fellow authors be banned from the conversation.

Reading is how we fight back. It is resistance. It is power. It is the spark that lights the flame.

So read banned books. Read angry books. Read indie books. Read the furious, the desperate, the dissenting books. Read the books that shout about identity. The books that scream about the experiences of marginalized authors, characters, and readers. Read the messy, beautiful, revolutionary books.

If you can buy them, buy them. If you can’t, borrow them. But read them. Talk about them. Share them. Because every page you read of a book someone wants to ban is a screaming act of defiance against a system that wants to silence dissenting voices. And right now? We need all the defiance we can get.

A Tiny Confession

Every few days, I go through my Google Docs and I search for a project to work on. Whatever calls to me in that moment, whatever muse is screaming loudest, that’s what I give in to.

Some days, I get to sink into a rich love story that makes me blush and kick my feet (you know the type). Other days, it’s something darker, something that pulls at me. Those are my favorite days, the ones that pull like a bruise you can’t help but press on. There’s a sweet ache in being a dark romance author, someone who explores the darkest shades of humanity. That rage that lives in all of us, especially during this volatile world we live in, gives us a sense of catharsis that nothing else does.

I wish I could tell you I have a system. That when I sit down to write, everything is perfectly outlined, my characters are cooperating, and I’m ready to create worlds in order at the drop of a pen. But that’s a lie. My writing process is chaotic. I have my quirks and need to have at least six drinks in reach at all times, but my love letters to my readers come so much easier when my brain is in the throes of self-sabotage. And maybe that’s the point— maybe every story I write is a sort of confession, one I’m not ready to face in a mirror but can face on a page.

So when I open that endless list of drafts, it’s not necessarily about which project I should be working on.

Sometimes, I’m just trying to sort out my secrets for the day, and how much of myself I’m ready to confront.

Dark romance is a powerful, vicious tool for self-work. In the dark, the lightest parts of us are clear. I use dark romance to explore traumas I have tucked into little boxes inside of me. I take them out when an FMC needs to react to an angry parent, or a violent partner. I take them out when an MMC needs to confront his fear of abandonment, or understand the rage that swallows him whole.

The mirror shows two creatures: my FMC and MMCs, Ouroboros and his tail, and me circling these confessions in red pen. We are one. And I hope, as my readers dive into my worlds, they see the pull of a person who is aching but spends so much of her time trying to see these characters inside of her as separate, but they aren’t. And I think, for many readers, that’s the case for you too.

My FMCs see you. My MMCs see you. They all love you. They witness your pain, your need, and your hunger the same way you witness theirs. And I feel the same.

So, from one feral, starving creature to another, thank you for reading. Thank you for listening. And thank you for letting me shine a light on your tiny confessions. We’ll keep your secrets if you keep ours.

Light Your Night

This week has been a mix of highs and small everyday things. The biggest news is that I found out I’m officially graduating with my bachelor’s degree. It still feels a little unreal after all the long nights and hard work, but I’m proud and grateful to have made it here.

Outside of school news, I’ve spent a lot of time with my two dogs. They have a way of keeping me grounded, no matter what else is going on. I’ve also been chasing a craving for the perfect pancake, not just any pancake, but the one that hits the right mix of fluffy and buttery. I haven’t nailed it yet, but I’m determined.

On the writing side, I’ve been juggling a few works in progress. To be honest, I’ve been dealing with some anxiety around them. Balancing ideas, deadlines, and self-doubt isn’t always easy, but I know many of you understand that feeling of wanting to create something meaningful and getting stuck in your own head about it.

And of course, there’s the larger world beyond my desk. Some days it feels heavy, overwhelming, or just plain exhausting. I don’t have perfect answers for that, but I do know stories have always helped me breathe when the world felt too loud.

Please take breathers in this darkness, and if you feel the urge, try letting a book light your night for a few hours.