Most writers crave praise—affirmations that their words resonate and their stories captivate. So when my best friend began reading an early copy of my upcoming novel, All The Men I’ve Loved Again, and said something unexpected, I listened closely.
She didn’t gush over the prose or the steamy scenes. Instead, she said, “It’s so refreshing to see a Black girl, like a regular Black girl, doing regular things like falling in love. It’s crazy that that still stands out to me. And feels so radical. But it does.”
That struck me deeply because it was exactly the point I wanted to make with my work. Growing up in the 1980s and ’90s, I rarely saw Black characters portrayed as everyday people with ordinary lives and loves. Instead, books and shows often relegated us to stereotypes or sidelined our stories altogether.
Even today, despite progress, authentic representation of diverse characters and narratives remains scarce. The “Great Racial Reckoning” of 2020 brought renewed focus to the voices and stories that had long been marginalized. Since then, the publishing and entertainment industries have made strides—more BIPOC writers now access opportunities that were once nearly impossible to reach. This progress is crucial, though we still have a long way to go.
It’s also important to remember that greater representation for BIPOC creators doesn’t diminish opportunities for other talented writers. Diversity enriches the entire literary landscape, opening doors for all voices without closing any.
But change in creation only matters if audiences embrace these stories. Here lies a tricky challenge: too often, stories are pigeonholed. “Black stories” get marketed primarily to Black readers, “queer stories” to queer audiences, and so on. These marketing habits, whether intentional or subconscious, create invisible boundaries, suggesting some stories belong only to certain groups. This mentality is limiting and reductive.
Reading only stories that mirror our own backgrounds narrows our worldviews and restricts the types of narratives that publishers will support. I confess, I’m guilty too. I sometimes hesitate before picking up books outside my usual reading lanes—whether a queer love story, an essay about disability, or a memoir from a Native American perspective. I ask myself, “Is this for me?” And all too often, I’ve answered “no” without even trying.
That instinct, however understandable, is a missed opportunity. Why shouldn’t I, a Black atheist woman, be swept away by a novel about a multi-generational Muslim Palestinian family? In fact, Beautiful Country, a story about the Asian immigrant experience, moved me to tears. When I read a memoir about raising a gay son, despite being childfree and cisgender, I found profound truths that resonated deeply.
There’s nothing wrong with seeking stories that reflect your own culture and experience. Those narratives are vital. But there’s also incredible value in venturing beyond them, especially when the stories feel unfamiliar or challenging. The effort to explore different perspectives broadens empathy and fosters connection in a time when our society often feels fragmented.
Stories are powerful bridges—they create community, deepen understanding, and cultivate empathy. In a world rife with polarization, those bridges are more essential than ever.
So here’s my gentle invitation for 2025: consider the stories you consume and challenge yourself to branch out. Pick up a book, watch a film, or dive into a TV series that offers a window into lives unlike your own—not just during culturally designated months like Black History or Pride, but year-round.
Read these stories with your book club, discuss them with friends, and open your mind to perspectives you might not have encountered otherwise.
Let’s start together. I’d love to hear from you: What’s a book that introduced you to a new experience or worldview? Or what’s a recent read that felt so true to your own life and culture that you’d recommend it to others?
In sharing these stories, we don’t just expand our reading lists—we grow as individuals and as communities.
So, who’s in?
