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Write of Passage by Vanessa Riley

Write of Passage by Vanessa Riley

By: Vanessa Riley
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 Join bestselling author Vanessa Riley as she delves into untold histories, reflects on current events through a historical lens, shares behind-the-scenes writing insights, and offers exclusive updates on her groundbreaking novels.

vanessariley.substack.comVanessa Riley Social Sciences
Episodes
  • Fifteen Seconds and a Slur

    Fifteen Seconds and a Slur
    Feb 24 2026
    For any writer or creator, the edit is your best tool or best weapon. Every paragraph, article, headline, every broadcast, even every post is a choice—what stays in, what gets cut, who gets protected, and who gets exposed are choices. If you have the power to edit, you have the power to do better. Let’s talk about the superpower that comes with great responsibility.Fifteen Seconds and a SlurThe edit is intentional.The greatest tool any author carries is not talent, not inspiration, not even discipline. It is the edit. The edit is where intention meets responsibility. It is where raw creation becomes art.No one—no one—sits down and instantly produces a masterpiece. Manuscripts are not born polished. They are wrestled into being. They are drafted in confusion, in bursts of brilliance, in gaps of missing facts and half-remembered details. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve left myself placeholders—XXX—so I can go back and hunt down what I actually meant: the correct monetary value of a tavern meal in pirate haven Port Royal, the historical cut of a waistcoat or falls of breaches, the name of a street or rue in Hispaniola. It’s never right on the first go.Returning to it on the next pass, the next edit—that’s where the magic happens. The edit is the intentional power to clarify what you meant. The power to fix what you missed. The power to elevate what almost worked into what truly does.I’ve worked with brilliant editors and those who gave me brilliant headaches. I even hire my own. A good editor helps me see what I cannot see. They bring perspective, distance, and rigor. But even then, I choose. I decide what advice to accept, what to reconsider, and what to reshape. Editing is collaboration—but it is also stewardship. Before any manuscript moves to the next level—before submission or publication—it carries the weight of my choices. Another set of eyes will add more to the manuscript. Every perspective reveals something new. That’s how diligent writers reach the best version of a book earthly possible.Writers are not the only ones who wield this magic tool.Video editing is editing. What you choose to upload to your social feeds—what you trim, what you blur, what you cut out—matters. I am more conscious of accidentally revealing mailing addresses in the background of one of my post office runs. Everyone should hide vulnerable information that should not be public, and watch for angles that misrepresent.The edit shapes our experience. On TikTok, Threads, Bluesky, Instagram—even if you wander back to Twitter—you should be curating what we see. That curation, that social edit is power.Journalists edit, too. They decide:* Whose names appear?* Which details matter?* Which context is included?* And which bits of info are left out?That is why it unsettles me when journalists act as if they are powerless—when they behave as though they must show everything, or they both-sides-things normalizing crazy, and seem to be okay with pieces that distort or wound.When civil rights leader and Rainbow Coalition founder Jesse Jackson died peacefully at 84 on February 17, 2026, after long battles with Parkinson’s disease, the headline was clear: a giant of the civil rights movement had passed, noting Jackson was:* A key figure in the struggle after Martin Luther King Jr.* A two-time presidential candidate.* A successful hostage negotiator (over 100 returned to the US).* A man whose life reshaped American political possibility.Yet in a brief radio mention—a mere fifteen-second clip to commemorate his death—the spot highlighted not only Jackson’s death but his son’s past troubles. Fifteen seconds. In a moment meant for legacy, painful and tangential details were inserted. That is an edit. That is a choice.Editing is not neutral.The same lesson unfolded at the BAFTA Film Awards. During a broadcast on BBC, Tourette syndrome campaigner John Davidson shouted a racial slur while actors Delroy Lindo and Michael B. Jordan stood on stage presenting an award. Both men—accomplished, respected, peers among peers—were subjected to one of the most dehumanizing words in the English language, the N-word. The live moment was shocking enough. But the editing was worse.The slur remained in the BBC broadcast and was replayed worldwide three hours later. The corporation later apologized, saying producers in the truck had not heard it. Meanwhile, other moments—such as calls of “Free Palestine”—were edited out of the rebroadcast. Actor Alan Cumming, hosting the ceremony, initially offered an explanation centered on Tourette syndrome and apologized “if you are offended.” Later reactions grew sharper. Producer Hannah Beachler criticized what she described as a throwaway apology.Editing is a choice.The decision to leave a racial epithet while removing a political statement is not accidental neutrality. It reveals priority. It reveals what is deemed urgent to correct and what is allowed...
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    14 mins
  • P&P – Persecution and Paranoid

    P&P – Persecution and Paranoid
    Feb 17 2026
    Have you ever felt like the walls were closing in — like doors were shutting and you couldn’t figure out why?Today’s essay is about that season. The P & P season.Persecution… and the paranoia that follows.If you’ve ever wondered whether you deserved the storm you were in, this one is for you.Persecution is an odd thing.When everything starts going wrong, I feel myself shrink. I feel extremely small. Then every slight becomes magnified. A look. A tone. An unanswered email. And suddenly we’re dangerously close to the other P word — paranoia.Your once-hopeful persona begins to fade. You start waiting for the next blow.As a type A person, an engineer at heart, I look for cause and effect. I try to pinpoint the moment I FAed and FOed. While I search, I double down on hope, prayer, and producing. I can be one productive fool when I feel the walls closing in.Still, I will lie awake trying to figure out what I did to deserve this.And for the whole of last year, I couldn’t find the culprit. Did I cross a line? I would like to know. Did I cut somebody? Did I punch somebody really, really hard? Did I steal your chair or your parking space?No.I didn’t take anybody’s anything. Nope. I have my own.In our twisted parasocial world, I will wonder if I liked the wrong posts, which now give you beef.You can see how the paranoia can ramp. Deep down, I think many of us want to feel like we deserve this punishment. If I earned it, at least there’s logic. At least there’s control.But the painful lesson I’ve had to grapple with is this:Other than being overly eager and overly enthusiastic, I didn’t do anything wrong. Persecution is not necessarily earned.Somewhere in the strange karma of the cosmic universe, you were chosen. And we all want to be chosen, right? But just not like this.Congratulations, you were chosen to have doors slammed in your face. Sometimes your hand was still on the seal — so you get that extra sting. You were chosen to lose. You were chosen to have your integrity questioned. You were chosen to decide whether you were going to grow up, go high… or sink low. If you’ve contemplated being the villain and getting revenge, put it in the comments.Now I’ve said before — and if you’ve read Fire Sword and Sea, you know — I believe in something called holy anger. There is a righteous anger. As a woman, I was urged to hold it in. To not sin in my anger. Yet, you can be angry and still be whole.Nonetheless, that is the struggle. How do we keep ourselves together as we wait for relief?I won’t pretend I’ve mastered survival. I haven’t. But I can say I didn’t curse anybody out — at least not where it could be recorded. I kept my cool for the most part. And when it came time to fight the battle, I didn’t yell. I let other people stand in the gap. I brought my hurt to those who could counsel me. I found fellowship. I found sisterhood. I saw rapiers lifted to defeat an armada.I found in real time who was on your team, my crew, and who wasn’t.My blessed crew found the time to encourage me, and gave me grace to rise above every point of contention. The P&P season, it’s very shocking. It’s hurtful.When you find you’re in the P&P-season, hold yourself together even when you find traitors in your midst.Persecution shows you who’s pulling for you. You find out who will show up, and the ones who have your back, even when it costs them something.It’s priceless the perspective I now have. And let me say this clearly: persecution is momentary. It may feel fresh, but there is an expiration date.Despite the pain, I am grateful for the experience.Why?Because it has made me more appreciative of those who advocate for me. It has made me more discerning about praise and opportunity. It has made me double down on what connects me most to you.This podcast--I do this podcast every week because it allows me to express what I’m going through — not just as an author, but as a human being. And in putting a voice to thoughts and sharing, I feel closer to you. My books may move you, yes. But when I talk about the shared experiences we are all living through — just in different forms — something deeper happens.We bond. We may commiserate. And maybe I’ve given voice to shared pain, shared struggle.When I started writing weekly essays, I was angry at the world. Frankly, I was pissed off. Somewhere along the way, this became therapeutic. I often write about the past. This podcast became a bridge to our shared present. It’s our bridge. And this bridge energizes every facet of my heart and mind.Every week, I look forward to this space, to sharing a revelation. A story. Something that made me angry. Something that brought me joy. Something that might shift your perspective.Listen to me. I know some of you are hurting. Some of you are still in the storm. I wish you comfort and safety. When you get close to the other side of through, I want you to see the sunlight breaking ...
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    16 mins
  • Hands. Hands. Hands.

    Hands. Hands. Hands.
    Feb 10 2026
    Hands. Dozens—reaching up, hands high, reaching together—midair, mid-trust, mid-hope.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. HandsLike 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 ...
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    13 mins
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