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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
  • 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 mins
  • 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 mins
  • Do the Math

    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 mins
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