K. Imani Tennyson
Inside of me are two “author” dragons. One is determined to write a literary novel about family, parental drama, racism, and generational wounds. The other is happily writing a romantic thriller full of vampires and other supernatural beings. The second dragon can’t wait to get back to work. The first has ground to a halt, wondering, Do I really want to write the novel everyone thinks I should?
The literary novel grew out of a short story that couldn’t find a home. Every time I submitted it, I heard the same thing: This should be a novel. It would definitely sell. So I listened. I started writing. And then I got stuck.
Meanwhile, the vampire novel, the one I’d started and abandoned more than once, refused to stay quiet. It kept calling me back. It was a world I loved disappearing into, a place that offered both joy and a temporary escape from the real world.
Hence, two dragons.
I’d like to think most writers wrestle with some version of this duality, but I know many BIPOC writers face an added layer of pressure. Writing may be part of our DNA, but publishing is also a business. For BIPOC authors, selling a novel can still feel like an uphill climb.
I’d love to say my vampire romantic thriller is just for me, but I’d also like to see it traditionally published. The problem is that publishers don’t often take chances on vampire novels written by Black authors. My other novel, however, is built around family secrets, generational trauma, and the relationship between a Black father and son, the kind of story the industry has historically been more comfortable publishing.
But why?
Why is a story about Black pain often viewed as more marketable than one about Black imagination?
As someone who has loved genre fiction my entire life, I know that assumption couldn’t be further from the truth.
I’d like to think most writers wrestle with some version of this duality, but I know many BIPOC writers face an added layer of pressure. Writing may be part of our DNA, but publishing is also a business, and for BIPOC authors, selling a novel can still feel like an uphill climb.
I’d love to say my vampire romantic thriller is just for me, but I’d also like to see it traditionally published. The problem is that publishers don’t often take chances on vampire novels written by Black authors. My other novel, however, centers on family secrets, generational wounds, and the relationship between a Black father and son, the kind of story the industry has historically been more willing to embrace.
But why?
Why is a story about Black pain often viewed as more marketable than one about Black imagination?
As someone who has loved genre fiction my entire life, I know that assumption couldn’t be further from the truth.
Let’s face it. The numbers are still dismal. The Lee & Low Diversity Baseline Survey found that the publishing industry has become more diverse over the past decade, but it remains overwhelmingly white, underscoring how much work remains before the industry fully reflects the diversity of the writers and readers it serves. While the industry has made progress, traditional publishing still appears hesitant to fully invest in diverse voices across every genre.
At the same time, we’re seeing increasing challenges to whose stories are allowed on our shelves. According to PAN America, books by LGBTQ+ authors and authors of color continue to be disproportionately targeted by book bans. As publishers scale back diversity initiatives, it’s hard not to wonder what kinds of stories are considered “safe” investments.
Knowing all of that, what should a writer like me do?
Should I write the novel I think has the better chance of selling? Or should I write the Black fantasy that’s been waiting patiently for me all along?
It is in moments like these that I find myself returning to Toni Morrison. She famously said, “If there is a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.” She also reminded us that “The very serious function of racism… is distraction. It keeps you from doing your work.”
Those two quotes speak to both of my dragons. The first reminds the second to keep going. I want to read a Black romance featuring Black vampires and other supernatural beings. I want more Black romance, Black science fiction, and Black fantasy. If those are the stories I long to read, then perhaps I am the one who has to write them.
I’m not suggesting that traditional publishing is racist. But I do think it has historically placed BIPOC authors into certain categories, creating expectations about the kinds of stories we’re “supposed” to tell. That, to me, is the distraction Morrison was talking about. It makes us question whether we’re free to write the stories that bring us joy, or whether we should write the stories the industry expects from us.
In that sense, writing at all becomes an act of resistance. Choosing joy becomes an act of resistance. Choosing fantasy becomes an act of resistance.
For my ancestors, reading and writing could mean severe beatings, even death. Yet they persevered. Storytelling became a path to survival, preservation, and ultimately liberation. But stories of Black pain were never the only stories they told. They shared parables that taught moral lessons, fantastical myths that offered escape from hardship, and stories carried from Africa and passed from one generation to the next. Imagination has always been part of our inheritance.
Too often, however, the publishing industry has been most interested in stories of Black suffering. Those stories matter. They deserve to be told. But they are not the only stories we have to offer.
Sometimes our minds simply need another world to inhabit. Genre fiction has long been dominated by one voice, but don’t I deserve to see characters who look like me embarking on epic quests? Don’t I deserve to see Black characters fall in love, wield magic, and earn their happily ever after? Don’t I deserve the freedom, as a Black writer, to tell those stories? And don’t all BIPOC writers deserve the same freedom to create cozy mysteries, sweeping space operas, magical kingdoms, and every other kind of story that springs from imagination?
Readers are looking for somewhere to breathe. Every day seems to bring headlines so absurd they feel satirical, except they’re real. It’s exhausting. Sometimes escaping into another world, even for a little while, is exactly what we need.
Both Emory University and The New School research purports that when we read, our brains respond as though we’re experiencing the story ourselves. For a few precious hours, we’re the ones going on the adventure, wielding magic, falling in love, and saving kingdoms. As a writer, I’d like to offer someone that escape. If one of my stories can lighten the weight they’re carrying, even for an afternoon, then I’ve done something worthwhile.
It took me a long time to give myself permission to believe that.
For years, I felt I should be writing the “important” literary novel instead of the fun genre novel. Then a good friend reminded me that someone has to write the books I love reading. Why shouldn’t that someone be me?
There are readers searching for fantasy, romance, science fiction, and horror written by people who look like them.
How do I know?
Because I’m one of those readers.
I also think about the Black writers who are already proving that genre can hold both wonder and truth. N. K. Jemisin’s Great Cities duology explores gentrification, racism, and identity through speculative fiction. Tananarive Due’s The Reformatory confronts historical injustice through horror. Their work demonstrates that genre can illuminate our world just as powerfully as literary fiction.
But not every story has to carry the weight of the world.
Sometimes we simply want to escape it.
Those books are harder to find, but they are out there. N. E. Davenport’s Our Vicious Oaths gives us Black elves in a sweeping romantasy. Kennedy Ryan’s Harlem Renaissance novels remind us that Black love stories can be joyful, hopeful, and deeply romantic. These are the books carrying me through difficult days, and I know I’m not alone.
So which dragon do I choose?
These days, I’m choosing the one with vampires.
Not because the literary novel doesn’t matter. It does. But joy matters, too. Imagination matters. Black readers deserve stories where we aren’t defined only by our suffering. We deserve magical kingdoms, impossible adventures, epic romances, and happily ever afters.
As I keep writing, and keep searching for publication, I hope that one day my stories become that kind of refuge for someone else. A place to escape. A place to dream. A reminder that resistance doesn’t always look like standing and fighting.
Sometimes resistance looks like imagining a better world… and inviting someone else to live there for a little while.