What started as an intention to show a college English professor that I was more than the grade she gave me on my first assignment became a mentorship. That professor went on to assist me with applying for and obtaining both my first job and admission to grad school. While professional writing is a craft I truly enjoy, it's too technical to tap into the broader art form. It leaves me wanting more—needing to expand from that microcosm and experience a narrative that whisks me away to what writing could be in a platform outside the office.
Amongst my soul, grad school stole my love for English, literature, writing, and reading. Each page that I digested for homework only further extinguished my rawest joys until they were snuffed out, altogether, for fourteen years. Literature found me, again, a month prior to the commencement of the pandemic. I noted how romance novels feature an extremely wealthy, physically fit, and/or alpha male; yet, the female counterparts largely fell into the “damsel in distress” trope. Furthermore, these books are written in past tense and/or third-person.
Where were all the badass women—the brilliant minded, immensely talented, wildly witty ones who are the true foil to these perfect men? Where are the unicorns—female entrepreneurs who forged their own trails or who made general counsel with a Fortune 500? How can a story that’s unfolding as I’m reading it have already happened? How can an author be a “bestseller” when cliché phraseology and analogies appear on every page? I needed more than what existed in the marketplace and so . . . I set off to write it myself.
Felicity Black
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