Black Writblr - Blog Posts

The black reader tag has been so damn toxic lately. Why are you in the tag if you don’t like or get when the reader is specified as black. Why are black people expected to be inclusive to everyone but no one gives two thoughts to be inclusive to black people? Do y’all not understand that black people come in various types and just because the reader doesn’t talk like you do, dress like you do, and wear their hair like you do doesn’t mean they’re a stereotype. It’s been the same redundant conversation for weeks. JUST WRITE THE TYPE OF BLACK READER YOU WANT TO SEE, a lot of fan fiction is self indulgent so writers are writing themselves.

The entitlement is crazy like is it that hard too see that other races exist cause it must be nice to be the default ლ(ಠ_ಠ ლ)ლ(ಠ_ಠ ლ) shout out to black writers your work should never go unnoticed

please do not comment shit like this on my page. it is not a compliment that you like my stuff but have the black reader tag blocked. if you haven’t noticed MY WHOLE BLOG IS FOR BLACK PEOPLE. Every! Single! Story!!! go read something else if curly hair makes you upset

Today, I encountered a little black girl who looked frail and seemed timid, and it nearly brought me to tears. There was something in her eyes, a glint of quiet pain, of low self-esteem. She seemed afraid to speak, to take up space, to simply exist in the fullness of who she is. And in that moment, my mind instantly went to my younger sister. And of course, to my younger self. I see so much of myself in my little sister. I love her with everything in me, and I would do whatever it takes to shield her from the cruelty of the world—from my father's rage, from society’s judgment, from the harshness I was never protected from. I couldn’t save my younger self from all the things that broke me. The things that silenced me, made me shrink, made me feel like I wasn’t enough. So when I see little girls like that—like her—I feel this deep, aching need to protect them. I glanced at her multiple times today, and she might’ve thought I was judging her. I wish I could’ve told her I wasn’t. That I cared. That in a world where others might overlook her or treat her like she’s invisible, I see her. I would be there for her. But I couldn’t say it. Because that would've scared her off. I hope I see her again. Sometimes, I wish I wasn’t this sensitive. I wish I could just numb myself just a little, so I wouldn’t have to feel so deeply all the time. But here I am, writing this with tears in my eyes. Empathy is starting to feel like a curse to me.

—A lady and Her Quill, Journal of wandering thoughts.

The house may be burning

There is no but coming. The house is burning and I’m excited for black history month. I’m excited to hear about other different black creatives and their work everywhere and I’m excited to hold my own as the house burns. I’m excited to see other black creators celebrate themselves and our community in spite of everything. I’m excited to learn and hear more than what I’ve gotten to before. I’m excited to see my community thrive for even just a moment. And I’m excited to see the house burn.

Celebrate blackness every day. And in spite of a regime that wants to destroy you, celebrate blackness even more starting the rest of this week and even more over the next month.