Myriam J. A. Chancy is the author of several scholarly books and works of fiction, including the widely acclaimed 2021 novel, What Storm, What Thunder . photo credit: N. Affonso Myriam J. A. Chancy is the author of the novel Village Weavers (Tin House), a Time Best Book of April 2024, and winner of the 2025 Fiction OCM Bocas Award in Caribbean Literature. Her work has received multiple awards, including an American Book Award from the Before Columbus Foundation, the Guyana Prize in Literature, a Foreword INDIES Book of the Year Award Gold Prize, and the Isis Duarte Book Prize. Her previous novel, What Storm, What Thunder , was named a "Best Book of 2021," by NPR, Kirkus, Library Journal, the Boston Globe, the Globe & Mail, shortlisted for the Caliba Golden Poppy Award & Aspen Words Literary Prize, longlisted for the Brooklyn Public Library Book Prize & the OCM Bocas Prize. Her past novels include: The Loneliness of Angels , The Scorpion’s Claw, and Spirit of Haiti . She is also the author of several academic books, including Harvesting Haiti: Reflections on Unnatural Disasters & Framing Silence: Revolutionary Novels by Haitian Women . Recent writings have appeared in Whetstone.com Journal, Electric Literature, and Lit Hub. She is a Fellow of the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation and HBA Chair of the Humanities at Scripps College in California. Excerpted from Village Weavers: A Novel SIMBI CALLS Sisi, Port-au-Prince, 1941 Momo tells Sisi that her village is a place so small and insignificant that it cannot be mapped. If it were, it would not even be a dot; it would be a speck, impossible to see with the naked eye. It is a place one finds by following waters and springs that erupt from the ground miraculously, teeming with unseen life. They are both sitting on woven stools, low to the ground, but Momo towers over Sisi. Momo is enveloped in a voluminous white housedress. She reminds Sisi of a goose in one of the books of fairy tales that her sister, Margie, reads to her from at night. The white of the dress tucks around Momo’s roundness like a second skin. The paleness of the cloth sets off the mahogany brown of her protruding arms and neck in sharp contrast. Momo’s neck has many folds in it, as many folds as decades she has lived on this earth. Sisi pours a scoop of purplish kidney beans from a large burlap sack into a smaller bag, then hands it to Momo to close with a piece of twine. “Do you know what a riddle is, Sisi?” Momo asks. “No,” Sisi answers. “It’s a question that has an answer difficult to find.” “Like when Mami wants to know if she will get enough orders for dresses in the spring to keep us here?” Momo smiles. “Something like that, but harder. I think that my village is a riddle.” “Your village is a question?” Momo laughs. “No, but many say that my village does not exist. Yet every year there are girls who come to us from the village, to stay with us. They are coming from somewhere, no? Not a nowhere place. My village is so small they say it does not exist, but it might be the most powerful place on earth.” Sisi frowns. Is Momo’s story a riddle too? She watches as her grandmother’s hands close the bags Sisi has filled with beans, swiftly turning the twine over and under their gaping openings and pulling it taut into a pucker of fabric, ready to be taken to market. “We are people of the Simbi, Sisi, of the river gods. People will try to convince you either that they don’t exist or that they are evil, but they do exist, and they are not evil. Do you want to hear more?” Sisi sits awestruck. The best part of any day is this time, when she tries to help Momo as best she can before going to bed and Momo tells her a story. Sometimes the story is a memory; at others, a tale she heard and remembers from her village; and at others, like this time, it will be a story about the mistè, the mysteries, the lwa, the gods. “Where I come from,” Momo says, “deep, deep in the interior of Haiti, there are flat areas that give way to forests and rivers, gullies with springs, waterfalls. There is plenty for everyone but not a lot of work, which is why we leave that land and all its natural riches to come and toil in the city we find ourselves in now. If we had work, we would never leave, understand?” Sisi nods, saying nothing, not wanting to interrupt Momo, because saying something can lead Momo to thinking about something else. “Because of the rivers, the forests, there are also snakes. They are mostly harmless, but some are magical. The snakes are the Simbi coming onto dry land to see what we are up to up here, checking on us to guard us from foolishness, occasionally to warn us. The Simbi cried for a long time during the years that the invaders came from the land above to carve ours up, to tell us where we could and could not go. The snakes poured out of the earth and some of the riverbeds dried up until those men left, but nothing was the same after this. The Simbi warned us, but we did not listen. “When I was a girl, not much older than you are now, I was the one who went to fetch water from the spring to bring back to the household. I did this every morning, early. I carried the water on my head like my mother taught me to, and I was told to be careful lest the Simbi come for me.” “Come for you? I thought they were protecting you.” Momo wags a finger in the air above them, the twine trailing down it like a wan flag. “The Simbi are capricious. They are hungry spirits that like little children, especially if, like you, they are clair, untouched by the sun. Luckily, I sunned myself every day, soaking up the rays and making my skin deep, dark brown like the earth, and the Simbi just let me go by every day, most days. Some other children were said to disappear, never to be recovered. Once, the Simbi took an old blind man, but they returned him, eventually, after restoring his sight.” “A blind man who could see?” “Yes. When the Simbi take you, they return you with the ability to see, sometimes to see things no one else can, that you could not see before.” “I wish you had been taken. You could tell us about the unseen things.” “I don’t know that we should wish for this: it is a lot of responsibility.” Momo stops her activity to think. Sisi waits. Momo takes up the twine and gestures to Sisi to continue filling the small bags between them from the burlap. She wants to take them to market in the morning. “There was a girl in my village who disappeared by the springs once. They said that the Simbi took her but gave her back because she wa blessed by the sun. When she returned, she could read the people’s dreams. She could heal the sick with her knowledge.” “How can you know if the Simbi come for you?” Sisi asks, filled, unexpectedly, with dread. “You don’t have to be afraid, Sisi.” “How do you know, Momo? How do you know they won’t come for me?” “Well, I cannot know, but what if I told you that that little sun-touched girl that the Simbi took and returned was me? What if I told you that the Simbi released me so that I could tell you that you have nothing to fear?” “I don’t believe you,” Sisi says doubtfully. “You don’t read dreams.” “Don’t I?” Momo stops to think. “I don’t, do I? But have you ever asked me to interpret your dreams?” Sisi shakes her head, no. “What do they look like, the Simbi?” “No one knows if Simbi are male or female. Some will tell you that Simbi are men, others will tell you Simbi are women. But there are many Simbi, and who knows which Simbi anyone thinks they might know? But I want to tell you about Simbi Andezo, Simbi Two Waters, because I think that she, he—well, maybe we should say ‘they’—will be your destiny. Simbi Twin Souls.” Sisi’s eyes widen even more. Momo continues, “Simbi Andezo governs the waters, those of the sea before us and those of the rivers that course through the mountains behind us, forming the waterfalls and all the streams that travel through the land to nourish the rice and grain fields that feed us. Andezo watches over every creature that comes into contact with the waters, making sure that they do not drown or come to harm, unless a greater force wills it, a force greater than the Simbi. The Simbi are invisible and work in secret in the waters, but you can feel them doing their work of watching and protecting every time you step into the water—but watch out! If you come to see a Simbi, they might enchant you.” “Enchant me? How?” “Do you think that a Simbi might want you?” Momo teases. “I don’t know,” Sisi replies, “but maybe I don’t want to find out!” Momo laughs a deep, guttural laugh. Sisi loves Momo’s stories about the lwa. “Well,” Momo continues, amused, “they have long hair like you, Sisi. They sing like the people do in church, like angels. But beware the siren’s song. Simbi can save you or enchant you, but only rarely do they do both at the same time.” “Like the Simbi did to you?” “Like they did to me. Because the Queen of Sheba is my invisible patron saint, a woman dark like me. But the important thing I want you to remember is that Simbi Andezo gains strength from the union of two forces, two sources of water, like twins. All the waters pour from the land into the ocean, but the ocean would be nothing without the rivers that feed it. And, like the Queen, you must not give yourself to the first person to come your way. You must ask them questions, find out who they are. Like the Simbi, you must test the waters, make sure that they are pure of heart.” “Pure of heart,” Sisi murmurs. “Yes, like you.” Momo taps Sisi’s chest. “You, in here. If you listen to the Simbi but do not fall under their spell, they can teach you how not to fall for the wrong people, the wrong friends, the wrong mate, you understand? You see me here, by myself?” “You’re not alone, Momo. You have Mami and me and Margie.” “Yes, that is true. But you see that I make my way without a menaj, is that not true? And your mother sees your papa maybe once a week, but he does not live here, is that not true? We are sources of water for each other. We are like the Simbi.” Sisi looks into Momo’s face, hoping she can read the answers to the questions Momo’s story stirs in her. But Momo’s face closes like the setting sun. The night’s darkness deepens. “Enough storytelling for today,” Momo says, all of a sudden looking tired. She pushes the finished bags together and closes the burlap against the remaining purplish beans. “I’ll finish this in the morning. Thank you for helping, Sisi. You are a good little helper. Go find your mother, and then off to bed for you.” Sisi does as she is told, then climbs into her bed, where she listens to the murmurs of the house. As she falls to sleep, the noises swaddling her—her sister’s breathing, the shuffling of Momo in her room, her mother’s pedaling of the sewing machine into the night—become like lapping waves beneath a pier. She imagines the Simbi swimming by, having made their way down from the gullies in the valleys, the streams in the forests, the waterfalls, the springs carved out by their snakes. She imagines the Simbi calling out to all of them in the house, to warn or to enchant them with their sirens’ call. THE INTERVIEW This interview was conducted between Myriam J. A. Chancy and Jae Nichelle on September 5th, 2025. I’m excited that you’ve shared an excerpt from the beginning of your most recent novel, Village Weavers .  How did you decide you wanted to start with Momo telling Sisi a story? The novel didn't initially start with the storytelling episode between Momo, Sisi's grandmother, and Sisi, one of the main characters, but as the novel advanced and it became clear to me that the story circled around the simbi, or the river gods, and the belief that they connect waterways to the ocean and people to the life source of water, I decided that I wanted to foreground the lore around the simbi so that the reader would realize that the references to them throughout the novel were not incidental. Sisi receives the story about the simbi from her grandmother and Gertie will receive it from Sisi's older sister. Sisi and Gertie are connected to one another in a spiritual sense like two rivers that feed each other in a subterranean way. Beginning the novel in this way has a symbolic value but it also makes clear the importance of storytelling in Caribbean and Haitian culture specifically. What drew you to the dual narrative form of this book? Especially considering that your previous book, What Storm, What Thunder , was told through ten different voices. Was the narration hard to balance between your two main characters? I generally write polyvocal novels. My earliest novels have four narrative voices each and What Storm has the highest number of voices at ten distinct narrative perspectives so a dual narrative in Village Weavers  is the lowest number of narrative voices I've utilized to date.  Since this was the story of a relationship, I was interested in how each of the women understood their connection to the other from childhood to old age and how differently they remember pivotal moments in their lives. For one thing, what one considers pivotal, the other may consider insignificant and vice versa. They are leading very different lives, in different families, and have external influences that inform their decision-making and interpretive processes. The dual narration allows me to explore their distinct points of view and reveal to the reader how their thoughts and emotional development differs. It also allows me to show how issues of class, color and legitimacy play heavy roles in their lives. For instance, where one girl (Sisi) attempts to win a recitation contest in order to win a scholarship to continue her education, the other (Gertie) is attempting to win the same contest to gain favor with the other girl, oblivious of the other's precarious economic situation.  Contrasting scenes reveal to the reader the ways in which memory operates differently for each person, as is the case in real life, and allows the reader to better understand how this relationship came to be, broke down, and was regained at different points in time. I don't think it was necessarily difficult to balance the narratives, but it is challenging at times to not take sides and to stay faithful to each character's point of view and disposition. As someone with many academic and creative works that tackle Haitian history and influential Haitian figures, I’m curious to know how you balance your scholarly research projects with your storytelling projects. Do you view these as very distinct worlds? So, my academic works are broader in scope, covering texts literary, visual and cinematic, from the Anglophone Caribbean, some of the Latin Caribbean (the DR and Cuba), and the African Diaspora from the continent and in the Americas, as well as focusing (in two of five works) with Haitian women's literature and contemporary Haitian issues. My latest nonfiction work collected essays on the post-earthquake situation in Haiti from 2011-2014 and included a personal photo essay. Although each project is distinct from the other, I have normally worked on one academic book while working on a creative project simultaneously. For instance, I wrote my first novel ( The Scorpion's Claw ) while working on Framing Silence , my book-length project on Haitian women's literature; my second novel ( The Loneliness of Angels)  I worked on while writing a book on Haitian, Dominican and Cuban American women's literature. While working on What Storm, What Thunder , I was also writing my Guggenheim-supported monograph, Autochthonomies.  There usually isn't much overlap in the works except that working on two projects at once allows me to find relief or momentum in the other when I need to put one aside or think about it more. But, in some cases, there can be some overlap. For instance, I did a lot of research on Rwanda working on Autochthonomies, and that influenced one of the narrative voices in WS, where one of the characters finds herself in Rwanda at the time of the 2010 earthquake.  Generally speaking, I approach each project as a writer first and then think about the audience(s) the project is directed towards and develop the work (its structure, internal logics, etc) in function of what is expected for an academic vs a creative project, but I take some liberties on either side. For instance, I have introduced fiction as well as chapter-length interviews with authors in academic projects, while on the creative side, in novels, I play with point of view or polyvocality and also with non-chronological structures. I always try to challenge myself in terms of formal aesthetics and, in turn, challenge the reader to think more flexibly and more broadly about what these rigid genres (whether academic or creative) can be made to do, or say in ways that can be provocative for their audiences and occasion new ways of thinking. You’ve shared in previous interviews  that you love food culture and cooking. What meals do you consider to be your signature dishes?  That's a fun question. I don't really have signature dishes except for my granola recipe (lol) but I make a good crême caramel (the French version of flan), and cheese souffle. I also have developed a pretty good gluten-free pineapple upside-down rum cake recipe and make a good version of Haitian dous let . Otherwise, I cook across a lot of cuisines and love to discover new foods. For my novels, I research foods related to my characters’ locales and geographies and try to include relevant foods and recipes in the works (after having tried them out myself!). Outside of receiving quite a few notable awards, what has been one of the most rewarding moments of your career? Being recognized with awards, shortlistings and the rest is great and I’ve especially been gratified by being awarded the Guyana Prize (2011) and OCM Bocas Prize (2025) by Caribbean juries, but, in the end, the most rewarding moments come when you see that the work continues to circulate long after publication and also when I learn that individual readers find a resonance with some aspect of the work personally.  It's the long tail of a work after publication that is the most rewarding in the end. You were raised between Haiti and Canada and now work in California. If you were to take someone on a scenic trip about your life, what landmarks would you hit across these countries? Most of the landmarks I might have shown someone in Haiti were destroyed during the 2010 earthquake. I might show them the remains of the Cathedral in Port-au-Prince or I might take them through the mountains by car from Port-au-Prince to Jacmel or from Port-au-Prince to Cap-Haitien by road to see the beauty of the land and why Haiti means “mountains beyond mountains.” The countryside is incredibly rich despite deforestation and that might surprise people who have never been there. Of course, I would take them on a seaside drive up the coast north of Port-au-Prince. In the prairies of Canada, I would point to the expansiveness of the sky, which always seemed to me to be like the ocean upside down, and to the bright yellow of mustard fields. Here in California, I've loved discovering Joshua Tree Park but probably what I love the most is going to the ocean. I've ended up in a place much like where I was born, with the ocean on one side and the mountains on the other.  How can people support you right now? Buy my books through your favorite Indie bookstore or bookshop.org . Find out more about what is going on in Haiti and support grassroots organizations there (I have a list of organizations of different sizes who are accountable to Haitians that people can follow posted on my website: www.myriamjachancy.com ). Follow me on my IG @myriamjachancy and come to my events when you can! Name another Black woman writer people should know.  Some emerging writers that have impressed me lately include Ayanna Lloyd-Banwa, a Trinidadian UK-based writer, and short story writers Annell López, who is Dominican American, and Juliana Lamy, who is Haitian American. ### Torch Literary Arts  is a 501(c)3 nonprofit established to publish and promote creative writing by Black women. We publish contemporary writing by experienced and emerging writers alike. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Click here to support Torch Literary Arts.

Cheryl is currently working on her eighth collection of poetry. These poems are so rhythmic, frequently featuring single words pulled out or listed. In what ways, if any, has the rhythm of your poetry changed over the years? I cannot even say that the rhythm of my poetry has changed very much. You are currently working on your eighth collection of poetry.

Dungy has also written four collections of poetry, including Trophic Cascade , winner of the Colorado African American environmental poetry to national attention. Her work has appeared in Best American Poetry, 100 Best African American Poems , Best American Essays *previously published in Literary Hub , and The Best American Poetry 2021, Ed. You’ve edited several anthologies in addition to being the poetry editor at Orion Magazine .

Lynne Thompson served as Los Angeles’ 4th Poet Laureate and is the author of four collections of poetry A lawyer by training, Thompson serves on the Boards of The Poetry Foundation, Los Angeles Review of Books Poetry, Kenyon Review, The Common, Tiferet, and the Georgia Review. You’ve both been featured in Torch Magazine previously—Patricia’s first feature being in 2007 and Lynne But even more important, if they would add poetry to their reading regimen, particularly the poetry of

MFA graduate from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, and the author of several award-winning poetry Her poetry is widely published, and her collections have been nominated for an NAACP Image Award, Lambda Literary Award, and have won the Per Diem Poetry Prize, Maine Literary Award, Nautilus Book Award, an pivotal moments in your writing journey that significantly influenced your perspective and approach to poetry This moment was when I realized I wanted my poetry to collaborate with other art forms, to move beyond

Winner of the 2014 Kate Tufts Discovery Award, her poetry collections include Hemming the Water and Harvey is the author of You Don’t Have to Go to Mars for Love , winner of The Believer  Book Award in Poetry journals and anthologies including Obsidian: Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora, The Best American Poetry Black Women/Radical Writing,  and A Poet’s Craft: A Comprehensive Guide to Making and Sharing Your Poetry Also, shout out to my undergraduate Introduction to Poetry class at Saint Mary’s College of California

In this role, she mentors the city's youth, inspiring them to find their voices through poetry and performance Her debut album, Rainfall encapsulates the essence of poetry to music. Shirley’s poetic prowess can also be found in numerous poetry anthologies. It was a privilege to work with the right budget and to explore the possibilities of combining poetry You can find the poetry album here: Rainfall on Apple Music .

Lynne Thompson is the award-winning author of four collections of poetry and was the 4th Poet Laureate She is the author of four collections of poetry, Beg No Pardon (2007), winner of the Perugia Press Prize , and the Steven Dunn Poetry Prize, as well as fellowships from the Summer Literary Series (Kenya) and She serves on the Boards of the Poetry Foundation, Cave Canem, and The Los Angeles Review of Books. The kindest act has nothing to do with poetry.

Charla Lauriston is a comedian, writer, director, and educator known for People of Earth (TBS, 2016), Ghosted (FOX, 2017), and The Last O.G. (TBS, 2018). Charla Lauriston  is a Haitian-American, Vancouver-based comedian, writer, director, and creative coach. Most recently, she served as Supervising Producer for Grand Crew on NBC and has previously written for The Last OG, Ghosted, People of Earth, and Hoops. Her 2021 episodic short, Witchsters, is the official selection of the 2022 Slamdance Film Festival, New Filmmakers Los Angeles, and the 2021 Austin Film Festival and American Black Film Festival. Charla is also the Creator of The Werking Writer, a career-focused podcast, online course, and community built to help writers and creatives live their best lives. Follow Charla on Instagram . WITCHSTERS "Episode One" EXT. FOURPLEX - DAY Establishing. A woman looks out the window. INT. MICHELLE’S APARTMENT, LIVING ROOM - DAY MICHELLE (kind and naive) looks out the window, then paces her apartment drinking wine, distraught. A young, modern witch, she wears all black and conjures a POLAROID of her boyfriend that APPEARS in her hand. She looks at the picture, sad. MICHELLE TALKING HEAD MICHELLE Me and my boyfriend had a fight last night. INT. MICHELLE’S BEDROOM - LAST NIGHT Michelle and her BOYFRIEND (super dumb but incredibly hot) are under the covers in bed and making out/canoodling. MICHELLE (V.O.) The whole thing was so stupid. MICHELLE Wait, close your eyes, I want to try something. BOYFRIEND (laughs, closes his eyes) OK. What? Michelle waves her hand over his penis (already bulging underneath the covers) and we see it MAGICALLY ENLARGES. MICHELLE TALKING HEAD MICHELLE I thought he would like it but... (shakes head no) INT. MICHELLE’S BEDROOM - LAST NIGHT Back to scene. He opens his eyes mid-enlargement. BOYFRIEND (jumps out of bed freaked out) What the [bleep]?! INT. MICHELLE’S APARTMENT - LAST NIGHT Michelle fights with her Boyfriend. They scream at each other. BOYFRIEND So you can ‘Honey I blew up the kids’ my dick but we can’t add your friend Amanda as a third? MICHELLE I told you I think her neck is weird. This hits him hard. He takes his things and leaves. She stews alone. BOYFRIEND TALKING HEAD - LAST NIGHT He holds a box of his stuff. BOYFRIEND (pissed/ embarrassed) I don’t...need anything...down there. When I was born, the doctor took one look at my [bleep] and said god damn that boy’s got a big [bleep]! PULL OUT to REVEAL his dick is still comically large. He bumps it on something as he leaves then doubles over in pain. MICHELLE TALKING HEAD MICHELLE No, his dick’s not small. It’s my vagina that’s huge. Michelle uses her arms to demonstrate how big her vagina is. MICHELLE (CONT'D) It’s like a black hole. INT. MICHELLE’S APARTMENT - DAY A knock on the door. Michelle opens it and it's her Boyfriend looking sad and mopey. He enters and they hug. He FREEZES. They stay like this for a long time before Michelle realizes he’s not moving. MICHELLE (confused) Babe? (realizing he’s frozen) Maya! Michelle’s SISTER (older, cold, serious,) APPEARS out of thin air. MAYA What? We said we’d get lunch you stupid witch! Where’s the wine?! TITLE CARD: WITCHSTERS INT. MICHELLE'S APARTMENT - MOMENTS LATER Boyfriend is still frozen in the hug position. Maya sits on the couch with a glass of wine. MICHELLE I know I said we’d get lunch but- MAYA You messed with his dick. MICHELLE (finishes her sentence) -we’re in the middle of an important dickulational discussion. MAYA I told you to stop messing with guys dicks- MAYA (CONT'D) MICHELLE It’s emasculating. It’s emancipating. A beat. MAYA (CONT'D) Emasculating. MICHELLE That’s what I said. Michelle tries and fails to unfreeze Jeremiah while Maya lectures. MAYA We might as well get lunch, it’s not like he’s going anywhere. Michelle makes an annoyed face at the camera. MICHELLE TALKING HEAD MICHELLE My sister’s a pretty powerful witch and she doesn’t approve of me and Jeremiah’s relationship. MAYA TALKING HEAD MAYA Let’s just say he’s not the brightest crayon in the box. EXT. STREET - FLASHBACK Boyfriend chases a plastic bag with the word ‘fun’ written on it. REVEAL Maya moves the bag around with a string/with powers. INT. MICHELLE APARTMENT - CONTINUOUS MAYA I think his stupidity could destroy the planet. MICHELLE TALKING HEAD MICHELLE Love spells are a real thing but they’re complicated. (then) In order to cast one, you need tea tree bark, sugar and the last ingredient is...you have to love...yourself. So...I’m working on that. INT. APARTMENT - BACK TO SCENE Maya sits Michelle down on the couch. MAYA You need a partner, not a project. How else are you going to fight the monsters out there? MICHELLE There aren’t any monsters. ANGLE ON: Someone wearing a MAGA cap passes by outside the window. MICHELLE (CONT'D) But I get what you’re saying. MAYA (hugs her) Good. I just want you to be happy. Maya’s words leave Michelle quiet and contemplative. Then, standing up- MICHELLE (shaky) I want you to unfreeze him and leave my apartment. MAYA Excuse you? MICHELLE You heard me. MAYA (incredulous) But I’m your sister and I’m hungry! Michelle doesn’t say anything, she’s said enough. MAYA (CONT'D) (stung) Fine. Have it your way. Maya grabs her wine glass and the bottle of wine and POPS out of the scene, leaving behind a small plume of smoke where she was standing. Michelle gets back in her boyfriends arms. Moments later, he unfreezes and continues what he was doing right before he was frozen- hugging her and finishing what he was saying. BOYFRIEND It’s OK. I spent a lot of time alone with my [bleep] last night and (looks down at dick) -we got some plans. Her reaction is half relieved and half confused. Inside, she feels bad about what she said to Maya. EXT. ROOFTOP - SUNSET Maya drinks wine, licking her wounds alone on the roof or over a scenic hilltop. MAYA I guess we just have different ways of seeing the world. I know I should let her make her own decisions, but I guess I’m a little overprotective. EXT. PARK - FLASHBACK Maya spills something on herself. Michelle gives her the shirt off her back. MAYA (V.O.) She’s a give-you-the-shirt-off-herback kind of person. EXT. ROOFTOP - SUNSET MAYA (sad smile) Not everyone deserves her. INT. APARTMENT - LATER Michelle and boyfriend sit together. He’s suddenly struck with an idea. BOYFRIEND We should rob a bank! MICHELLE (shaking her head) We’re good witches so- BOYFRIEND If I had powers, I’d rob so many banks! MICHELLE Why would you have to rob them if you have powers? BOYFRIEND I want the power of explosions. MICHELLE You know I’m a superhero right? BOYFRIEND I’d just be like explosion! Explosion! Explosion! As Boyfriend talks, Michelle realizes she’s made a mistake. EXT. ROOF - EVENING Maya watches the sunset when Michelle POPS into the scene. It ’ s awkward, they don’t say anything to each other. They don’t have to. After a long beat- MAYA Such a beautiful toxic sunset. MICHELLE Yeah - (coughs) -Wow, it’s actually really polluted. God LA sucks. Michelle puts her arm around her sister. They gaze out at Los Angeles. Together. END THE INTERVIEW This interview was conducted between Charla Lauriston and Jae Nichelle on April 28, 2024. The script for “Witchsters” is absolutely hilarious. I love that we get to hear the inner thoughts of the characters told directly to the audience. Did you know going into this script that you wanted to use a documentary/mockumentary style or was it something that developed across drafts? Thanks! The short initially was single cam style, not mockumentary. I started thinking about changing it to mockumentary because I felt like the single cam version made the show feel a little serious and I really wanted this to be a silly show. I found that the mockumentary style was also helpful in quickly establishing a story. I could have the characters give backstory and share information about their dynamics with other characters. When I shifted over to mockumentary style it immediately felt more natural. It took a few drafts to really utilize the style as much as possible but when I got the hang of it, it really shaped the show and the way I told the story in a positive way. What was the most exciting part of filming “Witchsters” and transforming it off the page? Are there any plans to continue the series? Well let me give you some context. This was my first time directing so that was very exciting for me. I always feel like I’m using my director brain as a writer so I really wanted to direct something myself instead of bringing someone on to do it like I had in previous projects. It was also the first project of my own that I was doing in many years. I had been busy writing on other people’s TV shows and had put my own ideas on the back burner. And if I’m being honest, I was also a bit jaded from the TV industry after several of the shows I had sold didn’t make it past the development phase. I started as a creator so Witchsters was this project that I was doing as a way to dip my toe back into autonomy and my own work again. There was so much adrenaline the day of shooting because I paid for it out of pocket and I had a super tight budget. We shot it all in one day. The day went by so fast that I kind of wish that I had planned for a second shoot day to be able to get a few extra shots. But overall, so much fun, and I was pretty happy with the final product. Yes, I do plan on doing a few more episodes. You work in stand-up comedy, screenwriting, and podcasting (to name a few of your many hats). What inspired you to transition between these creative mediums, and how has each influenced your approach to storytelling? I’m just following my instincts. I had the urge to do standup so I did it. I had the urge to create my own short comedy films and that led to screenwriting. Podcasting felt natural. I had ideas for shows that I wanted to see in the world and I have a love of producing. I feel like writing for television has been the most influential in terms of my approach to story. I didn’t really know what I was doing before I was in a writer’s room. I had good instincts but no hard skills. Being in a writer’s room and being a part of the Hollywood machine has given me hardcore skills. It’s elevated my storytelling brain in every possible way because I’ve had the opportunity to ideate and execute story after story on a professional level over many years. I know how to follow interesting threads that are surprising and delightful to the watcher. I know the importance of character and relationships and all those things that are fundamental to a good story. It’s made me a better storyteller on stage, in podcast interviews, and on the page. Speaking of your podcast The Werking Writer , what’s an episode you’ll never forget? Oh man…there've been so many good ones. Probably the one with Phil Augusta Jackson, my friend and former boss on Grand Crew. I love Phil’s creative brain and he was so intentional about the culture he created in the writer’s room that I was curious to talk to him about the experience from his perspective. Highly recommend that episode. Would you rather stream a movie at home or go to the theater? I’m a streamer. I will occasionally go to the movies under special circumstances. Otherwise, I only leave my house if I have to. Are there any misconceptions about Vancouver that you’d like to clear up? It’s beautiful, quaint, and not very diverse. Could you share a memorable experience or lesson from working in writers' rooms that significantly impacted your craft? It’s more like a thousand memorable lessons that have significantly impacted my craft. The thing most of the memories had in common though is that each one involved me feeling like I had failed in some way (wrote a draft that needed to be rewritten from page 1 by the writer’s room, didn’t pitch an idea that I had, etc). But each failure proved to be an important lesson in something that I needed to learn. I needed to learn to speak up and share my ideas without fear and hesitation, and I needed to improve the quality of the drafts I turned into the writer’s room. Learning these things has made me a better artist and a better professional. Failing used to really get to me - especially because as creatives we take so many L’s and it can be difficult to stay positive. But now every time I feel like I’m “failing” at something, I just remember “this is teaching me something I need to know” and then I start to pay attention to why something isn’t working so that I can get the lesson I need to learn. How can people support you right now? Share, follow, like, subscribe. Name another Black woman writer people should follow. There are so many. Shenovia Large (@iheartnovi) is a super funny writer. ### Torch Literary Arts  is a 501(c)3 nonprofit established to publish and promote creative writing by Black women. We publish contemporary writing by experienced and emerging writers alike. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Donate to help Torch amplify Black women writers.

Texas-born LaToya Watkins is the author of the short story collection Holler, Child , which was longlisted for a National Book Award. LaToya Watkins ’s writing has appeared in  A Public Space, The Sun, McSweeney’s, Kenyon Review,  and elsewhere. She has received support for her work from The Camargo Foundation, MacDowell, Yaddo, and Hedgebrook. Her latest book is  Holler, Child: Stories , which was longlisted for the National Book Award for Fiction.  The View I'm embarrassed about how the lady face buried between her friend legs and how they moaning and how it was making me feel before Momma walked in. I was watching it straight-eyed before she came in and took control of the whole thing—made it a punishment. Now I got to watch the rest with her. After that, she gone whup me. I know she is.             "That's called gay. Sodom and Gomorrah," she say without looking at me. "God ain't nowhere in that, boy."             I wish I had somewhere else to look, but she said since I was looking at it before she came in, I better look now. Said wrong got to be righted.              When she first stuck her head through the door, rollers in her hair and tired lines on her face, I was sure she wasn't gone be in here long. I tried to change the channel before she caught me, but I think that’s what got me caught. She went from head-in-the-door to "what was you watching, Naught?"             "I work two jobs," she say. Her eyes still on the T.V. Now a man standing behind the woman. She still got her head buried in between her friend legs and the man moving in and out of her, but I don't even care no more. I ain't even taking notes in my head no more.  "I don't work for this kind of mess. I don't work hard like I do for you to be worried about this kind of mess." She sound sad. Hurt or something.             I don't know what to say. I know she think I'm going down to the devil for watching, which is why I really don't understand why she making me watch the rest. I guess she done gave up on me and heaven. I wonder if this'll make me fall deeper into the fire. I was only gone watch a little bit. I was only gone be in a little bit of trouble when it was time to stand before God. Now I'm in trouble with God and with her. I wonder if she know she might go to hell for watching it with me. I want to ask her, but the lines around her mouth tell me that ain't a very good idea.             A few days ago, she came in the kitchen, and her gold skin turned bright red when she saw me eating Fruity Os from her mixing bowl. I wouldn't have never ate my cereal out of that bowl if we had some more clean ones—if she would've washed them the night before. She didn't fuss at me for it or nothing. I thought she was going to, but she didn't say nothing.             All she did was let her beat-up purse slide off her shoulder and onto the counter. She took off her plaid coat—the one she bought from the second-hand store—and laid it on top of her purse. She reached up over her head and pulled a bigger mixing-bowl from the cabinet and poured the whole box of Fruity Os in it. After she poured enough milk on the cereal to completely cover them, she picked up the bowl put it in front of where I was standing eating from the smaller bowl.             "Since you woke up feeling all long-eyed, boy. Don't care nothing bout how hard I work for every box of cereal I bring in here. You eat the whole damn thing, Naught. Just eat the whole damn thing." And she stood there and made sure I ate every O. When I was done, I thought I was gone throw up I was so full. She told me to go to her room and bring her the only thing she kept when she took Ruke's stuff to my granny's house, the thick leather belt with the snake as the buckle.                         "Naught," she call my name, like she panicking or something, but she still don't look at me. Her eyes still glued to the T.V., and I can't help but wish the girl on screen would shut up with all that hollering.  "Anybody ever touch you like they ain't supposed to, violate you, son?" she ask.             "Huh," I say.  I know what she asking. She done asked it before. She been asking me about being touched ever since she taught me to call my dick Mr. Wang. I learned real quick that a dick is a dick when I started P.W. Dastard Middle School, but Momma still call my dick Mr. Wang. Last week, she woke me up to catch the trash man cause I forgot to put the trash out the night before. My dick was standing straight up and she told me flat out, "Fix your Mr. Wang before you go out that door, boy. Nasty self."             "Have anybody ever touched your Mr. Wang, boy?" she ask.  I stare at the side of her face for a minute. Her jaw is twitching, and a tear is sneaking down her cheek. I feel bad about the movie. I don't want to hurt my momma.             "No, ma'am," I say, letting my eyes drop to the scratchy wool blanket covering me from the waist on down.             "You sure? " she ask, twisting her head to face me for the first time. Her eyes is watery and tired like two wet, rusty pennies, but she still look kind of pretty cause I can remember her smile. I look into them rusty pennies and drop my eyes again. I shake my head but don't say nothing.             "Cause I can understand this problem if that happened. Just talk to Momma. Tell me if somebody done hurt you, Naught. Pastor'll pray with us, and we'll get rid of this old nasty demon." I don't say nothing. Just sit there wishing for all this to be over. Wish I didn't have no dick and no momma. I wouldn't wake up wet after them nasty dreams sometimes and wouldn't be no whuppings. Never. "Well, I don't get it then, Naught," she say. Then she just sit there for a second. "This Ruke fault. I wish I'd have been smarter than to let that low-life get me pregnant with you. Should been smart enough to know he couldn't never be no daddy," she say, turning back to the television. "That on that screen," she say, pointing a lazy finger at the small screen on the rickety dresser. "Ain't nothing you need to worry bout."          I just nod my head and think about the whupping that's coming. "Go out yonder and get you a baby, how you gone feed it?" she ask, without looking at me. I lift my eyes and look toward the screen. The man holding his dick over one of the women's mouth. She holding her tongue out beneath him to catch his juice. I move my eyes to a crack in the wall above the screen.  A roach crawl out from the crack and start crawling down like it's gone go behind the T.V. I wonder if Momma see it or if she looking at the man juicing in the woman mouth. She hate roaches, but we can't seem to rid of them on the count of our neighbors. Momma say them folks nasty and roaches follow nasty. "I been working extra hours to get you a new bike. Get you out this house some time. Thirteen-year-old boy need to be doing something. Idle mind be all the devil need to do something like this," she say. I think about my last bike, the one I got when I was ten, and try to remember if it was enough to make me forget about my dick. Maybe so. I didn't think about girls and wake up hard and wet when I still had it.  I fixed that bike up all on my own. Before she brought the old sorry looking thing home from the thrift store, I had almost gave up on the idea of ever having a bike of my own. I bought things one at a time. The sandpaper to get the pink paint and Princess Power off. The gray paint because I like that color. The seat. The pivotal. Didn't have no manual or nothing. Took me a whole year to get that thing rideable. I built that bike from the ground up, and then somebody from this old raggedy complex stole it off the back porch. Momma whupped me. Said she spent ten dollars on that thing, and I should've had better sense than to leave it outside and give it away. "This how you say thank you. While I'm working, you letting sex demons in my   house," she say, standing up. She looking at the roach now. I can tell by how still her head is, and how mean her voice done got. He done stopped like he listening to her fuss at me.  The arms of her wool housecoat is cut off cause it used to be mine. She had to cut them off to make the housecoat fit her.  When it was mine, I wouldn't never wear it. She wear it every night, though. It's been washed so much it look paper thin. The blue look dull and ashy. She look dull and ashy. To me she pretty and smell like cinnamon, and she good at helping with my math. Even when she don't know nothing about it, she try. She stand in front of the T.V., and I can't see the screen no more. The man moaning loud and hearing it almost as bad as seeing it. I know Momma hear it too. I know it only make her think I’m nastier. Only make her think about me. She look around my room. Her eyes don't even touch me. She turn her body and squeeze through the space between my bed and the wall, making her way toward my closet. I think about the belt hanging up in there. All of sudden I want the movie to last longer, but words is running up the screen. I fix the cover on me. Make sure everything that need to be covered is covered. Make sure I won't feel a thing. "Where you get that shit from, Naught? Who give you something like that to watch?" she ask, bending her upper body toward the floor of my closet. I'm scared cause Momma don't never cuss. She pray hard and loud, specially at church. She got a mean shout, too. Almost look like she dancing on Soul Train or in a music video. She be moving like she free and done forgot everything. She holy. She talk tongues but she don't cuss. I think about pushing her into the closet and jumping off the bed and running away. I grew taller than Momma last year. She always say Ruke tall, but I never really paid attention. He was always sitting down when we visited him at the penitentiary in Lamesa. Even when we stood up to take pictures, I ain't notice. Everybody was taller than me the last time I saw him. Everybody was tall to me back then. I think about what I'm gone do when I make it out the house, after I push her down in the closet. What I'm gone eat. Where I'm gone live. I wonder what she gone do without me here. I think about her smile when she give me stuff. When she gave me the housecoat she wearing, she was proud. Told me about how she ain't never have one when she was a girl. How she want me to have more than her. Be better than her. I stop thinking about pushing her. I stop thinking about running. My heart start beating fast when she stand up with my size ten converse in her hand. She whupped me with shoe when I was ten. I peed in the breezeway of the G building, and Ms. Meddalton caught me. Ms. Meddalton whupped me with a switch cause Momma was still at work when she caught me doing it. Momma got me with a shoe when she came home. Said just cause the breezeway already smell like pee don't mean I got and make it stronger. That whupping hurt worse than a switch or a belt or a extension cord even. She couldn't hit me how she wanted to cause of the grip she had on the shoe, so she hit me in the head, on the back, everywhere.  But she don't even look my way now. She stand up and get in front of the T.V. again. She short and her body wide and flat in the back. Her hair smashed like she been laying on it, and I can see some of her scalp through her thin hair. She moving her head around like she looking for something, and that make me remember the roach. It make me itch, and I want to pull the covers off of me to make sure ain't none in my bed. Sometimes they climb up here and wake me up and sometimes they already in my bed fore I get in it. I don't pull the covers back. I ain't pulling nothing back long as she got that shoe in her hand. I hear a crash and stop thinking about the roaches under my cover.  "Thought I didn't see you, didn't you?" she say, looking around the dresser. She done smashed the roach and dropped the shoe. "There you is," she say. Then she just drag herself out my room on her old house shoes. She don't even look at me. I look at my shoe laying on top of the VCR and think about jumping out my bed and hiding it. I think about closing my door and getting under the cover with the other roaches. I think about not getting no whupping at all. I hear her sliding back to my room. When she come through the doorway, she got a wad of tissue in her hand. She headed toward the VCR, and my eyes is on her. She stop right where she at. She looking at me and I'm looking at her. Her lips start quivering, and her eyes get real watery. I drop my head. "Look at me, Naught," she say. She sound soft and not at all like my momma. I look at her. I'm ashamed cause I'm nasty, and I can't control it. "Stop. Just stop. Okay?" she say, nodding her head. "This kind of stuff is so ugly, baby." I nod my head and feel like I'm gone cry. "I mean… if you got a question that you need to ask me, I'm here, Naught, but baby…" she stop talking, and I look up at her. She touching her lips with the tips of her fingers. Tears coming down her face and when she open up her mouth again, I can hear them in her throat. "Baby, you can't want to do stuff like this. This is the devil's mess." I nod my head, and she start looking blurry to me. Momma tears always bring mine. "I won't do it no more, Momma. I'm sorry. I don't know why I did this."  She nod her head and wipe her eyes. She start making her way back to the T.V. She clean up the dead roach with tissue and eject the tape from the VCR when she finish. She put the balled of tissue down on the dresser and open the flap on the videotape. She start pulling out the film like a mad dog or something. She toss the destroyed tape on the edge of my bed. "Return that to whoever you got it from," she say. Ain't no more tears in her voice.  Momma turn back to the T.V. and pick up the tissue paper. Then she reach over and grab the shoe off the top of the VCR. I grip the edge of the cover and get ready to scream. I always start screaming before she even hit me. On her way over to the side of my bed, where I'm getting my tonsils ready for her, she put the balled-up tissue in the grocery bag I use for trash hanging on the inside of my doorknob. She stand directly in front of me and do something that really shock me. She just drop the shoe—drop it right there on the floor.  "Momma," I say. "What—" "Maybe you got questions that need answering, Naught. Maybe you do. But sex ain't okay, you hear?" she ask. "I'm gone give you this one time to know everything you need to know cause ain't nobody never do it for me. After this, don't you never bring up this nasty mess again," she say and look at me like she waiting for me to say something. "You bet not close your eyes and you bet not turn away," she finally say, messing with the belt of her robe.  "You loose my baby, Satan," she scream as loud as she can, and the pitch of her voice make me jump a little bit. She start chanting it over-and-over again, and I get nervous cause she got the same look on her face that she get when she start shouting at church. She closed her eyes and keep saying, "You loose my baby, Satan. You can't have him." She still saying it when her belt come untied, and she still saying it when she begin to ease the robe off her shoulders. She still saying it when her robe hit the floor and she standing there naked. And she still saying it when she open her eyes and look me in mine.  I'm too scared to close my eyes or look away. She got a serious look in her eyes. I can't keep looking in them, so I drop mine to her breasts. They long and flat against her chest. My eyes trail down because her sand-dollar nipples pointing that way. Below her belly, that’s big and jiggly, like the inside of a bucket of pork chitterlings, is a thick, tangled afro. I think about how much I hate chitterlings and afros and whuppings. She getting blurry to me again and my eyes burn like somebody chopping onions. After a while, she stop chanting and bend down to pick up the old robe. She wrap it around her and tie it back up. "That demon ought to be gone," she say. "Don't let it back in my house, boy." She walk out the door and leave me sitting there. When I hear her shoes sliding down the hallway, I slide down from my bed onto the floor. I kind of ball up on my knees and have a real good cry. Then I get in praying position next to the bed.  And I pray for myself long into the night. "The View" was originally published in Lunch Ticket. THE INTERVIEW This interview was conducted between Latoya Watkins and Jae Nichelle on 9/10/24. “The View” is such an engaging story from beginning to end. I become invested in Naught, who knows he’s going to be in big trouble soon, from the very first paragraph. Did you know immediately where you would start this story? What makes a story’s beginning feel right to you? For me, the start isn’t always the beginning. In my mind, this moment with Naught begins when Ruke leaves him to be raised by this mother. Where the story begins on the page is the situation that allows us to begin the journey of connecting all the parts of Naught’s story. I thought about starting the story with his mother walking into that bedroom and finding him watching the movie; I even thought about starting it with him starting the movie. In fact, I wrote those versions; however, I couldn’t move past those scenes because they weren’t where Naught wanted to start. It felt right to deposit readers in the middle of the mess and let Naught to carry them through. That’s usually the way it works for me; the characters decide where we start and what we tell. In a similar vein, I love how there is so much action in just this short moment in Naught’s room. The video plays in the background, the roach climbs up the wall, and Naught is observing his mother and himself. How do you go about building a scene where there’s so much movement even when the physical location is stagnant? I try to remember that there is always action around us, even in the smallest forms. Sometimes the action around us can annoy or distract and sometimes it can relieve. I think you can tell a lot about a person by what they pay attention to and how they see what captures them. I try to bring this into my work; it’s a way to build character. I also just like movement in stories. If the story is a stagnant one, there should be a lot going on the background. If the story itself is in motion, the volume of background movement can be tuned down. I think it’s a balancing act; the fun is all in attempting to put it together. Your novel Perish (2022) and your short story collection Holler, Child  (2023) have both received great acclaim. Is there anything you wish reviewers or interviewers talked about or noticed more when discussing your work?  I don’t know if this is a “right” answer to this question, but I’m glad reviewers and interviewers talked about my work at all. That’s the part of this that’s still surreal to me. I haven’t even considered the part where I wish for anything more. What’s a book you’ve enjoyed that you didn’t buy for yourself? How did it come to you? The Blueprint  by Rae Giana Rashad. The author reached out to me and asked if she could send it to me. You mentioned in The Millions  that you like to see Texas stories that showcase more experiences than the “cowboys and cattle drives” you used to associate with Texas literature. If you were creating a Texas Lit syllabus, what writers would be on it?  Lakiesha Carr, Tracy Rose Peyton, Attica Locke, Bryan Washington, Tim O’Brien, Kimberly King Parsons, Amanda Churchill, Kim Garza, Naomi Shihab Nye, Elizabeth McCracken, Amanda Johnston, Kendra Allen, Ben Fountain, Cynthia Bond, Jeanette Walls, Elizabeth Gonzalez James, J. California Copper, Roxanna Asgarian, Elizabeth Wetmore, Sandra Cisneros, Suzan Lori-Parks, Nathan Harris, Kelli Jo Ford (There are still quite a few missing, but you get my point). You’ve attended Yaddo, Hedgebrook, and MacDowell residencies. What have you enjoyed most about these experiences? I’ve enjoyed the kindness of strangers, the care and thought put into creating these spaces, and the time to be a writer. I’ve also enjoyed communing with nature because I’ve never thought of myself as that type of person. I didn’t think I cared for trees or birds or animals at all, but I’ve fallen in love with the gift of these things. I wouldn’t have had the time to sit in meadows and watch deer or hike through woods and see gangs of turkeys or great horned owls if these spaces hadn’t welcomed me to it. Are you watching any TV shows these days? If so, what? I am. Reasonable Doubt, Kaos, From, Evil,  and The Chosen . How can people support you right now? Buy (wherever books are sold) or borrow (from your library) and read Perish and Holler, Child . If you love them, recommend them. Read other Black women writers. Name another Black woman writer people should know. Magaret Wilkerson Sexton ### Torch Literary Arts  is a 501(c)3 nonprofit established to publish and promote creative writing by Black women. We publish contemporary writing by experienced and emerging writers alike. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Donate to help Torch amplify Black women writers.

Dolen Perkins-Valdez is a New York Times bestselling novelist and essayist, best known for her novels Wench , Balm , and Take My Hand. Her latest novel, Happy Land, debuted in April 2025. Dolen Perkins-Valdez is the New York Times bestselling author of Take My Hand (2022), which was awarded a 2023 NAACP Image Award for Outstanding Literary Work, a Silver Gavel Award from the American Bar Association, and a Fiction award from the Black Caucus American Library Association, and was long-listed for the Mark Twain American Voice in Literature Award. A three-time nominee for a United States Artists Fellowship, Dolen is widely considered a preeminent chronicler of American historical life. Happy Land chapter 4 - an excerpt Working together was exactly the balm our souls needed in them early months. At night some of us shared stories, unloading what we had brought up the mountain on our backs. Others merely listened, determined to keep their hurt bottled up. Some of our people wanted to go back to South Carolina. It had been our home, after all. But we couldn’t go back. The lie they’d told about us still rang loudly in our ears. Somebody had gotten their hands on a New York newspaper. For some reason, the lie was being printed far and wide. After word got out about us heading north, it was as if they spit on the trail we left behind. Papa believed we got out in the nick of time. One evening after dinner, just before sunset, a meeting for every member of the community was called. We’d built up the settlement so that it encircled a central tree—a massive oak with gnarled branches that the children loved to climb. We sat on the grass, some of us rolling out pallets. A few of the men fashioned rudimentary sitting posts for the elders. We had been in North Carolina for nearly three months, and we was expecting one of our men, Reverend Couch, to return any day with at least a dozen more people. William was the only one standing, his brother, Robert, sitting attentively at his feet. “Good evening,” William began. “I hope y’all don’t mind me calling this meeting. We been here for a while now, but we been so busy working, we ain’t stopped to rest much.” We turned our attention to him. We numbered over forty, so quieting us was no small feat. “I called y’all here because I got something to say, something to . . . suggest.” He said the word as if it was one he had considered beforehand. “I don’t see no reason for us to run this place like how we lived back in Cross Anchor. We get to make our own rules now.” Suggest. What a pretty word. I could barely follow because I was busy turning the sound of it over in my head. “What you talking about, William?” Hal Whitmire asked. “Me and my brother, Robert, we knew our daddy and our daddy’s daddy. They had memories of the home place, and back over there, our people was royalty. They ruled a kingdom. We here on this mountain, in these woods, away from the white man’s government. We make our own government, our own rules. We need to make this place like Africa.” Africa! Laughter arose among us. Did he say Africa? Sure did. William ignored the chatter. “First, we need a ruling council—a group of men to settle disputes, make laws.” Hal shook his head. “A council, huh? I don’t know, William. Ain’t no place in this country the white man’s laws can’t reach. If you saying we make our own country, the South tried to do that during the war, and it’s a lot of them rolling around in their graves ’cause of it.” “I’m not talking about a country,” William responded. “I’m talking about a kingdom.” We rustled, looked around in confusion. But my papa didn’t move, not one inch. He was all ears. William kept on. “I’m just saying the Widow got a lot of land here. And she can’t handle it alone, not without our help. But we can make our own place on it. Our own rules. A kingdom like what we ruled back in the home place.” “What you talking about? We up here starting from nothing. I sold everything I owned to come up that hill,” Hal bellowed. “Look, Hal!” William pointed into the distance. “That turnpike got travelers on it. Just like the Widow getting money, we can, too.” What he talking about money?  More rumblings. “Second thing. We need a treasury.” “Treasure? Like gold?” somebody shouted. “Treasury. A place for our earnings.” I thought of the cloth pouch where I’d kept Papa’s coins back in Cross Anchor. I had been his treasury. I’d never heard this word before, but it felt nice on my lips. William was sharp as a knife, I was realizing. “Everything we earn, we need to put in the kingdom treasury. Don’t we got more if we put it all together?” Everybody began to murmur in agreement, even the women. We knew the power of money even if most of us had never held a paper note in our hands. But I had just heard William use the word kingdom  for the third time, and I was still confused by what he meant. “Right now we working for the Widow to get the inn back up and running. But I hear tell there’s work nearby. Blacksmithing work. Horseshoeing. Carpentry. I know a lot of y’all can earn something round here. We buy our own seed, plant our own crops. Get the things we need.” Our people in Cross Anchor had been skilled, so we knew we could do what he was asking. “What about voting?” Hal Whitmire asked. “We leave it behind,” William said sharply. “We make our own laws up here.” Not vote? Just the thought scared me. Voting was what it meant to be a citizen, a generational wish passed down from our parents and grandparents. It had been the laws that had enslaved us in the first place. Only way to change the law was to vote. Could we really escape this country and all its disorder up here on this mountain? William’s younger brother turned to the group. “I agree with my brother. We can make a life here. And why can’t we work hard and even buy this land one day? We already tried voting and look where it got us. They killed us for it. It’s better to own land.” Now you could hear a fly buzz. Nobody said a word at that. I stared at Robert, curious. How did he expect us to buy land? John Earl Casey, Jola’s daddy, chimed in quietly, his voice shaking with emotion. “The Klan killed my pa for voting. He was eighty-three years old. Eighty-three! I ain’t going back. You tell me how to make a life here for my family and I’ll make it out of nothing with my own two hands.” Papa stood. “I’m with you, William. I’ll help set up the council.” We got real quiet at that, because while William was taking charge, we trusted Papa. He was our spiritual leader. Margaret Couch spoke from her position on top of a blanket. “Whatever the men need, the womenfolk will help,” she said. “But tell me, William. What you mean by kingdom?” At first, William didn’t answer. As I watched the men and women around us digest his dream, his vision for us, I could see that he had inspired belief in the same way he had sold us on the idea of making this trip in the first place. With his words. “I’m saying we make this place a kingdom, just like back in Africa. I’m saying we need to claim our royal robes.” His voice boomed in the clearing. It would be a few more weeks before the council gathered for the first time. But that night William Montgomery planted the seed. And it was a seed that would grow. Excerpt from HAPPY LAND by Dolen Perkins-Valdez. Text copyright (c) 2025 by Dolen Perkins-Valdez. Reprinted by permission of Penguin Random House. All rights reserved. THE INTERVIEW This interview was conducted between Dolen Perkins-Valdez and Jae Nichelle on March 24th, 2025. This excerpt from Happy Land is so captivating. What is exciting you most about this latest novel getting into the world? Thank you for the kind words. With this fourth novel, I finally feel that I have settled into my voice as a writer. I know the kinds of stories I want to tell. This novel means a lot to me because it reflects my evolution as a person. It’s so important for all of us to know our family history, myself included. In an Essence interview  about Take My Hand , you mentioned that historical fiction became your life’s work because you “kept getting pulled back into the archives.” Can you share what specifically led you to the subjects you address in Happy Land ? The imagination and audacity of these freedpeople was remarkable. So often this period of Reconstruction, which was certainly marked by violence and intimidation, isn’t portrayed as an era also marked by Black ambition and industriousness. These people dared to live freely among themselves. They dared to purchase over two hundred acres of land. In what ways has your research process for writing projects changed over the years? I used to do all the research alone, with minimal input from local people. Now I know the importance of working with and consulting the locals. This is their story as much as it is America’s story. They have been working to hold these narratives up for many decades before me, and they are due my respect before I set out to write a book about it. For Happy Land , I made the dearest friends with Hendersonville residents who enriched not only this book, but also my life.  You’ve spoken previously about feeling very supported by the Black women writers around you. How early do you share the details of your new work with others? I have a couple of confidants I trust to give me honest opinions about my ideas. One of them, my dear friend Regina Freer, is a professor at Occidental College. She is the reason I wrote Wench , and I have consulted her on every book idea since. If her eyes don’t light up, I’m not writing it. What do you keep on your writing desk or in your workspace that brings you joy? My Palomino Blackwing pencils and Moleskine journals have been my tried-and-true for over a decade. My daughter loves to organize my workspace, and I’m grateful because I’m a bit messy when I’m deep in a project. I always say that my external space may be messy, but my mind is neat. Looking ahead, what themes or stories are you most excited to explore in your future projects? Are there particular aspects of American history or identity that you feel still need more exploration in literature? I don’t know what I’ll encounter in the future. The ideas have to find me because if I go looking for them, the magic can’t happen. I just think it’s important that I continue to read widely, listen thoughtfully, and evolve as a person. Ultimately, what I’m trying to capture is the humanity of Black Americans, and that story always begins with my own humanity. How would you describe your experience of living and teaching in DC? I have the most wonderful students at American University. They teach me far more than I could ever teach them. The celebrated author Edward P. Jones has captured DC far better than I could ever articulate: this place is special. Beyond the political maneuverings of Capitol Hill is a city with heart, love, and tenderness. As a native southerner from Memphis, I have always believed that DC beats with the soul of the South.  How can people support you right now? Thank you for asking this question. Please buy Happy Land  as soon as you’re able. Don’t wait. Early sales are critical for all of us authors. Also, you can join my bookclub by visiting my website . Name another Black woman writer people should know. I’d love to take this opportunity to shout out some debut Black women writers: O.O. Sangoyomi, Sarai Johnson, Afia Atakora, and Kim Coleman Foote. The future of Black women’s novels is bright! ### Torch Literary Arts  is a 501(c)3 nonprofit established to publish and promote creative writing by Black women. We publish contemporary writing by experienced and emerging writers alike. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Donate to help Torch amplify Black women writers.

is the acclaimed author of Truth Be Told and What Yellow Sounds Like , a finalist for the National Poetry Told (Four Way Books) and What Yellow Sounds Like  (Tia Chucha Press),   a finalist for the National Poetry Obsidian: Literature and Arts in the African Diaspora  and Ploughshares,  among others, and has been featured in Brooklyn Poets, The Academy of American Poets Poem-a-Day and Poets on Poetry series as well as in Tuesday was for ironing; Wednesday was Italian dinner day; Friday was always fish; Saturday was for cleaning