Mean is a creative autobiography and true-crime narrative that follows Myriam Gurba from childhood to adulthood as she confronts rape, racism, cultural identity, and personal transformation. Haunted—literally and figuratively—by the ghost of Sophia, a raped and murdered woman, Myriam is compelled to visit the place where Sophia died. Through this haunting, she faces her own trauma and survivor’s guilt. Gurba’s voice is sharp, defiant, and self-aware, blending humor and horror in equal measure as she examines cruelty, injustice, and the survival mechanisms women develop to exist within them.
The title Mean becomes a lens through which Gurba explores power and pain. The book opens with Sophia’s death:
“Wrecking her makes him feel like she belongs to him” (2).
By beginning with this act of violence, Gurba forces readers to confront the brutality often silenced in stories of women—especially women of color. The murder of Sophia, a Spanish woman killed by a Hispanic man, mirrors Gurba’s own experience with sexual assault and raises questions of ownership, violence, and cultural complicity. Through this, Gurba links her trauma to a collective experience, a bridge between the living and the dead—between victimhood and survival.
When Gurba talks about being “mean,” she often invokes the cattiness of girlhood, but her real subject is cruelty in all its forms—social, racial, and systemic. The word “mean” becomes elastic, stretching from playground gossip to the most profound violations of humanity. She illustrates this concept through humor and absurdity, such as her discussion of the “Michael Jackson donut,” which sparks a debate about whether the pastry—half chocolate, half powdered sugar—is racist. Gurba observes:
“What I found most interesting was that everybody dominating this debate was white” (163).
Her point lands sharply: conversations about racism are often dominated by white voices, leaving people of color excluded from their own narratives. Gurba writes that the opinions of the two “mud people” in the room were never solicited—a darkly humorous yet devastating critique of white-centered discourse on race.
Another central motif in the book is the phrase “white girl,” which Gurba uses as both political and literary shorthand. It exposes the subtle hierarchies that shape American culture and classrooms:
“White girls from the English-only classes refused to socialize with girls from the bilingual classes” (19).
The term becomes layered—a symbol of privilege, separation, and the ways in which whiteness is normalized. Gurba’s repetition of “white girl” challenges readers to recognize how language itself can uphold systems of exclusion. She recalls moments of alienation and microaggression, from classmates to family acquaintances:
“‘What is this?’ in that supremely bitchy California-girl accent some white girls reserved for interrogating my mother’s hospitality” (19).
Through these moments, Gurba transforms “mean” from insult to insight—a way of naming the everyday cruelties that shape a person’s world.
As I read this novel, I found myself turning the question of “mean” inward. What does it mean to be “mean” as a woman, a survivor, a writer? Is meanness cruelty, or is it the courage to hold boundaries in a world that demands your silence? Gurba redefines the word as an act of reclamation: to be mean is to speak, to refuse apology, to survive.
In my own writing, I hope to evoke this same self-examination—to make readers question the norms we excuse, the systems we uphold, and the voices we choose to hear. Mean reminds me that storytelling is not just about empathy; it’s about confrontation. It’s about being brave enough to look directly at the discomfort—and to speak from it anyway.
A blend of satire and queer fiction, People Collide by Isle McElroy takes readers by surprise with its sharp humor and emotional depth. The novel follows Eli and Elizabeth, a married couple who seem perfect together on the surface—Eli is sweet, funny, and attentive, while Elizabeth is ambitious, successful, and confident. Yet beneath their charm lies mutual dissatisfaction. Eli resents Elizabeth’s constant criticism and sexual demands, while Elizabeth grows tired of his lack of ambition and emotional availability. When an unexplained event causes them to switch bodies, they are forced to confront the very parts of each other they have avoided—and, in doing so, the unspoken distance between them.
At its core, the novel explores recognition and empathy within relationships: the desperate need to be seen, understood, and appreciated. Both Eli and Elizabeth fail to listen to one another, and their transformation becomes a metaphor for what happens when communication collapses. The reader is reminded that true connection comes only when we are comfortable within ourselves—and capable of hearing others.
Eli, insecure and self-critical, longs to be noticed by Elizabeth, the woman he adores but feels overshadowed by. His self-sabotaging behavior manifests through an eating disorder—
“Eli would throw up after meals while she was always at her desk writing” (75)— and through infidelity, as if seeking pain in exchange for attention. Once trapped in Elizabeth’s body, Eli experiences an entirely new vulnerability. The physical form he once idealized now becomes a source of fear and insecurity. As the narrative deepens, McElroy cleverly shifts perspective, giving Eli’s internal voice more space than Elizabeth’s, symbolizing the emotional distance that defines their marriage.
From Eli’s point of view, readers gain an honest reflection of gendered experience and self-awareness:
“I always walked faster than everyone else like I didn’t care. It didn’t bother me until I was in her body” (112).
Now living as Elizabeth, Eli also encounters the world’s perception of himself:
“Is that what you think of him?” I asked. “That Eli was negligent?” (188).
Through this inversion, Eli gains insight into how others view his failures—a painful but transformative realization.
Elizabeth, in contrast, is ambitious and driven, yet emotionally distant. She perceives Eli as dependent and unmotivated. Her professional success and self-assuredness lead her to view Eli as an obstacle rather than a partner. After the body swap, however, Elizabeth experiences a new kind of freedom in living as Eli—a freedom that feels less confined by social expectations. Instead of nurturing Eli’s insecurities, she begins to relish autonomy and sexual exploration:
“This place is loaded with dicks,” she said. “There’s no better place to talk about dicks” (198).
McElroy uses humor and discomfort to illustrate gendered liberation and the ways in which societal conditioning shapes our desires.
Ultimately, the two remain trapped in a cycle of unmet needs—the woman seeking companionship, the man craving freedom. Even in their new bodies, their minds remain unchanged, unable to bridge the emotional gap between them. Eli reflects on this repeating pattern:
“There are things you won’t be able to plan for… You can plan for the towels and the flashlights and the recycling and the aunts, but at some point you’ll have to trust me, because all I can do is aspire to the version of you I find the most accurate, which is the version of you that I love, the kind and brilliant and generous person—someone who would, I truly believe, let her partner sleep through the night” (218).
This reflection captures the tragic irony of their relationship: love filtered through self-interest, intimacy blurred by projection.
By diving into dark psychology and relational imperfection, McElroy forces readers to confront the parts of love that society often avoids—jealousy, resentment, and incomplete listening. For me as a writer, this novel underscores the power of storytelling to reveal the truths we hide from ourselves. It reminds me to bring awareness to my own characters—to let them stumble, misunderstand, and grow. Through such honest portrayals, fiction becomes not just reflection, but revelation—of culture, of identity, and of the fragile art of being human.
Gore, Ariel. Rehearsals for Dying: Digressions on Love and Cancer. Feminist Press, 2025.
Rehearsal for Dying is a work of creative nonfiction written from Ariel Gore’s perspective about her wife Deena’s Stage Four breast cancer and the profound effect it has on their relationship. When Deena is diagnosed, the disease is already terminal. Despite their efforts to fulfill Deena’s bucket list, their days are consumed by doctor visits, conflicting medical information, and the slow, visible process of dying. Gore’s narrative captures the tension between love and loss—the desire to hold on to moments of life while facing the inevitability of death.
Deena chooses to forgo both chemotherapy and a double mastectomy, understanding that survival is no longer possible. In her own writing, she captures this painful acceptance:
“Then what’s the point?” (179)
The line appears in Deena’s musical, spoken by Ariel, blurring the boundary between art and lived experience. Despite their effort to remain hopeful, Ariel’s grief grows unbearable as she confronts the truth that there is no recovery, only the process of letting go.
Throughout the book, the doctors’ language becomes its own kind of character—a reflection of authority, hope, and denial. Their diction shapes Deena’s emotions and Ariel’s mistrust. When the doctors speak positively, Deena clings to optimism; when they are blunt, she collapses into despair. Gore reveals how language—especially medical language—can wound even when meant to heal.
Early in the narrative, Dr. Ego tells Deena that she can help her, adding,
“If I’m the one to walk you over there, they’ll wait for the devil” (80).
The line reads almost metaphorically—the doctor as the devil guiding Deena deeper into her personal hell, toward the PET scan that confirms her suffering.
Soon after, Dr. Ego lays out a strict plan:
“Ms. Chafetz, you will have six months of IV chemo, and you will have a double mastectomy” (84).
The phrasing is directive rather than compassionate; Deena is given no choice, only instructions.
Later, Dr. Mushroom, the pain specialist, delivers the most brutal truth:
“This disease is going to take your life” (184).
Deena instantly rejects his bluntness, calling him an “asshole.” When another physician, Dr. Vogue, offers hope, Deena’s spirit brightens:
“I think your cancer will get better once we start the Enheru” (231).
Through these encounters, Gore exposes the contradiction between false hope and harsh honesty. The doctors’ attempts to be factual or encouraging often fail to consider the emotional timing and vulnerability of their patient. Deena’s reactions are not weakness—they are a valid response to the way information is delivered. Compassionate communication, Gore implies, requires not just accuracy but empathy, patience, and space for grief.
In my own writing, I often find myself drawn to characters like Deena—those who hold onto hope in moments of uncertainty. Like Gore, I want to give voice to resistance, to compassion, and to the quiet defiance of those who face authority and mortality with courage. In my novel Discordia, my protagonist Eris reflects:
“There is more than just human disaster. There are the mountains, the children, ancient knowledge that has not yet been destroyed.”
This spirit of perseverance mirrors the emotional depth Gore achieves through her storytelling.
Deena dies at the end of Rehearsal for Dying, but she reads and approves the manuscript before her death. Her act of signing off on the book becomes a final, poignant gesture—a conscious acknowledgment of her diagnosis and a symbolic acceptance of her fate. In doing so, Deena transforms her death into an act of authorship—her ultimate rehearsal for dying.
On Dec 21, 2025, I sat down with Anya, and we discussed her new book Embracing the Sacred Flow. You can find it at this Amazon affiliate link. Before we begin with the interview, I’d like to share with you the dedication:
Dedication
This book is dedicated to anyone who has ever felt broken beyond repair, lost without a sense of direction, or silently suffering through the chaos. I see you. It is never too late to reclaim your sense of self, to heal, to transform, and to set yourself free. Spirit is here to guide your soul back home where it’s warm and cozy.
Let’s dive in:
Natascha: Hello, this is Natascha with the Little Lost Forest blog. Today we will be interviewing Anya with the season of Anya and her new book, Embracing the Sacred Flow. We were sitting at the Revolution Roasters with a cup of coffee, and my son Malakai. Anya and I are doing a cross-promotion. She interviewed Spellbound earlier this month and plans to share in the next few weeks I will link the podcast here once it’s available. Anya, how are you doing today?
Anya: I’m doing so well. Just enjoying this beautiful sunny San Diego weather in December. And happy to see you, girlfriend.
Natascha: Yeah, it’s really nice to see you, too. Years of friendship has brought us here to this point where we’re both working on our businesses and our brands, and we get to talk about the different art that we enjoy. And I just so appreciate doing this with you and being here with you today.
Anya: Likewise. Likewise.
Natascha: Can you tell me a little bit about The Season of Anya?
Anya: Yeah. So basically, Season of Anya is an online community, a culmination of healing modalities that are for those of us who are looking to transform ourselves, to transform our personal identities, to maybe transform our physical, mental, spiritual health and finding ourselves. Typically, it’s a journey for those of us who are interested in spirituality. My main healing modalities with The Season of Anya are yoga, magick, and witchcraft. Yoga is for grounding. Magick is for finding that love for life. And then witchcraft is the ritual. It is the practice that ties it all together. Yoga grounds me, witchcraft elevates me and magick is everything else in between. Because life is ultimately what you make it. And so many of us just really don’t understand how much power we have to change and transform. And I am bringing everyone together to give them their own tools and create a positive community filled with individuals who wish to change themselves and the world for the better.
Natascha: Yeah, that really makes me want to self-reflect and see how I could change my life for the more positive. What got you to start this healing journey?
Anya: What got me started? It all started, probably, I mean, well, I used to be 325lbs. That was not a result of just a girl who loved food, but a girl who was in a lot of pain, a lot of emotional pain. Didn’t know how to process her trauma, didn’t have the tools and resources to just feel normal. That resulted in my weight loss journey, which was my commitment to my physical health. Why physical health? Because the three of them are related; mind, body and Spirit. Right? They all interconnect, and with finding that discipline and with finding that balance within – Then yoga came into my life shortly after, and that taught me kind of how to embrace the physical practice of yoga and learning how to feel good in my body. Then shortly after that, my spiritual practice came into act, and that resulted in me learning how to live a spiritual life so I could transform, but also remain positive and free flowing and just feel better about the trajectory of my life. Because it’s been imperative for me to understand that it is me and only me who’s responsible for my trajectory, not the course that others have set for me my whole life. Same goes for those of you tuning into this today.
Natascha: Yeah, I also started with yoga before I got into my witch practices. So that resonates with me as well. Were there mentors early on that helped you when you were most in pain, or did you find yoga and your spiritual practice on your own?
Anya: Oh, absolutely. There are two groups of people that I find really keen that helped me on my journey. First of all, it was Mel and Kaleo from Rebel and Muse. My friend Kristan invited me to their yoga retreat back in 2018, and from there I realized…how messed up I was. If we’re being perfectly honest. Yoga retreats are so awesome and empowering because they remind you that you’re in a safe space to simply be yourself. That experience slowly started my self-awareness, self-reflection journey of, “oh boy, my normal, is not everybody else’s normal”. So, that kind of was an awakening for me. With that, especially with feeling comfortable in my body and just having kind of that mirror of reflection on me help set the stage for the inner work ahead. Then shortly after I met who would become a huge mentor of mine: Taren S with the House of Witchcraft. She opened the Witches Cottage out here in San Diego, and I got to dance around the bonfire with her and our coven out there for many moons. Through that, I learned spirituality, I learned accountability, I learned healing, I learned what it was to take care of myself and to empower myself, but also how important community is and how we are truly in it for one another.
Natascha: Yeah. On the subject of community, how has your spiritual and health journey changed the way that you hold your friendships and your romantic relationships?
Anya: Ooh. That’s a great question. I feel like it’s taken the people pleaser out of the scenario- for sure. I no longer wish to hold on to what’s not for me. And also with that, though, I do give all my friends the benefit of the doubt through open communication and through being vulnerable and being communicative. I mean, the ones who get it, get it. If I bring up an issue with a friend and be like, hey, what the heck? And they respond- that’s the kind of people I want in my life. I find that romantically, it’s been awful because I realize a lot of partners don’t want to do the work, and it’s hard, especially being at this point in my journey and single. Well, I need somebody who’s at least going to match where I’m at.
Natascha: Well, that’s really important for young folks and for women of all ages to hear. We so easily will go along with what partners want from us because we want to appease them, or we don’t want to be by ourselves. By holding your energy and by being an empowered woman, you’re holding boundaries that maybe some of us put down just to get along with others.
Anya: You know, for better or worse, I sometimes- I feel like I have nothing else to lose. I’ve had some pretty horrible life experiences and with that, you know, has come strength, especially my romantic relationships. And it’s like, ‘Hey, I’ve got nothing to lose,’ so why not walk in faith and see what happens and see if I can actually stop limiting myself and create the life I deserve.
Natascha: Before we get into your book, did you want to tell us any more about The Season of Anya? What kind of content you put out, or products or things that people can engage in?
Anya: Sure! So the Season of Anya is the main hub. I’m really passionate about my free monthly newsletter. So, to those of you tuning in to this, I highly recommend you check that out. That is the heart of my blog. Uh, I know that newsletters are so outdated, but that’s where I share my monthly tips, and not only just that, but also shine light about being in tune with the world around me. I have very cute little witchy stories, I share that are just true moments of surrendering to the flow, and I love sharing those stories, and they often bring a laugh out of my audience and give them opportunities to reflect and connect. So, definitely, definitely- check that out. Then I’m also working on YouTube and social medias and trying to figure out my flow and grind with that. But it all centers back to The Season of Anya community, where ultimately, I’d like to host witchcraft retreats. In fact, next year with my friends at House of Witchcraft, we are co-hosting a retreat in New Orleans in July because I want to give that experience of retreats to the rest of the community, so you too, can learn how to open up and feel safe and vulnerable in a protected environment, an empowering environment and find yourself again.
Natascha: Yeah, that sounds like a great community experience. Does your lineage come into play with your practice?
Anya: Ooh, Great question, actually. It has been for sure. So, I’m Italian, American, first generation, and with my lineage being Italian is so much there’s so much witchcraft actually associated with Italian culture. And it’s just so funny because it’s this interesting connection of witchcraft meets Catholicism. And that was actually understanding my Italian roots, even connecting through the Italian Goddess Aradia and other deities, but specifically, she has really just connected me to the essence of who I am as an Italian American witch. And it has been a really cool journey.
Natascha: All right. Thank you so much for sharing that with us. Here I am looking at Embracing the Sacred Flow. What inspired this book?
Anya: Well, you know, as somebody with really chronic anxiety and an addiction to over productivity and not learning how to just be present in my body, yoga has been a really crucial component for not only my healing journey, but also my life journey. This book kind of just goes over [that]. It’s going to be a multi-volume series. I wanted to give my audience something that’s really easy to read. I mean, honestly, you can read this in an hour or two, and it’s something reflective that gives you prompts for going inward and just kind of tips to get through your life. I talk about some breathing exercises in there. We talk about yoga philosophies, and I talk about learning how to be comfortable and being in tune with your body. Because especially if you are on the path of a witch, learning how to flow and just feel connected to yourself will always, always, always be your saving grace. It’s your anchor. It’s your life force. I’m really proud of it. I’m happy with this content. It’s a start of many, many books to come. I’m excited for you to check it out.
Natascha: If somebody follows the practices in this book, how often do you recommend that they do the yoga, do the breathing? What kind of schedule does this look like in your everyday life?
Anya: Well, yeah. Well, with everyday life, I try to make it very routine where it’s something that you can just tap into immediately. Yes, I do talk about creating an altar and the stretches and the flows, but really, I mean, it’s almost about like micro meditations because we don’t always have time for the big stuff, right? It’s learning on how to feel comfortable and not overwhelmed in any moment. As somebody who had been overwhelmed with literally everything my whole life, this is a new me, you know? But learning how to get rid of that overwhelm and just be here and learning how to release tension in your body and feel comfortable in every moment is life changing and I want to share that freedom with everyone.
Natascha: Wow. That’s amazing. I mean, I feel like if you’re working in a cubicle or if you have children that drive you crazy, or if you’re just a student that’s trying to find their way, this book could really help create a positive routine in your life and a sacred flow that doesn’t only align with the mind and body, but with your higher consciousness and creating a healthy future for the person that’s tapping into this magic. Yes. So, what’s next?
Anya: Ooh, well what’s next? Writing wise, I definitely have been sitting on a spell jars book: Spell Jars 101 book that I just need to kind of polish up a little bit. Just put my last little touches to it. And I really am excited for this upcoming book as well. You know, it’s like, okay, we learn how to tune in, we know how to stay sacred, we know how to stay connected and this book really talks about manifestation. And it demystifies the practice, a little bit of witchcraft, of spells and workings. Because it’s not about sitting at your altar, it’s about getting out there too and doing the work. You want a better life, you got to do the work…while adding a little witchy twist to it. That makes it my own. And I feel like Spell Jars 101 takes a fresh approach that you haven’t seen in your standard witchy books.
Natascha: That’s wonderful. Thank you so much for being an outstanding witch, doing positive work, light work, spiritual work, tuning into the body, soul, and mind. Is there anything else you’d like to share with us before we end the interview?
Anya: No, just go ahead and check me out on my website, subscribe to my free newsletter, and I promise your life will be forever changed.
Natascha: All right. Thank you so much.
Anya: Thanks, girl!
www.theseasonofanya.com to sign up for my free monthly newsletter, blog, and be the first to know about my upcoming witchy retreats.
Le Guin, Ursula K. The Dispossessed. Harper & Row, 1974
Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Dispossessed uses literary activism to reflect on the social and political tensions of the United States during the 1970s. This anarchist utopian science fiction novel follows the journey of a physicist, Dr. Shevek, who travels from the anarchist planet Anarres to the capitalist world of Urras in an attempt to launch his theory of cross-planetary communication. Through his eyes, Le Guin examines the constructs of gender, corruption, human existence, and freedom—revealing that both utopia and dystopia are flawed systems. The resolution, Le Guin suggests, lies not in perfection but in open dialogue and exchange of ideas.
The people of Anarres—also referred to as Odonians—hold a distorted perception of Urras due to their near-total isolation. Anarres has no prisons, and its citizens’ understanding of punishment comes only from history books. Their concept of Urras is shaped by distant memory and political myth. As Shevek observes, “You heard it: detest Urras, hate Urras, fear Urras” (41). Their fear and contempt arise not from experience, but from alienation—a societal narrative built on inherited prejudice rather than truth.
Le Guin emphasizes this disconnect through the story of Odo, the prophet and ideological founder of Anarres. Shevek reflects on the irony of her legacy:
“Odo had never set foot on Anarres. She had lived and died and was buried in the shadow of green-leaved trees in unimaginable cities, among people speaking unknown languages, on another world. Odo was an alien: an exile.” (96)
Even on his home planet, Shevek shares this sense of exile. His desire to travel to Urras is not born of rebellion but of curiosity—of wanting to understand both worlds more deeply and to find common ground between them.
Despite minimal contact, the two planets depend on each other for trade and survival, yet their lack of communication perpetuates misunderstanding. When Shevek arrives on Urras, he is celebrated as a brilliant visitor, but his observations soon reveal the same inequalities that plague his own society. His experiences on Urras force him to question the political system of Anarres and the illusion of safety that its collective ideology provides. He begins to see how even an anarchist world can fall into subtle forms of control through conformity and fear.
On Urras, Shevek encounters the harsh realities of gender inequality, economic disparity, and human suffering—from the poor conditions of hospitals to the fragile survival of children. His invention of a communication device becomes a symbolic act: a bridge not only between worlds, but between ideologies. By reopening the flow of information, Shevek helps both planets see themselves more clearly.
Le Guin’s work continues to inspire me as both a reader and a writer. Her exploration of imperfect societies encourages me to build realistic worlds in my own fiction—worlds that mirror our own struggles between freedom and control, justice and comfort, idealism and survival. Like Shevek, I am drawn to explore communication across divides, and how connection—through art, science, or empathy—can dissolve the barriers we construct between “us” and “them.”
McNamara, Miriam. The Unbinding of Mary Reade. Reprint ed., Sky Pony Press, 2019.
The Unbinding of Mary Reade is a historical fiction novel about a transgender pirate named Mary, who lives as Mark and joins a crew led by Captain Jack. Jack’s female companion, Anne, takes a romantic interest in Mark, and their evolving relationship becomes the heart of the story.
Mary’s life of disguise begins when her mother forces her to live as a boy in order to secure her grandmother’s inheritance, binding her chest with a sheet to conceal her gender. Over time, Mary becomes accustomed to being perceived as a man and develops fluid attraction, forming a close relationship with a servant named Beth. When Beth exposes Mary’s secret, Mary is forced to flee and eventually takes to the sea. Living as Mark the pirate, she earns respect among the crew—but her growing affection for Anne threatens to expose her again. When Anne learns the truth, she expresses a desire to bind herself and live as a man as well. Mary warns her of the hardships that come with this life, but Anne insists that being a woman in the 1700s is far worse.
In this annotation, I explore some of the controversial and allegorical themes McNamara weaves into her narrative—many of which still reflect social struggles in our world today. The novel uses historical fiction to examine class systems, gender identity, and freedom through a lens of political allegory.
One passage captures the novel’s commentary on class inequality:
“If only everything worked that way.” If only Granny had just double what Mum did. If only Baas had double what his sailors did. “Imagine if the king himself could only have twice as much as the poorest beggar. That world would be a different place.” (75)
Here, McNamara critiques the imbalance of wealth and power by imagining a world where those in authority could earn no more than double their subordinates. This reflection feels remarkably relevant in today’s world, where similar inequalities persist across class lines.
Later, a heartfelt conversation between Mary and Anne highlights the struggle for autonomy and freedom, particularly for women and those living under oppressive rule:
“You’re never free, so long as you’re subject to someone—to a captain, or the crown, or whatever good-for-nothing man decides to lord over you.” (82)
This line resonates deeply with the current political climate. Though America was founded as “the land of the free,” modern politics challenge that promise. During Donald Trump’s presidency, many saw the erosion of democratic norms—the undermining of separation of powers, the targeting of free speech, and the questioning of birthright citizenship. McNamara’s words remind us that freedom must be continuously protected, and that systems of control—whether monarchies or modern governments—can threaten that ideal.
As a writer, I am inspired by McNamara’s ability to weave political allegory into personal narrative. I aim to do the same in my own work—addressing tyranny within communities, advocating for women’s rights, championing LGBTQ+ acceptance, and encouraging open dialogue across divisions. In my fiction, I want to support characters who use zie/zir/zirs pronouns, model resistance against unjust authority even at great personal risk, and portray diverse people working together to rebuild communal, earth-centered lives.
Through The Unbinding of Mary Reade, McNamara demonstrates how storytelling can both preserve history and challenge it—reminding us that identity, justice, and freedom are battles that transcend time.
The Fifth Season: Every Age Must Come to an End by N.K. Jemisin
The Fifth Season is a science fiction novel set on a supercontinent called the Stillness. The narrative alternates between two third-person perspectives—Damaya and Syenite—and one second-person perspective, Essun. Syenite travels with her assigned mentor, Alabaster, and their relationship begins in hostility but evolves into mutual understanding and respect. Meanwhile, Essun journeys with Hoa and Tonkee in search of her daughter, Nassun. Through her grief and drive for revenge, Essun gradually rekindles her hope in others, even those of a race that once shattered her past. Damaya’s story, told from childhood, introduces the world of the Fulcrum and the deceit of the Guardians, which shapes the novel’s class system. In the end, all three main characters—Damaya, Syenite, and Essun—are revealed to be the same person, leaving readers eager to continue the trilogy in search of an answer to the haunting question: Where is Nassun?
In this essay, I closely examine Syenite’s relationship with Alabaster, focusing on the literary device of the relationship arc, and tracing the development of their connection over time. I also explore how this arc reflects Syenite’s relationship to herself across her three identities.
Syenite faces a social obligation to maintain a sexual partnership with her mentor, Alabaster. As an orogene, the Guardians have trained her to obey. Because of her strength, she is expected to breed with Alabaster as part of their mission:
“If Syen isn’t careful, if she pisses off the wrong people, if she lets herself get labeled difficult, they will kill her career and assign her permanently to the Fulcrum, leaving her nothing to do but lie on her back and turn men’s grunting and farting into babies” (71).
Alabaster’s response to this forced intimacy defines the tension in their dynamic:
“Because that’s hate in his face” (72).
From their first interactions, the reader senses an unjust world—one that both characters resist in their own ways. After their first encounter, Syenite feels ashamed, while Alabaster remains emotionally distant. Their sex continues, mandated by the Fulcrum’s breeding program, and Alabaster observes:
“I think you hate me because… I’m someone you can hate. I’m here, I’m handy. But what you really hate is the world” (149).
Alabaster knows that any child they conceive will be enslaved to power a node, “chained to a wire seat and drained.” Though the Guardians paired them for power and procreation, Alabaster instead mentors Syenite to question authority and imagine freedom. When they reach the island of Meov, he remarks,
“They don’t kill their roggas [slur for orogene] here. They put them in charge” (296).
Later, their relationship deepens when they take on a third lover, Innon. This is the turning point—their intimacy becomes mutual, and the idea of a child shifts from duty to love.
“It’s just been so long, Syen… Not since he’s had a lover he wanted” (354). This love trio embodies a sense of hope and agency: “‘Baster doesn’t want her that way, nor she him. And yet it’s unbelievably arousing for her to watch Innon drive him to moaning and begging…” (372).
Syenite’s relationship arc with herself mirrors the world’s cyclical “seasons” of disaster and calm. As Damaya, her relationship with her parents is dark:
“…and hates herself, because of course Mother and Father are selling Damaya if she can think such thoughts” (27). When she is handed over to Schaffa, her Guardian, he breaks her hand to enforce obedience, saying, “Never say no to me… I am your Guardian. I love you” (99). Her belief that “the Guardians are the closest thing to safety a rogga will ever have” (329) exposes the depth of her conditioning. We see this again in Syenite’s awareness: “…that she is a slave, that all roggas are slaves, that the security and sense of self-worth the Fulcrum offers is wrapped in the chain of her right to live and the right to control her own body” (348).
When Syenite later faces Schaffa again, she must finally say no—to end the cycle of control. Through this, the reader understands the whole arc of resistance and self-realization across her identities.
The novel’s structure allows us to recognize how Syenite’s history shapes Essun’s present. “Once you lived surrounded by the walls he built for you, in a home you made together, in a community that actually chose to take you in” (407). The rise and fall of peace between “seasons” parallels Essun’s struggle for survival. When Alabaster is taken by a stone eater and Syenite is left alone to protect their son, Coru, the irony deepens when we later discover that Hoa—also a stone eater—genuinely cares for Essun.
“But I wanted to travel with you… I like you” (396).
Relationships are central to both my storytelling and personal philosophy. Self-discovery often begins through connection with others—through those who choose to invest their time and care. This truth is mirrored in Syenite and Alabaster’s relationship: although it began as an obligation, they ultimately choose one another. Alabaster gives Syenite a glimpse of happiness and freedom she has never known—from her family, the Guardians, or herself. The relationship among the three versions of Syenite reflects the many selves that exist within every human life and how our past continually shapes our present. This lesson inspires me to write deeper, more honest relationship arcs in my own characters and to embrace how lived experience can transform the people we become.
Work Cited Jemisin, N.K. The Fifth Season. Orbit, 2015.
Febos, Melissa. Body Work: The Radical Power of Personal Narrative. Catapult, 2022.
In Body Work, Melissa Febos writes from her own experience as a former dominatrix struggling with addiction, and through the act of writing, she takes control of her narrative. Her memoir functions as both craft guide and manifesto, asserting that writing one’s truth—particularly for women, queer writers, and other marginalized voices—is an act of resistance. Febos argues that telling our stories is not self-indulgent but revolutionary; to write from lived experience is to fight against oppression and reclaim authorship over the self.
Though personal narrative is inherently subjective, Febos reframes this “bias” as authenticity. Writing from memory becomes a way to unearth silenced voices and heal from trauma. She states that even though writing may seem self-focused, it offers transformation both for writer and reader, allowing the veil of secrecy and shame to be lifted.
Febos confronts the cultural fear of what she calls “navel-gazing”—the critique that memoir writing is narcissistic. She quotes William H. Gass:
“To have written an autobiography is already to have made yourself a monster” (17).
The notion carries a sting of truth: society often punishes those—especially women and queer people—who dare to name their wounds. Febos insists that writing is not an act of vanity, but of courage. To face one’s own history, to process pain through language, is to step into transformation. For those who have been silenced or made invisible, writing becomes a form of survival.
Febos notes that writing has long been undervalued as a healing tool, particularly in patriarchal cultures that discourage emotional expression. She points out how journaling or personal writing is often mocked as feminine or “unserious,” yet it serves as a deeply therapeutic practice that supports both individual and collective healing. Febos celebrates the bravery of women, BIPOC, and LGBTQ+ writers who risk their reputations to speak truths that society prefers to ignore:
“Native women’s personal narratives explored the racialized, gendered, and sexual nature of their colonization” (15).
She continues, addressing the silencing of trauma narratives:
“Still, the dominant culture tells us that we shouldn’t write about our wounds and their healing because people are fatigued by stories about trauma? No. We have been discouraged from writing about it because it makes people uncomfortable. Because a patriarchal society wants its victims to be silent. Because shame is an effective method of silencing” (19).
Through this, Febos identifies writing as a radical counteraction to shame. She makes clear that those who write about sexual abuse, addiction, or marginalization do so not to shock but to reclaim their dignity and voice.
The memoir intertwines themes of feminism, oppression, sex, religion, and repentance. Febos reflects on her past as a dominatrix and the spiritual implications of both power and submission. In doing so, she destabilizes cultural taboos around sex and morality, positioning confession and writing as parallel acts of liberation. She writes:
“Not because it’s important to make them squirm [straight readers] but so the rest of us know that it’s possible to make a white man your bitch or get spat on without shame…” (34).
She also quotes essayist Nancy Mairs:
“That is, there is no shameless man as there is a shameless woman…” (24).
These reflections link sexual power and writing as shared acts of truth-telling and autonomy. Febos suggests that healing begins when we speak the unspeakable and strip shame from our stories.
By the end of Body Work, Febos invokes the language of recovery, aligning the act of writing with the Twelve Steps:
“Only by recognizing my deed as my own can I hope to know myself as the author of my own misdeeds” (60).
Confession becomes redemption; to write one’s truth is to acknowledge the past without being imprisoned by it. Through her interweaving of sex work, religion, and feminist theory, Febos asserts that our experiences do not define us—our willingness to understand them does.
Body Work is both a craft book and a spiritual guide—an invitation to write the stories we fear most. Febos’s work has inspired me to approach my own writing as an act of self-realization and collective healing. Like her, I want to draw from my background, my fears, and my encounters with both darkness and light to create work that reflects not only my personal truth but also the cultural and social moment I live in.
Febos offers more than instruction—she offers permission. To write the “bare truth,” no matter how uncomfortable it makes others, is to reclaim one’s humanity. Through her book, Febos grants writers like me—and all readers—the right to tell our stories unapologetically.
By Natascha Pearson Jones, Stephen Graham. The Buffalo Hunter Hunter. First Saga Press hardcover edition, Saga Press, 2025.
Stephen Graham Jones’s Buffalo Hunter Hunter is a historical horror novel that blurs the boundaries between myth, memory, and morality. Set across multiple timelines, it follows Pastor Arthur Beaucarne, who in 1912 records the confession of Good Stab, a Blackfoot vampire recounting his experience during the 1870 massacre of the Blackfoot people. As settlers destroy both Native lives and the buffalo that sustain them, Good Stab becomes a living symbol of survival, guilt, and decay.
Generations later, Etsy, Beaucarne’s great-great-great-granddaughter, discovers his logbook and, as a journalist, seeks to understand the past that haunts her family. Her search culminates in a confrontation with Good Stab himself—a scene that serves as both a power shift and a moral reckoning. With Good Stab’s identity and survival in her hands, Etsy must decide whether to end his life or allow him to continue feeding. Her choice becomes an allegory for agency, accountability, and inherited trauma.
The novel’s tone is brutal yet strangely meditative, combining the grotesque intimacy of horror with the restrained rhythm of oral storytelling. Jones describes the settlers’ violence toward the Blackfoot people and the buffalo with chilling precision, but Good Stab’s narration delivers these horrors with such calm that the reader feels both repelled and mesmerized. His storytelling maintains a balance between intimacy and distance, as if ritualizing pain into memory.
Good Stab’s voice grounds the story in Indigenous experience and language. Phrases such as
“Beaver Medicine wasn’t for me anymore” (115) and “…and my eyes are slitted down like this because I’m already looking ahead…” (41) root the narrative in Blackfoot cadence and worldview. Even when recounting unspeakable acts, the tone remains measured, spiritual, and deliberate—echoing the endurance of a people who have seen everything taken from them and still continue.
Good Stab’s recurring reference to Pastor Beaucarne as “Three Persons—Father, Son, Creator” (28) interweaves Christianity and Indigenous spirituality, merging sacred language with horror. Jones collapses faith and flesh, the cross and the fang, into a single mythology. The calm precision of his prose heightens the horror:
“The hide-hunters pulled the boy’s pants down and bent him over one of their knees, and the other one dropped down behind him, was untying his pants that were sticky with blackhorn blood” (211).
The violence is shocking, yet the narration remains detached, forcing the reader to inhabit the same emotional distance the traumatized narrator does.
In classic Western stories, settlers are often the heroes, but Jones subverts this entirely. Here, the Native vampire—traditionally cast as the monster—becomes the moral center. The reader roots for Good Stab even as he drinks blood, because his existence reclaims power from the colonizers who destroyed his people. We come to trust him, even during the most brutal moments, as a vessel of justice and remembrance.
Jones also threads a powerful commentary on religion, assimilation, and identity. The vampire becomes an apt metaphor for colonization—feeding on the living, erasing culture, and leaving behind bodies stripped of spirit. After the massacres, Native survivors are forced into Christianity, captured in images of children dressed in Western clothes, their hair cut, their heritage erased. The transformation from free people to “civilized” captives mirrors Good Stab’s own curse—immortality as a form of damnation.
As a writer, I’m deeply inspired by Jones’s craft, particularly the way he merges historical realism with supernatural horror. In Discordia, I aim to draw from similar techniques—using rhythm, diction, and cultural voice to create immersive worlds that echo the truths of history. Jones’s prose captures the daily life, geography, and humor of the Blackfoot people in brief but powerful glimpses:
“This is how we’re born into the world, and this was what was happening to me, I was being born again, but not like the Black Robe said when he baptized all the Pikuni in Big River, when I was throwing up Whitehorn milk and Wolf Calf was patting me on the back and smoking his short pipe and chuckling” (95).
In just a few lines, he conveys rebirth, cultural duality, and embodied experience. His language carries both the sacred and the horrific, allowing the past to haunt the present without losing its humanity.
By drawing from Jones’s approach—merging brutality with stillness, history with myth—I hope to create worlds where horror and hope coexist, and where the act of storytelling itself becomes a form of survival.
Little Lost Forest 