One of the things I think about as a romance author is this: Much of the genre we saw as our foundational texts was white supremacist.

Why? Because it was almost entirely white, and non-white romance was mostly relegated to another room in the bookstore.

Whatever the feelings of the individual authors who wrote those books, an all white space about almost entirely white people (with exceptions for highly fetishized roles) will have markers of white supremacy.

The question then becomes how to dismantle that space, and look—inclusion of authors and stories is necessary, but I don’t think it’s enough.

Evaluating what role white supremacy plays in what I write and how it hits the market is going to be a lifelong endeavor.

I dunno, at some point I wonder if I should talk explicitly about some of the mistakes I’ve made, but I will just say this one thing: The romance obsession with wealth and power makes for some very uncomfortable truths.

Anyway, I say this because I’m editing a book where the goal I set myself for writing it was to stop handwaving the things that always get handwaved, and I have to tell you: It’s fucking hard. It’s really fucking hard.

I still handwave. There’s too much not to. I thought I could and it’s too much.