Have you ever not known how empty you were—until a weekend of feasting showed you just how hungry you really are?That was me, this weekend. I spent it in the company of 1,500 readers and fellow authors at the Black Romance Book Fest, and I left with my heart and spirit overflowing. Now, you might say, “Vanessa, I get your newsletter. I follow you on Instagram and Threads. I see the pictures. You go to a lot of events.” And yes, that’s true. I do. I’m the type who soaks everything in—the people, the place, the energy, the reason we gather.But this? This was different.When you're marginalized, stepping into spaces where you're one of only a handful can be daunting. I still remember sitting in a ballroom at an RWA conference, surrounded by people who wouldn’t meet my gaze—blue eyes turning away, avoiding eye contact as though acknowledgment might cost them something. In those moments, I’ve wished for a sign that read: Conversation is free. I don’t bite.And then back in my hotel room, I’d recite poet Gwendolyn Brooks’s work, To Black Women. She begins with:“Sisters,where there is cold silenceno hallelujahs, no hurrahs at all, no handshakes,no neon red or blue, no smiling faces prevail.”It’s as if Gwendolyn herself had walked the conference floors with me. You learn to prepare yourself, to build armor against the lack of hurrahs, the absence of handshakes. You remind yourself that rejection isn’t always personal—people read what they relate to. Unless they choose to diversify, most gravitate toward characters who look like them or have shared lived experience. Unless, of course, if we're talking werewolves or vampires—those stories get an all-access pass, while Black, brown, or queer stories are often left outside the gates.And then there was this weekend.At Black Romance Book Fest, no one turned away. People smiled. They hugged. They talked to everyone.You heard Nice boots, cute T-shirt, Girl!!! those nails, and cool—a pirate costume, etc.The halls were crowded with people, laughter, and cheer. Hallelujahs rang out online buddies met in real life. Hurrahs echoed down halls. It was a beautiful thing—to feel welcomed and seen in a space filled with so many faces who wanted to get you. There was a collective joy, an ease in being present, that’s hard to put into words, but you feel it. It vibrates across your skin and sinks into your soul.The breadth of representation moved me. Every genre and subgenre had a seat at the table—fantasy, paranormal, historical, contemporary, romantic suspense. I remember chatting with a fantasy author who was stunned, and delighted, to see how many Black readers were there for fantasy and speculative fiction. No genre was out of bounds. Everything—every moment—felt welcoming and grounded in sisterhood and solidarity.Of course, no event with 1,500 people and limited elevators can escape a little drama. But that’s every conference. I’ve experienced worse. I remember once, dressed in full Regency garb for a costume party, being stopped at the door because someone assumed—that I was in the wrong place. Apparently, I didn’t look like the kind of person who belonged in a Regency gown. That’s the kind of foolishness many of us with Black faces in literary spaces are familiar with. And unfortunately, it still happens, it just looks different—lack of support, lack of proper editing and marketing. Or simply turning the other way at a book signing. But that’s why I pour so deeply into my people, if you’ve made it this far, you are my people, but I especially want to bless the Black sisters who’ve supported me across every step of my career.They honor that I write something different. They honor everyone who does. They uplift the wide spectrum of Black storytelling—because at the core of it all is love: love of beauty, love of self, love of each other. And that love creates room for fantasy, horror, sci-fi, thrillers, historicals—genres long denied to us but reclaimed through our voices, our pens, and our varying v