Let's Have A Real Conversation

The importance of supporting the marginalized artists we love.

Several times a week, I find myself on the receiving end of words steeped in affection and gratitude for the thoughts I dare to weave together in my writing. Such acknowledgments ground me, serving as a gentle reminder of the sacred bond between the writer and the reader—a bond I hold dear. The act of writing, for me, is not merely an occupation but the very essence of joy and fulfillment.

An heirloom, handed down to me by my late-grandmother, to hopefully spark something in the world.

It is a privilege to earn my livelihood through the craft of storytelling, to carve out spaces of freedom and reflection through sentences. Yet, amidst this exchange of love and appreciation, there exists a deeper understanding I need to address—an understanding concerning how admiration for an artist should manifest in tangible support. Especially when said artist belongs to a marginalized community.

To illustrate this, I’ll have an honest discussion about my personal anxiety as a Black author releasing my fifth book. As the past few days have folded into one another with the weight of anticipation and the sharpness of disappointment, a place not unfamiliar to most who put pen to paper as a career.

Yesterday, a package arrived at my door, unassuming, yet pregnant with promise. Within its cardboard confines lay early copies of my forthcoming poetry collection, "We Alive, Beloved". Holding it, I felt its weight not just in my hands but in my soul—a culmination of countless nights steeped in thought, of days drowned in the music of words. It was a moment of profound intimacy, a whisper from the universe affirming, "Yes, you have created, and it is real."

The sensation of flipping through your book’s pages for the first time is akin to walking through a garden you’ve planted. Each word is a different species of thought that bloomed from the fertile soil of your imagination.

But with the arrival of these early copies, there looms the other side of the coin, the stark, glaring reality of what comes next. The marketing, the promotion, the hustle to translate the solitary act of creation into the communal act of consumption. It’s a dance I’ve come to know well, stepping in time to the rhythm of necessity and desire. And the most important step in said dance … preorders.

Preorders, as I've come to understand, hold a significance that extends beyond mere numbers. They are the early indicators of a book's reception, a gauge of interest and enthusiasm, or the lack thereof. For authors, particularly those of color, whose stories are often relegated to the margins, these numbers carry an added weight. They are not just indicators of potential success but of visibility in an industry where our voices have historically been suppressed, where our narratives have been deemed too niche, too other.

While specific numbers can fluctuate annually, reports have consistently shown that less than 10% of published authors in major markets are Black, with some analyses suggesting the figure may be closer to 5%. This disparity is even more pronounced when considering the pinnacle of literary recognition—the bestseller lists—where Black authors are markedly underrepresented. Reviews of major bestseller lists over the last five years have revealed that less than 8% of the titles that attain the coveted New York Times bestseller status are authored by Black writers.

via wordsrated.com

This demonstrates why the importance of preorders, especially for Black and brown authors, cannot be overstated. They signal to publishers, booksellers, and the literary community at large that there is a demand for our stories, that our perspectives matter. Preorders can dictate the trajectory of a book's life, influencing everything from print runs to marketing efforts and placement in bookstores. In essence, they can mean the difference between a book that fades into obscurity and one that finds its way into the hands of eager readers, sparking conversations, and igniting change.

Recently, I received the preorder numbers for "We Alive, Beloved," and was met with a wave of surprise and disappointment. The numbers were dishearteningly low, a stark contrast to the hundreds of messages of support and admiration I've received in just the past few months. This disparity has led me to ponder not the lack of support for my writing, but rather a broader misunderstanding of what true support entails for artists, especially in the digital age.

In our current era, where online presence is often equated with success, there's a growing misconception about what it means to support artists. Followers, subscribers, and shares are frequently seen as indicators of popularity and, by extension, support. However, while these digital affirmations are encouraging, they do not translate into the tangible support necessary to sustain a career in the arts. This distinction is crucial, particularly for artists from marginalized communities whose work is already sidelined by mainstream platforms.

The reality is that true support—support that can actually impact an artist's ability to continue creating—requires more than just digital engagement. It involves actions that have a direct financial implication, such as purchasing books, attending events, and opting into paid subscriptions (major love to my paid subscribers). These actions are the lifeblood of an artist's career, providing not just the means to live but also the resources to invest in future projects.

This misunderstanding of support is not due to a lack of desire to help but rather a lack of awareness about the significant role that financial backing plays in the arts. The digital age has made content so accessible that the effort and resources required to produce it are often overlooked. As a result, many believe that their online engagement is enough to keep their favorite artists afloat. However, without financial support, the harsh reality is that artists can’t continue to do what people love.

The low preorder numbers for "We Alive, Beloved" serve as a sobering reminder of this gap between perceived support and the support that actually sustains careers. This gap poses a significant challenge, not just for me but for all artists, particularly those from underrepresented backgrounds. To bridge it, there needs to be a collective shift in understanding and action from our communities. We must recognize that while likes, comments, and shares are valuable, they are not substitutes for the financial support that underpins the work.

As we move forward, my hope is that we can start a dialogue about the importance of tangible support for artists. I hope this helps people redefine what it means to be a supporter of the arts in the digital age, recognizing that true support extends far beyond the screen. By doing so, we not only ensure that artists can continue to create but also affirm the value of art in society.

To preorder “We Alive, Beloved,” click below: