The Liberation of Fiction: Finding My Voice as a Black Woman Writer

Since I was young, I’ve known I wanted to write a book—most writers will tell you some version of this. For me, writing started as an escape. As a kid, I was a maladaptive daydreamer. I would sit at my desk, staring out the window and imagining plots and characters until the bell rang. My first step into fiction was writing Harry Potter fan fiction in middle school. I’ll always be grateful to the teacher who allowed me to spend lunch breaks hunched over my spiral notebook, scribbling long, loopy chapters in my unreadable handwriting.

I never fit neatly into any box. As a young Black girl growing up in Southside, Jamaica, Queens, I often felt I wasn’t enough, no matter how many multitudes I held. A pivotal moment came in elementary school when I won an essay competition. Our librarian praised my writing but noted, “Not one single ‘I’ was dotted or ‘T’ crossed.” That was me in a nutshell: more concerned with the expression of my ideas than the rules I might break. In high school, my English teacher told me that being a writer didn’t mean I had to be an editor, too. That advice reassured me since, though I can edit others’ work, I often need help with my own—and that’s okay.

Now, as a mom of two, recently ADHD-diagnosed, and an overextended entrepreneur, I’ve learned to embrace help. For years, I resisted, often burning out from the need for hyper-independence. Writing became my only outlet in the depths of depression or during the overwhelm of anxiety. Many lonely times, my notebook felt like my only true friend. In my writing, I can see myself more clearly. On countless occasions, I’ve sorted myself out in my notebook, making lists of pros and cons and manifesting bold dreams.

After I had my daughter, my reasons for writing changed. More than wanting to write myself into the narrative of American culture and the African diaspora, I want my kids to see themselves reflected in the world around them. I want them to know that their voices are important and that there’s space for their nuanced experiences outside stereotypes. The process of giving birth was much like the process of birthing a book. For both, you must weather the uncertainty of a million little details coming together to create something utterly unique and deeply needed in the world.

For a long time, I thought writing was about producing something. Now I realize it’s about allowing. Writing is my tool—my sword or wand, depending on the moment (I write searing yelp reviews, do not mess with my food!). I channel my thoughts into poetry, plays, short stories, essays, and novels. Fiction, in particular, feels like a safe space for me as a Black, Afro-Caribbean woman. I can tell stories of trauma, pain, joy, and love through it. Writing myself onto the page feels liberating. It took years to express my version of the Black experience, shaped by my Guyanese and Ghanaian roots, in my authentic voice. When I started writing my novel, Departure Story—the second novel I finished—I understood that writing was my ancestral gift. It was as if a chorus of voices chose me to share their stories, detailing the lives of women who never had the chance to write but might have dreamed about it.

Toni Morrison once said, “Yes, I can write about white people; white people can write about Black people—anything can happen in art. There are no boundaries there. … Having to prove that I can do it is what was … insulting.” This resonates deeply with me. When I began writing fiction, I mostly wrote about white characters because those were the stories I consumed. Growing up, the literary canon reinforced the idea that “great literature” was written by white authors. In my local library, Black YA literature was scarce. I adored works by Judy Blume and Sarah Dessen, but their stories of white suburbia often made me feel invisible. Books like The Skin I’m In by Sharon Flake or Jacqueline Woodson’s works were rare treasures that I devoured.

As I grew older, I discovered authors like Toni Morrison, Alice Walker, Maya Angelou, Julia Alvarez, Jhumpa Lahiri, Elizabeth Nunez, and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Yet, even in college, majoring in English at a predominantly white liberal arts school, finding diverse literature felt like a challenge. I doubted my ability to write the Black experience with the nuance it deserved. External forces and a lack of representation shaped my perception of my voice’s worthiness.

It took years to affirm my worth and unlearn harmful beliefs. Teachers urged me to keep writing, seeing potential in me that I often doubted. Spiritually, I felt God asking me to choose myself and my art—or risk shutting down a vital part of me. I realized the choice was between living unfulfilled or embracing my gift, even amid societal pressures that sought to diminish my light.

Why do I write fiction? Because someone needs a story. Someone needs an escape. Someone needs to trade reality for a daydream—and I’ve always been exceptionally good at that.

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Rowana Abbensetts-Dobson

Rowana Abbensetts-Dobson is a Guyanese-American writer, author of Departure Story, and founder of Spoken Black Girl, a publishing & media company that promotes mental health and wellness among Black women & women of color by amplifying emerging voices.