Writing is how I see the world. I think of it exactly that way—like a lens. Through writing, I witness myself and my own experience in this body I’ve been given. I’m wading through the blessings, the convoluted realities, the questions, the lessons, and the weight it all entails. In this miraculous act of seeing myself, I come to feel gratitude, understanding, and empowerment. I come to live.

As we close Women’s History Month, I’m considering what it means to be a Black woman making language today. I’m sitting closely, as I always do, to this quote by Toni Cade Bambara pulled from her vital craft essay, “The Education of a Storyteller,”:

“What are you pretending not to know today, Sweetheart? Colored gal on planet earth? Hmph, know everything there is to know. Anything she/we don’t know is by definition the unknown.”

As Bambara says here, we as Black girls and women are naturally instilled with knowledge. Our knowledge is ancestral, inherent, and most of all, communal. When I think about community, I think about the writers who are pulling me forward these days—less so the canonical literary giants, but my brilliant peers. I think of Tamia Miller, who writes the kind of work rooted in that Black girl instinctual knowledge Bambara speaks of—stories of familial dynamics accented by humor, narratives immersed in body image, crushes, grief, and transformation. In Tamia’s stories, I read my truth, my complications, my Black girlhood in all its exposed fullness. She reminds me why I write—to make Black women feel seen the way her work makes me feel seen.

In honor of Women’s History Month and the power of centering and elevating Black women’s stories, Tamia and I had a conversation about what it means to be Black women making sense of the world through the written word.

Courtney: When and how did you begin writing?

Tamia: I don’t remember a time when I didn’t write. My mom tells this funny story where when I was little before I could properly form sentences, I would take notebooks and write on every line and every page. In my little mind, I was already writing. So in some capacity, writing has always been a part of my life. Journaling and personal stories were my first love.

C: Were there certain things you wrote about? Did you turn to writing when you were happy?

T: The other night, I was on the phone with my best friend, and we pulled out our old journals. I read snippets to him and realized all my entries were usually written when I was angry—friend drama, someone in my family who made me mad, or something happening at school. A lot of passion, but a lot of anger. Also, a lot of romance.

C: That makes me think of Audre Lorde’s “The Uses of Anger.” She says anger is the way women alert the world to injustice. What’s your relationship to anger now?

T: Growing up, I was shy and really afraid of anger. Writing was a safe space where I could keep my anger contained. I thought, “Okay, I can be as angry as I need to be on the page, and just leave it there.” Whereas now, when writing for an audience, I have to ask myself, “How can I not just leave the anger, but turn it into something impactful that can help someone else?” I wonder, “What about this issue angers me? What’s the real injustice here?” Anger is a form of curiosity.

C: What’s it like revisiting your past self in those journals?

T: I miss getting to be that innocent version of myself. I grieve the younger me who was naïve to so many injustices. The older you get, you see the harsh realities of what it’s like for [Black women]. But there’s joy, too. I get to remind myself that a lot of the simple things that made me happy then still make me happy now—spending time with my family or visiting my grandparents, going to the beach, music. There’s beauty in that.

C: How do you heal that grief for your young self?

T: Lately, I’ve been writing and craving more lighthearted coming-of-age stories for Black girls. I don’t really see a ton of [narratives] now that feel authentic to my upbringing and my sense of community. We had The Proud Family, Crooklyn. We do have some [representation] now, but we’re lacking. We get so many stories of Black pain, Black trauma. Those are powerful and needed, but it’s just as important to see stories that are fun, silly, and simple. As Black women, we deserve the full spectrum.

C: What’s your go-to genre when writing Black Joy—fiction or nonfiction?

T: It’s a mix of both, but it usually starts with personal experience. A lot of times, I’m reflecting in conversations with friends. We reminisce on those common Black girl things, like learning how to do your hair for the first time and sitting in your mom’s lap when getting your hair done. My grandparents are a big one for me—visiting my grandma, waking up on the weekends, and smelling her food. I look back on those seemingly everyday things and realize they were so integral to me developing my own sense of self. Those are the memories that ground me and my writing now.

C: You’re making me nostalgic. I’m thinking of family reunions and eating after church. Remembering our joys is how we keep our girlhoods alive. We have little girls in us we need to protect. 

 T: And that gets to the power of storytelling. It’s so validating to think a little thing that feels so personal to me is meaningful on a large scale. That connection is everything.

C: What are you writing now?

T: I don’t know if this is the start of a novel or essay, but I’m exploring the idea that a lot of coming-of-age stories stop at high school or college graduation. But what happens after, when you’re still figuring out what it means to be a baby adult, and trying not to get lost in the world? What does it mean to be a young Black woman navigating the world without the comfort and safety of family? How do you keep yourself grounded?

C: True. Coming of age is forever. I love that you’re writing through it as a way to be curious. Which writers do you go to for inspiration?

T: On craft alone, Toni Morrison. Also, Nicola Yoon. I love that Black girls get to be the lead and get to be adored in her novels. I also love Tiffany D. Jackson. Monday’s Not Coming left me heartbroken!

C: Any advice for young writers?

T: Find community. Writing is a life-long love story. It has ups and downs, so you need people who believe in the power of your work, people who breathe life into you when you can’t see the greatness in yourself. It’s been friends, mentors, and other writers who’ve kept me going.

I hope young Black women writers everywhere feel inspired to put pen to paper and release their stories, this month and beyond. If this conversation moved you and you want to begin your storytelling journey, Mahogany has some great products to get you started. My go-to is the I Am Black History” Guided Journal, which provides affirming quotes on Black excellence to inspire your writing. Tamia loves the 100 Days of Uplifted and Empowered Journal. She says, “The journal does a great job at not only offering insightful prompts to start writing but making you feel empowered in the process.”

Which journal suits your journey?