Written by SYREETA BENJAMIN

My Love for Books

I recall writing my first book when I was around six or seven years old. A piece of construction paper folded in half enclosed my little rough stick figures and my upside-down and inside-out letters. It only made sense to me, of course, but I remember being so proud when I showed it to my mom. Thinking back, I always wanted to be a storyteller. A need to move someone with words and watch their eyes lift in anticipation, or crack a laugh along the way. 

As I grew older, my preference for books over people grew, and I found solace in fiction. My mom nourished this part of me, a reader herself. We checked out books at the library or spent the day at the bookstore.

As a teenager, I journaled a lot—my way of letting out my unmanageable feelings. I felt awkward, unseen. Mixed with German and Black, I didn’t fit the mold either way. Depending on where we lived, my hair curled too much, or maybe it was not thick enough. My skin was too light or, often, too dark. I felt lost and found it hard to make and keep friends. So, books were my companions.

Fantasy fiction was my thing. Made-up worlds never reminded me of my flaws or life’s hardships, while writing gave me a silent audience. The paper on which I penned my poems held no pressure or judgment, just the canvas to express myself during those chaotic years. 

It wasn’t until my late 30s, though, that I took either of my crafts seriously. Prior to that, my career was in social work. Art and writing were more of a therapeutic hobby. While I don’t regret my path (I wouldn't be who I am), I still remember picking my college courses for my undergrad and wanting so badly to be a writer. Unfortunately for me, creative works were just a hobby, not a career back then.

However, social work gave me self-discovery. To hone your craft, you need a calm headspace to learn, to accept critique, and to build grit and determination. Above that, you need patience with yourself, and it wasn’t until later in life, after becoming a mother and helping others, that I gained that skill.

"A room without books is like a body without a soul."

— Marcus Tullius Cicero

A Lesson in Peace

Living comfortably in social work—or any career—means consistently doing the right things, moving up, seeing opportunities and going for them. Eventually, I became a supervisor. Working hard and playing harder with my family seemed like the norm. 

I won’t lie. My sector–working with neglected and abused children– was rewarding, but highly stressful and heartbreaking. I traveled with my family to decompress and tried not to bring work home, but even that became impossible. My depression dipped to hard lows, and my anxiety flared all the time. Unfortunately, being intentional about my peace wasn’t something I truly understood. 

Things changed in 2019, when my husband and I welcomed our baby boy. We had him late in life. To put it in perspective, his sisters were 12, 14, and 16. I struggled to grasp it all, thinking possibly my age had something to do with feeling depressed. But then, my doctor diagnosed me with Post-Partum Depression (PPD). 

Listen, PPD is a beast. None of the classes my husband and I went to, nor the baby books we read, could have prepared me for it. I gazed down at my son, filled with overwhelming love, but my mind was drowning. My emotions spiraled, and my mind felt fractured. Not even my husband (bless his heart) could truly understand. 

Somehow, my midwife knew. During my check-up, she took one look at me and knew I wasn’t okay. She said, “You don’t have to tell me details, but make sure your husband knows. Let your family and those you love help you when it feels too much.”

Those words truly saved me. For most of my life, I moved like a machine—efficient, relentless, and self-contained. Letting others help me or “delegating” tasks wasn’t part of my wiring. As a mother and wife, I was the organizer, doctor, nurturer, therapist, chef, banker, teacher, cheerleader, and the one who absorbed everyone’s worries while lifting their spirits. It never occurred to me that I might need those same things myself.

Of course, I imagined the house burning down immediately without my intervention. But then one day, my husband came home from work and wanted to vent about his hard day. I took one look at him and said, “I can’t.” 

This wasn’t me being mean, but honest. I could not take on his burdens, because I was drowning myself. The saying, “You can’t pour water from an empty pitcher,” is very true. If I wanted to be better, then I needed to let my family handle things themselves for a while. I needed to focus on myself. 

Back to Hell

After my maternity leave, I returned ‌to work, but it wasn’t the same as before. I wasn’t the same anymore. Next to my office was the visiting room, where parents came to have supervised visits with their children. Hearing the little ones cry after their visits made my heart break into pieces. The numbness I built throughout the years–telling myself the work I did was necessary and reminding myself of the children I’m saving–didn’t work anymore. On top of all that, I experienced paranoia–a troubled feeling that something may happen to my son in someone else’s care. 

Then COVID hit, and the world changed. I resigned twice before I resolved that I no longer wanted to do this type of work. Guilt and failure clawed at me. Nobody truly understood the immense anxiety I felt on Sunday before the week even started or the crushing sadness I felt being away from my son. I knew in my heart that I needed to do something different. 

What I didn’t know then is that it takes at least five years for postpartum depression to fully leave you, and for some of us, it changes our brain chemistry for the rest of our lives. 

Being Intentional

During my time away from work, I did things that made me happy. While deep in self-reflection (trying to figure out who I am and what course my career would take), I cuddled with my son, painted, crafted, and read a ton of books. Though writing poetry was a hobby of mine, writing an actual full-fledged novel was just a dream. But as I read about destined queens, fated mates, and imagined worlds, I realized none of the main characters reflected me. The books I read all my life sometimes never even had a diverse character in them. Not a speck of color. 

This told me two things: Black women authors who write fantasy fiction or sci-fi are extremely rare. Though urban fiction, contemporary romance, biographies, and self-help books dominate the pocket of black women readers, I couldn’t be the only black woman who loves fantasy, science fiction, cosplay, or Airbender. I’m not the only female BLERD in the world. 

I can count on both hands how many American Black women authors traditionally publish fantasy fiction. This is specific to the fantasy/science-fiction genre written by American Black female authors. We have our own culture aside from our skin being black. 

So, yes. I said what I said. 

The bias of publishing companies is a rabbit hole I’m not covering here because that in itself is its own book, but of those few authors I mentioned, most went indie first after a slew of rejections. 

The second thing it told me was that I needed to be intentional, too. If I wanted to see my children and grandchildren reflected in this genre, then I needed to WRITE THE BOOK. I know…one author is like a sand pebble on a beach, but that never stopped Alicia Ellis, Jessica Cage, or Leslye Penelope from opening that door for us. So, I went back to school.

My First, but Not Last

I started plotting my debut book, LIGHT AMIDST the SHADOWS, in 2021 while I returned to school and earned my Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing. I learned so much during the process. The good, the bad, the sweat and the tears are why I stay firm as an author. 

LIGHT AMIDST THE SHADOWS: CHRONICLES OF THE KEEPERS BOOK ONE

As I wrote, I kept thinking, even if nobody ever reads my book, I did what I set out to do. I represented my people and my culture in a genre that will tell us we have no space in it. The same ones who suppressed our ancestor’s ancient spiritual system in the name of “Christianity,” and called it spiritism, then stole it for themselves and called it their mythology.

With all that said, I have no regrets that my debut novel is an unapologetic Black YA fantasy fiction novel. Black characters, Black gods, Black world = Blaquity-Black. And as I write my second novel, “Memories of a Dream Walker,” I continue on my path of positive representation. This time, I delve into the space of science fiction (my other favorite genre) and I’m even more intentional, tapping into mental health representation, grief, and love. It’s set for release in 2026, and I’m beyond excited to share it.  

But before I go back to writing, I want to stop and thank every single one of you who supported me on this long, crazy journey. I’m beyond grateful, and every share, subscription, email, and text message means the world to me. Those who are new to my shenanigans, I invite you to join my newsletter for my latest ramblings. If you haven’t already, follow me on social media @oneartsyauthor, and stop in at my Etsy shop where I create bookish art, including pre-made book covers for my fellow indie authors 🙂.

Thank you for being a part of my story. 

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For any inquiries, please contact:

Syreeta Benjamin at:

Website: https://linktr.ee/syreeta_benjamin

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Etsy shop @ https://www.etsy.com/shop/OneArtsyAuthor 

If you know anyone who recently gave birth, please check on them. Don’t wait for them to call you. For more information on postpartum depression, also known as PPD, visit https://postpartum.net/