Losing Recipes of Artistry

I run a literary group called Quills on Quire, a name that came to me in a haze of sleep deprivation and quiet rebellion. I had just had my baby, and between breastfeeding, changing diapers, and staring at the same walls day after day, I found myself aching for something more than routine. Stagnation is a strange kind of grief — not of what has ended, but of what refuses to begin. So I started a literary club.

I don’t really remember how or why the idea came to me. Maybe it was divine timing. Maybe it was desperation. But in that stillness — that uncomfortable quiet of postpartum — I reached for the one thing that always made sense to me: words. Since then, Quills on Quire has grown into a space of shared thought and creativity. People come and go, as life allows, but something remarkable has happened — we’ve all grown. As writers, thinkers, and even as readers. Growth in a time of personal transition has been the most unexpected gift.

As I deepen my writing practice, I’ve found myself returning to books with a different lens. I don’t just read for story anymore — I read to understand craft, rhythm, subtlety, structure. And one thing I’ve noticed is just how stark the divide can be between modern and older works. I recently picked up The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood. She’s often called a contemporary classic — a phrase I find a little confusing. When does a book become a classic? What qualifies something as timeless? I don’t know the answer, and I won’t pretend to. But reading Atwood reminded me of something I hadn’t felt in a while: confusion. Not the bad kind — the good kind. The kind that makes you lean in instead of pulling away.

For the first few chapters, I had no idea what was going on. And then I did. And it felt like a reward. That kind of writing doesn’t coddle the reader — it trusts them. It says, Stay with me. You’ll get there. And I did. And it was worth it.

It made me wonder: Are we losing recipes in modern-day storytelling?

Don’t get me wrong — I’m not saying every book needs to be a dense think piece, or that plot-driven novels have no value. I read for joy. I read for fulfillment. I’m not chasing motivation or inspiration — I’m chasing immersion. Escapism, darling. I want to feel like I’ve entered another world, another mind, another language. Lately, many contemporary novels seem to follow a formula. The same beats. The same emotional arcs. If you’ve read one, you’ve almost read them all. At least that’s how it feels — and I’m fully aware this generalization is based on my limited experience. I haven’t read every book in the world. But I know that when I want something truly different, something that challenges and surprises me, I often reach for books written before the 21st century.

There’s a mystery to older works — a patience, a depth, a refusal to explain everything. And that’s the thing: not every mystery needs solving. I’m not one of those readers who’s trying to predict every twist or decode every symbol. (For the record, I did not try to solve Amarantha’s riddle. It was never going to be me.) But I do crave that sense of not knowing, the thrill of discovery. I miss writing that asks something of me — that respects me enough to let me linger in uncertainty.

And something I’ve been telling my inner circle is this: I don’t want to write to be extraordinary.

I’m not striving for greatness, and I don’t think I would even mind being labeled as mediocre. Why? Because how often do we see Black people being praised for the kind of mediocrity that gets celebrated in our flour-colored counterparts?

The truth is, Black people are taught — explicitly and implicitly — that we have to work twice as hard just to be seen as half as good. We all know this. And even when we do reach that undeniable level of excellence, someone still moves the goalpost to make room for another subpar demographic.

So no, I don’t want to write for excellence. I want to write with freedom. Without coddling anyone who consumes my work. Call me mediocre, call me pretentious, call me controversial, call me confusing. If it means I can write the way I want to — really write — then maybe I’ll finally gain the confidence of a mediocre white man.

Wouldn’t that be something?

I think part of the reason writing today feels so afraid to be bold, or even just messy, is because of the looming presence of social media.

Art has always existed within a cultural framework, but now, more than ever, that framework is defined by the algorithm. You don’t just need talent. You need visibility. You need aesthetics. You need a following. If you want to publish a book, labels ask about your engagement. If you want to make music, they check your numbers. If you want to fund a film, you better be viral-ready.

And while technology has opened doors for many creators, it’s also flattened the creative process into something dangerously close to content farming.

We no longer celebrate difference. We package it. We box it, hashtag it, and flatten it for mass appeal. We tell stories designed to trend — stories with neat morals, predictable arcs, and enough relatability to keep everyone nodding but not enough discomfort to make them pause. It’s a disease. 

Art — real art — isn’t always meant to be palatable. It’s meant to stretch, to provoke, to confuse, to wound, to delight. And sometimes, it’s meant to sit with you in silence before revealing its meaning. That kind of artistry doesn’t come with instant validation or viral success. It requires risk and in a world that increasingly punishes risk and rewards sameness, that’s a hard thing to ask of creators.

Still, I want to try. As a writer. As a reader. As a person navigating motherhood, ambition, and a fragile relationship with creativity. I want to resist the pressure to be polished. I want to honor the stories that confuse me before they move me. I want to write — and read — like the algorithm doesn’t exist.

Because, listen, at the end of the day, I don’t want to create work that fits into a box. I want to create something that breaks the box, whether it’s good or bad. Who wants to be stifled anyway?