Most writers are desperately hungry for compliments about their work, so I was all ears when my best friend started reading an early copy of my novel coming out in July and said, “You know what the best thing about this book is?”

The stellar writing? The steamy sex scenes? The endearing characters? All of which my tender, greedy ego was eager for her to call out. But it wasn’t any of that. She told me: “It’s so refreshing to see a Black girl, like a regular Black girl, doing regular things like falling in love. It’s crazy that that still stands out to me. And feels so radical. But it does.”

It wasn’t the praise I was looking for, but it hit me hard nonetheless because that was one of my goals with All The Men I’ve Loved Again and all of my work — to showcase the types of characters, relationships, and pop culture references that I longed to see in books and television but were woefully scarce when I was growing up in the 1980s and ’90s.

Even now, and after all my years as a book editor and novelist, I’m well aware of how rare it still is, though the publishing and entertainment industries have made important strides, especially since the “Great Racial Reckoning” of 2020 when it snapped into clear, undeniable focus how many voices and stories were being overlooked and underrepresented.

Since then, more writers than ever before have had access to publishing avenues and opportunities they previously wouldn’t have, even just five years ago. Though we have a ways yet to go, those steps should be acknowledged as progress, if anything so we keep building on it. It’s also important to remember that it’s not a zero-sum game! Just because the landscape has opened up for more interest in and access for BIPOC writers, that hasn’t limited opportunities for all the wonderful, talented white writers out there who, I promise, are still being published and championed with great enthusiasm.

But as much as editors, agents, producers and development folks may be committed to more diverse offerings, we still have to count on audiences being willing and excited to embrace a variety of stories. There’s a dangerous trap of thinking that “Black stories” are just for Black audiences and “queer stories” are just for queer audiences, etc. Even the fact that we often revert to these labels and categories — sometimes outright, sometimes subconscious — and the marketing that goes along with them — sometimes outright, sometimes subconscious — can be problematic. It creates a mentality that certain books are for certain people. But we can’t always just read books about people like us or who share our histories, backgrounds and viewpoints — not only because that’s boring and reductive, but if audiences only consume certain types of content then only those types will continue to get published or made.

I admit it, though: I, myself, am as guilty as anybody of gravitating towards the comfort and ease of staying in my literary lane, so to speak, especially when it comes to fiction or memoir (books to escape into rather than explicitly “learn from”). I’ll hear about a queer love story, or come across an essay collection about living with a disability, or read a review of stories about growing up on a native reservation and ask myself, “but is this really for me?” Sadly, I’ve shied away from some books, reflexively thinking that the answer is “no.”

But that reaction, knee-jerk as often it is, is wrong and limiting. Why wouldn’t I, an American atheist, be as swept away as I was reading a novel about a multi-generational muslim Palestinian family? Why shouldn’t I, a Black person, be moved to tears by a story of the Asian immigrant experience which is what happened when I devoured Beautiful Country. When I, a childfree cis woman, wondered how much I could relate to or learn from a memoir about raising a gay son, the answer turned out to be… a lot.

There’s nothing wrong with wanting to read (and write) stories that reflect your culture and experience, of course, but there’s also a lot to be said for branching out, even if those narratives are somewhat harder — harder to relate to, harder to stomach, or even harder to discover in our narrow personal algorithms online and in life. It’s worth the effort, especially in these days of peak polarization. Stories have always served as a bridge for community, connection and empathy and we could all use some of that right about now.

So, consider this your gentle reminder to think about what entertainment content you’re gravitating toward and also perhaps to accept a challenge — or I would actually call it an invitation — to consider branching out in 2025 to discover a book (or movie or TV show) that reflects a different perspective and background from your own and not just an honor of Black or Asian History months or Pride. And read this book with your book club!

We can start, together, right here. This community has the best recommendations, so I’d love to know: what’s a book you read that opened you up to a new experience or perspective? Or the last book you read that felt captured something essential about your own culture and life experience that you would urge others to check out? Please share below…

Christine Pride is a writer, book editor and content consultant who lives in Harlem, New York. Her new novel, All The Men I’ve Loved Again, comes out on July 8th.

P.S. More Race Matters columns, and nine readers share their favorite books.

(Photo by Christine Han.)