A Polite Introduction and Deaths in the Family

Editor’s Note: This post was originally written years ago, before H. WordSmith Reads had language for what it was becoming. I return to it now not to erase the earlier self who wrote it, but to speak more clearly from where I stand.

If you are anything like me, when you hear that an author has passed away, your first instinct is to reach for everything they have ever written. To gather their words close, as if rereading them might keep something essential from slipping away. If that sounds familiar, come in and stay awhile. This is the kind of moment H. WordSmith Reads was built for.

This space exists because books are not just objects or recommendations. They are companions. Teachers. Quiet witnesses to who we were when we first read them and who we are becoming when we return. And sometimes, when an author leaves us, their absence feels like a death in the family.

This week, two authors left us. I did not know either of them personally, yet both have permanent places on my bookshelves—and both played a role in my becoming.

I came to the work of bell hooks through a friend who once said to me, “As much as you read, I can’t believe bell isn’t on your radar. Here.” I remember holding Ain’t I a Woman: Black Women and Feminism and thinking, somewhat casually, that it was cool she knew Sojourner Truth’s words. Almost immediately, that thought was followed by a quiet unease. I didn’t consider myself a feminist. I had absorbed Aretha’s demand for “Respect” down to my bones, but as long as that respect was present, I saw no contradiction in wanting family, love, or softness.

It didn’t take long after opening the book to realize how narrow my definition of feminism had been. bell hooks gently, insistently expanded it. Expansion, I came to understand, was her work. She invited us out of the boxes society builds, gave us language for longing, and permission to want more—without shame, without erasure, and without abandoning care. I never met her, but she grew me all the same. That kind of growth-through-reading sits at the heart of H. WordSmith Reads.

I am also grateful to Anne Rice, who handed me—and millions of other readers—her box of darkness through the eyes of the Vampire Lestat. I was too young when her words first found me, but they marked me nonetheless. That was my first book crush, my first experience of being enthralled by a character who refused to be simple. More than that, it was my first lesson in a villain who was not purely evil. She taught me that being human—or immortal—means holding a kaleidoscope of contradictions, desires, and moral questions all at once.

Both of these women, in very different ways, taught me how wide a life can be. How complicated. How worth examining. This blog exists because reading does that to us—it stretches us, unsettles us, and gives us new language for ourselves.

May they rest well now that their journeys are complete. And may we continue to return to their words, not just in mourning, but in gratitude.

Reading Invitation

As you move through this space today, I invite you to pause and consider:Which author shaped the way you see yourself—or the world—without ever knowing your name?What book feels like part of your personal history?

If you’re willing, return to one of those pages this week. Read not for completion, but for remembrance.

Related Reading at H. WordSmith Reads

If today’s reflection resonates, you may want to linger with:

• Ain’t I a Woman: Black Women and Feminism — bell hooks. A foundational text that challenges narrow definitions and invites expansive thinking about identity, love, and liberation.

• All About Love — bell hooks. A return point for readers interested in how care, accountability, and justice intersect.

• The Vampire Lestat — Anne Rice. A meditation on power, desire, morality, and the complexity of choosing one’s nature.

• Interview with the Vampire — Anne Rice. A study in memory, guilt, and what it means to tell one’s own story.

These works remind us why we reread—and why certain authors never really leave us.