Why I've Written an Entire Novel Dedicated to the Women of Afghanistan

In August 2025, I received an email from Women for Women International, reminding readers that the day marked four years since the Taliban had taken control of Afghanistan. In that time, Afghan women and girls have faced unimaginable restrictions. They've been banned from schools and jobs, silenced in public life, and shut out of almost every opportunity to live freely. The email asked for messages of hope and solidarity to be read in classrooms across Afghanistan.  “Despite the odds stacked against them,” the message went on to say, "Afghan girls and women are still showing up to our training centers, showing up for each other, and dreaming of a better future.”

The Guardian, "How the Taliban are Erasing Afghanistan's Women" Nov 14, 2024

Encouragement, empathy and compassion have power to inspire hope during the darkest hours, on both personal and global scales. I believe that literature also has power, to show the underrepresented that they are seen, to let the have's walk alongside the have-nots, meandering that pathway through an imaginary place, not exactly the one we encounter in the daily news, but not not that one either. Though mine is not a voice of experience, my outrage, concern, credo and connection to all beings lead me to bear witness and pick up my pen in an effort to show that I am here, across the planet, standing beside my sisters in a world I can only imagine.

I'm aware of the foibles. American Dirt, anyone? I read the backlash. I also read the book and thought it was a heartbreaking and necessary glimpse into a world most readers wouldn't otherwise visit. I know. I know. But if I can't write my heart into a fabulistic story about lovers and magic yarn-spinners, birds who carry notes on their backs, soups and stews simmered out of words cut from library books, and a loyal dog who saves our fair heroine, in a doughnut shop of all places, then what is my pen for?? Somewhere along the way, I was taught to take my little candle out from under a bushel and use it to illuminate the way. Walk with me.

If you've read this far and are wondering what, specifically, I'm so fired up about, it's because since 2022, I've been writing and revising and agonizing over a novel called Onah's Yarn. Onah is a septuagenarian with the ability to spin yarn from her hands. In the book, Onah's sister Mar is the story-teller, but is it a yarn? Or truth? Do our dead become birds? Can our dogs save our lives? Does every journey begin and end with love? ARE YOU AN AGENT OR EDITOR WHO WOULD LIKE TO RESCUE ME FROM THE EDGE OF DESPAIR AND READ THIS FUCKING MANUSCRIPT BEFORE I either COMMIT HARI-KARI or BURN ITS PAGES IN THE FULL MOON SUPER MOON BONFIRE OF MY shouting-into-the-void ANGST?

And if I feel this way?? It's not enough to write novels, classified as magical realism, to make very real-world problems go away. And yet. Walk with me.