Okay, let’s talk about something that gets me ranting with my dog (who does not care, but listens patiently): representation in genre fiction, especially in stuff like urban fantasy and paranormal YA. You know the kind—ghosts, witches, werewolves who look like they could model for GQ, and demons with tragic backstories and great hair.
Now, don’t get me wrong—I love this stuff. I’ve devoured every series where a sarcastic teen gets bitten by something and suddenly has to save the world with magic powers she just found out about, like, yesterday. But there’s this weird trend where so many of these stories still revolve around the same kinds of characters. Usually white. Usually straight. Usually inexplicably hot but somehow completely unaware of it. And I’m like—hello? Have you seen real teenagers? They’re weird and messy and beautifully diverse. So why don’t our stories reflect that?
Let me put it this way: genre fiction is basically imagination unchained, right? You’re already asking readers to buy into magic portals and vampire politics—why not throw in a protagonist who uses a wheelchair and still slays demons like it’s nothing? Or a nonbinary necromancer trying to balance spellwork with algebra homework? It’s not just more interesting—it’s realer. And don’t give me the “but it’s fantasy” excuse. Fantasy is exactly where representation should thrive. If you can believe in talking cats, you can believe in a Black bisexual witch with ADHD who’s the chosen one, thank you very much.
I remember reading Shadowshaper by Daniel José Older and thinking, finally. A Puerto Rican girl from Brooklyn who talks like a real teen and paints murals that wake the spirits of her ancestors? That book had flavor. It smelled like hot pavement and street food and teenage rebellion. Sierra, the main character, wasn’t some blank slate waiting to be filled in—she owned the page. That kind of representation isn’t a trend, it’s a necessity. (Also, read it. It’s awesome.)
Same goes for Labyrinth Lost by Zoraida Córdova. We get Alex, a queer bruja who’s terrified of her own magic. The world is lush and alive and unapologetically Latinx, and it doesn’t stop to explain itself—it invites you in, like you already belong there. That’s the vibe. That’s what we need more of.
Now, let’s talk urban fantasy. This genre is basically supernatural soap opera meets gritty alleyway—and yet so many of the “urban” parts are…not actually urban. Like, where are the queer kids of color from South Chicago who can see ghosts? Where are the Indigenous werewolves in New Mexico who keep ancestral stories alive through shapeshifting? I want to see that. I need to see that.
Not just because I’m hungry for good stories (though I am, always), but because the more kinds of people we see in genre fiction, the more kinds of people we give permission to imagine themselves as heroes. That’s huge. Especially for teens. Imagine being sixteen and seeing someone who looks like you on the cover of a fantasy novel, doing cool magical things and making out with the brooding guy (or girl, or nonbinary sea witch) of their dreams.
And no, it’s not just “pandering.” It’s called reality. Here’s a real fact: A study from the Cooperative Children’s Book Center (CCBC) indicate that approximately only 10% of children’s books published in the U.S. that year featured Black characters (Source: https://ccbc.education.wisc.edu/literature-resources/ccbc-diversity-statistics/books-by-and-or-about-poc-2018/) That’s embarrassing. We can do better. Especially in fantasy, where there are literally no limits except the ones we invent.
You know what’s cooler than a vampire with abs? A vampire with abs and generational trauma and an accent that reflects their real-life immigrant roots. Representation doesn’t take anything away from stories—it makes them richer, weirder, more layered. More…us.
Anyway, that’s my soapbox for today. If you’re writing or reading genre fiction, I hope you start looking for the stories that aren’t being told yet. Or better yet—tell them yourself. Your weird is valid. Your voice is magic. And your werewolf deserves better than another moody white guy in a leather jacket.
Catch you in the spirit realm (I’ll be the one in the glittery combat boots).