Women in SF&F Month: Tesia Tsai
Apr
17
2026

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Today’s Women in SF&F Month guest is Tesia Tsai! Her young adult fantasy novel released earlier this week, Deathly Fates, is described as a “a sweeping debut inspired by the Chinese folk practice of necromancy…perfect for fans of Descendant of the Crane, The Bone Shard Daughter, and A Magic Steeped in Poison.” I’m happy she’s here today to share about the women she writes in “The Fate of the Eldest Daughter.”

Cover of Deathly Fates by Tesia Tsai

About Deathly Fates:

A sweeping debut inspired by the Chinese folk practice of necromancy, Deathly Fates is perfect for fans of Descendant of the Crane, The Bone Shard Daughter, and A Magic Steeped in Poison.

As a priestess paid to guide the deceased home, Kang Siying has never feared death. However, when her beloved father collapses, Siying realizes that even she is not free from the cruel grasp of mortality. Desperate to provide her father with the medical aid he needs, Siying accepts a dangerous job that promises a generous commission, and travels to a hostile state to retrieve the corpse of a missing prince.

But the moment Siying places her reanimation talisman on the dead prince’s head, rather than make the corpse obedient to Siying’s commands, the talisman brings the prince back to life. Worse, he won’t stay alive for long—not unless he absorbs enough qi, or life force, to keep his soul anchored to his body.

In return for a reward worth twice her original commission, Siying agrees to aid the frustratingly handsome prince in finding and purifying evil spirits for their qi. As they journey across the countryside, encountering vengeful ghosts and enemy spies alike, they gradually uncover dark secrets about the prince’s death—secrets that could endanger both Siying’s father and their entire kingdom.

THE FATE OF THE ELDEST DAUGHTER

“Afflicted by a terminal uniqueness” is how songwriter Taylor Swift describes the experience of being an eldest daughter. I find afflicted to be an apt word for how I write my female protagonists, including Siying in Deathly Fates. Because I’m an eldest daughter too, this “terminal” condition perpetually permeates my characters, whether they’re the oldest or not. Eldest daughters always want more, but they go about it in all the wrong ways. They want independence, praise, peace, fulfillment⁠—and they believe that if they just work hard enough, sacrifice enough, and impress the right people, they can achieve it all.

But often, they⁠ can’t.

And that’s a paradox I love exploring in my novels. I write women I deeply relate to⁠—ones who really are trying their best but who too easily burn themselves out doing what they’ve been taught is the right, or only, way. I start their stories in that place of iron stubbornness, allowing them to suffer the consequences of their well-intentioned actions. And then I let them grow in other directions. I nudge them down paths that offer a different way, a different answer, to obtaining happiness, not only for their loved ones but also for them. Because that’s really what eldest daughters⁠—and most people⁠—want: to thrive alongside those they care about.

Admittedly, this is a goal I’m still working toward constantly in my own life. Which is probably why my characters become the guinea pigs to my personal research on how to hold tight to myself while loving others. Through women like Siying, and in the safety net of fiction, I convince myself that the alternative is possible, that I don’t have to bury my own heart to make room for another’s. I give myself a peek into what my life could be like when I put my needs first and see how that actually benefits everyone around me.

This affliction⁠ of being the “perfect” eldest daughter may be chronic, but it doesn’t have to be terminal. And ultimately, that’s what I hope my stories can convey to the readers who come across them⁠—the overachieving martyrs, selfless caretakers, and capable, bright women who deserve to be truly happy.

Photo of Tesia Tsai by Stephen Bentley
Photography by Stephen Bentley

Tesia Tsai was born in Los Angeles to immigrant parents from Taiwan. She currently teaches at Brigham Young University, and lives with her husband, two cats, and a dog in Utah. When not writing or reading, she enjoys watching Asian dramas, playing video games, and planning her next trip.
Women in SF&F Month: E. J. Swift
Apr
15
2026

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Today’s Women in SF&F Month guest post is by E. J. Swift! Her short fiction includes the BSFA Award finalist “Saga’s Children,” first published in the anthology The Lowest Heaven and later in The Best British Fantasy 2014, and “The Complex,” first published in Interzone and later in The Best British Fantasy 2013. Her two latest novels are The Coral Bones, an Arthur C. Clarke Award and BSFA Award finalist, and When There Are Wolves Again, the 2025 BSFA Award winner for Best Novel. I’m delighted she’s here today to discuss the natural world and these two science fiction novels in “Reclaiming space in the great outdoors.”

Cover of When There Are Wolves Again by E. J. Swift

About When There Are Wolves Again:

Decades from now, two women sit beside a campfire and reflect on their life stories.

Activist Lucy’s earliest memories are of living with her grandparents during the 2020 pandemic and discovering her grandmother’s love of birds. Filmmaker Hester was born on the day of the Chornobyl explosion and visits the site years later to film its feral dogs in the Exclusion Zone. Here she meets Lux, the wolf dog who will give her life meaning.

Over half a century, their journeys take them from London to the Highlands to Somerset, through protests, family rifts, and personal tragedy. Lucy joins the fight to restore Britain’s depleted natural habitats and revive the species who once shared the island, whilst Hester strives to give a voice to those who cannot speak for themselves.

Both dream of a time when there are wolves again.

Reclaiming space in the great outdoors

The natural world has been a topic close to my heart for as long as I can remember, but the way in which that passion has manifested has shifted over the years. From a young age, I loved David Attenborough documentaries and stories about wildlife. My copy of Colin Dann’s The Animals of Farthing Wood was falling apart from re-reading, and I’d happily spend hours perusing The Usborne Naturetrail Omnibus, some pages of which I can still visualise quite clearly. Whilst hugely formative, I can see now that much of this childhood experience—living in a suburban town, just outside of London—was filtered through media, rather than spending time in or adjacent to nature, in all its glorious messiness. The knowledge I gleaned came primarily from books.

Today, as someone who loves gardening, birding, and spending as much time as possible outdoors, I’m still not able to identify more than a handful of wildflowers or trees, but nature writing continues to be one of my great pleasures. And as an adult reader, it quickly became evident that this field has long been dominated by men–or to quote Kathleen Jamie’s famous essay: ‘What’s that coming over the hill? A white, middle-class Englishman! A Lone Enraptured Male! From Cambridge!’

The genre is getting more diverse, but there’s still a long way to go. In my reading both for pleasure and for research, I’ve sought out women’s voices in nature writing, and taken inspiration from writers such as Cal Flyn, Kyo Maclear, Kate Bradbury, Sophie Pavelle, Helen Macdonald, Nicola Chester, Jini Reddy, Melissa Harrison, and Sophie Yeo, to name a few. It’s made me think a lot about access, familiarity, and inherited knowledge of the natural world. From a romantic viewpoint, I adore the idea of striking out alone into the wilderness—overnighting in a secluded glen or sleeping by a waterfall, waking up to the dawn chorus. More practically, would I feel comfortable as a lone woman camping in the middle of nowhere? I’m not so sure. And of course, the issue of access and belonging extends to many other identities and communities who may not feel welcome–or who may actively be made to feel unwelcome—in ‘the great outdoors’, although initiatives like Adventure Queens and Flock Together are providing brilliant, inclusive spaces to break down these barriers.

Cover of The Coral Bones by E. J. Swift

Fiction, perhaps, can be another tool in reclaiming this space. In my most recent novels The Coral Bones and When There Are Wolves Again, I’ve explored the impacts of climate breakdown and the biodiversity crisis from two different perspectives—what happens if we don’t act fast enough to address these crises, and what might be gained if we do? In both books, placing women front and centre as naturalists, scientists, practising witches, or simply people who love and advocate for nature, was a critical part of the story.

The Coral Bones mirrors the journeys of three women, connected across the centuries by their deep love of the ocean. In nineteenth-century Sydney Town, teenager Judith must use guile and strategy to pursue her dream of becoming a naturalist in a male-dominated world, knowing she may never receive credit for her work. In the present day, marine biologist Hana has dedicated her life’s work to the fight to save endangered coral reefs. And by the twenty-second century, Restoration Committee agent Telma is tracking down sightings of non-human animals believed to be functionally extinct. Telma works alone, but whilst her assignments may present dangers, she is entirely comfortable within her external environment, and in travelling solo to remote and abandoned regions.

The speculative future of When There Are Wolves Again includes the introduction of a Right to Roam Act. Following the Act, my protagonist Lucy has her first experience of wild camping with her grandmother—albeit with some initial qualms about whether she, a city dweller, can truly belong in this previously inaccessible part of Dartmoor. Later in the novel, and a few decades on, she camps for several weeks alone, needing to retreat from the world for a time. There is no question in her mind as to whether this is an option for her; her sense of belonging has become an assumed norm.

Speculative fiction is a wonderful way to explore ‘what if’ scenarios. Often, these can be cautionary. But they can also offer us a way to imagine more positive futures, and perhaps to bring them closer to our grasp—futures such as a natural inheritance which has room for everyone to take up space.

Photo of E. J. Swift by Ella Kemp
Photography by Ella Kemp		 E. J. Swift is the author of six novels including The Coral Bones, which was shortlisted for the BSFA Award for Best Novel, The Kitschies’ Red Tentacle and the Arthur C. Clarke Award. Her latest novel, When There Are Wolves Again, is a Guardian Best Science Fiction Book of 2025 and winner of the BSFA Award for Best Novel 2025.
Women in SF&F Month: Cheryl S. Ntumy
Apr
13
2026

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A new week of Women in SF&F Month starts today with a guest post by Cheryl S. Ntumy! Her short fiction includes “The Ghost of Dzablui Estate” in The Bright Mirror: Women of Global Solarpunk, “Godmother” in Apex Magazine and later The Best of World SF: Volume 3, and those in her BSFA Award–nominated collection Black Friday: Short Stories from Africa. She’s also written stories set in the shared Afrocentric speculative fiction universe named the Sauútiverse, including the novella Songs for the Shadows and the Nommo Award–nominated short story “The Way of Baa’gh” from the anthology Mothersound. I’m thrilled she’s here today to discuss her Nommo Award–nominated fantasy novel (being rereleased tomorrow!) in “The Gods Made Me Do It: Spirituality and Autonomy in They Made Us Blood and Fury.”

Cover of They Made Us Blood and Fury by Cheryl S. Ntumy

About They Made Us Blood and Fury:

Anyi is the gem of the Countless Clans. Their Queens make lifeblood, a magical substance used for everything from medicine to weapons. Once, Anyi had so much lifeblood that they gave it away. Now their Queen is dying, none of her daughters, the Diviewe, can produce lifeblood and the gods that guide the clan have gone silent.

In the Empire of Ka, Anyi native Aseye dreams of leaving her work at the imperial armory to strike out on her own. Kwame, a spy with a hidden heritage, is a charming distraction. A man of conflicting loyalties, he’s not to be trusted with Aseye’s heart — or her secret, buried so deep that even she doesn’t remember it. A secret that could end her life.

As Anyi’s lifeblood dwindles, the Diviewe beg the Elders to unleash an ancient weapon to save the clan. The Elders refuse. The Diviewe take matters into their own hands. But the weapon is not what they thought it would be, and it’s not the only thing to wake…

The Gods Made Me Do It: Spirituality and Autonomy in They Made Us Blood and Fury
By Cheryl S. Ntumy

In the West-Africa inspired world of my novel They Made Us Blood and Fury, gods are real. Everyone knows what they look like and where they live. Some people honour the gods, some don’t, and some fall somewhere in between, but doubting their existence would be like doubting the existence of a major celebrity.

What’s up for debate is the will of the gods; like celebrities, they tend not to hang out with the masses. Spiritual leaders serve as publicists, of a sort. Mamiga, Soul Mother of the Anyi clan, speaks to the gods and guides the clan accordingly. That is, until the gods give her the silent treatment in a time of crisis:

“Are you saying the gods have abandoned you?”

Mamiga stiffened at the voice. It belonged to Adevu, the eldest among them and the most revered. She was surprised it had taken him this long to comment. Her head turned in his direction. He sat at the back, a gesture of feigned humility she had long grown used to.

“I didn’t say so.”

“But it is implied.”

Everyone else had fallen silent, though many nodded their assent.

Mamiga took a deep breath. “I can’t presume to know the minds of the gods, but—”

“Can’t presume?” Adevu coughed to draw all eyes to him, then offered his audience a bemused smile. “This is confusing. Knowing the minds of the gods is your sacred task. It’s precisely what you have been doing all this time. All of a sudden, now that disaster is upon us, you tell us you can’t presume.” He spread his hands and lifted his shoulders in a theatrical shrug. “What are we to make of that? Are you Anyi’s Soul Mother, or are you not?” – p.127

A little background: the people of Anyi are unique among the Countless Clans, with their silver blood and slumbering, cocooned queen who exists only to secrete a magical substance called lifeblood. Anyi produces so much of the stuff they’ve been giving it away. Known for their piety and pacifism, they think themselves righteous. Blessed. They have no army — and no enemies, as far as they know — yet in every generation the leaders of Anyi lock a fierce warrior spirit into the body of a baby as a failsafe, just in case. So far, the human vessels have led normal lives, oblivious of the monster within. But when the lifeblood dwindles and other clans refuse to help, someone wakes the warrior to force the clans into submission.

Religion often serves as part of the worldbuilding in fantasy fiction, a backdrop that can be tapped into whenever there’s a need for a fanatic or two, or an ideological battle between factions. I wanted to reflect religion as an integral part of a culture, something everyone takes for granted. I wanted to explore how spirituality influences our actions. Moreover, I wanted to depict forces so far beyond human perception that we can’t begin to comprehend them, and the naivety (or is it hubris?) that tells us we can.

Caution — spoilers ahead in the parts between the horizontal lines below!

For those of faith, questions of integrity, ethics and decency are bundled up with the will of the gods. It’s as instinctive and powerful as the fight or flight reflex. This is the kind of faith that drives Mamiga, supported by her ability as a seer. It’s a lot more difficult to question the gods when your visions always come to pass! When the gods summon her to their forest, a place filled with so many dangers that most who venture there never return, it doesn’t even occur to her to refuse. She trusts the gods, and she trusts the traditions of her people. Discomfort must be put aside. Doubt must be put aside:

Mamiga’s hands shook as she pulled her cloth tighter around her shoulders. She could see nothing ahead of her but trees and trees and noises so loud they cast shadows. There was no space in between for her, for breath. She would die here. The gods had called her to sacrifice herself. For the greater good. For Anyi. – p.233

The vessel, a young woman named Aseye, is far from home when the spirit takes over. While the spirit is theoretical for Mamiga, Aseye must live with the torment of actually housing it:

Aseye’s brain snapped in two. Her consciousness fell down, down, down and lay on its back in the dark. The other mind moved above her, all writhing fury.

She was aware of her arm ripping from the man’s grip. She felt her elbow slam into his throat, felt her leg rise up to kick him into one of the wooden poles that held up the stalls, heard the pole splinter. She registered the screams, saw the other people coming to intervene, felt her limbs swivel and strike, saw the bodies lying still around her. She didn’t want to see. It was better when she didn’t know, when it happened outside of her and she woke to the aftermath. This was too much, too painful, too wicked.

Don’t worry. Soon you’ll be gone, and you won’t have to see anything.

Aseye lay there in the darkness of her head, shaking with terror while her body fled the market. – p.125

Aseye is not like her leaders. She sees no reason to follow rules that don’t make sense and struggles with the burden. Even before she understands what is happening, she senses the wrongness of it. In a dream, her subconscious dares to ask the questions no one else did:

And Aseye asked the hunter goddess what had happened and why she had willed it, and the goddess said, “I willed nothing. No one asked me. Did anyone ask you?” – p.56

When she expresses her reservations, her guardian Fafa, who was party to the rituals that trapped the spirit inside her, explains why doubt is not an option for him. It’s the sunken cost fallacy — he’s in too deep. If he doubts this one thing, the whole house crumbles:

Aseye pressed her hand to her chest, half expecting to feel more than one heartbeat. “I know the thing inside me, Uncle. I’ve felt her, I’ve heard her. She’s fierce and mighty and stronger than anything I’ve ever known, but she doesn’t care about the gods. I don’t believe she came from Avlega.”

“You have to believe it.” His tone was firm.

“But—”

Fafa shook his head to silence her. “You have to. Otherwise, what is there? If she’s not from the goddess, where is she from?” He looked down at her, his eyes haunted. “If she’s not made by the will of the gods, for the good of the clan, then what have we done? To you, to all those who came before you? If we’re wrong, Aseye, then we are all damned.” – p236

And yet collapse is inevitable as it becomes clear that the gods did not will any of this — but did nothing to stop it, either. They have an agenda of their own. Whether Mamiga, Fafa and their predecessors are monsters is for readers to decide. In every other respect they are decent human beings, yet once they believe that the gods require a sacrifice, they close their eyes and offer it.

It’s no coincidence that this self-proclaimed righteous clan has strange ideas about bodily autonomy, considering their queen and the offspring that spontaneously emerge from her womb. She and her daughters are not human, but they’re bound by human expectations. Their bodies belong to the clan. Queen bees inspired me to create Anyi’s queen. Yet, though her people revere her, she isn’t in charge. She has no agency, no needs of her own; she’s a sac of biological processes, a red-piller’s dream. The ultimate maternal myth.

Women’s bodies are both cradle and battleground, and nowhere is this clearer than in religion. Our bodies straddle the line between life and death; they nurture and comfort, but also suffocate and stifle. Aseye rails against this, disgusted by the traditions of her people. She and her colleague discuss the creation myth which outlines the origins of the Anyi queen:

“But Ase, why don’t you honor this book? It’s the story of your own people.”

Aseye scoffed. “It’s a story about a woman who was too afraid to stand up and receive a gift that was rightfully hers. And then she died and started a horrible tradition of women sacrificing their bodies to the clan. What sort of history is that?” – p.43

The section with spoilers ends here!

In his book Interbeing, the late Buddhist Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh says: “Clinging fanatically to an ideology or doctrine not only prevents us from learning new ways of seeing things, but also creates bloody conflicts.” Blood and Fury is about just such a bloody conflict, and the consequences of human error over multiple lifetimes.

I believe in karma, but not in the instant gratification, pop culture sense. I believe that even if we do not reap what we sow, someone will, somewhere down the line. There is always a reckoning, life trying to course correct. Throughout the story, I had these questions in mind:

  1. What makes people believe that they are good? Is it how well they follow the rules? What if the rules are unclear, or unjust? What if the gods are tricksy?
  2. Does a genuine belief that they are doing the right thing absolve people from awful actions? Does it depend on the nature of the actions?
  3. Is autonomy possible in a world where powerful beings shape events, affecting human affairs for centuries to come?
  4. Is the greater good determined by what we’re willing to sacrifice for each other, or the unwilling sacrifices we demand?
  5. What if everyone is wrong about everything?
  6. What would a massive, instant reckoning look like, as opposed to things gradually course-correcting over time?

I think we all have a warrior spirit locked inside, waiting to be woken. We wage an internal battle for our minds, our attention. Our principles. We have “gods” of one type or another, voices that guide us well or lead us astray.

I think we cling to ideas that give us a sense or order and structure, because life is unpredictable and often scary, and the sheer terror of free falling with no soft mattress to land on is more than we can bear. I think that’s okay, as long as our chosen mattress does no harm. The moment it requires us to hurt or oppress others, we should throw it out.

Maybe we’re mostly good people, trying our best despite our enormous propensity for error. Or maybe we’re mostly wicked, with occasional glimmers of good. I choose to believe the former. Sometimes, that belief gets me in trouble.

There are two more books to come, and my hope is that they inspire questions, rather than provide answers. I don’t want to give anything away, but I will say this — there is a reckoning across the trilogy. Sacrifices will be made, and it will be a wild ride. But ultimately, life in the Countless Clans will course correct.

They Made Us Blood and Fury, published by Rosarium Publishers, will be released April 14, 2026

Cheryl S. Ntumy is a Ghanaian writer of speculative fiction, young adult fiction and romance. She is part of the Sauútiverse Collective, which created a shared universe for Afrocentric speculative fiction, and a member of Petlo Literary Arts, an organisation that develops and promotes creative writing in Botswana. Her most recent works are the Sauútiverse novella Songs for the Shadows (2024, Atthis Arts), the short story collection Black Friday and Other Stories from Africa (2025, Flame Tree Press, English version; Future Fiction, Italian version) and the novel They Made Us Blood and Fury (2026, Rosarium Publishers).

Women in SF&F Month: Week 3 Schedule & Week in Review
Apr
12
2026

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The fifteenth annual Women in SF&F Month continues with three new guest posts this week, starting with a new essay tomorrow. Thank you so much to last week’s guests for another fantastic week!

The new guest posts will be going up on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday this week, but before announcing the upcoming schedule, here are last week’s essays in case you missed any of them.

All guest posts from April 2026 can be found here, and last week’s guest posts were:

And there are more guest posts coming up this week, starting tomorrow! This week’s essays are by:

Women in SF&F Month 2026 Schedule Graphic

April 13: Cheryl S. Ntumy (They Made Us Blood and Fury, Black Friday)
April 15: E. J. Swift (When There Are Wolves Again, The Coral Bones)
April 17: Tesia Tsai (Deathly Fates)

Women in SF&F Month: Veronica G. Henry
Apr
10
2026

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Today’s Women in SF&F Month guest is Veronica G. Henry! Her short fiction includes “Lessons in Virtual Reality for Wayward Women” in Many Worlds and “A Terminal Kind of Love” in FIYAH Literary Magazine. She is also the author of the historical fantasy novel Bacchanal, which was a Manly Wade Wellman Award finalist in 2022, and the near-future fantasy books in The Scorched Earth duology, which begins with The Canopy Keepers. Her latest novel is The People’s Library, a science fiction fantasy book following a curator of digital historical figures in near-future Cleveland—and I’m excited she’s here today to share about one of its main themes in “The Birthplace of Consciousness.”

Cover of The People's Library by Veronica G. Henry

About The People’s Library:

A thought-provoking science fiction fantasy set in near-future Cleveland that follows a reluctant curator of digital human consciousness who must uncover twisted secrets and navigate ethical quandaries and dangers when anti-technology rebels attack the futuristic library.

Echo London never wanted to be the curator of the People’s Library, a digital collection of human consciousness. But when she’s assigned as its head librarian, Echo is entrusted with humanity’s greatest minds and historical figures, all of whom have been recreated through controversial consciousness-capturing technology that lets visitors interact with the dead.

But an anti-tech rebellion is stirring. When a rebel attack results in tragedy, a mysterious woman wearing an ancient death mask leaves behind cryptic final words for Echo: It all begins with nothing. Caught between the resistance and a potentially virtual evolution, Echo begins to fear that there’s more to her job than meets the eye and the mind. There are secrets here. And the People’s Library may be less of a promise of things to come than a warning of the danger that lurks beneath the surface. Now the fate of humanity lies in uncovering the truth.

The Birthplace of Consciousness
by Veronica G. Henry

One of the central themes of my novel, The People’s Library, is the intersection of artificial general intelligence and human consciousness. In fact, it’s an interrogation of the idea that at some point in the future we may have to contend with that simple but unsettling question: what if the two were merged?

My novel imagines a near-future library where digital copies of humanity’s most interesting historical figures are reproduced. Using AGI’s access to the exponential data points that exist for us all, it generates interactive, arguably sentient replicas. Yes, at the People’s Library, the dead can speak. But while developing the story, I realized that the deeper question wasn’t about the technology. It was about origins.

What is the source of awareness itself?

As part of my research, I read Charles Seife’s Zero: The Biography of a Dangerous Idea, a book about the fascinating history and physics of the number zero. It’s easy to discount this unusual digit because at first glance, it refers to, well, nothing. And that’s precisely why it garnered such fear and opposition. For centuries mathematicians and philosophers resisted it. One famous critic was Aristotle, who rejected the idea because he denied the existence of nothingness, or a void in the world. It wasn’t until centuries later that a 7th century Indian mathematician, Brahmagupta, developed rules for arithmetic involving zero. Without this much maligned number, there is no calculus, no binary code, and nothing of the digital world we have today.

Which means the entire technological premise of The People’s Library, the possibility of storing consciousness, rests on a symbol for nothing.

The physics surrounding zero made the idea even stranger. In quantum theory, empty space isn’t really empty. The vacuum is bursting with activity. Particles appear and disappear constantly, flickering briefly into existence before dissolving again. Seife describes them as “tiny Cheshire cats,” winking in and out of reality.

In other words, even nothingness is busy.

That idea began to shape how I approached consciousness in the novel. If the vacuum of space is full of potential, if particles can briefly emerge from what appears to be nothing, then why not consciousness? Before thoughts, memories, or identity, there could be a kind of mental zero. An unknowable substrate out of which awareness arises.

In The People’s Library, the archive preserves digital minds that behave like the people they once were. They remember things. They have personalities. Needs and curiosities. But a question lingers in the background of the story: are these preserved minds truly the same consciousness, or are they something more like those quantum particles, brief reappearances generated by data points? And another question I still ponder: where does consciousness live before it finds a home in a person?

Writing this book was my most challenging yet. It made me realize how little we understand the origins of awareness. Technology may allow us to record memories or simulate personalities, but consciousness itself still feels mysterious. It appears suddenly in each of us, persists for a lifetime, and then disappears again.

Like a particle from the vacuum.

The concept of zero helped me think about that mystery in a new way. Nothingness isn’t necessarily empty. It may just be the one thing that allows everything else to exist.

In that sense, the People’s Library isn’t just a repository of minds. It’s an attempt, perhaps an impossible one, to capture the sparks that rise out of nothing.

Photo of Veronica G. Henry Veronica G. Henry is the author of The People’s Library, The Scorched Earth duology, The Mambo Reina Mysteries, and Bacchanal. Her work has debuted at #1 on multiple Amazon bestseller charts, was an editors’ pick for Best Fantasy, and shortlisted for the Silver Falchion and Manly Wade Wellman awards. She is a Viable Paradise alum. Her stories have appeared in the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Many Worlds, and FIYAH Literary Magazine.
Women in SF&F Month: Shay Kauwe
Apr
08
2026

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Today’s Women in SF&F Month guest is Shay Kauwe! The Killing Spell, her upcoming novel that follows a young Hawaiian woman in a future with language magic, will be released on April 14 in the US and April 23 in the UK. Her book has received starred reviews from Booklist and Publishers Weekly, which called it a “smart and satisfying urban fantasy debut [that] combines gripping mystery, tantalizing romance, and sharp cultural critique.” I’m delighted she’s here today to discuss a link she shares with her novel’s protagonist in “The Kuleana of Being an Eldest Daughter.”

US Cover of The Killing Spell by Shay Kauwe UK Cover of The Killing Spell by Shay Kauwe

About The Killing Spell:

In this spellbinding fantasy debut set in a future where language magic reigns, a young Hawaiian woman must solve a murder to clear her name.

Kea Petrova is dealing with more than her fair share of trouble.

At just twenty-five years old, she’s the youngest of five Hawaiian clan leaders living on the Homestead in outer Los Angeles. Nearly 200 years ago, when a catastrophic flood submerged the Hawaiian islands and unleashed magic into the world, these clans forged a treaty with the city, establishing a new Hawaiian homeland. But that treaty is about to expire.

Kea struggles to keep her small clan afloat, scraping together rent each month through odd jobs and selling her own crafted Hawaiian language spells. While her talent for language magic is her saving grace, she feels like a shadow of those who came before her. Just when she thinks things can’t get any more complicated, the murder of Angelo Reyes—LA’s most prominent Filipino activist—turns her world upside-down.

Angelo was killed by a death spell—something that, due to the properties of each school of language magic, can only exist in Hawaiian. With independent spellsmithing being technically illegal, Kea quickly becomes the prime suspect, known for her spellwork on the Homestead. To clear her name, she must unravel the mystery behind Angelo’s murder and confront LA’s most powerful (and dangerous) players, each wielding their own type of magic. The clock is ticking—can Kea save herself, her clan, and the Homestead before it’s too late?

The Kuleana of Being an Eldest Daughter
By Shay Kauwe

A quick Hawaiian-to-English dictionary search will define kuleana as “responsibility,” but like most translations, this is incomplete. Kuleana is a responsibility, but it’s also a right, a privilege, a title, a reason, a cause, and a liability. In short, it’s complicated. Yet, when I think of my experiences as an eldest daughter, there is no better word to encompass the full weight of that role.

I am the firstborn in my family, not only to four siblings, but also nineteen first cousins. (Yes, nineteen.) We all grew up in a small town in Hawaiʻi, and by the time I was a preteen, I was an expert at feeding, changing, and burping babies. At twelve, I could help three kids with homework and carry a toddler at the hip while stirring a giant pot of chili. Big sisters, by virtue of our births, become the unofficial and unacknowledged heirs of our families. We’re tasked with taking on both masculine and feminine roles in a household—all without acknowledgement or appreciation. It isn’t just a responsibility, but an expectation.

It’s therefore unsurprising that being an eldest daughter has gained some infamy as a kind of curse. Eldest daughters are told to quit complaining, encouraged instead to cut their demanding families out of their lives if they have an issue with the weight of their title. However, I can’t help but feel that this perspective is very white. The Western solution to relationship problems often assumes that a person is better off alone than inconvenienced. And while that may be true for some, the vast majority of folks desire community. They want, need, and love their families.

However, the false belief that people can go at it alone has seeped deep into a gamut of cultural norms, and Science Fiction/Fantasy is no exception. The Hero’s Journey, for example, is held up as THE blueprint for storytelling, but it’s an unequivocally masculine tale. In his story, a Hero overcomes the odds by facing trials alone and triumphs by relying on his individual awesomeness.

Daughters don’t even enter the equation.

I took issue with this. So, when I wrote The Killing Spell, I explored different routes and was drawn to idea of the Heroine’s Journey. After reading Gail Carriger’s book by the same name, I was shocked at how different a Heroine’s trajectory was. She relied on others, she built communities, she succeeded with others. The defining quality of a Heroine was teamwork because she was surrounded by people.

I began to see this pattern in all of my favorite stories: The Scholomance trilogy by Naomi Novik, where El’s friendships are what help her escape the deadly academy in one piece; the Kate Daniels series by Ilona Andrews, where Kate builds a literal pack of people who love and support her; and even childhood classics like Howl’s Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones, where Sophie Hatter defies every fairy-tale trope with her sisters and found family. It was revolutionary for me, as a young writer, to see familial relationships as the source of womens’ strength, rather than a ball-and-chain.

Drawing on these tales as a new compass, my Heroine took shape—and I knew she had to be an eldest child. Keaalaokaleo Petrova, or Kea for short, is the Heroine of The Killing Spell, and my not-so-silent wish for all daughters: success, community, and the feeling of being at ease in your own skin. Though Kea actively struggles with self-doubt, in the end, she’s able to protect the people she loves by building networks of support to lift herself, and everyone else, up. I placed Kea in a familiar role, as the eldest daughter of a struggling clan. I knew that in this position she would be overwhelmed (Aren’t we always?), but I also knew that she’d succeed because of her family—not in spite of them.

It’s my hope that The Killing Spell resonates with eldest daughters everywhere, because while it’s true that we may feel an inflated sense of responsibility, or struggle to set boundaries, I don’t believe that the solution is to walk away. Girls shouldn’t need to cut off their families to be happy—we just need some goddamn help!

Because the truth is that we love being big sisters.

I know how that sounds. Why would anyone want that weight? That kuleana? The answer lies in the layers of that word. Kuleana is more than just a burden. It’s a privilege. An honor. And in the end, the responsibility of being the eldest is worth it for the simple fact that we love our siblings. Call it corny, call it cliché—or call it what it is. Powerful. I, for one, continue to believe that love is always the most radical choice a person can make.

Photo of Shay Kauwe Shay Kauwe is a Kanaka Maoli (Native Hawaiian) author from Hawaiʻi. She grew up on the Homestead in Waimānalo but moved to Russia because she fell in love with a boy. They now live in Oʻahu. Shay holds an M.Ed in Education and was named an NCTE Early Educator of Color in 2021. In 2022, she was awarded an Empowering ʻŌiwi Leadership Award by the Hawaiian Council, for her work in storytelling and literacy. Her debut urban fantasy THE KILLING SPELL is forthcoming from Saga/Solaris Books and will be the first traditionally published adult fantasy novel by a Hawaiian author.