Nighttime in Providence.
I am profoundly honored by and grateful to Rhode Island College for selecting Light from Uncommon Stars as its 2024 Common Book.
I want to thank everybody at Rhode Island College for selecting Light from Uncommon Stars as its 2024 Common Book.
I arrived in Providence a few hours ago, and I will be speaking at Rhode Island College, tomorrow at 4:30 as part of its series “Open Books Open Minds.”
From the Web site:
I'm thrilled to have the chance to share with RIC. And yet, this is a very difficult time for many people attending tomorrow, myself included.
Last night we had an election, and the results were not what I had hoped for. Of course, no outcome was even close to ideal. But this result…it feels like life is about to go off of the rails.
And yet, when is life ever not about to go off the rails? In my childhood, we were all going to die in a nuclear war. Then we were all going to run out of energy. Then we were all going to die of AIDS. And then war again. And then climate change.
And I’m LUCKY. I missed both World Wars. I missed measles and smallpox and Vietnam.
And racism and colonialism and homophobia and transphobia? Always here. Famine and pandemics… No change. Intolerance is nothing new. Injustice is nothing new. Genocide is nothing new.
But here we are, living our lives, our stories… Our destinies…
I never deliver the same talk twice. Many times I finish my speech the night before, in my hotel room. I feel it is very important to address the exact moment I am there—people, especially students, deserve me to be there, after all.
But writing this now…this moment…is difficult.
Luckily, the good people at RIC said I didn’t have to write a speech. There could be questions—we could share thoughts and experiences.
And so, I am just looking out my window…thinking and experiencing.
How do we function in a world that is so uncertain? How do we thrive? Not merely survive—but thrive?
Perhaps, there may come a time when we can have things the way we want, as safe as we want, as just as we want...
But I've never seen it. And all of us have only a short time in this world. A lot of my friends are dead. My comrades. More than a few of my students…
In knowing all that, how do we grow and create? How do we write stories about far away planets and magic?
In a world with so much cruelty inequality, what gives us the right to play music? What can justify us falling in love?
As if I knew.
Except maybe I do know. At least a little bit.
I’m trans and queer. I'm Japanese American. I love dreaming about the stars. I like donuts and Hainan chicken. I love the music to Undertale. I love my friends and miss the ones who are gone very much. Sometimes I feel I don't belong here.
And so wrote a book about the San Gabriel Valley. With trans people. And violins. And spaceships. And aliens and queers. And cyborgs. And chicken rice. And video game music. And donuts.
And a bunch of other stuff, and when I think about who lies at the intersection of all those identities and experiences—who would ever read a book like that? Like what, three people?
And yet, Light from Uncommon Stars has reached so many people.
People write to me from all over the world. My agent told me just this week that it has officially sold over 100,000 copies over all formats. I have spoken at panels, been guest of honor at conventions, met amazing colleagues and made some brilliant new friends. I get to come to Providence…
How does that even happen?!?
When I listen to people talk about Light from Uncommon Stars, I realize they most often are not talking about what they do not know, but what they do.
They are not talking about my hometown, but their own.
People show me pictures of their trans granddaughters, people share their lives, their experiences. I have had donuts from all over the country (Thank you. Thank you so much. Thank you to infinity. <3 )
From all this, I am beginning to realize that when a writer can be herself, she can make space for other people to be themselves, as well. When she writes on her terms, others may find themselves reading or writing their own.
I know that’s not super profound. And it might even seem a little naive or superficial or even self-serving: ”Of course you are going to say that writing matters—you’re a writer.”
But that is where I am. And as it’s already 1 in the morning here, I will sleep with that thought, and let it affirm my resolve to continue writing on my own terms.
Because most of the mistakes I've made have come from doing the work that I was “supposed” to be doing.
And all of my happiest moments, my most satisfying moments, have come from when I wrote my own words, my own poems and stories and music–no matter what.
Because sometimes, those words even helped readers discover theirs, as well.
And that has been the best feeling of all.
Much love,
✨Ryka
As always, thank you for your wisdom and compassion. Want you to know that during Covid lockdown my siblings and I started a Zoom bookclub. There are eight of us, and this month we are reading your amazing novel. We are all donut lovers! And Everyone is loving reading Light From Uncommon Stars. You are an inspiration for us all.