“Ordinary White People Can Read It”

On negative reader expectations—and the readers who read anyway

Closeup of the image on the cover of Goodfellowe House, a 1920s Harlem Renaissance mystery.

The first review was lovely. Detailed, thoughtful, generous. Very reassuring. Made me feel good, real good. All tingly inside.

Then I hit the second one.

Or should I say it hit me?

I did something yesterday that I haven’t done in years: went looking for reader reviews.

Now, I stopped doing this years ago, for all the usual reasons writers stop doing it. But I'm putting together another Christmas newsletter, and I wanted to highlight Goodfellowe House since it’s a Christmas mystery. So I thought I’d find a nice reviewer quote. Turn it into a little blurb. Something warm and positive.

I got exactly that.

And then I kept scrolling.

"Despite the cover and the blurb, it's not hyper-ethnic; ordinary white people can read it just fine. A good mystery which just happens to take place in Harlem."

I stared at it for a moment. Then I burst out laughing. Laughed so hard I could barely catch my breath. I couldn’t believe my eyes. So I read it again. Yup, it still said the same thing.

Despite the cover?

Time to double-check the cover (as if I haven’t done so a million times). A woman in a beaded cap and fur stole. Art Deco framing. Soft lights glowing in the background. Pure Jazz Age glamour. She's beautiful. She's elegant. She's every bit the mysterious heroine of a 1920s noir.

And let’s be real, when it comes to café-au-lait, there’s a lot of milk in her coffee. She’s just about as light-skinned as light can be.

But apparently, she's still a warning sign.

The blurb? Well, it does mention New York City and we all know a lot of us live there.

Not hyper-ethnic.

Hmm. Just what does hyper-ethnic mean? Is there a scale? A threshold? Was this reader braced for ... what, exactly? A manifesto? A polemic on racial oppression? Did they expect Lanie Price to stop mid-investigation and deliver a political rant?

Ordinary white people can read it just fine.

That’s where my jaw dropped. The reassurance. The care and the reassurance.

Ordinary. That's my favorite part. Not “any reader” or “everyone.” Ordinary white people. As though there are extraordinary white people out there who've trained for this sort of thing—ethnic literary commandos who don't need reassurance — and then there are the ordinary ones, the cautious ones, who require a scout to go ahead and report back that the territory is safe.

“I have returned from Harlem. The natives were friendly. You may proceed.”

Ordinary white people can read it just fine.

You know what? I'm going to frame that. Put it right next to my desk. For the days when I forget what I'm working against, what diverse voices have always had to work against — that little whisper that says a story about us is a special interest topic, a niche, a risk. Something you need permission to enjoy.

Just happens to take place in Harlem.

As though Harlem were an obstacle the book overcame rather than the ground it stands on. Or an accident. A scheduling conflict. “We meant to set this in Connecticut, but there was construction on I-95, so ...”

Baby, Harlem is on purpose. Harlem is the whole point.

But I understand. I've been at this a long time. I know the dance. You write a book set in a black neighborhood, with black characters, from a black perspective, and somewhere out there a reader picks it up like it might be a grenade. Is this going to be angry? Is this going to make me feel bad? Is this going to be ... you know ... hyper-ethnic?

And then they read it and discover — surprise! — it's a story. About people. Doing people things. Falling in love, keeping secrets, making terrible decisions, trying to survive. Same as every other noir ever written, just with better music.

Am I angry? Absolutely not. Exasperated maybe. But angry? No. For one thing, this reader—bless his heart—gave me the best laugh I’ve had in a while. I needed it.

And if I met this reviewer, I’d say, “Come here, sugar. Lemme give you a hug.”

Because — think about it — this person saw the cover. And something inside him (or her) flinched. Something whispered, This isn't for you. This might be uncomfortable. This might make you feel things you don't want to feel. All those little alarm bells that go off when we're about to step outside the territory we know.

And this person picked it up anyway.

He or she not only picked it up, but read it—read the whole damn thing. Liked it. And then took the time to write a review, to recommend it to others—in his or her own fumbling, tone-deaf, bless-your-heart kind of way.

That's not nothing. 

In fact, that’s the whole game, isn’t it? That’s what stories are for. You pick up a book about people who don’t look like you, who lived in a world you never knew, and you let it carry you there. You sit on a stranger’s porch and listen to their troubles and for a little while, their life makes sense to you.

This reader did that. They flinched, and then they stepped through the door anyway. They didn’t have to. Nobody made them. They chose to—and then, in their own clumsy way, they tried to hold the door open for others.

It's safe. You can come in. The story's good.

Now, I will admit to something: after reading this reviewer’s comment, I did think about putting a little label on my books. “White Folk Safe.” Maybe with a nice seal. Gold embossed, very official.

But that might come across a wee bit bitter. And I’m not bitter. I'm just ... still here. Still writing.

Honestly, I don’t see why any white reader would feel uncomfortable reading one of my books. In fact, I’d think black readers would have more reason to be up in arms than white ones. Because my books are not about what white folks do to us; they’re about what we do to each other. How even when we’re wealthy, educated, “elevated,” we hurt each other. Betray, cheat, lie, steal. Make compromises we shouldn’t make and sacrifices we shouldn’t even have to consider. 

In short, how we do what people do.

I don’t write to make anyone comfortable. I don’t write to deliver lectures, either. I write about people—my people—making the same bad decisions, committing the same desperate acts, loving as hard and as foolishly as anybody else you’ll find in noir. 

I’d also thank this reviewer because he said the quiet part out loud: I saw a black face and assumed I’d be lectured. But don't worry. You won't be.

I only wish more readers would do what this one did. Flinch. Read anyway. Tell the truth about both.

Writing-while-black, baby. Negative reader expectations. They can drain you, sap your energy. You know they’re going to affect your sales. You keep writing anyway.

The thing is, noir has always been about outsiders. Shadows and margins. The people society would rather not look at too closely. Detectives who don't fit. Victims nobody mourns. The dark corners where the truth hides.

You’d think we'd be right at home here.

But somehow, this particular margin still needs a permission slip. Somehow, a mystery set in Harlem “just happens” to take place there, as though it wandered in by mistake. Somehow, a  book that’s good is good despite a cover featuring a beautiful melanated woman in Jazz Age finery.

If you need a permission slip to step onto my porch, this reviewer just handed you one.

But whoever you are — wherever you're from — you never needed it.

— Walker