What Am I Normalizing?

What do we carry as writers?

That question sounds dramatic. Almost embarrassing to ask out loud. I’m not saving lives. I’m not drafting laws. I sit at a desk and make things up.

So what exactly am I “carrying”?

Most days, I tell myself I’m just telling stories. Entertaining. Creating something people can disappear into for a few hours. And honestly, there is nothing wrong with that. Escape is not a crime. In a world that feels loud, unstable, and constantly demanding attention, a good book can feel like oxygen But the longer I write, the harder it is to pretend stories are neutral.

They don’t just fill time. They shape expectations.

The romances we write influence what love looks like. The way we frame ambition influences what success feels worth sacrificing. The way we handle power—who gets it, how they use it, whether they face consequences—quietly suggests what is acceptable. No, writers don’t control culture. We’re not masterminds behind society’s behavior. That idea is flattering and ridiculous at the same time. But repetition matters. If readers consume the same emotional patterns again and again, those patterns stop feeling fictional. They start feeling familiar. Familiar turns into normal.

That’s where it gets uncomfortable.

I don’t think fiction should preach. The moment a story turns into a lesson plan, it loses its pulse. Readers can sense when they’re being corrected. But I also don’t think stories are harmless decorations.

Sometimes I catch myself asking: What am I normalizing here? What am I turning into something desirable because it’s dramatic? If someone pointed at one of my books and said, “This is what you believe,” would I stand there confidently, or would I want to explain myself?

I don’t believe writers are responsible for fixing a generation. That’s an absurd burden. But I do believe we’re responsible for being honest. For knowing what we’re doing and why.

Entertainment isn’t the enemy. Distraction isn’t immoral. But unconscious storytelling can be lazy. And lazy storytelling spreads faster than thoughtful storytelling ever will.

So maybe what we carry isn’t the world.

Maybe it’s something smaller and more personal: the decision to write with awareness. To know what we’re putting into people’s hands. And to be able to say, without flinching, “Yes. That came from me.”

That’s enough weight for one desk. with that said Why did I choose an immigrant woman as the main character of my debut novel?

The honest answer is: I didn’t choose her because it was strategic. I chose her because she felt real.

I know what it means to exist between languages. To think in one and speak in another. To measure every sentence before it leaves your mouth because you’re not sure how it will land. To enter a room and feel slightly outside of it, even when no one is being unkind. That quiet awareness never fully disappears. It just becomes background noise.

An immigrant woman carries layers that are often invisible. There is the obvious surface—accent, paperwork, unfamiliar systems. But beneath that, there’s something sharper: adaptation. Reinvention. The constant negotiation between who you were and who you are allowed to become.

That tension is fertile ground for fiction.

An immigrant woman is often underestimated. She is watched, categorized, simplified. Yet internally, she is translating culture in real time. She sees what locals take for granted. She studies social codes like survival manuals. She understands power differently because she has experienced what it feels like to have less of it.

For me, that perspective adds depth to everything—love, ambition, fear, betrayal. When you have already rebuilt yourself once, the stakes of losing something are different. When you know what it means to start over, the idea of walking away carries both terror and strength.

There is also something deeply personal about giving that kind of woman complexity. Too often, immigrant characters are reduced to struggle or inspiration. They become symbols. I did not want a symbol. I wanted a person. Flawed, intelligent, contradictory. Capable of softness and ruthlessness. Someone who is not defined only by her displacement but shaped by it.

Choosing her was also a quiet act of visibility. Not a political statement. Not a declaration. Just an acknowledgment: women like this exist in layers. They fall in love. They make mistakes. They crave power. They doubt themselves. They evolve.

An immigrant woman at the center of a story is not there to teach resilience. She is there to live fully. To be complicated. To be human.

That felt honest to me. And honesty is always where I begin.