Diary entry May 10, 2025 - 22:22

Today, I finally pieced together why something about this world of storytelling—this community of writers—feels like a slap in the face. I’ve been trying to ignore the bitterness, push through the disillusionment, but I can’t anymore. It’s as though the very fabric of writing has been twisted into something ugly.

How is it that a person who built a universe—one meant to embrace the outcasts, the misunderstood, the different—has the audacity to turn their back on people who are still fighting to be seen? A person who made millions off of stories about identity and choice now has the nerve to decide who is worthy of their own identity, of their own expression.

It’s beyond frustrating. It feels like a betrayal, a personal one. This is supposed to be a space where writers—where all people—are free to express, to build worlds where the only limits are those of imagination. But when someone with that kind of influence uses their words to harm and erase, it makes it feel like they’re rewriting the rules. That kind of power shouldn’t be used to destroy.

Don’t judge a book by its cover.

We all know that saying, right? But it’s not just about appearances. It’s about identity, about what’s inside, what shapes us, what defines us. And if you’ve ever written anything, you know what it’s like to be that story. To be the one who decides the contents of that book—your book. Your life. Your truth.

I get to decide who I am. I get to define my world. It’s not up to anyone else to dictate my journey, my story, my identity. And that goes for everyone else, too. The same should be true for those whose lives don’t fit the narrow boxes the world insists on. Their stories are theirs to tell.

So, yeah. This shit stings, because I am a writer, too. I know what it means to create, to shape something from the inside out. To build from the truth of who you are, and to share it with the world. It should never be about tearing anyone else down. Especially not those who are just trying to live as their authentic selves.

So I’ll keep writing, and I’ll keep writing for the people who need to see themselves in the stories. For the ones whose lives are still being challenged, still being rewritten by those who never understood the meaning of real freedom. The pen is still mightier than the sword. I will decide what my story looks like, and no one—no matter how many books they’ve sold or worlds they’ve built—will ever take that away.

Mary Manson, Saturday, 10th of May, 2025