What This Taught Me is a space for quiet reflection on the work we do at Keemiya Creatives. These pieces are not reactions to single incidents, but observations shaped over time, about publishing, culture, people, and the systems we operate within. They are written to think aloud, to sit with discomfort where needed, and to share what the work continues to teach me.
Some silences speak louder than words.
I once approached a reviewer, someone respected in literary circles, on behalf of an author I was working with. The reviewer asked, incredulous, how it was that I, as a PR professional, had never come across them. Almost immediately, they added that they hoped I wasn’t charging the author for PR and marketing services, because this, as they said, was the least I could do for the community.
Then came a long list of people I should consider reaching out to instead. When I asked for a few names to make sure I got them right, the reviewer sounded almost surprised and sarcastic to note that I didn’t know so many of them. That moment made me pause.
When does allyship need proof? Why does this free labour need to be demonstrated to validate it? When does support quietly turn into expectation? When does allyship begin to carry conditions? And ultimately, who absorbs the cost of that discomfort?
Over time, I have started noticing a pattern, not in one place, not with one person, but across the publishing and literary ecosystem. What tends to change isn’t always the answer. It’s the tone.
Sometimes conversations are warm and curious, until an author’s identity enters the picture. Then replies slow down. Enthusiasm becomes hesitation. Or communication quietly stops altogether.
What struck me was how rarely anyone says no outright. Instead, it’s “Come back in a few months,” or “We will see closer to the date,” or sometimes just… silence.
I have seen it elsewhere too. Some bookstores and libraries slow their replies or stop responding altogether once they know more about the author. Not a firm no, just delays, polite deflections, repeated “come back later” emails.
For a long time, I didn’t question this. I thought persistence was professionalism. I thought following up every few months was just part of the job. For years, I followed up at regular intervals, thinking persistence was part of the work. It took me a while to realise that sometimes silence is an answer, just one people don’t want to say out loud.
Another thing I began noticing was how easily moral authority shows up in these spaces. Advice about what authors should accept. That was confusing for me at first. Because it made me ask—When does support quietly turn into expectation? And when does allyship start coming with conditions?
What made this harder to process was the contrast. People show up differently in publicly and privately. Many spaces speak of inclusivity, of championing authors, of nurturing reading culture. And yet, behind the language of care, there is hesitation, polite avoidance, invisible gatekeeping.
What this taught me is that bias isn’t always loud or aggressive. Often, it’s procedural. It lives in delays, in vague responses, in who gets enthusiasm, in whose work receives attention and whose does not and who gets “We will get back to you.”
It also taught me that clarity is actually kinder than avoidance. A clear no allows people to move forward. Silence keeps them circling, second-guessing, waiting.
I am still learning how to navigate this terrain without cynicism. But noticing these patterns, naming them softly and reflecting on them deliberately is a part of doing better. Inclusion is not defined by intention alone. It is measured in behaviour, in action, in what we choose to do when no one is watching.
And so I keep asking myself, quietly, in every interaction: How do we make space for authors, for voices, for work, without letting unspoken expectations and assumptions shape whose work is seen, and whose is left waiting?
Disclaimer: These reflections are drawn from cumulative observations and experiences, and are not directed at any individual, organisation, or institution.
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