My favorite books written by African American female authors every African American female author should read

Hurston portrays African American vernacular culture like no other writer.

Reading her Harlem Renaissance novel about an African American female searching for identity helped determine the type of writer I wanted to be. Hurston is known for her diction and poetic techniques: the characters in her novel are revealed in rich, careful metaphors and similes.

As a young writer, I wanted to emulate Hurston’s ability to warp language into something so eloquent, hoping that one day the literary world might read my work and think of hers. She also taught me that I should choose my own style in developing my work because no one author’s interpretation or abilities could ever define the depth of African American culture.

Reading her novel helped me understand how important it was to find my place within that rich tradition. 

As a teenager, reading Angelou’s autobiographical coming-of-age story woke me up to possibilities outside the small town where I grew up.

I realized that if young Maya could overcome the perils of rape and racism, then surely I could survive my own trials and become a strong female and a writer myself. Angelou taught me that writers should never fear the words that must find the page, even if those words are embarrassing or uncomfortable for others to read.

No one reveals characters and their motivation, nor family struggles and sacrifice, like Angelou does. She portrays the African American experience with dignity—even its ugly, unspeakable truths. In the many times that I have read Caged Bird, I have always felt the power of this iconic piece of literature and its ability to inspire generations of young girls.

But mostly, Angelou showed me that I, too, could become a writer. 

Morrison often said she wrote her novels because there was no one writing what she wanted to read. I admire that sentiment because it just makes sense: if there is nothing to read, write it yourself.

She did not simply want to write; she wanted to write specifically from the black perspective, from both a thoroughly political and historical context. She taught me that I should always critique society and ask others to do the same. In this book, now studied in literature classes (and other disciplines) across the world, Morrison forces the very young protagonist, Pecola Breedlove, deeply into our consciousnesses, forcing us to look at the plight and circumstances of marginalized people.

Morrison reminded me of one of the many duties of good literature: to lead others to think, which might thereby lead to positive change. In this way, Morrison wants every writer to know that a large part of the tradition of African American literature is to explore the often unspoken yet important topics in society.

As a teenager when I first read Walker’s novel, I felt a little embarrassed that the author would be sharing our culture’s secrets so easily.

All the things that were happening in Celie’s world, I had seen or heard about in my own home or community, and absolutely no one was speaking openly about those ugly truths. There seemed to be an unwritten rule that no one would. As I continued to read, the novel and other works by Walker, I felt even more assured that she and I had been living much the same existence. Her words seemed to be coming straight from my own limited voice.

Later, as I began my process of becoming a writer, I went back to The Color Purple and saw the natural truths there within the pages. I began to learn that I could subvert, or at least shift and maneuver through the conventions of genre and style to tell my own stories.

I saw that no one writes about the South as Walker does, and as a writer from Louisiana, I accepted that I should write from my own sense of place. I also learned how to listen to characters and let them reveal their interior voices; I learned how to share strong black female voices with the world. 

I may have admired Kincaid as a person even before I read her novel about a young woman who must find her way in life after her mother dies during childbirth. I admired Kincaid’s determined journey to become a writer: she left home as a teenager, worked, found a job as a staff writer for The New Yorker, then began writing stories and novels, even changing her name in the process.

Reading Autobiography—one of several of her books about the mother/daughter relationship—gave me a meaningful connection between the story being told and the language/syntax being used to tell that story. Kincaid’s amazing sense of honesty is only eclipsed by her lyrically perfect prose. I knew that if I found myself writing in that same beautiful style, I, too, might be able to tell my own stories as they should be told.

I also admired Kincaid’s ease in writing about female relationships, something that should be fundamental and common, but which is often taboo and rare.

And lastly, Kincaid showed me that creativity and imagination are tools I have available to me as a writer.