Before, Beside, and Beyond Me

2026 marks 8 years of celebrating Read Caribbean Month- shout out to Book of Cinz for leading this very important movement! Reading Caribbean books has changed my life in more ways than one. Perhaps the greatest evidence of that is in the writer I have grown into through engaging with the work of some powerful writers from across the region. In honour of this 8-year milestone, I’m highlighting 8 Caribbean books that shaped my writing. Books that helped me lean into authenticity and truth… and strengthened my passion for telling stories that are uniquely ours.

As a writer, I always imagined the first book I worked on would be my own. Now that I think about it, I don’t mind that it’s not. This book actually reflects the space I’ve been in the last few years— looking outside of myself, and really seeing those before me, beside me, & beyond me. That’s really how all of this started. About two years ago I saw a call for grant proposals, and I sat down to brainstorm a project I could pitch.

A writing retreat came to me rather easily, mostly because it was something I had always longed for myself. I’ve been writing for many years, and in that time I’ve struggled to really find community; to have people to talk to about the parts of the journey that we can’t quite put into words. I’ve also had very limited instruction in the craft of writing, and even less so in some of the things that have become foundational to my own work. A retreat also felt like a beautiful way to bring together those before me who have already walked the walk, those currently trodding along beside me, and those who will hopefully go beyond me. I imagined seasoned facilitators like Mac Donald Dixon, on whose shoulders many of us stand; storytellers like me and my friend Tresha, who are knee-deep in pursuing writing careers; and emerging voices who will soon grow to carry our country’s strong literary tradition.

I envisioned the writing retreat taking place over the course of three days, really allowing us to work and reflect in community. It was important to me that we could share and exchange ideas, experiences, and advice. What was also important was that this retreat could be free to all selected writers. So I timidly submitted my proposal, crossed my fingers, and secretly hoped for good news.

I can’t really explain that feeling when I read the email confirming my proposal was successful. It was my first time applying for grant funding, and to be quite honest, all I really had was this vision. I didn’t know much about budgeting, logistics, or actually pulling off an event of that scale. Those were all things I would later learn over the year and a half I spent making that vision a reality. Thankfully, I somehow managed to convince four of my friends to share the headaches with me, and they had the rather difficult job of keeping me sane throughout the process.

On the first day of the retreat, all I felt was anxiety. Was everyone comfortable? Did we buy enough water? Were the sessions too long? Was it too hot? My team was kind enough to oblige me in all my overthinking, trekking across the venue with fans and extra bottles of water because I insisted that everything had to be just right. Looking back, I think my anxieties over the logistical aspects were really a mask for a deeper anxiety. I needed this to work. I needed it to have an impact. I wanted writers to come away from that weekend with more than just knowledge and inspiration. I wanted them to feel purpose. To see writing as more than something they pursued in their spare time, but something that allowed them to confront the past, make sense of the present, and consider new possibilities for the future. I had carefully considered all of this when I designed sessions around Storycrafting 101; Language, Culture & Identity; History, Research, & Archiving; Folklore in Contemporary Storytelling; and The Publishing Journey.

I had many big ideas around helping the ten participants to see writing as advocacy, archiving, a tool of narrative justice. I’ll be honest. I wasn’t sure how much of that would stay with them. But by the end of the first day, I noticed other things already did. One of our fantastic facilitators, Drenia, graciously obliged when we asked her to lead an impromptu oral storytelling activity after dinner. We sat in a circle in the main house of Balenbouche, the former slave plantation that served as our home across the three days. Drenia began by explaining the traditions and customs that accompanied oral storytelling in our Saint Lucian culture, encouraging us to carry a reverence for the practice. Then, we each took turns using story to trace our genealogies, guided by Drenia’s advice that before we seek to tell the stories of others, we must first know our own.

Something happened in that circle. I don’t yet have the right words for it. But I saw in real time participants, facilitators, and the team coming to know and understand each other in a way that only storytelling can offer. I felt emotional listening to the vulnerability and care with which we shared who we are, where we came from, how we got here, the wounds we carry, and the forces of life that shaped us. This was something I could not have achieved through any timetabled session, no matter how carefully planned.

The next day, two of our other facilitators, Jolien and Rhyesa, led us on a historical tour of the estate. Jolien, a historian, walked with a copy of ‘A History of Saint Lucia’ which she had co-authored. Under the unforgiving blaze of the sun, she pointed out various relics on the estate, explaining how they would have been used during the days of slavery. With the help of Rhyesa, a cultural advocate, we learned details of the realities our ancestors faced on plantations. There was silence, curiosity, discomfort. Suddenly the accounts in Jolien’s books no longer felt like distant history.

As I put the finishing touches on this collection, I can see just how much that weekend impacted our writers. I see the hauntings of slavery, the radical reimaginings of history, and the inspiration drawn from our local folklore. I see a genuine commitment to writing our stories, in our own words, our own language. And I feel proud. Proud of our writers for the ways in which they answered our call and really tapped into not just the learning from the retreat, but the feelings created and shared there. Proud of my team for making all of this possible, and always going along with my crazy ideas. And yes, proud of myself for bringing this idea to life, and giving other writers the spaces and opportunities I always wished I had.

It’s funny, I’ve always thought that my purpose in life is to tell stories. My friend Mel recently told me that she thinks it’s more than that. She thinks it’s inspiring people, helping them come into their own voice and passions. Not just through my writing, but all the other things I’ve been quietly building over time. I guess it doesn’t come naturally to me to think of myself in those ways. As someone creating the spaces I didn’t have. Someone living in her own truth and inspiring others in the process. Someone who has pursued writing passionately and purposefully, and has been able to help other writers grow alongside me.

The word I put on my vision board at the start of 2026 was ‘curate’. I didn’t give it too much thought back in January. It just felt right, in a way that I couldn’t explain. My last vision board word was ‘create’ and I certainly created. I created so many beautiful life experiences and impactful work. Curating felt like the next natural step. Seven months into the year, that’s exactly what I’ve realised I am doing. Not just curating this beautiful collection of stories, but bringing people and ideas and resources together to tell a story bigger than each of us on our own. Bigger than my individual dreams.

First published 9 July 2026 on Wandering Through Wisdom by Amanie Mathurin on Substack. Republished with permission.