Dear Readers,

June is officially upon us. I look forward to welcoming the sweet bliss of summer.

This month is triumphant for many reasons. On a deeply personal level, it signifies how much my story has evolved over the past year. Almost to the day, a year ago, I was in complete distress, fearing that my defective brain was finally ending my passion for writing. And yet, just a month later, I had a complete novella.

For so many others—friends, family, and romantics—this time of year poignantly reminds us of the journeys so many have taken to live authentically and love freely.

June is not just a celebration of embracing one’s true identity but also a testament to the power of love and genuine human connection. It reminds us that everyone deserves to be seen, heard, and loved for who they truly are, without any conditions.

As we embrace the vibrant diversity of communities across the world, let us also reflect on the importance of extending kindness to ourselves and others, always. Each act of compassion, no matter how small, has the potential to change a life. I encourage you to reach out to those around you with tenderness and consideration. Celebrate the uniqueness that each person brings into your life.

In my debut novella, “Paris,” I hoped to share a story worthy of these values: an account of intimacy, love, fear, and the necessity of living alongside the variations of humankind, not against it.

Set against the backdrop of the Reagan era, my character Emma’s story unfolds in tandem with the reverberations of societal shortcomings. Yet, amid it all, a delicate tale emerges. This story, these words, your truths mean so much.

It has been a true privilege to share my first published work. Debuted for Women’s History Month, and available amid Pride, my goal has always been to share important stories despite the chaos of our everyday world.

This novella has, truly, changed my life. I’ve attached a small poem as a gentle thanks.

Happy June.

Warm Regards,

Veronica Tyler

Paris
When they find evidence,
they will call us
tortured poets.

Forcing us into caverns,
we chose to seek the sun,
staring like Icarus.

Warnings of danger,
they failed to describe the
euphoria
of freedom.

For only in torment,
have we been able to
find love like art.