Rant Incoming
Oh, so we’re banning books again?
Let me get this straight:
You picked up a book that had every red flag clearly printed in bold, underlined, possibly in neon and you thought,
“Yup, this must be a romance!”
Are we okay???
Let’s review:
🚫 Not a romance
🚫 Not romantic
🚫 Not a tale of healing through love
✅ Literally a front-row seat to trauma, depravity, and soul-splintering horror
And now you’re mad? MAD?! Because the book did exactly what it warned you it would do?
Sweetie, that’s not a book problem.
That’s a you-ignored-the-trigger-warnings-like-a-clown problem.
Tryst is not a swoony anti-hero.
He is a psychopathic product of hell, and his life is one long scream into the void.
And guess what? That’s the POINT.
This story dives into the vile pits of human trafficking, child abuse, sadism, and psychological ruin. It’s fictional, yes, but fiction often reflects the darkest truths of this world and Julie Anne Addicott held up a mirror we all want to look away from.
But instead of appreciating the honesty, you tried to throw the mirror out the window.
To the book banning brigade:
You don’t get to censor hard truths just because they don’t come with a side of romance and happy endings.
This isn’t a love story.
It’s a scar story.
One soaked in blood, pain, and a flicker of humanity that barely survives.
If you want sunshine and kissing, go read a romcom.
Don’t come for a monster’s memoir and then cry when the monster doesn’t get redeemed.
So no, “My Name Is Tryst” isn’t for everyone.
It’s for the brave, the broken, and the ones who can stomach the unbearable.
But banning it?
Now that’s the real horror story.
👑my favorite book of the year👑
“Beautiful, Brutal, Tryst”
When you read dark books,
really dark ones,
you need to know
what you’re walking into.
Especially if you carry wounds
that still twitch when touched.
This book?
You have to check the trigger warnings.
It’s about child sex trafficking.
About abuse in its most brutal form.
It’s horrifying.
A world where innocence is sold
and pain is recycled—
where the abused becomes the abuser.
It doesn’t shy away.
It doesn’t blink.
It drags you in and locks the door behind you.
And I went in.
Eyes open.
Heart unready.
Child abuse has never been a trigger for me.
I’ve read books that went there—
Tillie Cole’s words come to mind,
graphic, honest, even beautiful.
But I didn’t cry.
I could always separate fiction from life.
But this time was different.
This author wrote from the bone.
She didn’t write darkness for darkness’ sake.
She wrote a story.
A real story.
Not imagined horror,
but horror she must’ve walked through
in her mind a thousand times
just to write it right.
The research—
you can feel it.
The care—
you can taste it.
Some scenes made me sick.
Some made me pause.
Some broke something in me.
And yet,
the writing was flawless.
Sharp. Thoughtful.
So heartbreakingly dark
that it left light-shaped scars.
I find myself tearing up even now.
But not the kind of tears that drag you under.
No—these are the kind that say:
You are not who you were before this book.
This isn’t a romance.
There’s nothing soft about it.
But it is a love story.
A pitch-black love story.
A love story buried beneath rot and ruin.
A love story in fucking literature.
Not for the faint of heart.
Not for the casual reader.
But if you read it—
if you truly give it a chance,
whether you love it or don’t—
thank you.
From the deepest part of me.
As for me,
I’ll be rereading this one,
again and again,
until my tears run dry
and my heart
learns how to beat differently.
This book will never leave my shelf.
It’s etched there.
Forever.