I know life is not fair, but recently I’ve been thinking about one grave injustice: Nina Revoyr is not famous.
Most people I’ve met have never even heard of Nina Revoyr, much less read one of her novels. They’ve never had the pleasure of sinking under the spell of her deceptively simple prose, or falling in love with her palpably real characters. That’s their loss, but it’s also part of a greater injustice, because Nina Revoyr tells the stories that aren’t often enough heard.
She writes incisively about relationships between working-class Japanese-American and African-American communities, and about lesbians whose relationship struggles have moved far past coming-out dramas; she creates fully-realized characters and worlds in which white people have only bit parts; she makes the effects of racism so real that the reader recoils; she treats the black urban community of LA with a deeper respect than I have found in any other author.
Why isn’t she famous? Oh, wait….