I hope the irony of this sentence, "I will of course continue my other work — writing about racism, anti-racism, and current affairs, but, once in a while, I’ll indulge about how it feels to be a Black woman living in Paris." is not lost on your followers.
What supports me with my fear? Noticing it...breathing with it...being with it...being with it, noticing and relating with it first and foremost as a somatic phenomenon...a flaring in my chest, opening in my belly...as I be with it and accept it as a purely somatic phenomenon outside language (or as far outside as I can muster), it transforms.
I love the subtlety of the distinction you make among types of fictions. Some are indeed clearly born of love.