Sunday Brunch with Franceska
I’m speaking; a conversation with the powerful, intellectual Filmmaker and Writer girlie Franceska
Overjoyed to be able to introduce you all to my new bestie, the talented and amazing:
. We were able to record this conversation so take a listen. *note: this is note a word for word audio to transcript throughout. There were some audio challenges so some things are in the audio that aren’t in the written piece and vice versa.You are officially invited to Brunch with my guest, Franceska and I.
So, This first question is a fun one. It's just gonna start us off. So imagine we're actually gathered for brunch. What are you wearing? What are we eating? Where are we going? What's the, what's the vibes?
franceska: Okay, okay, okay. So we're gonna be in LA, because I'm in LA. And we can go to all the fancy places. But I personally love a little spot called Doubting Thomas. It's a little Hippy Dippy. There's, you know, a mix of people, but they have the best, I think, just breakfast, comfort food. I always bring people there, depending on the day. I might get a doubting Thomas breakfast, or I might get sausage and gravy and some eggs and a biscuit, because, you know, if it’s Sunday I'm gonna need it.
I'm probably wearing a romper. Something flowy, nice, and cozy. What else? And then also we have to get a pastry because they have the best pastries, and they're so good and not just one, like five.
India Douglass: That sounds delicious. I'm like, Oh, my, gosh, I wish we were really there, because I'm all about sweets.
franceska: They're so good. And as soon as you walk in, they have it on display, so you're like dang, like, do I want food? Or do I just want sweets? So it's like I have to buy some and then take some home.
India: What story (or stories) first made you fall in love with words? How did these stories shape your voice and vision as a writer?
Franceska: So the story that really made me fall in love with words is actually not a book — it's a movie. It’s called City of God, and it’s my favorite movie of all time, which is saying a lot because I’m also a bit of a movie dork. But it is my favorite, because everything about it is immaculate to me. It’s flawless.
But more than that, this was the first time I ever saw a story told the way I tell stories. It has a main storyline, but then all these side stories and backstories are woven throughout. There are moments where it’s like, “Bear this in mind, we’ll come back to it later,” and that’s exactly how I tell stories. It was the first time I saw myself — not just in the characters or the setting — but in the actual structure of how the story was told.
It was the first time I saw storytelling, especially on screen, that mimicked how I naturally tell stories — about people, about a place, about everything in between. And yes, it’s based on a book, but the movie is what stood out to me. It showed me that I didn’t have to do all this extra stuff to tell a story. I could just tell it.
That was especially important because when I first saw it, I had just come out of a film program — like an extension course — and I was super into writing and directing, which I still am. But I was being taught to write a certain way, and this movie kind of turned that on its head. It showed me I didn’t have to fit into a box — I could actually write and create in the way that made sense to me.
Another thing that stood out was the use of a narrator. In film, narration is usually seen as a last resort — something to avoid if you can. But in City of God, the narrator was compelling. He kept you engaged, he wasn’t annoying, and he was in the middle of so many stories that tied together to tell his own. That blew my mind because I was like, “Yo, that’s me.”
Me and Rocket — the main character and narrator — have so much in common. Growing up in a neighborhood where you know the people in the streets, the ones who stay out of it, the ones who end up doing big things, and the ones who don’t make it. He was a photographer, and I was doing photography too, so it all just clicked.
That film showed me the power of storytelling in my voice. It helped me realize I don’t need to fit into anyone else’s framework. I can honor how I naturally tell stories. That movie opened my eyes and made me fall in love with storytelling in a completely new way.
India: What have you learned about discipline, voice, or vulnerability through writing?
Franceska: So when it comes to learning about discipline, voice, and vulnerability in writing, I’ve been learning a bit about all three — and I’ll try to touch on each.
Discipline, for me, is just the understanding that I have to keep doing it. I’ve been writing so many different things at the same time — personal essays, academic work, and now, more and more poetry. I’ve always written poems, but lately, I’ve been writing even more. I’ve also been practicing daily writing, like morning pages and journaling. So yeah, the lesson there is: you have to keep writing. It’s about consistency — and not just writing, but reading too. You’ve got to keep your mind engaged and stay in practice.
Voice is something I’ve been thinking about a lot. For me, it connects back to what I said about City of God — and I know I reference it often, but it really was a turning point. I’ve also been thinking about this through bell hooks. What I’ve come to realize is: my voice is already solid. Not just because of how I write, but because it’s my voice. I think we’re often told, directly or indirectly, that we need to change our voice — to code-switch or tailor it to a particular audience. But I’ve made the decision to stick with mine.
When I write, the audience is whoever’s reading. I’m not tailoring it to academics or the streets or whatever niche — I’m writing, period. And because of who I am — a child of immigrants, someone who’s into art, philosophy, theology, education, who grew up with hood friends, who has friends that are religious, others that are activists — I imagine that if I’m in a room, all those people are probably in that room too. My goal is to speak clearly. Not to water anything down, but to speak clearly in my own voice, trusting that different people will pick up on different things.
So if I say something like “you’re mad Aggy” — that might not land with the academics, and that’s okay. People from the hood or folks familiar with that language will get it. If I talk about pedagogy or exegesis, someone else might not get that — but the theologians and educators will. That’s the beauty of honoring all of who I am. I’m layered. My experiences are layered. And my voice reflects that.
So yeah, I might refine or clean it up when needed — editing is a part of writing — but I’m not changing my voice for anybody. If you’re listening, you’re my audience. I’m not out here saying “I’m writing for X group.” No — I’m writing. And if you don’t understand something, just like in any conversation, you can ask or look it up. My voice is meant to be in dialogue, no matter the form — poem, essay, academic piece, whatever.
Now, vulnerability is something I’m still sitting with. I’ve been in a place where I’m asking: what do I share, and how do I share it? I try to honor whatever wants to be expressed. If something in me wants to come out, I let it — but then I think about how to express it. That’s the balance for me. I’ll express it, but maybe not explicitly. I might write it in a way that’s more abstract or poetic, but it’s still coming from a real place.
And that is vulnerability. Because I’m still putting it out there. I’m still letting people in, but I’m also protecting what needs to be protected — whether that’s my own privacy or someone else’s. I want to speak clearly and be understood, but not at the cost of exposing something that doesn’t need to be shared in full. It’s still a dialogue. And that, to me, is enough vulnerability.
India: What has your journey into publishing looked like so far? And have you experienced any barriers or biases in the literary world?
Franceska: So, my journey into publishing is still really new. I’m just getting on this publishing train — like, I’m constantly looking for opportunities to submit my writing. I’ve just started exploring things like anthologies and different platforms, including ones like yours. So yeah, I’m still pretty early in the process.
That said, I’m a research girlie, okay? I really am. I’ve been doing a lot of observing, especially watching my friends and their publishing journeys. I have a lot of people in my life who write, and it’s been really interesting to see how different everyone’s path has been. I’ve heard some really beautiful stories — and I’ve also heard some scary ones.
For example, I’ve heard about authors who were kind of “used” during moments like 2020 — during the George Floyd uprisings — when suddenly Black writers became the hot thing for publishers. And then, just as quickly, that momentum disappeared. So I’m keeping an eye on all of that, and I’m being really mindful about which platforms and publications I want to work with.
For me, integrity and intentionality are everything. I’m still early in my publishing journey, but I’m very thoughtful about how I want to move through this process — not just rushing to be published for the sake of it, but really making sure that wherever my work lands, it’s in alignment with my values and voice.
India: What do you believe the world needs more of in literature today—especially for Black communities globally?
Franceska: That’s a great question. I feel like what the world — and especially Black folks in literature — really need is more close conversations, more closed spaces.
What I mean by that is this: so often, when it comes to Black writers and our voices, we’re encouraged to write for Black audiences — but then, at the same time, we’re expected to write trauma porn. And that’s weird. Like, who is it really for? Because we’re already living it. So is it actually for Black audiences, or is it just being packaged for consumption?
Sometimes I feel like Black writers are forced to either explain our trauma or put it on display — and I don’t think that should be the expectation. I’d love to see more intimacy in Black storytelling. I want Black writers to feel free to just be themselves, to write what they actually want to write. And yes, if that includes hurt or frustration or grief, of course we have the right to write about that. But I also want to see us just live. I want us to express joy, silliness, curiosity — our full selves.
When I think about being in community with other Black folks, it’s always good vibes. There's usually good food, music, laughter. Sure, something might pop off — but there’s something sacred about what happens when we gather. And I want our writing to reflect that. I want us to lean into that feeling — that warmth, that realness — and show what our everyday lives actually look like. I want writing that reflects our joy, our humor, our complex thoughts and how we process things, inside and outside our communities.
One book that really did this well for me was Americanah. I loved it because it captured that feeling — like, “Oh yeah, we do do that, huh?” It spoke to those nuances in identity, in diaspora dynamics, in cross-cultural experiences. And I want more of that. I want to read about Black folks in Brazil — I’m really drawn to that history — but also in Honduras, in London, in places we don’t hear about enough. I want stories that explore what’s actually going on with us in different parts of the world.
Because there’s something about us — Black folks across the diaspora — where we can walk into a room and just get it. We don’t have to say much, but there’s that unspoken understanding. And I want us to lean into that. I want us to write in ways that feel close, that feel like home. I want us to create literature and conversations that maybe only we fully understand — and that’s okay. That’s beautiful, actually.
India: If your words could leave a legacy, what would you hope it says about who you are and what you create? Aka: What is your writing teaching you right now—about yourself or the world?
Franceska: Oof — if my words can leave a legacy… yeah, I’ve been thinking a lot about legacy lately.
If my words were to leave something behind, I’d want them to carry a few core things. First, love — and an understanding of how to love better. What does it really mean to love people? That’s a question I keep coming back to in so much of my study, my interests, the people I’m drawn to. It always comes back to love. How do we love better? How do we love ourselves better? Each other? God?
Because to me, if I’m seeking to understand love, then I’m also asking: What does it mean to be in relationship with God? What does it mean to have dialogue with God? To submit to God? If I want to love others well, I have to know what it means to love God — and to love myself, because I’m a reflection of God.
All of that — that’s what I think about when I think about legacy. I also reflect a lot on the idea of sacrifice. I think about that verse: “No greater love has one than this, than to lay down one’s life for a friend.” I come back to that often — what does it mean to lay down your life for others? That’s not just about dying for someone. It’s about how we show up, how we care, how we serve. That’s love too.
So I guess, for me, the legacy I hope to leave is a conversation — a lifelong wrestling — with love. Love as a relationship with God. Love as sacrifice. Love as a way of being. And I say that as a broad theme, because I feel like so much of what I write or speak about can trace its way back to that. Even if it’s not obvious at first, if you follow the branches and vines long enough, the root is love.
That includes how I think about being radical. I’ve learned that to be radical is to love deeply — to love radically. And that means being bold enough to fight for people. To call out things like white Christian nationalism. To tell people, “Hey, go to therapy.” To tell the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. That, too, comes from love.
So yeah — if my words could leave a legacy, I hope they leave people asking how to love better. How to live sacrificially. How to be in real, honest relationship — with God, with self, and with others. That’s what I hope I leave behind.
India: You shared that even filling out the form to join this series was an act of reclaiming your voice, your story, and the many people you represent. Can you tell us more about what it means to you to lead with the value of your voice—and who you feel you carry with you when you write, create, and share your work?
Franceska: Yes — oh man. Even just being on this platform and saying, “I’m a writer. I write,” feels like a declaration. And honestly, it’s a little weird — but in a real, sacred kind of way.
It feels weird for a few reasons. First, because there’s this idea that to be a “real” writer, you have to be a certain kind of person, or sound a certain way. But I don’t believe that. There are more voices in the world than we can ever count or categorize — and for so long, I didn’t see mine as one of them. Learning to value my voice has been a journey.
There have been times when I’ve written things and had people question my work, question me. Former employers, colleagues — people telling me my writing wasn’t “good,” or that I wasn’t competent, or that my words were lifeless. And that hurts. Writing is personal. It’s not just something I do — it’s something I am. So when people dismiss your voice, it shakes you. But I’ve come to a place now where I can say: that wasn’t about me. Maybe it wasn’t even about the writing. Maybe it just didn’t serve them — or maybe I didn’t put my heart into it, and that’s okay too.
I’ve reclaimed my voice, and with that, I’ve come to understand that writing is sacred for me. It’s an expression, not just an action. When I write, I honor what I have to say. And what I’ve also realized is that my voice isn’t just my voice. I’m not just me — I am a library. A collection. I carry people, places, memories. I carry communities that may never have the chance to speak on the platforms I have access to.
There are stories I’ve inherited — from my sister, from my dad, from friends I’ve lost — that live in me now. They may never get to tell their stories, so it’s my job to tell them. And when you’re entrusted with a story, you don’t keep it to yourself. Stories are meant to be shared. That’s the value of them.
So yes, I’m a collection of stories — a living, breathing library. Everything I write is touched by the people I’ve loved, the places I’ve been, the things I’ve seen and heard. And when I create, I carry all of that with me. That’s what gives my voice depth. That’s what makes it powerful — even when I’m not writing, even when I’m just speaking, it’s still powerful.
And so, for me, reclaiming this identity — being able to say out loud, “I’m a writer” — is important. It’s not weird. It’s courageous. And it’s necessary.
India: From your work across Los Angeles and Boston to your upcoming projects—like Bear Fruit and your play, Bible Women’s Project, featured at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival—you’re weaving creativity, mental health, and cultural storytelling into something powerful. Can you share more about what these projects mean to you and how they reflect your journey into writing and radical self-expression?
Franceska: Yeah — man, I could talk all day about these projects.
Bear Fruit came together unexpectedly. It’s one of those projects that threw me back into writing in a way I didn’t anticipate. Like I said before, sometimes the work tells you how it wants to be expressed — and with Bear Fruit, it all started with a song. I heard it, and something in me said, “You need to write.” That rarely happens like that.
Part of what sparked it was that I had just finished reading All About Love by bell hooks. I’d been ruminating on this question: as a Black woman, and as a member of the Black community, what do we need from our Black and Brown brothers? And what I kept coming back to was this — we need y’all to help us take care of ourselves. Not just financially — emotionally. We need protection, presence, and emotional provision.
And that’s a hard ask, especially when so many men have been socialized to believe that their worth is tied only to what they can pay for, not how they show up. But that’s not enough anymore. We — Black women — are dying from stress, from lack of rest, from maternal mortality and invisible burdens we’ve been asked to carry. And we’re not talking about it nearly enough. Especially not in ways that invite men into the conversation.
And on the other side of that, Black and Brown men are also dying — from suicide. From silence. From a lack of safe spaces to be vulnerable. So Bear Fruit became the perfect vehicle to explore all of that — love, protection, exhaustion, presence, and mental health. The treatment just poured out of me. I sent it to Kadeem, the artist, and he got it immediately. He said, “This is exactly what this is.” I told him, “You can find someone to direct it,” and he said, “No — you should direct it.” So I did.
It felt like such a natural extension of a conversation I had already been having with myself — one that finally found a place to live out loud.
Then there’s Bible Women’s Project — which I know is a name that might throw some people off, but it started over ten years ago as a play, and it’s deeply impacted how I approach writing. That project taught me that writing, for me, is really about dialogue. Less about proving a point and more about creating space for a living, breathing conversation.
The play is a dialogue between cast members and the audience — we break the fourth wall constantly. It evolves every time it’s performed because it pulls from real-life conversations, current resistance movements, and new voices. This time, there’s a whole storyline I introduced that deals with resistance and love, and it’s embedded so naturally into the framework. That’s the power of dialogue — it changes things.
Both of these projects, to me, are perfect examples of the legacy I want to leave behind — one built on honest, messy, transformative conversations about love. How we love ourselves. How we love one another. And how love calls us to action.
People often call me “radical,” but the things I say — to me — are just common sense. Like: “There were different colors of people in the Bible.” Or: “White Christian nationalism is dangerous.” Or: “Y’all need therapy.” None of that feels radical to me. It just feels like the truth. But I understand that in this world, truth can be radical — especially when it challenges power.
So in that way, yes, I am radical. But that radical nature is simply the result of being rooted in love. Love that fights. Love that disrupts. Love that protects. Love that asks better of us.
These projects — Bear Fruit and Bible Women’s Project — are just extensions of who I am. Anyone who’s spoken to me for even five minutes knows that this is what I care about. I’m not putting it on for the sake of the art. This is me. This is my voice. And these works give me the freedom to speak it more boldly, more fully, and more truthfully.
Because at the end of the day, I’m just trying to get to the root of it all — to wrestle with these questions of love, justice, rest, and what we allow to continue in a world that claims to believe in love.
India: My last question, what’s one piece of advice you’d give to another Black woman just beginning to write her story or career in writing?
Franceska: So the one piece of advice that I can give to another black woman just beginning to write her story or who's in her career and writing— I don't mean to name drop but I think that this is really going to have to be that just because this this kind of informs my journey.
Some years ago I got the chance to meet Ryan Coogler. It was actually kind of wild because I kind of got lucky. I hounded him a little bit, but I was at the Underground Museum in LA, and there was Barry Jenkins screening of If Bill Street Can Talk. So Ryan Coogler was actually the person who was running the panel and I stayed outside and waited. It was too packed and I didn't get in initially, but I waited and then I got the chance to go to the talk back. So at the talk back, I watched it was great and at the very end, obviously knew the car he came in because I saw him pull up and I saw his wife and whatever. So I waited and I waited and I waited and before he went into his car, I was like “hey I just want a few moments of your time. I just really want to know like I'm interested in becoming a filmmaker, doing creative work, but do you have any advice for me.
Ryan, said something that to me I think is so simple but so impactful to how I've gone forward and it was just “to tell the truth.” that's it.
And I think that for me for me that would be the same advice I would give to anybody is just really start with the truth. I think that’s a little loose there because your truth is very important to what you share. Because then you can challenge it, right? Then you can I guess wrestle with it. You can react to it. You can say that someone's a liar, you know, you can tell the truth, it's always a powerful place to begin.
So I would say the same thing like start with the truth and go from there and it doesn't have to be this curated thing. It doesn't have to be this, it doesn't even have to look good. It's just the truth. And if it's the truth, you're always going to want to honor it to some extent, right? Like the truth is really going to set you free. There's things about the truth. There's things that happen when the truth is present. And if you start with the truth, you can get so far. If you start with the truth, you might hurt some people because they don't want to see it. If you start with the truth, sometimes it's going to impact people and make them react, but the truth is it should always be the foundation.
Thank you for reading, or listening please leave some love in the comments and tell us what you loved about this conversation.
Finally, we ask for five minutes and 5 seconds of your time to watch, like, comment and share the project, Bear Fruit.
Also, If you want to keep up with Franceska you can do so in these places:
Substack:
Instagram: @actuallyitsfranceska
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What a powerful interview! Especially on reclaiming and staying true to your voice. I can’t wait for the next one!