Maya Fisher's Blog, page 2

Unsolicited “Help” and the Price of Being an Indie Author

When you’re an indie author, you get used to wearing a lot of hats: writer, editor, marketer, publicist, social media manager, shipping department… the list goes on. What you don’t expect — or maybe you do after a while — is how often people will show up in your inbox offering help you never asked for.

Sometimes it’s well-meaning advice from a fellow author.
Sometimes it’s a genuine reader sharing their excitement.
But too often, it’s someone sniffing around for a payday.

The Setup

The conversation always starts innocently enough. They compliment your work, your trailer, your marketing materials. They ask a few questions, making it sound like they’re simply curious or inspired. You answer, because you’re polite and because part of being in this business is networking.

But then the pivot happens. Suddenly the questions turn toward your sales, your reviews, your “reach.” They start planting seeds: “With only X reviews, you’ll never…” or “You really need to scale up if you want to…”

It’s not about helping you.
It’s about poking at your pride just enough to make you feel insecure — and then offering themselves as the solution… for a price.

The Tactic

In my latest example, someone zeroed in on the fact that I currently have 14 reviews on my award-winning, Library-of-Congress-archived debut novel. Fourteen thoughtful, heartfelt reviews from actual readers who loved the book enough to take the time to share their thoughts. To me, those reviews are treasures.

To her? They were a weakness to exploit.
She told me I’d “never” achieve bestseller status without more reviews — “not even 20 reviews can do it.” And then came the pitch: she’s a marketer, and authors hire her to “boost” their sales.

Except I didn’t ask. And I’m not looking for someone to “boost” anything.

The Reality

Here’s the truth:

I know exactly where my book stands in the market.

I know how many reviews I have and how valuable they are.

I know my own goals, and I measure success by more than just numbers on a sales dashboard.

I also know that scammers — and even some legitimate-but-pushy service providers — prey on indie authors by making them feel small, inadequate, or behind the curve. It’s a tactic, and it’s not one that works on me.

Why It Matters

Indie authors already fight uphill battles — we fund our own projects, we manage our own marketing, and we celebrate every single sale and review because they’re earned, not manufactured.

Unsolicited “help” that’s actually a sales pitch isn’t just annoying — it’s disrespectful. It assumes I haven’t done the work, haven’t thought things through, or don’t already have a plan in motion. And it’s insulting to the readers who have shown up for me by implying their voices don’t count unless they’re part of a bigger number.

My Advice to Fellow Authors

Trust your instincts. If a message makes you feel defensive, there’s a reason.

Look for the pivot. If the conversation turns toward your supposed shortcomings, a sales pitch is usually next.

Value your real supporters. Ten genuine reviews from real readers are worth more than 100 purchased or manipulated ones.

Don’t be afraid to end the conversation. You’re not obligated to explain yourself to someone whose goal is to sell you something you didn’t ask for.

The Takeaway

My book is an award winner. It’s archived in the Library of Congress. Readers have written to tell me how much it moved them. That’s success to me — and it’s mine.

If someone’s “help” starts with trying to tear that down, they’re not offering help at all. They’re just hoping to cash in on your hard work.

And to that, my answer will always be: No.

A Shiny Reminder of the Journey: My National Indie Excellence Award Medal Arrived

National Indie Excellence Awards gold medal

This morning, Misty opened our mailbox and found a small package that stopped me in my tracks.
Inside, nestled in a velvet box, was something I never thought I’d hold in my hands:
My National Indie Excellence Awards Winner’s Medal for Reborn In Shadows.

It’s heavy in a way that’s more than just its physical weight.
It’s the weight of late nights and early mornings.
Of scenes written through tears, and paragraphs rewritten until my hands cramped.
It’s the weight of doubt, persistence, and the quiet decision to keep going when giving up would’ve been so much easier.

What This Medal Means

On paper, it’s recognition from a respected national awards program for independent authors.
But to me, it’s a symbol that my story mattered.

I didn’t write Reborn In Shadows to win awards. I wrote it because it was a story clawing to get out — one that refused to stay silent any longer. It’s a story about resilience, identity, love, and survival… themes that have defined so much of my own life.

To have that story not only published, but honored with Best LGBTQIA Fiction in the 2025 NIEA, is surreal. I think about the version of me who never dreamed that I’d ever even write a novel, let alone see it on a shelf, in a library, or in readers’ hands. This medal is proof that she kept going.

The Journey to This Moment

When I think back, the road here wasn’t just writing and editing. It was learning the business of publishing from scratch. It was marketing on a shoestring budget. It was facing skepticism and outright gatekeeping from some quarters, and finding unwavering support in others.

I didn’t have a big publishing house behind me. I didn’t have a massive PR machine.
What I did have was community — readers, friends, and fellow authors who believed in me and shared in my excitement. And now, I have this medal as a physical reminder that we did something extraordinary together.

Why This Matters for Indie Authors

Independent authors often fight twice as hard for half the recognition. We wear all the hats: writer, editor, marketer, distributor. Awards like the NIEA don’t just validate the work — they help elevate indie books so more readers can find them.

This medal isn’t just mine. It belongs to everyone who bought the book, left a review, told a friend, or simply said, “I believe in you.”

Reborn In Shadows: From The Ashes hardcover with it’s physical rewards

What’s Next

Holding this medal, I feel an even deeper fire for what’s ahead:

August 29th — An Evening with Maya Fisher at Kingsport Mall

September 27th — Pikeville Pride

October 11th — Release of Reborn in Shadows: Through the Fire and TripPride in Johnson City

October 18th — Signing at The Maple Tree

June 27, 2026 — Romance Atlanta in Columbus, GA (still sorting the logistics, but it’s happening!)

Every step from here is built on the foundation Reborn In Shadows laid. And every time I look at this medal, I’ll remember exactly what it took to get here — and why I’ll never stop.

Thank you for being part of this journey. Whether you’ve been here from the start or just found me yesterday, you’ve helped make this moment possible. This medal may have my name on it, but in my heart, it’s ours.

When “Everything Bundle” Doesn’t Mean Everything: My Cricut Joy Xtra Experience

I went into this with so much excitement.
I had a plan — a good one.

The idea was simple: use a Cricut Joy Xtra to create custom, themed products to bundle with my books. Think Reborn In Shadows–themed stickers, bookmarks, and maybe even special edition packaging for signed copies. It would be a fun way to add value for readers while giving me another creative outlet.

So, I bought the Cricut Joy Xtra “Everything Bundle.”

The Purchase

On August 2nd, I clicked “buy” and paid full price — over $217 after tax. The word “Everything” in the bundle title gave me confidence I’d be able to open the box and get to work. After all, the whole selling point of the Joy Xtra is that it’s beginner-friendly and ready to go right out of the box.

I unpacked it, plugged it in, registered it in the Cricut Design Space app, and prepared for my first project — printable stickers for book swag.

The Surprise Missing Piece

That’s when I learned the irony: the “Everything Bundle” didn’t actually include… everything.

Printable stickers require a mat in the Joy Xtra, and the bundle didn’t come with one. Without that mat, I couldn’t cut the sticker paper I’d bought specifically for my first project. Cricut’s “cut without a mat” marketing only applies to their proprietary Smart Materials, which is great if you’re doing vinyl or iron-on — but useless for printable sticker sheets, cardstock, or other common materials.

I was already looking at another purchase just to make the machine functional for what I bought it for. That rubbed me the wrong way.

The Return Roadblock

I decided right then: nope. I wasn’t sinking more money into this. I’d return the machine and look for a different solution.

That’s when Cricut’s return policy hit me like a brick wall.
If a machine is registered in the Design Space app — even if it’s never actually been used for a single cut — Cricut will not take it back. Period.

Because I had powered it on and linked it to the app, they considered it “used” and ineligible for return. The fact that it was still in brand-new condition didn’t matter.

Adding Insult to Injury

The very next day, Cricut dropped the price. If I had waited 24 hours, I could have saved money. Now I was stuck with a brand-new machine I didn’t want and couldn’t return, trying to resell it just to recoup part of what I’d spent.

When I posted it for sale — at $200, already below what I paid — I got one of those classic “I’m not trying to be rude…” comments pointing out the current sale price, like I was price gouging. Never mind the fact that I bought it before the sale and am already taking a loss.

The Takeaway

I bought the Cricut Joy Xtra to create beautiful, themed products for my book bundles — something fun and personal for my readers. Instead, I got an expensive lesson in how “Everything Bundle” doesn’t necessarily mean everything you need, and how a restrictive return policy can trap customers into keeping or reselling something they never even got to use.

So now, the Joy Xtra is for sale — $200 firm, brand new, never cut a single thing. My loss, someone else’s gain.

If you’re thinking about getting one, here’s my advice:

Double-check exactly what comes in the box.

Understand the difference between Smart Materials (mat-free) and regular materials (require a mat).

Don’t register it in the app until you’re sure you’re keeping it.

Because once you do, Cricut will make sure it’s yours — for better or worse.

Exciting News: I’m an Attending Author and Sponsor for RAWR 2026!

I am absolutely overjoyed to share some incredible news: I’ve been officially invited as an attending author AND a proud sponsor of Romance Atlanta Writers and Readers (RAWR) 2026! This exciting event will take place on Saturday, June 27, 2026, in beautiful Columbus, Georgia—and I cannot wait to be part of it.

RAWR is an amazing gathering designed to connect romance writers, readers, and book lovers of all kinds. It’s more than just a signing event—it’s a celebration of stories, connection, and the passionate community that makes romance one of the most beloved genres in the world. This year promises an unforgettable experience filled with author meet-and-greets, lively discussions, and of course, plenty of books!

🌟 Why This Event Matters to Me

Being part of RAWR 2026 is deeply meaningful. When I first released Reborn in Shadows: From The Ashes, I never imagined it would take me here:

Winning Best LGBTQIA+ Fiction in the 2025 National Indie Excellence Awards.

Being selected for inclusion in the Library of Congress.

Now, joining RAWR as both a featured author and sponsor—further proof of how far this journey has come.

For me, this isn’t just about signing books; it’s about meeting readers face-to-face, celebrating love stories that challenge conventions, and championing LGBTQIA+ and Appalachian voices in the romance community.

📚 What You Can Expect

At RAWR 2026, I’ll be:
✨ Signing copies of Reborn in Shadows: From The Ashes
✨ Sharing exclusive updates about Book Two, Through the Fire, releasing October 11, 2025
✨ Talking with readers about queer romance, resilience, and representation
✨ Possibly making an appearance at the event’s energy-packed Whiskey, Words & Wild Nights After Party—a fun, informal space to connect even more

🐾 Proudly Supporting PAWS Humane Society

This year, RAWR is proudly partnering with PAWS Humane Society, combining a love of books with a cause close to my heart, as I have seven cats. As both an attending author and a sponsor, I am thrilled to contribute to an event that uplifts both our literary and local communities.

Event Details

📍 Location: Columbus, Georgia
📆 Date: Saturday, June 27, 2026
🕛 Main Event: 12:00 PM – 4:30 PM
🍸 After Party – Whiskey, Words & Wild Nights: 7:00 PM – 11:00 PM

🎟️ Tickets and More Info: Romance Atlanta Official Website

This event is going to be incredible. If you’re a fan of romance novels, love discovering new authors, or simply want a fun and welcoming atmosphere to connect with fellow book lovers, RAWR 2026 is the place to be.

I’m honored to be part of this community and cannot wait to meet readers, fellow authors, and everyone who shares a passion for heartfelt, transformative storytelling.

💖 Thank you for making this dream possible—see you in Columbus!

—
Maya Fisher

I’m Crying: Reborn In Shadows Has Been Requested for Review by the ALA’s Stonewall Book Awards

I don’t even know where to begin.

Today, I opened my inbox and found an email from the American Library Association’s Stonewall Book Awards Committee—requesting review copies of my debut novel, Reborn In Shadows: From The Ashes, for consideration for the Barbara Gittings Literature Award.

And I cried.

Not because it’s guaranteed—I know this is simply a request for review, not a nomination or a win. But because of what this represents.

The Stonewall Book Awards are one of the most prestigious recognitions in LGBTQ+ literature. They honor books of “exceptional merit with significant LGBTQ+ themes,” works that have shaped our understanding of queer identity and storytelling. Seeing my book—the story I poured every ounce of myself into—land in front of that committee feels surreal.

Why This Means So Much

When I started writing Reborn In Shadows, it wasn’t about awards or accolades. It was about survival. It was about telling the story of Miriam Ryder—a transgender woman and recent amputee navigating witness protection in a small Appalachian town—because I knew what it was like to feel invisible in the very place you call home.

I wrote this book to give voice to those who are too often erased: queer people in rural spaces, people living with disabilities, those who carry trauma but still choose to fight for love and hope.

To now have it in the hands of a committee dedicated to amplifying LGBTQ+ literature? It’s more than I ever imagined.

Why I’m Overwhelmed

This journey hasn’t been easy. From battling gatekeeping in local libraries to building my own publishing imprint, there were countless moments I questioned if anyone would even care about this story.

Now, not only has Reborn In Shadows won Best LGBTQIA+ Fiction in the National Indie Excellence Awards and been selected for inclusion in the Library of Congress, but it’s also being reviewed by the ALA Stonewall Committee—a milestone I never dared to dream.

For a self-published author from rural Virginia, this isn’t just validation. It’s a reminder that our stories matter. That queer, Appalachian, indie voices belong not just on shelves but in the national literary conversation.

What Happens Next

This is just the first step. I’ll be submitting my review copies to the committee for evaluation. Final awards and honor books will be announced in January 2026, with recognition at the ALA Annual Conference in June 2026.

Whatever the outcome, the fact that Reborn In Shadows is even being read and considered at this level is something I will never take for granted.

Thank You

To every reader who’s picked up my book, every librarian who’s fought to get it on their shelves, every friend who’s cheered me on—you made this possible.

For me, this isn’t just about a book. It’s about queer visibility in the rural South. It’s about showing that indie authors can break through the walls that try to keep us out. And it’s about proving that our stories—raw, fierce, and unapologetic—deserve to stand beside the greats.

I’m honored. I’m overwhelmed. And yes, I’m crying.

📚 If you haven’t read it yet, you can find Reborn In Shadows: From The Ashes here:
👉 https://www.authormayafisher.com/the-...

Here’s to every queer writer out there who thinks their story doesn’t matter: it does. And I hope this moment reminds you to keep going.

My Heart is Full – Grief, Joy, and the Power of Showing Up

There are some nights that remind you you’re alive—not just breathing, not just functioning, but fully present in the ache and the beauty of what it means to be human.

Tonight was one of those nights.

It began with a reunion I didn’t know would hit me as hard as it did.

Part One: My Brother, Still Here

Jason Kilgore is one of my oldest friends. We go back decades—back to the days before life unraveled and reassembled in new, unexpected ways. We were more than friends. At one point, we were roommates. But it was always deeper than that. He was my anchor during some of my most chaotic years, and calling him a friend never felt like enough. Jason was—and is—my brother.

I hadn’t seen him in ten years.

In that time, I transitioned. I lost my leg. I found the courage to stop hiding and start living authentically as myself.

And Jason had a stroke.

It took so much from him. His mobility. His ease of speech. His ability to translate thought into words. But it did not take him. Not his mind. Not his smile. Not his wicked sense of humor. He’s still sharp as hell. Still joyful. Still radiant.

Still Jason.

Seeing him tonight—it broke something open inside me. Watching him try to speak, to form thoughts that his body struggled to release, made my chest ache in ways I didn’t know it could. It wasn’t pity. It was fury. Anger that something so cruel could strip him of so much and yet leave him fully aware of what was missing. It was grief—not just for what he’s lost, but for what the world has lost in having to experience less of him.

And still—gods, I’m grateful. So damn grateful that he’s still here. Still laughing. Still fighting. Still himself.

We talked. We hugged. We stood together as he held my novel—Reborn In Shadows—and for a moment, it was like the years hadn’t passed at all. The world faded, and it was just me and Jason, like it used to be.

Maya and Jason

I told him I loved him.

He is still my brother.

He always will be.

That moment alone would’ve been enough to carry me through the rest of the night. But then the next chapter unfolded.

Part Two: Laughter, Connection, and One Final Copy

Tonight was also the Cooks & Books event in St. Paul—and I don’t think I was ready for just how powerful those three hours would be.

Maya at her table

From 5:30 PM to 8:30 PM, I was surrounded by something that felt like magic. People stopped at my table not just to buy books or admire bookmarks or flip through prints—they came to connect. To talk. To laugh. To listen.

I sold seven books tonight, and the seventh came as I was literally taking my booth down. That last sale felt symbolic, like a quiet exhale from the universe—confirmation that yes, I’m on the right path.

Someone bought my last remaining hardcover and immediately turned to the person standing next to me and donated it to her. As it turns out, that woman was the branch manager of the J. Fred Matthews Memorial Library—and now, Reborn In Shadows has a new home on its shelves.

Moments like that don’t just happen by accident.

They’re gifts.

I also met fellow authors, librarians, educators—people doing the quiet, beautiful work of building community through art and language. And I finally met a fellow board member from Patchwork Kinfolx in person. We’ve worked together virtually, but tonight we got to look each other in the eyes, talk, and celebrate what we’re creating. That connection—that shared sense of purpose—meant the world to me.

For two full hours—from 6 to 8 PM, and beyond—I laughed more than I have in a long time. I had rich, warm conversations with strangers who didn’t stay strangers for long. I saw eyes light up at the cover of my book, and I watched people lean in, curious, moved, excited to discover it for themselves.

I felt seen.

And maybe most of all, I felt like I belonged.

The Weight and Light of It All

Tonight held everything: grief, rage, love, joy, pride, heartbreak, and healing. And somehow, none of those emotions canceled each other out. They layered. They danced. They reminded me that life doesn’t separate beauty from pain—it blends them.

I came home tonight exhausted, but buzzing. Not from the number of sales or the compliments or even the beautiful donations—though I’m deeply thankful for every one of them.

I came home full because this is what I’ve fought for.

A life lived out loud. A life surrounded by chosen family and authentic joy. A life where I get to say I love you to someone who means the world to me. A life where strangers become supporters, supporters become friends, and stories ripple out into the world in ways I’ll never fully grasp.

Thank you to everyone who was part of tonight.

Thank you for reminding me why I keep showing up.

Thank you for making this real.

“Pantyhose Didn’t Make Me Trans” — A Story of Knowing

I saw a post today — one I’ve seen versions of before — but this one hit like a gut punch. It read:

“The only time my parents brought up sexuality was when my stepdad said, ‘If you turn out gay, I promise you they’ll never find your body.’ So no, maybe I don’t think all education about gender and sexuality should come from parents.”

Let me tell you something: I heard shit like that growing up too.

I was a child in the 1980s — the era of Reagan, D.A.R.E., and backhanded “boys will be boys” cruelty disguised as parenting. And some of my earliest memories — I’m talking four years old — were filled with a sense of knowing. Not confusion. Knowing.

I would try on my mother’s pantyhose and heels when no one was looking. Not because I was being silly or rebellious or “playing dress-up,” but because something in me ached for the softness, the femininity, the alignment I felt when I looked in the mirror.

I didn’t have the words back then. I didn’t know what transgender was. But I knew that when I walked through the house in heels that were five sizes too big, my spine straightened. I knew when I sat on the edge of the bed pulling the pantyhose up over my legs, I felt right in a way I couldn’t explain.

I played with Barbies. I also played with Star Wars figures and G.I. Joes. I read comic books, obsessed over the X-Men, and wanted to be She-Ra and Storm in equal measure.

But Barbie didn’t make me trans. Pantyhose didn’t make me trans.

I was trans. I am trans. Always have been. Always will be.

What did make a lasting mark — and not in the way parents hope — was being caught in those early moments of self-expression and being told I was “sick in the head.” Being punished. Shamed. Treated like a deviant for doing something that made me feel human.

That’s what carved deep, generational scars.

🧠 Parents, Listen: Your Kids Know Who They Are

We tell kids they're too young to know themselves — while simultaneously holding them responsible for everything they say, do, or feel. That contradiction is not only harmful, it’s dangerous.

I knew myself at four. But instead of being affirmed, I was told I was broken. That I’d grow out of it. That if I didn’t, I’d be ruined, damned, disowned, or dead.

You know what that teaches a child?

Not to be honest.
Not to be authentic.
Not to trust themselves.

And that trauma lingers. It festers. It eats away at your sense of worth until you either collapse under the weight of erasure or claw your way back toward the truth, one painful step at a time.

📚 Education Saves Lives. Silence Kills.

So when I see people saying “Let parents teach their kids about gender and sexuality,” I want to scream.

Because I was taught.
I was taught that being gay or trans was a death sentence.
I was taught that who I was inside made me evil, disgusting, unworthy of love.
I was taught to hide.

And too many queer and trans kids are still being taught that. In 2025. In rural America. In religious households. In schools where their identities are erased from the curriculum and criminalized in the policy handbook.

That’s why education can’t only come from parents.

Because some parents don’t want us to exist.

And some of us — most of us — never got the chance to be kids and be ourselves at the same time.

🧚‍♀️ What I Know Now

I’m a 49-year-old transgender woman. I’m also an amputee. A survivor. A parent. A writer. And yes, I still remember what it felt like to walk around the living room in my mom’s shoes, heart pounding, hoping I wouldn’t get caught — yet wishing more than anything that someone would just look at me and see me.

So let me say this, clearly:

Your trans kid doesn’t need to be “made” trans by a book, a Barbie, or a rainbow sticker in a classroom.

They already are.

And if you won’t listen to them — if you shame them, silence them, erase them — the world becomes a more dangerous place for them to exist.

But if you listen?

If you lean in with love instead of fear?

You might just give them the chance to become everything they were meant to be.

And trust me — that is so much more beautiful than anything you could’ve imagined.

With fierce tenderness and defiant truth,
Maya Fisher
🏳️‍⚧️📚✊
Author of Reborn in Shadows
TikTok: @authormaya.fisher

Mutants Like Me: A Trans Woman’s Lifelong Bond With the X-Men

In 1982, I was six years old when I discovered the X-Men.

X-Men #1, 1991

I didn’t know the word queer. I didn’t know the word transgender. I didn’t even know what made me feel “other.” But I knew that when I opened the pages of Uncanny X-Men or watched a rerun of Spider-Man and His Amazing Friends featuring Firestar and Iceman, I felt something that didn’t exist anywhere else in my world: connection. Belonging. A flicker of possibility.

I didn’t know why I clung to this team of mutants so fiercely — only that they were hated and feared because they were different. And somehow, I understood that feeling. Deep in my bones, even if I couldn’t name it yet.

🧬 The Allegory I Didn’t See — Until I Did

It would take decades for me to realize what I’d been connecting to all along.

The X-Men were never just superheroes. They were allegory in spandex. Metaphor wrapped in action and angst. They weren’t saving the world from evil so much as trying to exist in it — survive it — despite being labeled dangerous, unnatural, or unworthy.

And that’s the queer experience in a nutshell, isn’t it?

Especially for trans folks like me.

We know what it’s like to be misunderstood. To have our identities legislated, debated, erased. To be told we are broken, wrong, or threatening — not because of anything we’ve done, but simply because of who we are. And we know what it is to live anyway. To fight for joy, authenticity, and community despite it all.

Just like the X-Men do.

So when I see mutants hiding their powers, or being outed without consent, or finding a chosen family in the wreckage of rejection — it doesn’t feel like fiction. It feels like autobiography.

It feels like home.

💥 Cyclops: The Leader Who Sees Without Being Seen

My number one favorite X-Man has always been Cyclops — and yes, I know he’s divisive.

To some fans, he’s the boring boy scout. To others, he’s the militant revolutionary. But to me, Cyclops has always been the one who holds the weight no one else wants to carry. The one who sees everything — literally through a visor — but is rarely ever truly seen himself.

He lives behind shields. Suppressing what’s inside him just to function in the world. He’s powerful, but his power is considered dangerous. Too much. Unstable.

Tell me that’s not a trans metaphor.

Cyclops taught me that you can be disciplined and determined and still be tender underneath. That you can lead while being misunderstood. That you can live in control and in contradiction.

❄️ Iceman: Freezing Shame and Melting Into Self

Iceman came out as gay decades after I fell in love with him — but when he did, it hit me harder than I expected.

Because I had always sensed it. Not just in his charm or humor or swagger, but in the sadness beneath it. The way he seemed like someone who was always performing something — the comic relief, the flirt, the team player — while secretly drowning in the cold.

Sound familiar?

Bobby Drake’s coming out story mirrored what so many of us experience: delayed self-realization, internalized fear, and the ache of having lived half a life in hiding. When he finally says, “I’ve been trying not to be me for so long,” I felt that in every molecule of my body.

It reminded me of the decades I spent pretending to be someone I wasn’t. And the eventual, radiant, terrifying relief of no longer doing so.

🔫 Cable: The Burden of Survival

Cable is a time-traveling mutant with a techno-organic virus and the emotional weight of someone who’s seen the worst of humanity and still keeps fighting for a better world.

He’s a character about endurance. About carrying the trauma of what was and the hope for what could be. He’s patched together, scarred, half-machine, half-legend — and he still shows up, day after day, to protect the future.

That hits different when you’re trans and disabled.

As an amputee, I’ve had to redefine what my body is capable of — not in spite of my difference, but because of it. As a trans woman, I carry the past and present in constant tension. And like Cable, I fight forward anyway. For my daughter. For my community. For a future that doesn’t fear us.

🛡️ Colossus: Strength with Softness

Colossus is solid steel on the outside, but an artist and protector at heart. He reminds me that vulnerability and strength aren’t opposites — they can coexist.

As someone who often has to be “the strong one” in a world that challenges my worth, I’ve long identified with his duality. He’s gentle. Thoughtful. Loyal. But also terrifying when someone he loves is in danger.

He’s what trans resilience looks like: the armor we wear, the tenderness we guard, the fire that lives just beneath the surface.

🎭 Gambit: Charm, Masks, and Choosing Who You Are

Gambit is mystery, flair, and rebellion.

He’s the rogue with a checkered past, the man who flirts with danger and reinvention in equal measure. What I love about Gambit is that he chooses who he wants to be — over and over again.

As a trans woman, I’ve done the same.

He reminds me that identity isn’t something you have to apologize for. That being complex, chaotic, and beautifully flawed doesn’t make you less worthy. It makes you human.

💫 What the X-Men Gave Me

They gave me hope before I had language.
They gave me mirrors before I knew I needed them.
They gave me the courage to fight for my future before I even knew it was mine to fight for.

Today, I’m 49 years old — a trans woman, a below-the-knee amputee, and the author of Reborn in Shadows: From The Ashes, a queer thriller about survival, identity, and the power of chosen family. I carry the lessons the X-Men taught me in everything I write and everything I am.

We don’t always get to choose the world we’re born into.

But we do get to choose the kind of mutant — the kind of human — we want to be.

And if the world fears us for that?

Well… the X-Men taught me how to handle that too.

With love and adamantium-strength defiance,
Maya Fisher
🏳️‍⚧️📚✊
TikTok: @authormaya.fisher
Website: www.authormayafisher.com

A Signed Story, Rescued for $2

I just bought back a signed hardcover copy of Reborn in Shadows for two dollars.

It was a giveaway copy — one I mailed out with joy, with care, with a handwritten signature inside and the hope that it might land in the hands of someone who needed it. Someone queer. Someone maybe a little lost. Someone who didn’t have the means to buy it, but who deserved to see themselves on the page. Who might hold the book close on a hard night and think, “I’m not alone.”

But that’s not where it ended up.

They hadn’t even opened it. No review. No mention. Just a listing: “Brand new. Signed. $2.” Flipped like it was nothing. Like it hadn’t cost me anything at all.

But it did cost something.

It cost me the emotional labor of pouring my entire heart into this story — my grief, my identity, my survival. It cost time, effort, love. It cost the postage. It cost a copy that could’ve gone to someone who would've clutched it to their chest the way I used to do with the books that saved me.

So I bought it back.

Not out of spite. Out of protection. Because I still believe this story deserves a reader who sees it as more than an object. Who recognizes that it was written by someone who’s lived the trauma, the healing, the fight.

Every signed book I give away is more than promotion — it’s an offering. A lifeline. A bridge from my story to someone else's.

And I know I can’t control where every book ends up. I know not every copy will be treasured. But this one came back to me. And that means I get to choose again. I get to re-home it with someone who needs it — really needs it.

Someone who’s been made to feel like too much or not enough.

Someone queer.

Someone brave.

Someone who’s still learning how to survive.

I’ll write a new message inside it before I send it off again. Maybe something like:

“This book came back to me. And now it’s yours.”

Because stories deserve to be held by those who feel them.

And so do we.

They Could’ve Just Asked Me

It’s been 31 months since any of them have spoken to me. Christmas Day, 2022. 
 
No texts. No calls. No apologies. No love.   
Just silence. 
 
It’s been even longer since they’ve seen me in person. Not a single one of them, aside from my youngest sister, has seen me—really seen me—since I came out publicly as a transgender woman on September 18th, 2020. And even she abandoned me.
 
They’ve never sat across from me as I am.   
They’ve never hugged me, or smiled at me, or said my name out loud since I transitioned.   
All they’ve seen are pictures, filtered through secondhand screens or social media algorithms. 
 
They don’t see me as a woman.   
Not as a daughter.   
Not as a sister. 
 
They see only what they want to see: a ghost of someone they used to know.   
Someone who no longer exists. 
 
And yet, this weekend, I found out that one of my estranged sisters bought the Kindle version of my book, Reborn In Shadows: From The Ashes. 
 
She never reached out. Never said a word.   
Just bought it. Started reading it. And started asking questions—not to me, but to my daughter. 
 
One of those questions?   
“Does the main character kill her stepfather?” 
 
They’re treating my story like it’s a crime scene, like they’re detectives searching for clues.   
But they don’t want understanding. They want confirmation bias.   
They want to gossip. To speculate. To paint their own picture of who I am without ever looking me in the eye. 
 
They could’ve just asked me. 
 
They could’ve called. Messaged. Showed up with humility. 
 
But instead, they’re sneaking around the perimeter of my life, unwilling to step through the front door.   
And worse, they’re putting my daughter in the crossfire—cornering her with questions that were never hers to carry. 
 
This is not what family does. 
 
I grew up in Dickenson County, Virginia, in a town where everyone knew your business before you finished conducting it. My stepfather and mother ran an auto-body shop together. I was known back then—loud, clever, always hustling, always cracking jokes, always hiding something. 
 
That something was me. 
 
I carried the truth like a splinter under the skin. And now that I’ve finally pulled it free—now that I live openly as myself—they’ve turned their backs. 
 
But the world didn’t. 
 
Reborn In Shadows is now in the Library of Congress. It was named Best LGBTQIA Fiction in the 2025 National Indie Excellence Awards. Strangers across the country have embraced this story. They’ve embraced me. Literally and figuratively.   
And they’ve told me something I never heard from my own blood:   
“I see you. And I’m glad you exist.” 
 
I’m a trans woman, a queer amputee, a parent, and an author.   
I am not ashamed. I am not broken. I am not alone. 
 
So to those who turned their backs on me—   
If you want to know who I am, ask me.   
If you want to understand my story, read the book.   
But don’t interrogate my daughter. Don’t lurk. Don’t whisper. 
 
It takes courage to repair what you broke.   
It takes love to see someone fully. 
 
Until then, I will keep moving forward.   
I will keep protecting my peace.   
And I will keep living—boldly, loudly, beautifully—as the woman I was always meant to be. 
 
—Maya Fisher