A Cherokee’s Lament and Song of Hope

James A. Humphrey at the National Historical Novel Society Conference

Caesars Palace, Las Vegas – Friday, June 27, 2025 - Afternoon, 4:00 p.m.

by James A. Humphrey (guest Cherokee 411)

The lighting in Florentine IV at Caesars Palace softened as the Cherokee flute prelude concluded and James A. Humphrey stepped to the podium, a hush falling across the breakout session room. Attendees—authors, historians, publishers, and literary enthusiasts—settled into their seats, notebooks in hand, eager for a conversation that has long been overdue. The screen beside the stage read: Writing, Representing and Marketing Native American Fiction: A Cherokee's Lament and Song of Hope.

Wearing a ribbon shirt of red calico with ribbons of yellow and deep turquoise, colors sewn by Sally Field, and a gorget by David Cornsilk, I began not with statistics about how little the public knows of my Cherokee people, but with a story.

“My Cherokee grandmother, Ella Waters, inspired my novels and I use our language, history and culture with my deepest respect.” We are made of words and memories, of our education and community values. To forget is to forget who we are. Those thoughts, I followed with a “hello, how are you, and my name is James A. Humphrey” in my Texas drawling, stumbling Cherokee.

It was a grounding introduction, both spiritual, bilingual and intellectual, and it set the tone for my 45-minute session that would span centuries of storytelling, critique the publishing industry, encourage native writers and, ultimately, offer hope for the future of Native American fiction.

The Lament

Humphrey, the author, is best known for his widely discussed historical novel Cherokee Rose, which fictionalizes the Trail of Tears through the eyes of a Cherokee family fractured by displacement, betrayal, and the long echo of colonial violence. In my session, however, I draw attention to the present-day obstacles that Native writers continue to face.

“I called this session ‘A Cherokee’s Lament’ because of my deep sorrow in how our stories have been told by others—and often distorted beyond recognition,” I pushed my talking points. “We’re often used as narrative devices, mythic figures, or tragic foils. Rarely are we the authors, and even more rarely are we the publishers, agents, or marketing executives shaping how Native stories are seen and sold.”

The room was quiet, they absorbed every word as I detailed how Native identity is too often flattened in historical fiction—reduced to feathered imagery or stoic silence—rather than rendered in the complex, evolving human dimensions that all people deserve.

“There’s a specific pain when you see your ancestors, your kin, your worldview used like wallpaper—just there to make someone else’s white character look brave or enlightened. It’s not just misrepresentation—it’s erasure by distortion.” 

Breaking the Narrative Cage

What makes my voice particularly powerful in the predominantly White publishing world is not only my tribal affiliation—an enrolled citizen of the Cherokee Nation Oklahoma—but my scholarly grounding in creativity, cum laude graduate in mass communication from Pratt Institute, New York. I brought a rare blend of artistry and native insight to my session.

I presented slides with lessons learned from ten years researching Cherokee culture, language and history. “Historical fiction is a double-edged genre,” I explained. “You walk a balance between traditional truths and modern sensibilities, but it can also ossify harmful myths when in the wrong hands.”

The audience leaned in as I recited in Cherokee syllabary tribal values, explaining how these truths applied to writing, representing and marketing Cherokee stories documented by the people’s verbal histories in the 1800s and 1900s, by missionarys decades before and after my ancestor-in-law, Sequoyah, gave the people the ability to speak for themselves.

“The Cherokees aren’t silent. We aren’t voiceless. We are just ignored.”

Marketing Native Fiction: A Song of Hope

Having laid out the lament on each of my topics, I shifted my tone with deliberate purpose. “Now,” I said, “a song of hope.”

I began highlighting the success of a few Native-authored historical novels breaking the national armor without the marketing muscle they deserved.

“The White dominated industry still doesn’t quite know what to do with us. Are we historical? Contemporary? Spiritual? We’re all of it and more. We live in time of industry change.”

A major theme of my talk was how authors, especially those from marginalized communities, must often become their own advocates, handling sensitivity readers, explaining cultural nuances, and even self-publishing their own works after countless rejections for speaking in a voice that’s culturally misunderstood.

“The first time a major New York literary agent acknowledged my Cherokee Trilogy, they said, ‘This is powerful, but we’re not sure how to sell a Native American family saga—We don’t think the voice is right. It could use a white character as a guide?’” I thought, “No,” but replied “thank you for your time.”

I outlined strategies that have worked for me and others: partnering with Native-run marketing entities, promoting with tribal newspapers and, and participating in Indigenous-led book festivals. I also emphasized the importance of building non-extractive relationships with readers, booksellers, and media outlets. “We can’t wait for the big houses to figure it out and our tribes are more engrossed with internal politics. We authors must build the scaffolding ourselves.”

Q&A and the Call to Write Forward

During the Q&A portion, hands shot up around the room. 

One attendee, an author and volunteer with the society, asked if I considered myself White or Cherokee. “Cherokee,” I replied. “Understand that inclusion as a Cherokee by Cherokees is complex. Paperwork proof to rolls compiled by Whites, controversial blood quantum, family lore, and many other factors rip at an individual’s self-identity.”

Another audience member asked how non-Native writers can responsibly include Native characters in their historical novels. “I won’t say don’t do it—but know the line between inclusion and appropriation. Ask yourself: Are you writing with us, or just about us? Have you built relationships, or are you just Googling? Are you prepared for the responsibility if you get it wrong? The world is not kind.” I encouraged non-Native authors to focus on shared historical spaces rather than claiming Indigenous perspectives they can’t authentically inhabit.

At a convention luncheon I tried to explain to another author, “If your character meets the Cherokee in 1838 Georgia, fine. But don’t presume to speak as a Cherokee woman mourning her children unless you’ve done the work—and even then, maybe consider why you need to because you will probably screw it up.”

One question from a young Mexican American writer in the back of the room prompted a moment of emotional resonance: “I write about me and my peoples’ struggles.” Tears bubbled in her voice as she equated her struggles with those I described. “Should I just give up?’ I paused. “No,” I said softly. “Write your book.”

Epilogue in Las Vegas

As the session ended and the audience rose and headed to dinner, a few attendees lingered to shake my hand or ask me to autograph their books. Outside the room, Las Vegas buzzed with its usual neon energy, a surreal counterpoint to the soulful seriousness of the hour just passed.

I signed my name to their books with ᎣᏍᏓ ᎯᎪᎵᏰᎠ

And after that, I stepped down, ribbon shirt and gorget shimmering under the room’s lights—part lament, part song, and entirely hope.

Learn more at: https://www.cherokeetrilogy.com/