She Writes Where It Hurts: Leslie Anne Lee on Truth, Becoming, and the Power of Stories That Stay

In this HER Lounge conversation, Leslie Anne Lee reflects on a lifelong relationship with storytelling—one rooted in truth, emotional depth, and impact, rather than recognition. From writing as a child to publishing seven books and expanding into film, her work is guided by a desire to illuminate inner worlds and tell stories that linger long after the last page. Grounded by family and driven by purpose, Lee continues to write with honesty, courage, and intention.

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You began writing at an exceptionally young age. How did storytelling first become a meaningful part of your life?

Leslie Anne Lee: Storytelling found me before I even understood what it was. As a child, it was how I made sense of the world—how I processed emotion, fear, wonder, and longing. I wrote because I felt deeply, and words became the safest place to put what I couldn’t yet articulate aloud. Stories weren’t an escape for me; they were a way of anchoring myself. From the beginning, writing felt less like a hobby and more like a calling I didn’t yet have language for.

Over the years, how has your personal growth influenced the way you approach writing and storytelling?

Leslie: As I’ve grown, my writing has grown more honest. Early on, I was fascinated by plot and spectacle. Now, I’m far more interested in interior worlds—the quiet fractures, the moral tension, the emotional cost of becoming who you’re meant to be. Life has stripped away any desire to write safely. Growth taught me that vulnerability is not a weakness in storytelling; it’s the point.

You’ve spoken about shifting from pursuing recognition to prioritizing impact. What sparked that change for you?

Leslie: Recognition is intoxicating, but it’s fleeting. Impact endures. That shift came when I realized the moments that mattered most weren’t awards or accolades, but messages from readers who felt seen, understood, or less alone because of something I’d written. I stopped asking, “Will this be noticed?” and started asking, “Will this matter?” That question changed everything.

When readers engage with your work, what emotions or thoughts do you hope linger long after they finish reading?

Leslie: I hope they sit with a sense of recognition—that quiet moment where a reader realizes they’ve been reflected back to themselves. I want them to feel braver about their own complexity, more forgiving of their flaws, and more willing to believe that light and darkness can coexist within the same heart.

Across your seven published books, what themes continue to surface as most important to you?

Leslie: Identity, longing, sacrifice, and transformation. I’m endlessly drawn to characters standing at the edge of becoming—those who must confront who they are versus who they’ve been told to be. Love, in all its forms, runs through everything I write—not the polished version, but the fierce, costly, redemptive kind.

You’re adapting one of your works into a film screenplay. What has that process revealed about your creative range?

Leslie: Adaptation taught me discipline. Prose allows you to linger; film demands precision. Translating an internal, emotionally rich world into a visual language forced me to sharpen my instincts and trust restraint. It revealed that my storytelling isn’t bound to format—it’s rooted in character and theme, which can live powerfully on the page or the screen.

Having served as a screenwriting teacher and judge, what guidance do you most often share with emerging writers?

Leslie: I tell them to stop trying to sound impressive and start telling the truth. Craft can be taught, but voice is earned through courage. Write what scares you. Write what costs you something. And don’t wait for permission—consistency and integrity matter far more than validation.

As a multi-faceted creative, how do you resist the pressure to limit yourself to one lane?

Leslie: I remind myself that curiosity is not a flaw. Storytellers have always crossed mediums—between oral tradition, written word, theater, and film. My imagination doesn’t recognize artificial boundaries, and I refuse to apologize for creative breadth. Limiting yourself might be marketable, but it’s rarely authentic.

You’ve described your family as your greatest accomplishment. How has that foundation influenced your creative life?

Leslie: My family grounds me. They keep me honest. They remind me that legacy is not built solely through work, but through love, presence, and example. Because of them, I write with greater purpose—I’m not just telling stories, I’m modeling courage, resilience, and devotion.

How do you stay creatively fulfilled while balancing personal responsibilities and artistic ambition?

Leslie: I’ve learned that seasons matter. Fulfillment doesn’t come from constant output, but from alignment. Some seasons are louder creatively; others are quieter and deeply formative. I give myself permission to honor both, trusting that lived experience always feeds the work.

When people look back on your body of work, what do you hope they understand about your purpose as a storyteller?

Leslie: I hope they see a writer who was unafraid to tell the truth—who believed that stories could be both beautiful and unsettling, tender and fierce. Above all, I hope they understand that my purpose was never to entertain alone, but to illuminate—to remind people that their inner worlds are worthy of exploration, and that becoming is always worth the cost.