PHOTO: Natasha Tynes, the Jordanian-American author and journalist, blends personal history with political nuance in her bold, thought-provoking storytelling.
Bridging Worlds With Empathy And Imagination
Natasha Tynes shares the inspiration behind her novels, her cross-cultural perspective, and how her journalistic and spiritual roots inform her emotionally rich, politically resonant storytelling.
Natasha Tynes writes with a voice that is both fearless and intimate, forging bridges between cultures, languages, and deeply personal experiences. Born in Jordan and later relocating to the United States, she brings a unique dual lens to her storytelling—one that delicately balances the weight of heritage with the search for belonging. Her work does more than tell stories; it carves out space for voices often left unheard.
In novels like They Called Me Wyatt and the upcoming Karma Unleashed, Tynes threads together spiritual yearning, political undercurrents, and the subtle ache of cultural displacement. Her narratives explore how memory, identity, and justice intersect—how they live inside us, shape our actions, and sometimes haunt our silence. Whether channelling the voice of a murdered soul trapped in a toddler’s body or capturing the tensions of growing up amid conflict, her stories never shy away from emotional or geopolitical complexity.
Tynes’s prose is grounded in truth, informed by her years as a journalist and enriched by the emotional textures of fiction. She honours nuance—depicting the Arab world not through stereotype, but through the messy, vivid humanity of her characters. That dedication to authenticity, even in the face of controversy, speaks to her deep integrity as both writer and woman.
With every page, Natasha Tynes invites readers to sit with discomfort, question assumptions, and feel more deeply. Her stories may cross borders, but their emotional truths remain universal.
What inspired the unique premise of They Called Me Wyatt, particularly the idea of a murdered consciousness inhabiting a child?
The story actually came to me in a dream. In it, I was murdered, someone pushed me off the roof of a building, and then I woke up in the body of a toddler. The dream was so vivid and haunting that I couldn’t let it go. I wrote it down as a short story and shared it with my beta readers, who immediately said, “This needs to be a novel.” I’m so glad I listened.
While the reincarnation element is fictional, the emotional core is rooted in my own life. I grew up in Amman, Jordan, and moved to the United States in my late twenties. The novel explores themes of identity, belonging, and being misunderstood, especially when caught between cultures and languages. The idea of a murdered consciousness inhabiting a child became a powerful metaphor for the feeling of cultural displacement and the struggle to be heard when your true self feels trapped or misunderstood.
How did your background as a Jordanian-American and communications professional influence the cultural layers in your storytelling?
Being Jordanian-American gives me a dual lens. I am constantly translating experiences between cultures, and that duality shows up in my work, where characters often juggle two worlds and navigate the complexities of belonging, language, and home. My communications background taught me how to distill complex ideas and make them accessible to different audiences. In fiction, I draw from that same toolkit but with more creative freedom. I write to bridge gaps and humanize the Middle Eastern experience for a global audience. It is both personal and political, and my professional experience helps me craft narratives that resonate across cultural boundaries.
In Ustaz Ali, you portray the tension between tradition and rebellion—how autobiographical is this narrative?
Ustaz Ali was deeply inspired by my formative years growing up in Amman, Jordan. I attended an all-girls Catholic school during a time of significant political and regional turmoil, particularly the First Intifada, within the broader context of the Palestinian-Israeli conflict. That backdrop shaped much of my understanding of identity, justice, and division.
While the specific events are fictional, the emotional landscape is very autobiographical. The story reflects the tensions I witnessed and felt through the eyes of young characters navigating friendship, loyalty, and social class. I wanted to explore how even children internalize the divides around them and how unlikely bonds can form despite those divisions. The tension between honoring tradition and questioning authority was something I lived through, and Ustaz Ali is my way of capturing that internal struggle while honoring the quiet resilience of people often overlooked.
Your fiction often bridges East and West—what challenges do you face when writing for an audience unfamiliar with Middle Eastern culture?
The biggest challenge is making cultural elements feel natural and not forced or overly explanatory. I don’t want to overshadow the universal human story at the heart of my work with too much cultural exposition, but I also want to stay true to my heritage. I have to consider the expectations of Western readers who may not be familiar with Jordanian culture while avoiding the trap of exoticizing my own background.
It’s a constant balancing act between accessibility and authenticity. I want readers to see Arab characters not as headlines, but as fully human, flawed, funny, and resilient. My fiction invites people to step into unfamiliar shoes and maybe question some of their assumptions. If someone finishes one of my books and says, “I didn’t know this, but now I care,” then I have done my job.
How did you process and recover from the backlash surrounding the release of They Called Me Wyatt, and what did the experience teach you?
It was painful, especially since most of the backlash was rooted in online chatter and misinterpretations of my social media posts. But I moved on, published more books, and learned that developing a thick skin is essential in this business. The experience made me more grounded and reminded me to stay focused on the work itself.
What it taught me is that controversy can overshadow the actual story you’re trying to tell, and that’s heartbreaking as an artist. But it also reinforced my belief in the importance of writing the stories only I can tell. That is my superpower, and no amount of criticism can take that away. The experience ultimately made me a more resilient writer and more protective of my creative energy.
How do you balance your journalistic voice with the emotional depth required in fiction writing?
Journalism taught me discipline and curiosity. I learned how to ask the right questions, conduct thorough research, and observe the world with empathy. In fiction, I draw from the same toolkit but with more creative freedom. Journalism is about facts. Fiction allows me to explore emotional truths.
The journalistic training actually enhances my fiction because it gives me a strong foundation in research and character development. I approach my fictional characters like I would interview subjects, asking what drives them, what they fear, what they hope for. But where journalism requires objectivity, fiction lets me dive deep into subjectivity and emotional complexity. I often blend the two approaches, creating grounded characters and realistic settings that reflect broader societal issues while allowing for the full range of human emotion.
What role does spiritual and political identity play in your character development across your stories?
Spiritual and political identity are inseparable from human experience, especially for characters caught between cultures like mine often are. My characters grapple with questions of faith, belonging, and justice because those are the questions that have shaped my own life growing up in Jordan and immigrating to America.
I don’t write overtly political stories, but politics and spirituality inform how my characters see the world and make choices. In They Called Me Wyatt, the reincarnation element touches on spiritual questions about identity and justice. In Ustaz Ali, the political backdrop of the Intifada shapes how young people understand friendship and loyalty. These elements aren’t forced into the narrative, they emerge naturally because they’re part of the fabric of Middle Eastern life and the immigrant experience.
What advice would you offer to authors navigating public scrutiny while trying to remain authentic in their creative expression?
Protect your creative time fiercely, but also treat your writing like a business. Build your platform, connect with readers, and do not be afraid to promote your work, but remember that social media is not real life. Focus on your “why” and let that keep you grounded when criticism comes, and it will come.
Most importantly, write the stories only you can tell. That authenticity is what will sustain you through both praise and criticism. Don’t let fear of backlash water down your voice or make you second-guess the stories that matter to you. The world needs diverse voices and perspectives, and yours is valuable. Stay true to your creative vision while being smart about how you engage with the public side of publishing.
