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Content Warning: This section of the guide includes discussion of racism, ableism, antigay bias, mental illness, suicidal ideation and self-harm, death by suicide, substance use, addiction, and death.
In Score, Kennedy Ryan argues that artistic creation is a powerful and necessary act of historical reclamation. By centering the creation of a biopic about the fictional Harlem Renaissance singer Dessi Blue, the novel portrays filmmaking and storytelling as essential tools for recovering the legacies of Black and queer artists who have been deliberately erased from the cultural record. This process of reclamation is presented as a conscious mission, requiring authentic representation and providing the modern-day artists with a deep sense of purpose that connects them to their heritage.
The drive to reclaim these lost stories is framed as an urgent response to historical erasure. Screenwriter Verity embodies this mission through her academic and creative passions. Her reasons for pursuing a double major in film and African American studies resonate with this theme: “I want to know Black history for myself because they’ll rewrite and erase it if we let them.”(47). For Verity, art is a way to “revive and find roots in the old ones—the ones who deserved a shout in this world, but barely got a whisper” (47). This sentiment is reinforced by the book’s structure, which includes a dedication listing dozens of real, yet often overlooked, Black artists from the era. The director of the biopic, Canon, is similarly driven by this impulse after stumbling upon a roadside sign reading “Dessi Blue Was Born Here” (7), which sends him down a “rabbit hole” of research that becomes an artistic obsession. His conviction that he must “do it right” motivates his choice to hire a Black woman to write the script, reinforcing the idea that reclamation requires intentionality.
The narrative further develops this theme by showing how the artistic process itself becomes a site for correcting the historical record, particularly regarding marginalized identities. The screenplay for Dessi Blue undergoes a significant transformation after Verity and Neevah discover a hidden box of letters revealing Dessi’s relationship with her roommate, Tilda. As a bisexual woman herself, Verity feels a deep responsibility to honor this truth, insisting, “Love like theirs deserves light, and I’m glad they’ll finally have it” (187). This discovery moves Tilda from a footnote to a central figure in Dessi’s story, demonstrating how art can restore complexity and authenticity to lives that have been flattened by heteronormative historical accounts. The decision to include this queer relationship is not just an artistic choice but a moral one, recasting Dessi’s life with the fullness it was denied.
Ultimately, the novel suggests that the act of historical recovery provides artists with a powerful sense of purpose and connection. Verity sees the Dessi Blue project as the “opportunity of a lifetime” (173), the culmination of her life’s passion for storytelling and Black history. For her, telling Dessi’s story feels like something she has “been waiting for [her] my life” (182), a mission that validates her unique skills and identity. Likewise, Canon’s journey from seeing a random sign to directing an epic film illustrates how a single forgotten story can ignite a creative calling. Through their collaborative effort, the characters in Score participate in a sacred act of remembrance that heals the omissions of the past and gives their own work deep meaning in the present. Through her characters’ work to honor the fictional Dessi Blue, Ryan pays tribute to real historical and marginalized artists who are often overlooked.
Ryan posits that lasting love, especially when tested by past trauma and chronic mental illness, can only be built and sustained through radical honesty and the rebuilding of trust. The decade-long separation of Verity and Monk, a period of pain rooted in misunderstanding, serves as the novel’s central case study. Ryan uses the couple’s journey to argue that secrecy and fear perpetuate suffering while courageous vulnerability is the only path toward genuine reconciliation and a resilient partnership.
The initial collapse of Verity and Monk’s relationship demonstrates how a lack of trust allows trauma to fester. Monk’s worldview is deeply shaped by the trauma of his pastor father’s affair, which established fidelity as a “hard line” for him. When he discovers Verity in a compromising situation with another man during her first manic episode, he views her actions solely through the lens of betrayal. His pain is so immediate that he refuses any explanation, telling her, “I don’t need it explained when it was right in my face” (116). Simultaneously, Verity, in the grip of a mental health crisis she does not yet understand, is unable to articulate what is happening to her. This combination of Monk’s trauma-fueled mistrust and Verity’s shame-filled silence creates a chasm between them that lasts for 12 years, showing that without honesty, love has no foundation to withstand crisis.
Even after they reconnect years later, their relationship is initially limited by Verity’s continued secrecy. Fearing judgment and rejection, she withholds her bipolar diagnosis, telling her therapist it feels “too humiliating” to share. This lack of honesty forces them into a “casual and open” arrangement that conflicts with their true feelings. Their attempt at a casual, “no strings attached” relationship is both a defense mechanism and a result of their inability to be fully vulnerable with one another. This period illustrates that even with powerful chemistry, a relationship cannot deepen or become secure as long as fundamental truths are kept hidden.
The thematic turning point arrives only when Verity risks complete honesty by telling Monk about her diagnosis and the events that led to their breakup. Her confession dismantles the wall of misunderstanding between them. Once Monk knows the truth, empathy replaces his long-held anger, as evidenced by his declaration that “nothing would have kept [him] away from [her]” if he’d known what she was going through during their breakup (331). Honesty allows the couple to rebuild the foundation of their bond on a new, more solid ground of trust. This moment reframes their entire history, proving that their love was not broken by her condition, but by the absence of truth. By finally trusting him with her full self, Verity allows Monk to love her completely, cementing the novel’s core belief that honesty is the essential ingredient for a love that lasts.
In Score, Ryan demonstrates how unresolved childhood and generational trauma deeply shapes an individual’s capacity for trust, instilling a deep-seated fear of vulnerability that can obstruct the path to love. Verity’s life is defined by her parents’ tragic deaths, an event that fuses her understanding of intense love with destruction and loss. Through Verity’s journey, the author explores how such formative trauma can lead individuals to actively avoid the very emotional intimacy they crave, creating self-protective barriers that must be consciously dismantled to allow for a healthy, trusting partnership.
The novel roots Verity’s relational fears in the traumatic memory of her parents’ deaths. A harrowing flashback reveals that her father, in the midst of a mental health crisis, accidentally caused her mother’s death before committing suicide by running into their burning house. This event becomes the defining tragedy of her life. Years later, when she experiences an intense and immediate connection with Monk, her fear is palpable. She tells him, “My parents had a very volatile relationship […] it got to be… too much. It ended badly” (58). By explicitly linking the passion she feels with Monk to the destructive force she witnessed as a child, she establishes a core belief that deep love is inherently dangerous.
This deep-seated fear manifests in Verity’s preference for relationships that lack intensity and offer an easy exit. Her relationship with Petra is comforting specifically because it is not all-consuming; Verity reflects that if they were to break up, “neither of [them] would be devastated” (8). She demonstrates a similar apprehension about commitment for much of the narrative. After reconciling with Monk, she initially insists on a “casual and open” arrangement, and later, even as their bond deepens, she resists the idea of marriage, calling it a “recipe for disaster.” She argues for an “escape hatch” so that Monk can leave if her bipolar disorder becomes too much for him to handle. This pattern of creating emotional distance and pre-planned exits is a direct consequence of her trauma, a protective strategy to prevent a repeat of the catastrophic loss that defined her childhood.
Ultimately, Verity’s journey is one of slowly learning to trust that love does not have to end in ruin. Her healing is facilitated by years of therapy and, crucially, by Monk’s unwavering commitment after he learns the full truth of her past and her diagnosis. His steadfastness challenges her belief that love is conditional and that she will inevitably be abandoned. Her final, hard-won decision to accept the possibility of a permanent future with him, established by her visit to her parents’ graves and her proposal, shows a monumental shift. Verity’s journey demonstrates that, although loss and pain are inevitable parts of the human experience, they needn’t dictate one’s capacity for trust or worthiness of a lasting love.



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