Why I’ve Never Painted a Heroine from Ana Huang’s Books
This weekend, I finally finished King of Envy, the last installment in Ana Huang’s Kings of Sin series. That makes nine of her books I’ve read—Twisted, The Striker, and all the Kings of Sin—each almost 400 pages long. And yet, despite how engrossing her stories are, I’ve never once felt compelled to paint any of her characters.
And I’ve thought a lot about why.
Despite the chaos of life lately—flu season, work deadlines, school field trips, art shows, and way too much housework—I’ve managed to read more than usual. I’ve cut down on TV and podcasts, and I’ve started matching books to my moods. This weekend, my brain needed a break. It was fried, frankly. So when my library hold on King of Envy came through, I dove right in. It felt like the mental equivalent of comfort food—what some call “brain candy.”
Even as I turned the last page, I found myself wondering: Why do I keep coming back to these books? Why do so many of us love Ana Huang’s world? Her plots are often repetitive. Her books could easily be shorter. And yet, I can’t stop reading them.
Understanding Ana Huang’s Magic
I’m not a book critic, just a reader who loves stories. And I think Ana Huang’s magic lies in her consistency. She builds a world and then commits to it—hard. Characters from past books pop up in new ones, carrying on their lives offstage. It’s like discovering an extra episode of a show you loved and forgot about. Nostalgic, comforting, and oddly satisfying. You learn every detail of the Valhalla Club and its library by the third Kings of Sin book, and suddenly, you care more than you thought you would.
Even though some of her books move slowly, it’s those smaller scenes that tend to stick—the ones that show up later as fan art or Pinterest quotes. The emotional beats that leave a mark.
And the characters? They’re few, flawed, and often morally grey—but memorable. Maybe because she reminds you of their backstories again and again (sometimes too often, and I admit to skimming those parts).
So Why Have I Never Painted Them?
I love painting characters from books—especially women who inspire me. But I’ve never painted a single heroine from Huang’s world.
One day, I hope I’ll find the inspiration to paint one of Ana Huang’s heroines. Maybe it will come from a moment where one of them truly reclaims her power—not through love alone, but on her own terms, without relying on the hero to rescue her from every fall. That kind of growth would speak to the strength I try to capture in my art. For now, I find myself more drawn to painting characters who reflect inner resilience, quiet courage, and the ability to rise without being saved. It’s not a criticism—just a reflection of where I am creatively. Maybe that will change. Maybe that’s part of my transformation arc.
Why?
Because they don’t inspire me in the traditional sense. They’re not strong feminist icons. They’re not revolutionaries or trailblazers. They’re often vulnerable, flawed, impulsive. They give in to temptation. They make questionable choices. And yet… they grow.
That’s the heart of Huang’s stories: transformation. Every character—especially the men—starts off damaged, closed-off, or even morally dubious. But through love, they change. Not instantly, not easily, and not always convincingly, but they try. And so do the women.
The Kings of Sin aren’t exactly role models. The romance is dark, and the stories are anything but subtle. The emotional intensity is high, the scenes explicit, the relationships complicated. And still, there’s something hopeful at the core.
That hope—that we can change. That love can pull us back from the edge. That our past doesn’t have to define us forever.
And maybe that’s why I read Ana Huang. Not for heroines I want to paint. But for stories that remind me how far people can come, how complicated love can be, and how much we all want to believe in the possibility of redemption.
These books may not give me muses, but they do give me a break. A dream. And sometimes, in the middle of chaos, that’s exactly what I need.
