Arizona Rain

I think about fear a lot. Many of us do, I suspect, with a world-wide pandemic barely in the rearview mirror; a likely Republican candidate who tried to overthrow the government; and a planet that rages against us more each year. Fear can inform and protect; it can also limit and hold back.

In writing – in all art – fear has no place. You know that old saying, you have to tell it like it is. That means you have to tell the truth; however you see it.

Writers have had their fear dials turned up of late. We’ve come under attack and have been subjected to angry scrutiny. Sometimes, we’re told we can’t write about people we’re not. For example, a white woman can’t write a novel about a Black man. If she does, she’ll be accused of cultural appropriation. Who makes these rules? Who gets to say? I’m all for honoring the diverse nature of our society and think we should celebrate it whenever we can. But telling someone what she can and can’t write is censorship. If you write about someone of a different race, and you do so by using stereotypes, that’s offensive and demonstrates that you write poorly. Stereotypes of any kind are not found in good writing. If you write about someone of a different race or gender or sexual orientation and use epithets, that’s both vulgar and offensive and again demonstrates that you write poorly. Bad writing shouldn’t be published.

Then there’s the issue of sensitivity readers, people specially trained to point out to writers when they’re being insensitive in their writing. This is a tough issue for me when I think that some people equate confronting insensitivity with being unsafe. If someone is a boor and says you need to lose weight, that’s insensitive, not to mention rude. But does it endanger you? What if someone makes fun of you for being gay? Unless they threaten to shoot you, is safety a question? Or is it just a matter of being upset? Is it my job as a writer not to you upset you? I don’t think it is. I shouldn’t insult you; I shouldn’t threaten you, but I have no way of knowing what will upset you. If you don’t like my book, put it down and read something else. You’re not obligated to read my words any more than I’m obliged to write as if you’re someone who needs to exist in a soft, unrealistic space where you never hear anything you don’t want to hear.

I think a lot about Ron DeSantis in Florida, legislating that schools can’t make kids feel bad about slavery. It’s okay to think about how kids feel, it’s not okay to lie about what slavery was. Just because you tell the truth about slavery doesn’t mean you endorse it. Facts matter, history matters, truth matters. Those on the far right and on the far left are using the idea of appropriation, safety, and identity to censor both writers and teachers. Censorship always gets resisted, and it always fades away until the next genius sees a way to use it for his own ends.

So where do I come down on all of these issues? To put it as simply as I can, readers shouldn’t expect writers to tell them what they want to hear. If you don’t like a book, put it down. Don’t tell writers what they can and can’t write; don’t tell them what they should and shouldn’t write. Leave that to editors and publishers, and to the writer’s own sensibility and aesthetic. Artists must be fearless even if their audiences aren’t. Or perhaps especially because their audiences aren’t. That’s our job, to make people think what they otherwise wouldn’t, to move them out of their comfort zones, and to remind them of our common humanity.