But Maybe I Shouldn’t Write

If you’re at all involved in the YA community, chances are you’ve seen some conversations recently about diversity. If you’re heavily involved (and heavily invested in diversity in YA), then you’ve seen lots of these conversations over the recent months. They’ve covered a wide range of distinct but related questions:

• What does “diverse” mean?
• How should that word be used, if at all?
• Who has the right to write which stories?
• Who makes that call?
• What should criticism look like?
• Has criticism become so critical as to be unconstructive?
• Does it matter if it has?
• Who makes that call?
• How can we support each other and also demand we all do better?
• What does “better” look like anyway?
• Who makes that call?
• What is our responsibility as writers?
• What’s our responsibility as people in power, people who are marginalized, and (like most of us) people who are both?
• Are these conversations even useful?
• Again, who makes that call?

There’s a lot in there to unpack and no concrete answers to find. Because these questions aren’t meant to be answered so much as meant to generate discussion, exploration, and intentional thought.

I’m thrilled these conversations are happening so often and with such passion. I think they’re important even if their effectiveness is questionable. I don’t know how much these discussions are changing the industry, if at all. I don’t know if we’re all just shouting the same things over and over at one another in some inescapable Diversity Loop. I don’t know if we’re doing any good for this community, for readers, for writers, for the wider culture. I don’t know.

But I do know what effects these conversations have had on me.

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I think about power a lot.

• In what ways do I hold power?
• In what ways (intentionally or otherwise) do I wield it?
• In what ways do I lack power?
• What effect does that lack have on me?

Pretty basic questions, but the discussions in YA over the past several years have led me to start thinking about power within the specific context of writing. I eventually came up with a sort of personal philosophy on How To Write:

• Write responsibly, respectfully, and intentionally.
• Strive to do no harm, but accept that you will fail.
• When you fail, listen, apologize, and try to do better next time.

Over the years, I’ve considered each of these points thoroughly and found them to be useful. I’ve even shared them and felt fairly confident that they would be helpful for others, too.

But lately I’ve been thinking about the underlying premises of this seemingly straightforward philosophy. First, it assumes I’m writing from a position of power. That assumption is true—I’m always writing as a white, cisgender person—but it isn’t the whole truth. I’m also always writing as a disabled, queer woman—aka from a marginalized position.

Second, it assumes all stories are available for me to tell. This philosophy says that as long as I write “responsibly, respectfully, and intentionally,” I’m doing my due diligence and can proceed. This ignores the possibility that due diligence may not be enough sometimes. It ignores that some stories, no matter how carefully I approach them, are not mine to tell.

Third, it assumes my greatest responsibility as a writer is to minimize harm. If you try to do no harm but also accept occasional, inevitable failure, the best you can do is to minimize harm, right? Wrong. There’s another option.

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One of the most recent conversations in the YA community asked whether we’re scaring off writers (both marginalized and in power) from trying to write diversely at all. This is a messy question and it led to a messy conversation. (I’m going to attempt to summarize various points I’ve seen, but I’m sure I’ll get some of it wrong and it will certainly be incomplete.)

Some folks feel the tenor and/or content of critique in the community has become too unforgiving (for lack of a better word). There’s no room for that second step in my philosophy anymore: failure. And there’s even less room for the third: second chances. This, they say, will frighten off writers from trying, resulting in no representation at all. Typically, those in this camp feel bad representation done in good faith is better than no representation, and that we should be careful not to constrict voices.

Others feel critique is both necessary and useful regardless of how it’s presented. They’re wary of tone-policing the marginalized who have been hurt time and time again. Typically, this camp feels no representation is better than bad representation, and that if writers can be so easily scared off from trying with just the possibility of critique, then they shouldn’t be trying to “write the other”.

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My philosophy as outlined above rests on one other crucial premise: that I’m writing, specifically with the goal of publication. The idea that the best I can hope for is to minimize harm is only true if you assume I’m writing at all. I could just not. I could abstain entirely. I could either never write another word, or else write just for me.

If I’m not writing, my stories can’t do harm. If “do no harm” is the goal…well, that’s about the only way to do it.

I seriously considered never writing again. I considered it for a long time. I don’t want to do harm, and I know that any story I write (even those within my own experience!) will hurt someone somewhere. I’m fallible. I can try, but no matter how much good faith I have, I will fail.

On top of that, me being published at all could do harm. I hold power in certain specific ways, and I know that if I get published I’ll benefit from that. For instance, I’m white. I know that if I write characters of color, I’ll see more marketing, more praise, more support than a person of color writing those characters would. More than that, “diversity slots” are still limited and my voice (on the axis of race) is privileged over others. I could take one of those rare slots open for people of color. That’s harm.

So, if I don’t want to do harm, and if my stories will inevitably do harm no matter my intentions, and if the very act of sharing those stories will harm the careers and opportunities of others… Should I write?

I think it’s a useful question to ask ourselves, and one we’re not usually encouraged to explore. During these diversity conversations, I often see people responding defensively, as though they’re being told they shouldn’t write X topic. That’s almost never what anyone is saying, but I think it’s worthwhile to ask yourself if you should write at all. Interrogate yourself, your goals, the costs to you and others if you pursue them and if you succeed. Should you write?

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I decided yes. It took a long while and it was an agonizing journey to get to that answer, but I decided yes.

A big part of that rested on the fact that while I am in a position of power in significant ways, I am also marginalized. There are stories I can’t tell, but there are also stories only I can tell. There are nuances about my life that I’m especially well suited to share. There are so many parts of me I’m afraid I’ll never see on the page if I don’t put them there myself. I decided yes largely because I need to write myself into the world. (Although I want to stress that that isn’t the only legitimate reason to make this decision.)

Of course, like most marginalized folks, I don’t want to be limited to writing only about my marginalizations, and I don’t want to write any world that excludes people different from me. Which means I will sometimes be writing from a position of power. Which means I will inevitably do harm.

So let’s return to that philosophy of mine. I’ve modified it some, and I think it better reflects where I’m at now:

• Acknowledge your power and your marginalizations.
• If you choose to write, do so responsibly, respectfully, and intentionally.
• Strive to do no harm, but accept that you will fail.
• When you fail, listen, apologize, and try to do better next time.

I choose to write. Maybe someday I’ll choose to stop, but not today.

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This post isn’t meant to be prescriptive. I’m not saying anyone can’t or shouldn’t write. I am saying it’s useful to consider why you write. I’m saying it’s important to consider the harm you could do and whether the reason you write is enough for you to risk that harm. I’m saying these conversations—these fraught, difficult, complicated, important conversations—led me to realize that just because I can and want to write isn’t a good enough reason for me to do it.

I’m saying I’ve found a good enough reason.

I don’t know what the reason is for you. I’m not here to tell you what is or isn’t enough. No one could ever tell you that but you.

I’m just here to ask some questions.