Last night, my sister asked me: “What does a writer do to resist the disaster roaring down on us?” My response to her was “Write for your life - use every opportunity to write against that disaster and for a better way.”
Since that conversation, I have been giving a lot of thought to what it means to “write for your life.” It is, in some basic sense, what writers - those who are really called to writing - always do, have always done. We write because it is impossible for us to not write. It is, for many writers, simply the definition of who we are. But now ‘writing for your life’ means more than that. It has always meant more than that.
There are many ways to define the work of a writer, and which you accept depends on your perspective and how writing enters your life. The difference for writers (or, the kind of writer that I am, at any rate), is that writing is how we enter the world. It is the door that I open to go out, to find
kindred souls, to do work that I hope will make a difference. We all do whatever work we have in our life for that purpose, either to make a difference in the world at large, or in our own lives, or in the lives of those we love. No matter your work, whether it is an occupation you actively chose or one that you stepped into out of necessity, you do it
to make things better. If that weren’t the goal, if we weren’t allowed to hope for better in our lives or to make the lives of those we love better, going to work would have no fundamental difference from slavery.
For writers, the work is always chosen. There is no career path, no signing bonus, no job posting that offers the advantages that other jobs or careers do. We choose to do it because we must. That is, to me, one of the essential differences for us - not only does writing offer the best way, the only true way, that we can enter the world around us, but it is, by force of a culture that denies the value of creative process, a choice that must be made intentionally and lived out in difficulty and division - writing at your desk after a long day at work, taking your writing with you on family vacations, finding alone time to write when others are finding relief in family, friends, and relaxation. But if we do not make that choice, we don’t really live. My sister (the same who asked me the question above) once told me that a friend said to her “Do you want to leave this world without having said what you have to say?” That is the question, the drive, the motivation that feeds the fire in a writer.
For me, that fire, that choice, means a commitment to truth, in spite of the fact that, recently, we
are being told that there is no ‘truth,’ no ‘facts,’ anymore. The student (and teacher) of logic in me both rebels at this and denounces it. Saying something does not exist does not make it so. I could shout all day long that there was no sky, but all anyone has to do is look up. Truth exists, and those writers who say they have no obligation to the truth (looking at you, Aaron Sorkin) are part of the larger problem, I don’t care what side they’re on.
So, for me, “writing for my life” means writing the truth, as clearly, cleanly, and plainly as I can. It means that I do not accept, in any form, written or verbal, the kinds of pronouncements made during this campaign by the incoming PEOTUS. It means that I will continue, with everything in me, to call out the blatant lies that are told, to oppose the violence against freedoms expressed as ‘policy initiatives.’ Let me be clear, here - I am not a Democrat, nor am I a Republican - I have been registered as an Independent for as long as I can remember. I have had issues with politicians before, both Democrat and Republican, and, as those who have worked with me will tell you, I have no problem calling out people when I believe that what they’re doing is wrong.
I believe this incoming administration is the most dangerous we have seen in my lifetime, possibly in our country’s history. I will watch them closely, and will speak loud and strong when I see injustice. As a writer, I must choose that, or choose to close my door onto the world, which I cannot do.
