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Writer's pictureJeh Bruce

Reaping the whirlwind



This is a strange and dangerous time to be an author, when, paradoxically, words carry both far more and far less weight than actions. As an author, we must learn to tread carefully, especially on social media or risk the seething ire of one's readers (J. K. Rowling comes immediately to mind; I'm not saying I agree or disagree with her views, but she certainly sowed the wind and reaped the whirlwind) or one's publisher, or, more likely, both, if the blow-back is bad enough. Even if those words were obviously taken out of context, they could cause permanent harm as far as future book sales (time will tell with the poster child of this topic, i. e. Rowling), which gets us to the topic of censorship and its even uglier sibling, self-censorship. The first is horrible, scary and discouraging, personally and professionally. The second is even more demoralizing because engaging in such goes against who we think we are and what we truly stand for.

I'm in communication with a number of other authors (of fiction and nonfiction), authors who are, as I type this, shopping their material to publishers and who have admitted, in private and unhappily, to have reworked their material in light of current events. One suggested it was moral cowardice and was really struggling with their decision; another said it was a simple matter of economics: they needed to sell their novel because the pandemic has created a massive financial strain and they desperately need a sale. Yet another said it all boiled down to pragmatism. That they'd sacrifice/water-down this novel in hopes of selling others that were "more risky" down the road, perhaps in a time when "risky" ideas weren't an anathema, or would result in the knee-jerk reaction of the right or the left and the harassment/trolling/threats that always seem to ensue. Others, when asked, hedged, or adamantly refused to answer whether they've self-censored themselves on social media, and/or their yet to be published works--self-censorship in its most primal form: self-censoring one's self-censorship.


I do understand each and every response. Clear, concise words do matter, ideas conveyed by those words matter--now more than ever. And yet everything is tinder dry, ready to explode, if it hasn't exploded already and is still smoldering, waiting for more fuel to reignite because no one is thinking particularly rationally. Between the nonstop horrible news, the behavior of race-baiters at both extremes, the utter, gleeful disregard for basic science (making the simple act of wearing or not wearing a face mask a political/virility statement), not to mention where basic decency and common sense are considered signs of weakness, we're all anxious, depressed, and sleep deprived and all the while every button in our psyches are being pushed, not once, but nonstop, like that uber-annoying toddler in the elevator who keeps hitting the floor buttons to the amusement of his parents...until the elevator lurches to a stop, its electronic innards overloaded with confusing and conflicting directions. That's us--all of us. The elevator stuck between floors, its passengers inside suddenly realizing they are intensely claustrophobic. It's hard to make a rational argument to people who refuse to be or are incapable of being rational, or who won't, even for a nanosecond, open their minds to the fact that the other side may have some valid points that should be heard, not yelled down. It's all boiled down to you are either with Antifa or MAGA or you will be shoved aside to metaphorically lie there on the pavement with a fractured skull. I don't currently have anything I'm trying to sell to a publishing house, a fact I am eternally grateful for as this is a terrible time to try to sell anything to a publisher, but I do fully empathize with those who are. It's always a massive, uphill struggle to get published, but this year definitely seems to be the worst of times for authors, just as it is for the rest of humanity, each and every one of us trying to find even the most tenuous of handholds in the midst of this whirlwind we've reaped.

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