On 2020s American writing: I do not write to change the world
A possibly controversial realization after a year of being a new author in 2020s America and wisdom from TikTok author dad. And I'm in Powell's!
The official release of my award winning book Salmon in the Seine was May 2022. Over the last year or so, I’ve crisscrossed the country between book fairs, events, and award ceremonies. I recently attended the American Library Association (ALA) of Chicago where—in addition to accepting a Next Generation Independent Book Award and signing/selling books at an exhibitor table with Headline Books—I enjoyed the offerings of the massive literati gathering. I even had the honor of signing three copies of my book at Portland, Oregon’s iconic Powell’s City of Books over the weekend. My wee title is on the shelves after knocking on their digital door a handful of times. Grab one if you’re in the area!
Portland is my hometown and wandering the literary labyrinth wonderland of Powell’s was always a magical day well spent as a kid and teen. Being an author on the shelves, even if it’s in the probably mismatched recreational fishing section two rows down from Fly Fishing for Dummies, is more than a dream come true. To be honest, I never had ambitions as a kid to be an author, so to be on the shelves of Powell’s is a dream I didn’t even have the imagination to dream (if that makes sense).
But I confess. I wondered, would it be so insane to put me on the “Debut Authors” or “Local Authors” or “PNW Wanderlust” or “Small Presses” displays that were so much more prominent in the store? What’s with the no front-facing copy? My book did not appear in the store’s weekly “New Arrivals” social media posts either. What wayward angler will find me in this dusty corner? I scanned the more desirable displays to gather intel. And the reason became clear.
From the titles that dominate the sexiest displays of Powell’s to the headlining speech of Dr. Ibrahim X Kendi at the ALA Conference-adjacent Right to Read Rally and the acceptance speeches of fellow award winning authors who narrowly bested me for category first places at different events across the nation, the answer to the big question of “Why write?” is intoned in unison like a psalm. To change the world! If you ain’t writing to changing the world, you ain’t getting the love.
After mulling over what appears to be the mainstream value of 2020s American writing, i.e. that the purpose of writing is to change the world, I’m here to state for the record what is probably the most controversial stance I can take. When it comes to the admittedly tiny borders of my writing realm, this sacred cow is slain. I take to this bovine like Brando at the end of Apocalypse Now, the beast’s blood running down the stone temple’s steps as sacrifice. I do not write to change the world.
Firstly, a disclaimer. Writing is of course an expansively defined verb, not unlike speaking or exercising. I freely acknowledge that there is a time and place for one to persuade others with words. Exerting our wills, instructing, and steering conversations is a part of life. But within this conversation, I hope it is clear that I’m talking about the literary realm which is the artistic world of expression. So, why write (artistically) if not to change the world?
I’d rather be a torch than a prophet.
To my sensibilities, the timeless big question of Why with a capitol W is highly subjective. But the joy of life may very well be that if one were to gather ten excellent writers at random and insist they answer “Why write?” and by extension “Why life?”, you’ll get ten very fascinating and very different answers. At least one should burst into tears and say it’s a way to regain control of his or her terrible childhood after being horrendously violated in some unspeakable manner. If you gather an interesting enough group, one of them may bellow like Chewbacca while another takes a long drag of a cigarette before saying sardonically there is no point—and that’s the point. Another will stand up and exit without a word. Most of them will answer eloquently, even courageously, but ultimately fail to fully settle the matter. Hopefully a passionate disagreement will break out and there will be one “it’s all a simulation, maaan” guy on acid. A church lady may pray serenely as her response. A poet may strip to his or her underwear and do a little dance learned abroad—while the Chewbacca guy keeps bellowing, ideally.
You get the scene I’m painting here. We author types are chasing the Why in our work on our own paths. To me, this is a core reason why books are worth picking up in the first place. An insightful human, by definition different than I, is taking on Why on the person’s own terms and only this single soul can do it in this particular way. Voila! The basis of a notable author. This seems like the meat and potatoes of this whole schtick.
Yet here we are as one united hive mind to change the world, usually presented in the lingo of combat: fight, resist, overcome, etc. To be honest, I’m beginning to resent the recruitment of our ilk to change the world. Upon reflection, I think 100% of the “Why write?” headliners I’ve listened to over the past year—often with tears welling in eyes and political axes to grind—have answered the question for all of us. We all do what we do to change the world. To what end? Thus far it’s vague but extremely important. I’ve left feeling recruited into some great spiritual war, I a lowly but initiated acolyte of the sacred order. There are souls to save and demons to exercise!
Are we writers supposed to be courageous prophets, torch in-hand and leading our flock of sheep-readers through the darkness? I think this is the dominate contemporary framework of the era and one can see why. Who doesn’t want to be stylized as that heroic figure saving mankind? It’s rather flattering and meaningful, especially if we get to write our own narrative mythos.
But I do not see myself this way. I see what I do—the work—as being the lowly torch, an inert tool if left by itself. It is the reader who is the living thing here capable of changing the environment. I am not my book, the book is out of me and exists in its own form. The book, the torch, emits a little heat and light for those who wish to use it. Should the reader use that heat to burn down the forest or the light to fend off the wolves is up to them. Hell, they can declare it the worst torch of all time and throw it into a lake! Or use it to light other people’s fire, igniting a chain reaction illuminating a village.
See the difference? The readers are the changers. Change is a potential byproduct, but not the purpose. Good books just give off a little heat and a little light. Combat not necessary.
Art is not an extension of my will.
The delightful word dysphoria has been batted about quite a bit of late in the gender discourse. But beyond that specific topic, the word stands on its own as a keeper. Dysphoria simply means “a state of unease or generalized dissatisfaction with life” as an antonym to euphoria. Are these not dysphoric times in many ways? And is not dysphoria a part of life, even in good times?
I know personally that a main reason I’ve always turned to books is to combat dysphoria. I was in a heartbroken rut when I was 26 and a Hemingway short story collection from the local library helped me buck up. A friend once handed me a ragged old copy of Zorba the Greek and said that I reminded them of Zorba. Reading that life affirming work was a treat, even though many of its themes of Greek nationalism probably went over my head. When my dad was ill, Garrison Keillor’s excellent poetry anthology Good Poems for Hard Times was always nearby. I’ll forever be appreciative of The Martian because I read it during a tough albacore tuna gig where I spent weeks at sea without a known return date. Both the astronaut protagonist Mark Watney and I were trapped in our respective tin cans.
One of the essential capabilities of literature is to alleviate dysphoria, folks! This is true across genres, from The Hobbit to Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?. Readers lean on us authors to root them into the life experience, not alienate them from it. We should not conflate the life experience with our insatiable willpowers and desire to dominate. Something about the good stuff just sits right afterward, even if the experience was fantastical or horrifying. Life makes a little more sense. You feel, even if just for a moment, like you’re really in this world.
Even at the end of Cujo as the family holds their dead son (who lives in the movie), one feels alive. We’re in the game, not floating above or drowning below. The dysphoria can become euphoria. And not like a sugar rush or drug high, although books admirably can do that too.
TikTok author dad is an important lesson.
Imagine you and I enter a massive house party full of people with whom you want to connect. You and I are two debut authors who burst through the door. All eyes fall upon us. You’re very excited. “Maybe I’ll fall in love at this party!” you think.
But now I address the masses in a booming voice, “I’m going to change your life right now! I’m holding in my hands my stunning and brave book! Read it and be transformed!!!” You scan the crowd. Friendly faces shift to annoyed or disinterested.
“And!” I turn to you, beaming with eyes alight. “This is my friend who believes everything I do! We’re changing the world together, behold our majesty and be amazed!” Would you appreciate me for this?! How are you possibly going to break the ice and genuinely connect with the good people after an introduction like that?
The Perfect Storm is an excellent book as it is, we don’t need Sebastian Junger to release a new edition where his desire for us to transform into people of his liking seeps through every page. Picasso’s exquisite Guernica painting speaks for itself. War is horrifying! He says it best in an immortal language without a word. The last thing I’d want is to see Picasso wag his finger at me from Twitter and lobby policymakers. What’s the world like when the average reception to writers—the bringers of stories—shifts from mostly positive to negative as we’re converted into a new form of door-to-door Jehovah’s witnesses? As Hollywood strikes, an unprecedentedly large chunk of the country says good riddance to all of them. Such an attitude would’ve been a tiny group back when I was a teenager only 15 years ago.
No, let us look to newly bestselling Shawn Werner—aka TikTok author dad—as an example. If you’re not up on this pop culture moment, Insider has a summary here. From Insider, “Shawn Warner's book ‘Leigh Howard and the Ghosts of Simmons-Pierce Manor’ follows the story of an orphaned girl who uses the help of ghostly companions to solve the murder of her parents, according to Warner's website.
Warner is a retired veteran and father of two who is living out his "childhood dream" of being a writer, his author profile says.
TikToker Jerrad Swearenjin, who uses the username @internetfamouslol, posted a video of Warner selling copies of his book inside a Kroger store in Texas, which has more than 18 million views at the time of writing.” You can watch the video here.
Guess what? This little video of Werner in all his humble and passionate authenticity has compelled viewers to propel his book to #1 in the Teen and Young Adult Mystery E-Books category on Amazon! Of course the lesson for the industry types will be to become viral on TikTok, but they will miss the point. The real lesson is that Werner is humble and true. Do you think his novel Leigh Howard and the Ghosts of Simmons-Pierce Manor is trying to change the world? Is it a vehicle for him to exert his vision of the universe upon us?
I doubt it. And good on him. He is telling his best story the best he can, making a book that’s just a little bit of heat and light for readers to use as they will. And use they have in their thousands. I find that noble.
Be Zen! Be Cool!
There may be no more tenuous relationship than that between a curious reader and a newly met book. To me, it’s a lot like meeting a new cat. The best way to pet a cat is rarely to approach it aggressively.
Do we so hate the great wisdom of the past that we pretend it never existed? I could draw from every major religion to buttress the point that at best we writers of books are making tools for use, a la the torch, and are not the change making prophets we think we are. In the Zen Buddhist tradition, which I love and turn to now for its elegant brevity, Lao Tzu said that, “When you realize nothing is lacking, the whole world belongs to you.” Alan Watts said, “Muddy water is best cleared by leaving it alone.”
To return to the cat metaphor, to get the cat’s favor you go about your business, appearing calm, interesting, and worthy. Giving the cat space to make up its mind is the surest way to prompt a cat to seek your affection. Maybe a little catnip can help. So too is the author’s relationship to readers and hence their capacities to changing the world. And, possibly, what Tzu or Watts would say about living a good life.
“We’re gonna be like three little Fonzie’s here,” Samuel L. Jackson’s character in Pulp Fiction famous appeals during a tense standoff, successfully diffusing the violent situation. “And what’s Fonzie like?” He’s cool. We’re gonna be cool.
I want to be cool! I look to TikTok author dad, Alan Watts, Lao Tzu, and the examples of timeless literature before me. I don’t write to change the world. I write to be a part of it.