Member-only story
How Fiction Kills: Disarming Violence With Truth, And Why It Matters
“You can’t speak truth to power, if the power speaks truth by definition.” — Michael Lynch
I sometimes sit in coffee shops and write because I want to feel like an authentic New York writer. That is my truth, as ugly and clichéd as it may sound to readily admit and put down on paper. I want the legitimacy that comes with the portrayal of being considered “literary.” I like the performative aspects of it, in both look and feel- the excitement of watching someone else watch me, write. I will hide my screen or notepad with my arms, hands, and body sometimes, all the more to hopefully have them, the viewing audience, work harder to watch. This action may seem innocuous, innocent enough. But, in context, it is bigger than just being seen. This is a thing, a dance; the dalliance occurring when a hand and body, especially a hand and body owned by a Black writer or artist (or, Black person, in general) chooses to seek inclusion, to be deemed redeemable by the powers that be, by the authorities that hold the keys to the spaces that I, and countless other writers, secretly want and crave approval from and admittance into — the publishing world controlled by cisgendered white men. I said this out loud to Gioncarlo yesterday, and I write this out loud, now. There is a freedom in truth. A freedom in the ownership of a truth.
