Why Writers Shouldn’t Be Afraid of Offending People

I am pretty full of myself and want people to like and praise me.

Sometimes, that means I can empathize with cynicism about writing from a place of privilege, whether I’m writing fiction or essays. I see the argument all the time from white or male or able or straight or… etc. writers: if I write what I know, people say I’m not inclusive. If I write outside my own experience, what’s praiseworthy and what’s offensive seem to change faster than I can keep up. So what do you want from me?

The solution is simple: don’t be afraid of offending people.

Strangely, that phrase is often mispronounced “Do whatever you want and reject the consequences.” Absolutely not. Saying and doing things that hurt people isn’t harmless, and we should care if we do so. Many people have good reasons to be offended.

But writing anything with the priority of avoiding some projected negative reaction from my audience shows self-absorption, not outward thinking.

If, as a writer with privilege, I am trying to write diversity out of fear that, if I don’t, “They” — friends, communities of people who don’t share my privilege, bloggers, more thoughtful privileged peers — will criticize my work or be upset with me, I am not in a good place to write diversity well. In fact, I’m not really writing diversity: I’m writing whatever I think will avoid criticism that might challenge my tacit beliefs.

I’m prioritizing not getting hurt over not hurting others.

And, hey, not wanting to get hurt is normal. I don’t like pain any more than you do. But not wanting to get hurt isn’t the same thing as wanting to do the right by and with people who are different from me.

Should I consider my writing from the perspective of people from other communities, especially those who lack privilege that I possess? Absolutely. They should not have to pay for my ignorance or error. I’ve got to listen, and, yes, I’ve got to trust sometimes that judgements that seem counter-intuitive to me are valid, despite any initial resentment or hurt.

Should their criticism — imagined or real — matter to me? Definitely. Privileged perspectives like mine are biased, no matter how well-meaning. Listening to communities who feel racism, ableism, homophobia, Islamophobia, transphobia, fat-shaming, sexism, etc. is the only way for those who don’t experience those things to learn about them.

But writing with the primary goal of avoiding getting called a racist or elitist or homophobe is a recipe for writing garbage.

If I care about the writing and, more importantly, about the real people who are its audience, I need to be prepared to hear criticism that may be painful. I need to be excited to hear it, because that’s the only way to make my writing good, and, you know, actually about the readers instead of my own ego. I need to acknowledge that however much it hurts to be called prejudiced, people are saying that because what I wrote — prejudice, from a position of power — hurt them more.

I need to want to try and to be prepared to fail and then to listen better instead of building my walls and plugging my ears and refusing to face problems because they don’t hurt me.

And when it’s tough, because confronting our own privilege always is, I need to take responsibility for my emotional wellbeing by making it my private problem. If I need to share it, I can share it with like-minded people who also share my privilege instead of making criticism about my feelings instead of those of the people I’ve hurt.

Fear doesn’t help us open outward to listen and accept. Love, courage, and ambition — to be a better writer, neighbour, friend, person — are what overcome our fear and push us to try.