Separating Words from their Writers

Lately, there have been more and more cases of morally dubious authors coming to light. What I mean by this moral dubiosity is the idea of a writer – maybe your favourite writer – being revealed to be racist or homophobic, or to have plagiarised other authors’ works. What do you do in this situation? Do you keep buying their books, even though you know they’re using the profits to do things that you think are morally wrong?

This is where the idea of separating art from the artist becomes difficult. Loving a book but finding its author irritating is one thing – we just ignore their presence on social media and avoid talking about them as a person. But when this person, whose books we love, is having a very real, very palpable negative effect on other people – can you still separate them?

One of the most well-known and widely publicised cases of this happening is with Orson Scott Card’s novel Ender’s Game. While Card’s novel might have been fantastic in terms of its ideas about the rise of the internet and the way futuristic technology would develop, his essays about his own personal views reveal a wildly homophobic stance as well as his intentions to use money raised from the sales of his books to support anti-gay organisations. For more information on this, check out this article on the full extent.

And this keeps happening. Cassandra Clare, author of the popular Shadowhunter series, has recently been sued for copyright and trademark infringement. Although in this case the lines between the perceived offense and the actual truth are much more blurred, many readers of Clare’s work are now reconsidering their opinion of her. To see the full list of alleged plagiarisms being presented as evidence, check out this link.

And this doesn’t just exist within the literary world – musicians and their music, artists and their art. Even sports people and their careers. This is, by no means, an exhaustive debate on the situation. I could talk for hours on the different instances of needing to separate people from the things they produce and whether it really is possible. It is, of course, also arguable that if we never read, watched, or listened to things produced by people whose personal opinions we don’t agree with, we would never consume any media ever again. So I suppose what I’m asking you is where the line is? Where is your personal line on separating the writer from their words? Let me know in the comments!

Happy reading!

xoxo

The Edge - Poetry Prompt

On Tuesday evening this week, my MA writing group were lucky enough to be visited by Luke Kennard, a poetry and prose writer, who gave us a great Q&A and then a workshop. He gave us a couple of really interesting writing exercises - one of which I thought I'd share!

Luke Kennard chatting with one of the attendees

The exercise:
Kind of similar to the form that mad-libs use, except instead of simply filling in verbs and nouns this time you'll fill in bigger blanks - could be whole extra sentences, could just be a few words! The prompt that Luke gave us is as follows:

When I reached the edge of the desert I saw...
You told me...
I couldn't...
It was as if...

And that's it! Then you repeat that another two times and see what you've got. It's a really great exercise, I think, and actually helped me to get out of a writing slump I'd fallen into. If you want, share yours in the comments section - here's my example:

When I reached the edge of the desert, I saw a wasteland that undulated in dunes for miles in every direction. It wasn't gold-dust.
You told me I would want to dance again; "it will be as if the lights have come back up - you won't have to live in darkness anymore."
I couldn't believe that - but it was true. The lights did come back up, but now they blinded me, burning bright spots in my eyes.
It was as if I couldn't stand the light anymore. It was too much and I had forgotten how to see.

When I reached the edge of the desert, I saw my thoughts scattered in the burning hills.
You told me not to think so much; that a sandstorm was normal, after all this time.
I couldn't stop the storm and lights from blinding me. Not even when I closed my eyes.
It was as if I had shut everything out, and now it was beating down my door - demanding an explanation.

When I reached the edge of the desert, I saw you, bent low against the wind, but still standing.
You told me you would be here. I don't think I ever believed you.
I couldn't piece together in my mind circumstances where you would want to meet me here - at the edge of the world.
It was as if you could see the storm and lights. You knew that they were blinding. You did not drag me into the desert - you met me at the edge.

Happy writing!
xoxo