On politics, fiction and the fear of speaking out

So the UK faces more political turmoil and the prospect of another general election, on top of an election, on top of a referendum, on top of an election, and for Labour party members, two leadership elections as well. And that’s all in the last two years…

It’s difficult nowadays to avoid politics on social media, and yet some people still get annoyed by political posts. Many of us were brought up to believe it was impolite to disclose our deeply-held views to others who may not agree. Don’t talk politics at the dinner table, dear. And to be fair, that advice has rescued many an awkward family Christmas.

For those of us promoting our creative work or business, we have to decide to what extent we reveal our opinions. Authenticity is important in self-promotion, but we’re often recommended to keep politics well out of it, since it can alienate potential audiences and distract focus from the product we’re trying to sell.

When I started my blog, I took that on board. I didn’t want to waste my time or emotional energy on political arguments. I didn’t want people contacting me to say they wouldn’t buy a novel written by a snowflake Corbynista if it was the last book on the planet. Instead, I would express gentle thoughts on art and the creative process, reserving my controversial opinions for my personal social media accounts.

I still think that strategy makes sense for some businesses. I also fully respect the choice of artists to keep their voting preferences private. But when I read back over the first chapter of my novel, I realise there isn’t a whole lot of point in hiding my beliefs from my readers.

They are there on every page. And that’s exactly how I want it to be.

Politics to me is so much more than economics or legislation or leaders screwing up on TV debates. Politics is philosophy, psychology, morality and ethics. The stories of human relationships and human societies. In that sense all fiction is political, whether we consciously intended it to be or not.

A novel about sex and dating may not contain a single political comment, and yet is imbued with the author’s worldview. How are the female characters portrayed? Do they have goals or is their role to help the lead male to learn about himself? When we write about people with unfortunate life circumstances, do we hold them responsible or do we choose to examine the inequality and oppression contributing to their situation?

On the first page of my book, my character Kerry is introduced as dealing with unemployment and a mental health issue. In the scene, she stands outside a charity shop on a high street in Manchester, observing and welcoming the diversity of the people passing by. A man sits in a doorway with a cardboard sign: “Homeless and had my benefits sanctioned. Please help me.”

None of my descriptions are deliberately written to make a political point. They’re just the sort of things I notice myself as I wander round the streets, and yet that inevitably reflects my perspective. We all see the world through our own lens, and certain things jump out at us, or don’t.

What I’ve written will not please everyone, and that’s how it should be. And while I don’t want this to become a party political blog, I feel increasingly less desire to conceal my opinions out of politeness or fear.

I’ve been a Corbyn supporter since he emerged on the scene in 2015, and I’ve been deeply inspired by the way he’s risen above the incredible hostility he faces in order to lead his party to an unexpectedly positive election result.

He strikes me as a kind-hearted man and, I imagine, not insensitive. So how does he cope with the pressure? Partly because he’s a seasoned campaigner with a lifetime of experience standing up for unpopular causes. But I also feel he genuinely cares about people and believes in his vision, which matters more to him than ego.

So many of us are understandably anxious about revealing our true selves. Of what our friends, family or colleagues will think of us if we say what we really mean.  What gives us the courage to do it is passion and purpose, whether it’s for revealing our truth in art, helping others or campaigning to change society.

Whenever I get that awful heart-flutter of anxiety before I say or do something which invites criticism, I try to remember that. That it’s absolutely okay to feel the way I do, but sometimes there are bigger things worth fighting for.

Writing and responsibility

As writers, we know that if we’re to produce anything worth reading, we have to let go of the people-pleasing tendencies that keep us stuck in fear. If we write from the heart, someone will disapprove of us, and they’ll most likely tell us so.

Courage is essential to good art. It’s an issue I struggle with and have written about before. But lately I’ve found myself preoccupied with the other side of the coin: the responsibility of being a writer, or indeed anyone who writes anything that others can read.

We live in an age of clickbait, trolling and fake news. Every day we see children bullied online, self-serving media commentators demonising vulnerable people, or  fame-hungry fiction writers perpetuating damaging stereotypes. Internet attention-seekers toss out their verbal grenades, and upon witnessing the fall-out, they shrug and walk away. “Well, it doesn’t matter so much. They’re only words.”

Let’s be absolutely clear: words matter. Words can be sophisticated tools that heal wounds and promote tolerance, or blunt-edged weapons that maim and destroy. When we choose to write deceitfully or carelessly to serve our own interests, we betray not only those we hurt, but ourselves and the readers who place their trust in us.

This isn’t about censoring our writing to placate the easily offended. Our collective cultural health relies on our artistic freedom to be controversial and challenge the status quo. But in order to be responsible for our art, I believe we need to write with honesty, humility and purpose, and this applies as much to fiction as to any other form.

Writing with honesty is more than just fact-checking or avoiding lies (although they’re good places to start). Achieving authenticity in our writing requires many long hours of observation, self-reflection and practice. It’s discovering who we are and how we perceive others: a process also known as finding our voice.

Writing with humility is accepting we don’t know everything. Despite our gifts of empathy and imagination, we can still fall prey to assumptions and prejudice. When a critic points this out, it’s important that we’re open to learning, even if it hurts our pride.

Writing with purpose (or intent) is being clear about what and why we write, who will love it and who it might shock, and that the value of our story or message is worth the price of a few ruffled feathers. Having a strong sense of purpose can help us to deal with any haters we attract.

In short, being a responsible writer is not about silencing ourselves, but owning the power of our words. It’s knowing when to revise, when to apologise, and when to stand up and defend our beliefs at all costs.