I write and edit for a living, and I write for fun. I have a few novels in progress, with one released (so far); I write short stories and poems; I develop short screenplays and radio scripts, some which have been performed. That’s an incredibly heady feeling—to see your words expressed through actors on a stage or from a microphone!
Often my stories and scripts come from a prompt as part of a competition. The poems are just extra—no one wants to read my poetry which is their sad loss. I try to be authentic and real, and I work hard—danged hard!—on creating characters who ring true, who speak like real people, who lie and shade and misdirect, but who ultimately have motivations that are entirely human and understandable. I want the readers to connect with themselves when they read, find the person in them that is expressed in the characters on the page.
I wrote a story about a marathoner, for example, a fairy tale/national origin story about a young girl who ran for freedom and unity. I tried to give her real motivations and agency, even in the context of a story full of tropes to satisfy the requirements of the genre. I got first place for that one. I wrote a screenplay about a mortician helping young kids journey from this life to the next, speaking to them as beloved, cherished children who were taken too soon by violence. Nothing in the story is really what I believe—I do not believe that dead people hang around for instructions, for example, and it’s not likely that ghosts are here to warn us and heal us in our own disbeliefs. But I made it as real as possible in the concept of “if ghosts exist, what is their motivation, and are they both kind and wicked?” That got high marks as well. I’ve written coming-of-age tales set in a time and place I had no experience of, and worked so hard to get the details right that my readers thought I was telling my own story. (I came to find out a year or so later after writing that story that I had indeed incorporated details of my own life that I had forgotten about or suppressed—that was really a shocking moment for me, that my mind was sleeping for 40 years until I wrote the story!)
Recently I entered a short story for a competition with prompts that led me to set its location in a barber shop in the neighborhood where I spend my time. Given the requirements of the competition, it was limited to 1000 words. The story I created involved three people—the protagonist, the antagonist, and the helper. Classic trope. The protagonist was confronted by the antagonist, and in response the antagonist attempted to harm the protagonist while the helper attempted to interfere. Classic trope.
But in attacking the protagonist, I put words into the mouth of the antagonist that were slurs.
Now, I consider myself to be a kind man. Just. Careful. Honest. Hopeful. Loving. Giving. Healing.
I do not run from the hard truths and from conflict—I attempt to enter those places and be present. I attempt to listen and to change my behaviors.
As a rule and principle, I do not defame people, even if they greatly provoke me.
And as a life-principle, I do not use slurs.
For some reason, however, in this story, I put two slurs in the mouth of the antagonist.
I knew I was doing so. I was doing so to “show” how bad the antagonist was. (I was actually “telling,” but more on that at a later time.) I knew they were offensive things to say—knew it—and yet I still chose to use the terms with the excuse that they were authentic slurs and actually quite harmless as slurs go.
For reasons only God knows, I was able to settle on my decision. I sent the story off to the competition, happy I’d made another great story about people interacting in life.
I had the excuse all ready: I’d sent the story in draft form & including the slurs to several friends/beta readers, and none of them protested, so it was authentic and good and approved.
Then I couldn’t sleep. I knew that of my friends in real life, I had turned a few of them into targets in my story. Peripherally. Incidentally. Almost without notice.
It was that which led me to realize that what I’d done was to betray my proffered friendship: I was willing to slur them in order to make my point “effectively.”
When I finally, reluctantly came to my senses over what I’d done, I did what I should have done the moment I first sent the story off: I withdrew the story. I apologized to the editors, and made it clear that the story should be disqualified for my words. I haven’t heard back a response, but I trust that they will do the right thing and void my entry.
That was part of the response.
The other part is far larger and harder to deal with. Yes, only a few people read the story, and yes, none of them commented on the lack of charity or gross misuse, and yes, I want to minimize it. I’ll claim all the lies to justify my choice, even though I know I was wrong.
What’s bigger for me is that there is still something in me that will erupt with a slur when I need to use it. That is the thing that broke me: that with all my hard work, all my reading and studying, all my interactions and service and confrontation, all the times I have deliberately chosen to credit others, to acknowledge their efforts and accomplishments, to literally pay them money so that they can do their works for justice and righteousness—that in me is still the circle of hell that is racist and selfish and destructive.
Sure, it’s only a story. Sure, no one will really ever see it. It will never see the light of day, and the few people who read it using virtual copies can’t even recall what was said.
Those are excuses.
Intent never is more important than impact, and in this case, my intent was all lies, and the impact was upon the wider circle around me that I presumed I cherished and loved and valued.
Will I give up everything, then? Am I going to hang up the towel, go to the locker room and bench myself?
For a while. I need to mourn and think and grieve over my own shit, work on digging into this more, work to be more vigilant, work to be more honest, and then just go on.
I fell. It was not a good falling. It was a real thing, an act of destruction that I chose to do.
I’m not giving up. I’m simply more realistic about my own journey and my own weaknesses.
If you find this as a reason to distrust me, know that I fully understand if you need to separate yourself from me. What matters to you is your own safety, your own boundaries, your own limits. You can’t trust me. That is a real thing.
If you still let me hang around—well, I’m going to be a little quieter for a while.
I’m still going to be in the work.