The gift of writer’s block


Writer’s block, I’ve come to learn, is my friend. It’s not a nice friend. But it is honest – brutally honest. Unfortunately, my writer’s block tends to communicate in code. It’s not always clear what it’s trying to say – but if I take the time to listen to it, to understand it, it always, without fail, helps me to be a better writer.
OK, you think. She’s written a nonfiction book (Backdrop: The Politics and Personalities behind Sexual Orientation Research). She’s working on another nonfiction book (Fringe: On the Edges of the Mainstream Gay Community). And she just released a children’s book (This Day in June). Boom, boom, boom – one book project after another. Where’s the writer’s block? At first glance, it looks like my writing has taken off like wildfire. Scratch beneath the surface, however, and you’ll see a much different picture.
In 2009, I was granted a semester-long sabbatical from my teaching responsibilities in order to write a textbook for college classes on sexual orientation and gender identity. This was a huge gift, given that sabbaticals aren’t easy to come by in the community college system. However, instead of hitting the pavement and getting right to work, I stalled. I could not make myself write. In fact, for eight weeks straight (almost half of my sabbatical time), I did everything BUT write. It was very scary – I felt like a fraud and a cheat, and I was terrified that I wouldn’t be able to make good on my sabbatical agreement.
But then, I had a breakthrough. I was having a conversation with a colleague whose work I very much respect. When I asked her a question about the research she’s done over the years, she laughed and said, “There’s a story behind every research study.” At that moment, I realized that the book I had originally planned on writing (and was now avoiding) wasn’t the book that actually needed to be written. That insight was a game-changer – something opened up, and the writing flowed like a rushing river. Instead of writing a textbook, I started telling the stories behind sexual orientation research (which is way more interesting, in my opinion). No wonder I had writer’s block – who really wants to write (or read) a textbook, anyway? It was all but grabbing me at the throat and shaking me, yelling, DON’T WRITE A TEXTBOOK!!! WRITE SOMETHING MORE INTERESTING!!!
Now, over the past two years, I’ve been working on Fringe, which focuses on the experiences of people who claim membership under the LGBTQ umbrella, but because they’re not young, white, middle-class, exclusively gay, cisgendered, thin, educated, and/or able-bodied, they experience marginalization within that communityI interviewed about twenty people, including intersex activist Hida Viloria, BDSM and polyamory/non-monogamy expert Janet Hardy, transgender activist Jamison Green, disability researcher Rhoda Olkin, and former NCAA athlete Kye Allums, to name a few. I’ve collected a wide range of amazing, inspiring, and gut-wrenching stories. And, as Yogi Berra would say, I’m experiencing deja-vu all over again. Because now it’s time to write . . . and I’m having trouble writing. I’m blocked – again. And it’s scary.
However, I do know this: With Backdrop, I learned that, in time, the reasons for the writer’s block will be revealed – and that revelation will move creative mountains. But with Fringe, the mountains just ain’t moving. I try to write, but I’ve gotten stuck – and stayed stuck. For much longer than eight weeks.
And then the insight came. I was having a conversation with a colleague whose work I very much respect (deja-vu all over again, right!).  I asked him to sum up his discipline in one sentence (he’s a history professor), and he responded instantly by saying, “Who gets to tell the story?”
Who gets to tell the story? Do I get to tell the stories of people whose experiences I don’t necessarily share? Or should I sit down, shut up, and let people speak for themselves? This is what writers call First Voice – letting people speak for themselves (especially those whose stories have been stolen, revised, and re-told by those in power). Children’s book author and illustrator Maya Christina Gonzalez describes this concept in her essay titled “Polka Dots, Self-Portraits, and First Voice Multicultural Children’s Books“:
At a conference I looked at a large collection of Multicultural children’s books. With each book I picked up I could sense if something felt original and authentic and when something felt somewhat discordant. Each time I sensed a lack of resonance, I looked more closely at the author and artist and each time I found that they did not originate from the community they were representing. It is not that their books lacked merit, by no means. But it did feel different. And each time, I got this funny feeling in my gut, it reminded me of educators, professors, experts, ethnographers, authors and artists who were telling me about me or my people or my culture. I did not feel felt. I felt studied, categorized, defined and documented by outsiders. I did not feel that I belonged. I felt separate.
In this quote, Maya Gonzalez was specifically referring to the experience of people of color. However, the LGBTQ community also knows what it feels like to be defined by those who hold power, to have our stories told by those who have not experienced them. Psychologists and psychiatrists diagnosed same-gender-loving people with the disorder of “homosexuality” – and treated them using psychoanalysis, shock therapy, medication, and, more recently, religious conversion. When anthropologists studied the people indigenous to the Americas, they used the term “berdache” (which many Native Americans consider to be marginalizing and othering) to describe gender non-conforming Native men – many of whom were ultimately wiped out by European colonizers. When doctors encountered babies with ambiguous genitalia, they called them “hermaphrodites” – and then proceeded to operate on them so they would conform to society’s gender standards. Their stories were appropriated, and told through the voice of the oppressor – often mangled in ways that caused irreparable harm to those communities.
I don’t consider myself to be “the oppressor.” However, I do have to acknowledge my privilege (unlike Tal Fortgang, for those of you who might have read his inflammatory piece dismissing his own privilege). Even though I’m a card-carrying member of the LGBTQ community, I don’t exist on the “fringes” of that community – not in the same way that many of the people I interviewed do. Even if I practice allyship with the trans community, or the intersex community, or with LGBTQ communities of color, or the BDSM community, does this make it okay for me to tell their stories for them?
I don’t know the answer, to be honest. But I think I hear what Writer’s Block is telling me:
They gifted you with their stories. Handle them with care.
Consider – really consider – whether you should be their storyteller.
And if you do assume the role of storyteller, don’t privilege your voice over theirs. 

Writer’s block. It’s my friend. Not a nice friend. But an honest one.

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2 Comments

Filed under BDSM, disability, gender nonconformity, intersex, polyamory, racism, transgender, Uncategorized

2 responses to “The gift of writer’s block

  1. ALWAYS, Gayle, always you make me think. Thank you. I would love to hear more of your thinking about Fringe, either here or in a book or both. The marginalization of people and groups in the context of their social identity groups has long interested me. Short men, large women, Southern atheists all seem to experience this phenomenon. That you grapple with who tells the stories seems consistent with your senses of justice. But I also wonder if there is more to write about than the stories, too.

    My mother died last month at age 98. She saw herself as on the fringe as long as I was alive. For long periods she worked hard to be somewhere else, but she generally appeared not to care, or perhaps even relish being there. She viewed her status — a status that many would not guess she held — as the result of her own confrontational behaviors and her lack of education. She viewed motherhood as a job to assure our survival; she was not all that interested in us avoiding the fringe or not. My own view of her didn’t match hers. She was a fully assimilated Jew who denied her Jewish heritage until this past winter. She was raised poor, then orphaned in her early teens. So, while she saw herself as a scrappy truth-teller who was marginalized for that, I saw her as a survivor living on the fringe with others just like her, a generation of people born between two wars that left them orphaned, poor, and fearful.

    She was at the center of her people and at the fringe elsewhere. Had she had the luxury of noticing, she might have embraced her people. I relate this to illustrate there are stories to be told by those who own them. There are others to be told by those whose their stories affect.

    • Thanks, Gary, for your response. And I’m so sorry about your mom. Sounds like life has thrown you lots of curveballs of late.
      I appreciate your thoughtful commentary, and I agree – our different perspectives of the same experience can be quite valuable, and provide a richer and more complex picture. How I tell someone’s story might be very different from how they tell their own story. That’s not necessarily a bad thing (in fact, sometimes it can yield insights that wouldn’t have emerged from an autobiographical narrative). But there’s still a heavy responsibility, especially since so many people I talked to said things like, “I’ll tell you this, but please don’t put it in your book.” A while ago, I was talking to a friend and colleague about this book project, and she said, “I have a feeling that this book is going to be more about you than them.” (She meant it in the positive sense, not in “This is becoming all-about-you!”) I think that’s the central issue I’m grappling with – should I position myself as the narrator behind the curtain, or should I inject more of myself throughout the book, sharing my insights, observations, and points of relating/points of differing with the people I interviewed – especially since I’m not anywhere near as “fringe-y”. Not an easy thing, I must say. 🙂

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