My Fear and Responsibility as a Writer
On writing about others
I’ve written several Substack essays and posted none in the last couple of weeks. Essays about the senseless wars, about violence, about Cheryl Lee. But I had to go with this post because it tells you how fear has paralyzed me. Fear is my closest companion. It has many faces, but the face I’ve been dealing with lately my dear reader has been brutal. It grips my throat. Silences me and consumes my every thought. Each time, I write the fear demands me to edit my words according to what others will think, and how they would feel. It is not imposter syndrome. I know I am a writer. It is this very point that reinforces the fear.
As writers, we have the power to influence the way others view the world. The stories we tell form a narrative that fortifies perspectives. I’m aware readers interacting with my writing include individuals who may not understand what I am writing about or who view the communities I write about in a less favorable manner. There is room for me to accept others’ perspectives. After all, oftentimes, I am gullible, idealist, and dreamy, which are traits I adore about myself, but color my perceptions.
Our individualistic culture tells me my truth. I’ve made quantum physics-level strides to telling my truth. But the portrayal of others requires an array of skills, compassion, and wisdom that gives Fear the strength to pin me down. During my time at VCFA, I dove into the topic of writing the other, not only to be more adept at having conversations but also to inform my own writing.
Cheryl’s death occurred during the time I was motel hopping, a time when I thought it was fun to break night with my boyfriend. Cheryl, a woman experiencing homelessness, who was murdered in the cemetery across the street from where my siblings lived changed my perspective on the houselessness experience of women. She was the person I thought of when I found myself en route to the deeper and darker consequences of homelessness.
Women, especially Black women, are in real danger from senseless hate. It is not a choice to be murdered and no life choice ever taken by a victim justifies murder. I’m sure exceptions exist but it is not Cheryl. She was murdered in the evilest way, for no reason but her existence. Then her killer burned her body. That’s the short version but her life was so much more than that. So much more I don’t know. More than news reporters covered.
It is when I write about Cheryl, a Black woman from a vulnerable population like houselessness, that I struggle. The interesting part about this is that she is the only one this happens with. My foster mom, Terry, (I call her foster mom because she was my only mother figure right after I came out of homelessness), was Black. Fear holds my hand when I write about Terry but it doesn’t try to kill me. Fear, in this case, squeezes my hand gently, reminding me to break stereotypes, to uplift her, to show all the ways she contributed to this world, advocated, and all the ways in which she was there for me. There are many sides to writing about Cheryl. This post is part of a series where I dissect my own bias, beliefs, assumptions, struggles, and guilt as well as try to find ways to move through the fear by researching what other writers have said on the issue. By relying on experts, I will hopefully write about Cheryl in a way that does her justice and I can accept and live with.
Lately, I’ve been reading for the pure soothing of my soul. I share with you this essay written by Sheree L. Greer, a writer and teacher I’m trying to learn from, Unorganized Field Notes from a Neighborhood Run, an essay that explains that a run around the neighborhood means a deeper truth about our humanness in the U.S. I hope you check it out.
I’ve also read The Silent Patient by Alex Micahelides and The London Séance Society by Sarah Penner. While I’m still reading a lot of nonfiction, I seem to need fiction to remind me that escape is still possible.
Thank you for reading. My dear reader, I hope you and your families are safe and well in these times of chaotic times.
I am glad you don't feel like an imposter. I don't understand exactly why you're afraid to write about Cheryl. Why?