The Moral Imperative

Do writers have a moral responsibility? Well, yes. I believe everyone, writers included, has a moral responsibility to look out for the needs of others and be kind and ethical, and to avoid doing harm as much as possible. However, a particular weight seems to rest upon the shoulders of artists. Should they use their art and their platform to promote moral causes? Is it irresponsible to tell stories for the sole purpose of fluffy entertainment without including, for example, an exploration of some aspect of social justice?

These questions are prominent in my mind for a few reasons. The obvious one is the heightened awareness of racial issues currently rising in America, and all the books about racism that have shot to the top of the bestseller lists. Since I’m the sort who would always rather read fiction, I’d like to think that stories can teach and inspire us in addition to non-fiction.

And then I consider my own novels, particularly my most recent. This book, tentatively titled Everlasting Spark, was a rather peculiar creation. On November 1st of last year, I opened a new file and started writing, with absolutely no plans or plotting whatsoever. It was the most extreme writing-by-the-seat-of-my-pants I’ve ever done, and I’m quite delighted that a coherent story came out of it. I began simply, with a character who is leaving her humble village for the big city. Why? Hmm. How about a need to acquire skills and knowledge that her village lacks? From there I started to create a world with two races, one possessing advanced magical technology, the other lagging behind.

What I ended up writing is probably the most political, social-justice-minded of all my novels. That was quite the surprise. I create secondary worlds because I don’t want to get tangled up in the real world and all of its messy complications (which would require lots of research — unlike lots of other authors, research is not my favorite part of the writing process). Yet the details kept coming very naturally as I built up this world. There was racism and discrimination. There was classism as well. Those in the lower ranks would be aware of this injustice, so of course there would be organizations seeking to change the status quo — coalitions, labor unions. By the end I had fabricated a rough sketch of the entire history of these two peoples, in order to explore the origins of bigotry and injustice in the present-day story.

So is my book better for having these moral explorations? Eh, I’ll leave my readers to decide if it’s any good at all. But the truth is, stories are going to have a message whether it’s explicit or not. Of course if the message is too forceful, too preachy or hamfisted, it tends to sap the life out of the story. Most of us don’t pick up a novel hoping to be lectured at. When it’s an organic part of the story, however, it can be quite effective.

Sometimes the message is simple and non-controversial, like “be nice to people.” Sometimes it goes deeper. Some stories have truly appalling messages. A fairly obvious example: Gone With the Wind, with its romanticizing of the oppressive society of the slave-owning South before the Civil War. Other stories present horrifying societies but make it clear from their tone that they are not ideal, like the plethora of dystopian literature written nowadays. And then readers can differ widely on how they interpret a story’s message. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn is frequently accused of racism, while others praise its nuanced, sympathetic portrayal of the Black character Jim. Who is right? I can’t really say. Some literary interpretations might seem more of a stretch than others, but art is inherently subjective. The answer is different for every reader.

So I don’t necessary feel like I owe it to society to use my writing to further social justice. On the other hand, as someone who wants to be engaged in good causes, that sort of morality is going to emerge very naturally in my stories. It doesn’t happen out of duty, it just happens because that’s who I am. I will also acknowledge that as someone who doesn’t yet have a platform of any significant size, this is all hypothetical! But part of the reason I want to be published is to share what I care about with as many people as I can, to make a connection with others who feel the same way. It’s not an obligation; it’s a (hypothetical) joy.

The Choice

I’m about to start revisions on the first draft of a novel I finished in March, but I’ve been itching to write something new in the meantime. So here’s a brief sendup of the ever-present love triangles in YA dystopias. It is not subtle.

“The Choice”

Three years of planning and hiding. Three years underground, avoiding anywhere with a population high enough to merit face-rec scanners — in other words, anywhere other than the Wilds. Three years of eating stale ration packets and drinking purified waste water.

Three years, and now it had all come down to one desperate night.

If things went bad tonight, there was no going back into hiding. No second chances. Those three years would mean nothing.

We were hunkered down in a waypost just one mile from the border, waiting for sundown. Still another five hours or so. I’d spent the last month training my body to sleep during the day so I’d be at my most alert during the night. Already I could feel my eyelids drooping, but I fought the urge for just a few more minutes. Stifled a yawn as I sidled up to Varya, who was fiddling with her transmitter.

“Everything okay?”

She nodded, eyes intent on the screen. “Seems to be doing its job. When the moment’s right, the electronics will go haywire.”

“Good.” I moved on to check with Jarrod. He was slumped against the wall, staring at the ceiling. When I nudged him, he turned to me with a startled look. He was always jumpy like that. “Relax,” I told him. “I just wanted to know if you needed anything before I got some rest.”

His lips parted, but then he shrugged and shook his head. “Explosives are ready. Just tell me where to throw them.”

Van was sitting at a dusty dysfunctional console, tossing his disrupter from one hand to the other. He hardly glanced up as I neared him. “Everything all right?” I asked softly.

“No. But it doesn’t matter.” He gripped the disrupter, his knuckles whitening. “I’ll do what I have to.”

I was too tired to deal with his cryptic words. “Fine. That’s what we’re all doing.”

Ariel, curled up in a dark corner of the room, gave me her answer before I could even approach her. “Go to sleep, Kiri. Everything is ready. The boys are taking the first watch.”

She was right. There was nothing to do now except wait. And waiting would be easier if I were asleep.

I found another dark corner, arranged my rucksack as a makeshift pillow. Then I lay down and closed my eyes at last.

Falling asleep was easy. The hard part was fighting the nightmares. 

The details changed every time, but the feeling was always the same. Whether I was fleeing from Ascendancy operatives or scrambling for shelter during a Blastwave or digging through the rubble where Dad and Okana had fallen, I was never fast enough. My body always gave out. It was too late. I failed.

My eyes flew open.

Instincts honed over the last three years had taught me to keep still after waking, just in case someone was watching. Utterly motionless, I scanned my surroundings until I could be sure it was safe. 

No obvious sign of trouble. It was the same place I’d gone to sleep, in a corner of the waypost. Daylight filtered through the blinds covering the small window near the ceiling. Still plenty of time before nightfall. Somewhere to my right, I could hear Jarrod and Van talking in low voices. Their watch hadn’t ended yet; not even an hour had passed.

Letting out a slow, quiet breath, I shut my eyes and prepared to settle back to sleep.

“Of course you’re willing to die for the cause. All of us are. The question is, are you willing to live  — to live for her?” Van’s words were soft but cutting, punctuated by a thump on the console.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jarrod demanded.

“You know if we all survive this, if we take down the Ascendancy, she’s finally going to make her choice.”

There was a long silence. Then Jarrod answered, “Yeah. We both know that.”

“Yeah. And if she picks you…I won’t fight it. But I swear,” another thump, “if you can’t give her the life she deserves –”

“Who says I can’t?”

Van let out a growl. “There’s more to living than blowing things up and chasing martyrdom.”

“You think that’s all I am? You don’t know me. I’d do anything to keep her safe.”

“Safe, sure. But what about making her happy?”

I couldn’t hold back another second. With a groan I sat up and declared, “Okay, that is enough.”

Both boys jumped, looking down in shock. “You’re awake,” Van said blankly.

“Of course I’m awake,” I said with a scowl. “How am I supposed to sleep with you yammering away like that? Just shut up and keep watch, would you?”

Jarrod looked positively panicked. “How…how much did you hear?”

I rubbed a weary eye. “Does it matter? You’re fighting about some girl like a bunch of dogs over a piece of meat. Idiotic. Just let me sleep.”

Van’s jaw dropped. “Kiri…” he whispered. “I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?” I said irritably, rearranging the rucksack and lying back down against it.

He and Jarrod exchanged looks. “All those long walks we shared,” Van went on haltingly. “The conversations about what we’d do when the Ascendency was broken –”

“That night we spent crafting the projectile,” Jerrod put in. “Your smile lit up the whole room. We lingered in the workshop for an hour after we’d finished –”

I blinked. “Are you kidding me? You were fighting over me?

“Kiri –” Jarrod began.

I got to my feet, arms folded across my chest. “Well, here’s an easy resolution for your argument. We’re on the verge of a major revolt, and I don’t have time for a bunch of boys who waste crucial energy fighting over my supposed affections — in the same room as me, while they think I’m sleeping! You thought you’d have to wait till the end before I make my choice? Well, good news. I’ve already made it. I’d rather chew barbed wire than choose either of you. ”

With that, I settled on the floor once more and went to sleep.

There weren’t any nightmares this time.