We encounter contemporary literature daily, as an author support team, as readers for several literary magazines, and as consumers, and frankly, we’re concerned that a literary dark age is dawning.
Too much of what we read feels rushed and superficial, conceptually promising, perhaps, but inadequately realized. Too little grapples with truly complex moral questions. Too much revels in Manicheanism. Too little draws on the accumulated wisdom of psychologists, philosophers, and scientists, present and past. Too much takes the old chestnut “write what you know” to mean “write only what you know today.” Too little takes that dictum as a challenge, or an invitation.
Plenty of well-established writers and thinkers have already identified and lamented some of the factors contributing to this trend, from the accelerating pace of modern life to distracting social media and smartphones. We take all those factors seriously. We do feel, however, that something critical is missing from this conversation—something that Robert Putnam put his finger on all the way back in 2001 (Bowling Alone), but which still hasn’t been linked to this trend toward superficiality in the arts.
That “something” is the widespread breakdown of interpersonal and familial relationships, which already afflicts much of the WEIRD (Western, Educated, Industrialized, Rich, and Democratic) world and is spreading rapidly through the developing world as well.
For Westerners, the word “author” still probably conjures images of a neurotic individual with patches on his elbows alone in a room with a drink close at hand, hammering away at a keyboard. Social isolation is built into this archetype. It’s but a small leap to conclude that the more isolated the writer, the better the work shall be.
This is wrong.
All contemporary literature—yes, all—emerged from the world’s indigenous oral traditions. These traditions came into being long before print, during what Walter Ong called an era of “primary orality” (Orality and Literacy). We now live in an age of “secondary orality.” Despite all the abstract symbolism that surrounds us, from digital binary to the printed word, we once again live in a culture that privileges the auditory and audiovisual over graphic symbolism: radio, television, YouTube, TikTok, and podcasts.
This, in and of itself, is not a problem. Stories are stories, whatever the form. The problem is that too many of us moderns find ourselves relating to the dominant media not as creators, nor even as active participants, but as passive consumers. Too rarely do we realize that liking and sharing and commenting do not count as content creation for anyone except for the big data companies. Too many of us are conditioned to watch, to listen, and to react to the others’ stories, but not to tell our own.
We would not be experiencing this decline in literary quality, we believe, if more people, young and old, were encouraged to gather, ideally in person, ideally in a space where agendas are left at the door, and tell one another their stories. To speak openly, honestly, without fear of censorship, stigma, or cancellation. To hear their own thoughts leave their mouths, and to witness their listeners’ organic reactions. To realize that their words have elicited genuine emotional responses: laughter, anxiety, happiness, sympathy, disgust, indignation, and pain. To respond to the questions. To consider the criticism. To listen to other people’s stories in turn.
You don’t need a budget, a venue, or a large group to do this. One or two other people—if they are the right people—will do.
If you’re a writer, and serious about your craft, then regular, honest conversations—whether with family, friends, mentors, coaches, or even strangers on the bus—will do more to enrich your art than all the craft books and classes combined.
Even if you’re not a writer, even if that which you want to enrich is your life itself and not your art, this still holds true.
We must relearn how to see ourselves, and one another, as people with stories to tell.
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