Illustration by Aedan Gardill

I am thinking about evolutionary biology as applied to society. Specifically, I am questioning the role of literature and fiction therein. It seems that societies–at least the ones that I am familiar with–do not select for fiction writers. There aren’t clearly defined career pathways, as there are for other professions, to help fictionites get from A to B, and this is a way of selecting against the craft. (Even MFA programs are not guaranteed entry passes into the hard and rewarding work of fiction.)

Without job-security, those of us who write fiction will either a) not do it, b) sacrifice many securities to do it, or c) work in a different job until we have accrued enough wealth to write. The conditions of this environment select for individuals who are therefore hell bent on doing it (despite financial and mental risk), or wealthy enough for this not to be a high stakes endeavor. Many would-be great writers do not or cannot fall into either category, and their stories go untold.

Those of us who are/can be hell bent soon find ourselves in a secondary storm: self-doubt. It’s difficult to do something that, chances are, you will fail at. To live that life, you must cultivate a kind of belief in yourself, a stridence, a hood against the storm. Many people will fall at this hurdle too. I am there now. Today, I did not know if I was going to get up. It’s a very difficult spot to be in.

But I just remind myself that to read is to practice empathy and to write is to encourage empathizing. I really believe that writing is an act of compassion towards others, even though it is done in solitude. Fiction imagines alternative worlds and futures, prompts discussion, and open hearts. It can make people cry, laugh, reunite, and let go. It’s a privilege to do it because it’s so hard to get to a point where you can.