I made the decision to stop writing stories full of white people after I went to the Clarion West writing workshop when I was twenty. I had started to do some traveling by that point, and was slowly waking up to the fact that writing stories full of white people in the past, the future, in secondary worlds, was not being “realistic” like everyone said it was. It was constructing a narrative. It was pretending that the carefully constructed world I saw all around me in my little white town was going to go on and on into the future, and the only people with stories worth telling would be people like me living in those towns.
Traveling went a long way toward giving me a better picture of the real world. It taught me that realism, or being “realistic” has nothing to do with the real world at all, but our collective perception of what is real. By writing stories purely populated with the same pale heroes with the same pale ideals, I was not being “realistic” but contributing to a mass delusion.
In there she was Arya of Winterfell, the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn, who had once had brothers named Robb and Bran and Rickon, a sister named Sansa, a direwolf called Nymeria, a half brother named Jon Snow. In there she was someone…
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Dogs and Tumblr
One of these things is not like the others