People say that writing is an act of defiance. And though I hear it often, the sentiment still sits a little oddly with me. Most writing probably pushes back against something—silence, confusion, the absence of a story you’d like to hear. But when I think about why I write, the word “defiance” doesn’t immediately rise to the surface. It feels heavier than what I’m actually doing, as if I’m supposed to stand on a mountaintop making grand pronouncements about the state of the world. And yeah, that’s… not me.
Why I write
One of the reasons I write (other than enjoying the act of storytelling and being, admittedly, a control freak) is that I like making up a world in my head where things aren’t the way they are in ours. Not because I think our world is terrible—I’m quite an optimist—but because I don’t always understand people. Writing is partly how I make sense of human behavior, how I process the things I see happening around me.
In building another world and trying to understand the people who inhabit it, I start to understand a bit more about ours. I discover what subjects I care about, what themes keep returning, what I think about justice and society and love and family. My books don’t always set out to be deep, but they do tend to say something about the nature of the world simply because I’m the one imagining it.
Defiance or arrogance?
Still, I hesitate with that word: defiance. It implies a kind of certainty, a confidence that I alone can see the world clearly enough to push back against it. The word carries an edge that doesn’t feel like mine.
And yet, maybe I’ve been looking at it the wrong way. Maybe defiance doesn’t require the raised fist or the grand declaration. Maybe it is simply the act of pausing to consider what the world is like, and how I believe it might be better. The work of forming a thought and following it where it leads.
Stories reveal something about the world because that’s what stories do. They can’t help it. But revelation isn’t the same as instruction. I write books for myself first—for my own amusement. That readers may pick them up and find themselves agreeing with me, or recognizing something true about their own lives, is a wonderful possibility. But it isn’t the purpose.
I don’t feel I’m in any position to tell anyone how to be; I’m too privileged, and not nearly wise enough, to take on that authority. And still, whether we try or not, stories reflect the things we notice, the things we question, the things we hope for. Some people read that reflection as political. Others read it as simply human. I’m not sure the difference is always clear.
When imagination trumps reality
I write to make sense of life, to explore the parts of it I don’t normally get to experience. I write to tell myself how the world could be, or at least how it might feel if certain things were different. And in that sense, imagination often leapfrogs reality—not because reality is lacking, but because imagination gives us permission to reorganize it for a moment.
The human ability to see the world not as it is, but as it should be—I don’t remember who first said that—is the part that feels genuinely defiant. The refusal to accept that the way things are is the only way they can be. A writer simply leans into that instinct, shaping an imagined space where questions can move a bit more freely.
Writing is looking closely
So is all writing political? Maybe. Or maybe writing is just another way of thinking aloud, of testing the edges of what matters. Stories inevitably reflect something about the way we see the world. They ask for the willingness to look closely, and imagine it differently for a while.
And in that way, it’s not just writing that is defiant: it’s the very act of living.
If you’ve ever grappled with these questions yourself, I’d love to hear how you see it.