A Law Written in Tears

A proposal to rein in the scourge of literary cancel culture

There is such a thing as going too far.

Adolf Hitler, then on a wildly successful tear of grabbing territory throughout Europe, learned this lesson the hard way with his Operation Barbarossa. He went after one country too many. As a result, his forces suffered heavy casualties, paving the way for their eventual defeat.

Will I get canceled if I say which country stopped Hitler’s rampage?

It was Russia.

Whatever anyone thinks of the current Russo-Ukrainian War, reality includes a general principle that countries — and people! — are not all good or all bad. The hero in one story can be the villain in another. That is what it means to live in a morally complex world.

I am old enough that I remember when people used to regularly say, “You can’t legislate morality.” That phrase is no longer common now that a new cohort has fallen hard for that particular siren song.

You also can’t legislate reality. There is nothing I can do to forcibly compel others to believe that we live in a morally complex world. If people today want to live under their own personal version of the Hays Code, where it is mandatory that the villains are always clearly identified and always clearly punished, I cannot stop them.

And so, we have what happened to writer

Elizabeth Gilbert

in June 2023. She was cyberbullied into withdrawing her forthcoming novel The Snow Forest. According to reviewers on Goodreads who had never read the novel in question, the novel was insensitive to the current Russo-Ukrainian War on the grounds that writing about a historical event that took place in Russia in 1936 somehow qualified as glorifying Russia.

The Gilbert incident was certainly not the first manifestation of literary cancel culture, but it was a manifestation especially clear and striking in its absurdity. Based on my longtime observation of literary cancel culture, however, none of these people have done anything that is actually illegal. I realized when I walked away from my own interest in fiction writing in 2016, shortly before I turned 30, that the only thing the First Amendment of the United States Constitution guaranteed was that the United States government wouldn't pile on if an unhinged mob decided that they wanted to use their free speech to ruin my life.

I think many people involved with literary cancel culture genuinely and sincerely believe that their goal is to make the world a safe place for those who are vulnerable. However, I came to feel very unsafe around them. I did not reliably know what would set them off, and I observed that they often responded to infractions in a harsh and unforgiving way.

Ultimately, I left because I agreed with them that the prospect of hurting someone’s feelings was the end of the world. The main difference between me and them was that they apparently believed they were capable of meeting the lofty standard of never hurting anyone’s feelings, and I realistically assessed that I was not.

Walking away from fiction writing was good for my personal growth in many ways. Still, my Aunt Doretta never agreed with this decision I had made. She kept bringing it up and bringing it up until, one day in fall 2022, I just absolutely exploded and declared in an email that I would dump my old novel on Amazon no later than December 31, 2022, in order to finally put an end to the issue. I kept my word and did so, but that clearly wasn’t the way Aunt Doretta had wanted things to go down.

The June 2023 attack on Elizabeth Gilbert provided dramatic vindication that I did not simply invent the phenomenon of literary cancel culture to be a recalcitrant bad little girl. It was unassailable proof that literary cancel culture is real, and it really is that destructive. However, it came too late to prevent the complete calamity between me and Aunt Doretta.

Whatever else is true about the whole mess, it is objectively true that I was objectively not nice to Aunt Doretta. I objectively failed to take care of her feelings. I feel terrible about that.

I feel like King Oedipus, who fulfilled a disturbing prophecy despite every effort being made to avoid that outcome. I thought I could avoid fulfilling the prophecy that my novel would hurt someone’s feelings in some horrific, irreparable way by simply abandoning the quest to publish the novel. Instead, I wound up hurting Aunt Doretta’s feelings by not publishing the novel and then by responding to her sweet and earnest encouragement with anger and withdrawal.

King Oedipus was so overwhelmed with guilt that he gouged his eyes out when he learned what he had unwittingly done. The guilt I have lived with on a daily basis since I blew up in fall 2022 has been about that excruciating. I know that what I did was monstrous, but I don’t know how I could have done anything differently given the deeply entrenched fear I carried from my experience of the destructive potential of literary cancel culture.

My predicament is an example of moral injury, as described in Scientific American:

In the 1980s University of Nebraska Medical Center ethicist Andrew Jameton observed that this kind of moral distress was not confined to the military realm. It often “arises when one knows the right thing to do,” he wrote, “but constraints make it nearly impossible to pursue the right course of action.”

I actually did conquer my fear and publish the novel, though I wound up rebooting it as an astrology book. I would not have conquered that fear for anyone on Earth other than Aunt Doretta. Unfortunately, I physically could not conquer the fear in a way that made her feel loved and nurtured at the time because I was physically shaking in terror at the time.

I am absolutely furious at literary cancel culture for making my family life harder than it was already going to be. Anyone who has their heart set on finding proof that I have done a few stupid things in my life can probably find it, but I think the world is mostly made up of people like me — flawed humans who are trying to maintain order in their families as well as they know how.

I am not going to tolerate one more second of being punished by myself or anyone else for trouble that literary cancel culture started. I have taken a lot of hits for a lot of teams over the years in the interest of the common good, but this is just one too many. Literary cancel culture needs to be held accountable for the consequences of the climate of terror it has created.

Since fall 2022, I have consulted with an acupuncturist, an intuitive, two therapists, and multiple astrologers about the situation. I have written about it in two self-published books and many Substack posts. Really, though, the only way to resolve this issue is to change the world.

I demand that participants in literary cancel culture atone for the emotional damage they have caused my family by implementing a reform that will prevent other families from experiencing similar emotional damage in the future. A realistic proposal for such a reform is given below.

Thoughts I had in July 2023

On The Astrology Podcast’s July 2023 forecast episode, the June 2023 implosion of the Titan submersible was a big part of the June 2023 news review. Host Chris Brennan, noting that parts of the situation surrounding the submersible were unregulated, brought up the old saying that safety rules are written in blood.

The drama over my old novel has never not been on my mind since the blowup in fall 2022, so I began to draw some connections. I thought to myself that, with regulatory Saturn now in emotional Pisces, it might also be that safety laws are written in tears.

I started to wonder when movie ratings came out, as it occurred to me that a similar system of categorizing content could reduce conflict over books. I learned that the current system of movies being rated G, PG, and so on began to take shape in 1968. Saturn was then in Aries, but the foundation for this change was set when Jack Valenti became head of the Motion Picture Association of America in 1966, while Saturn was in Pisces two cycles ago.

Valenti argued that his goal was to increase freedom of expression for filmmakers as well as freedom of choice for moviegoers, telling the Associated Press, “While I believe that every director, studio has the right to make the movies they want to make, everybody else has a right not to watch it.”

His system replaced the repressive Hays Code, which began to be enforced in July 1934 and took full effect in January 1935. Saturn then entered Pisces in February 1935. The associations of the sign of Pisces include the arts, so it makes sense that attempts to regulate the arts would cluster around Saturn in Pisces transits, which occur roughly every 30 years. During the 1960s Saturn in Pisces transit, however, Uranus and Pluto in Virgo contrasted with Saturn in Pisces, leading to an outcome that balanced freedom and sensitivity.

No one needs to follow astrology to see the value in movie ratings, though. If you are looking for a movie to see with a young child, or with a companion who is easily offended, it helps to know you should probably avoid the movies that are rated R. You don’t have to ban others from seeing R-rated movies; you have the information you need to just go to a different movie yourself.

The most recent Saturn in Pisces transit prior to the one we are living through right now took place during the mid-1990s. Sure enough, the Entertainment Software Ratings Board (ESRB) started giving movie-esque ratings to video games under that influence in 1994.

I played a lot of video games as a kid in the 1990s, so I remember seeing the ESRB ratings. Another memory from my youth in the 1990s is receiving a subscription to Brio, Focus on the Family’s magazine for girls, from someone on the conservative side of my family. The magazine frequently commented on the importance of avoiding music and movies with content that wasn’t Christian enough. For those people, knowing whether a movie was rated G or PG or PG-13 was crucial.

At the time I started thinking about movie ratings for books, I was taking care of my mom’s garden while she was out of town. My first idea was therefore to have books rated on a scale of one pea (most sensitive) to five peas (most controversial and edgy). My inspiration was the classic story of the princess and the pea, where the princess was so sensitive that she could detect one pea under a whole stack of mattresses. Writers who didn’t want to participate would have the opportunity to categorize their work as zucchini so prospective readers would know they were in for a prickly experience.

A better idea emerges

The problem, however, is that what defined a one-pea book would vary too much from reader to reader. The left-wing literary aficionado who would proudly walk down the streets of Portland, Oregon, wearing a shirt with the slogan “I only read books rated one pea” is absolutely coming from the same emotional place as the Christian conservative of the 1990s who boasted of watching only G-rated movies. Unfortunately, these people, though identical in some ways, have very different preferences in others.

What has since come to me as a better idea is a system for books similar to food allergy labels.

I actually don’t see literary cancel culture as a monolith. It is clear to me that different people are involved with it for different reasons. There are definitely those who just want to wield power over others or get rival writers out of the way. Within the structure of traditional publishing, there is tremendous competition for a small number of spots. When I was pursuing that goal, I remember feeling like I had no control over my outcome. I would not be surprised if others felt that way too — and if some responded to that sense of lacking control by trying to exert control over the more reachable target of other writers’ content.

There are also people whose grievances are more legitimate. I can sympathize with the school shooting survivor who doesn’t want to read books about guns. I can understand why someone who suffered sexual trauma might not want to read a book involving related themes. These potentially valid needs often get lost amid the circus of those who are simply in it for the power.

From 2013 to 2020, I had a medically diagnosed nut allergy. In 2013, I had what I thought was a reaction to seafood at a restaurant, so I reported this to my primary care doctor and was referred to an allergist. The allergist performed a skin test and determined that I was not allergic to seafood, but I had enough potential for an anaphylactic reaction to nuts that she prescribed me an EpiPen. I had had some cause to suspect that all was not well between me and nuts, but I didn’t know it rose to the level of needing an EpiPen. That shift in perspective was scary for me.

I became afraid that an accidental exposure to nuts would make it necessary for me to use my EpiPen. It was therefore very helpful to me that labels of packaged food clearly declared whether or not the food contained nuts. I didn’t need to ban everyone else from eating nuts — I just needed to know for sure that I was not eating nuts.

This labeling comes from the Food Allergen Labeling and Consumer Protection Act of 2004. The act states, “eight major foods or food groups--milk, eggs, fish, Crustacean shellfish, tree nuts, peanuts, wheat, and soybeans-- account for 90 percent of food allergies.” These eight allergens are therefore clearly flagged on all food labels.

What I now recommend is for the big eight allergens in terms of book content to be similarly identified. Here are three potential candidates: sexual trauma, guns, and the nation of Russia. The self-appointed guardians of the literary world can come up with a few more and finalize the list.

A book’s allergen label concisely declaring the presence of any of the big eight allergens could then be similar in size to the book’s barcode and placed near the barcode on the book’s back cover. I am personally willing to comply with a system of this sort, regardless of what is ultimately on the list of allergens.

I can understand why someone who is personally severely affected by the Russo-Ukrainian War might not want to read a book set in Russia during any historical era right now. Such a person should be able to clearly see on a book’s allergen label whether it contains references to the nation of Russia and decide to avoid reading a book that contains that allergen. However, they should not be able to make that decision for everyone else.

Using allergen labels that give readers the opportunity to make their own informed choices also accounts for the possibility that readers’ situations might change over time. In 2020, I got in an argument with my mom over whether I could safely consume almond extract. She wanted to put it in something she was baking, and I thought that I as a nut-allergic person should not be consuming something named after a nut. I contacted my allergist to referee, and she got me in for a repeat skin test.

When you get an allergy skin test, a patch of your skin is injected with various potential allergens, with each allergen’s location noted. Any resulting hives are measured, and their dimensions are documented. Bigger dimensions indicate a more significant allergic response.

It turned out that my allergy test results actually changed between 2013 and 2020, to the point that my allergist thought I no longer needed an EpiPen. I was medically cleared to consume almond extract and more.

Between 2013 and 2020, I regularly received acupuncture for other issues, and that may have contributed to a subtle shift over time. My current sense of my own body is that I still shouldn’t eat nuts all day every day, but I am no longer afraid that an accidental exposure could trigger an anaphylactic reaction, and that has been liberating.

I am basically describing trigger warnings in different language. In the past, I sometimes spoke of trigger warnings in a derisive way. I was resentful because I felt like literary trigger warnings only existed to serve people more important than I was. I see now, though, that a trigger warning doesn’t have to be a value judgment any more than a food allergy label is a value judgment. At best, these things should simply exist to allow people to make their own informed personal choices about which content is the right fit for them.

Given that the term “trigger warning” can itself be triggering for people like me who have had negative experiences with the unpredictable buzz saw of literary cancel culture, I would recommend that that term not be used. The labels on books should just be called allergen labels, like their equivalents on food packaging that have existed without controversy for the past 20 years.

Putting allergen labels on books should be sufficient to address the portion of literary cancel culture that has a basis in legitimate grievances. The remainder that does not have a basis in legitimate grievances should then be clearly seen for what it is and no longer taken seriously.

With this reform made, writers who receive pressure from their family members to publish their work should no longer fear consequences from literary cancel culture. This should allow writers to focus as much of their attention as they deem necessary on maintaining peace in their family lives by meeting their family members’ emotional needs.