Even if the World Is Burning: A Manifesto for Storytellers

when everything is falling apart, we write

Yesterday, I attended my first in-person protest. It was part of the Hands Off International demonstrations against Donald Trump, Elon Musk, and the growing normalization of authoritarian cruelty. As someone who is disabled, this was not a simple outing. I had never joined a rally in person before—not because I didn't care, but because my body has limits. But yesterday, I went.

It was hard. It was important. And it was different.

Different from the doomscroll. Different from the fluorescent grief of online feeds. Different from feeling alone in my worry and rage. Being there in the flesh—shoulder to shoulder with others who are frightened and furious and full of fight—reminded me of something I'd been forgetting: that we are not, in fact, alone.

And it brought me back to this:

Storytelling is one of the most radical acts we have.

In a time when the world is unraveling, when headlines tilt toward the apocalyptic, when the work of survival itself feels overwhelming—it can feel foolish or frivolous to write. To make art. To try to shape something tender and true out of our pain, our beauty, our memories, our imagination.

But I am here to say the opposite: writing is essential. Books are essential. Your story is essential.

Yes, direct actions matter: calling Congress, showing up at protests, participating in the May 1st General Boycott, running for office, talking to your representatives, organizing mutual aid. All of it is essential.

And also: tell your story.

Tell your story because it reaches across the chasm. Because it holds someone's hand in your hands and says, You are not alone.

Because writing is one of the only technologies we have that can take a thought from one human being and insert it—gently, unforgettably—into the mind of another.

We write because it is the antidote to isolation. We write because they are trying to silence us. We write because they are banning our books. We write because they tell us our experiences are too much, or not enough, or the wrong kind of story—stories about so-called “gender ideology” or undocumented immigration or anything that they deem to be against their stubborn, uncaring rule.

We write anyway.

Today I read a note from a professor who shared that one of their students stated that The Collected Schizophrenias (my second book) was the only book they loved in college. That it changed the way they thought about their mind and their life. That it made them feel seen.

I think about the flood of responses I receive after sharing the tiniest story. A story about my husband bumping into a stranger in a Whole Foods while his mind was lost in worry for me. A small, ordinary story that made people pause in the parking lot of their own local Whole Foods, that made them move through their day differently.

Small stories matter.

Big stories matter.

Your story matters.

We are living through a time when everything feels like too much. The cruelty is staggering. The news is relentless. And yet, I believe this with every fiber of me: now is exactly the time to write.

Write the book.

Tell the truth.

Shape your pain into something that breathes.

Make art that is luminous and stubborn and strange.

Refuse to be quiet.

They may try to silence us, but we will keep writing.

They may try to censor us, but we will keep telling our stories.

Even if the world is burning—especially if the world is burning—we will speak. We will write. We will remember that we are not alone.

Eyes up. Let's go.

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