They Call Me Literary Fascism: Reflections of a Sensitivity Reader

It was the ’90s, the Soviet Union had just fallen, and Western liberalism was at the height of its cultural power—all of my favorite children’s authors (and I had many) spoke and wrote ardently about the evils of censorship and the importance of freedom of speech. All these years later, I still recall poring over children’s and YA novelist Judy Blume’s webpage on censorship, which still exists, seemingly largely unchanged since I first clicked on it in 1999 at the tender age of eight.

Blume, whose frequently contested novels on adolescent coming-of-age, gender roles, sexuality, and unconventional family was exactly the kind of writer whose work saved my life as a queer child growing up in a time when the word “gaylord” was still in popular usage as an insult among my peers.

Suffice to say, I believe in the necessity of freedom of the literary press—and in the liberatory power of subversive, challenging, fearless writing.

I find it very strange, then, to find myself in the controversial position of “sensitivity reader” in the intersectional-feminism-inflected present day, a type of specialized manuscript consulting that has been roundly criticized by some as a modern-day form of censorship and Orwellian thought-policing. Writers as prominent as Lionel Shriver have even proclaimed sensitivity reading to be the death knell of good fiction and the dawning of a new, censorious era of literary fascism.

Yet the concept itself of sensitivity reading is, it seems to me, rather innocuous—and while the term is new, the practice has existed for many decades. Sensitivity reading is, in short, the idea that when a writer has decided to represent an experience that they do not personally share—for example, a white writer portraying a Black character, or cis writer writing about a trans community—they ought to consult with someone who has first-hand knowledge of that experience. In more recent times, it has become de rigeur to pay a nominal fee to the consultant.

“…the increasing trend toward using sensitivity readers as a part of the editorial process is representative of the clash between an unprecedented wave of social justice politics in arts and culture and a historically homogenous establishment of white, middle class literati.”

Such consultations, it is assumed, may give the writer some insight as to whether their portrayal resonates with those being portrayed. In other words, the philosophy behind sensitivity reading is the idea that a writer should do research in order to make sure that their writing is good: good as in accurate, good as in nuanced, good as in serving what Keats named the fundamental purpose of any art—the pursuit of that rare beauty which reveals to us a glimpse of the truth of the world.

Simple enough, no?

The problem, I believe, lies not so much with sensitivity reading in and of itself (or the relatively low fees that such a service usually incurs—I go for the price of $300—Canadian dollars, mind you—all inclusive for a full read of the manuscript, typed notes, and extended conversations with authors and editors). Rather, the increasing trend toward using sensitivity readers as a part of the editorial process is representative of the clash between an unprecedented wave of social justice politics in arts and culture and a historically homogenous establishment of white, middle class literati.

It should come as no surprise, then, that the battle lines that have been drawn around sensitivity reading fall largely (though not entirely) along the fault lines dividing right and left-wing politics, while the scant true centrists who still exist in our polarized times scrabble to find a home in either camp. There are high personal stakes involved on both sides of the debate: Broadly speaking, minority writers want more opportunities to publish work that is meaningful to them; meanwhile, the largely white and middle-class literary old guard may feel that their values, ways of working, and control of the industry are threatened.

If I am very honest (and didn’t I just reference Keats on the importance of truth in writing?), I can sympathize with some of the backlash against sensitivity reading. My qualms are not so much with the practice itself; however, but rather with the political climate and way in which sensitivity reading is deployed.

For there is a pervasive atmosphere of fear around social justice and cultural sensitivity dialogues that has noticeably impacted the literary community, which in recent years has been shaken by several cases of authors being publicly called to task (some would say publicly shamed) for transgressions such as cultural appropriation and misrepresentation of marginalized communities (usually in the form of using tired or offensive tropes and stereotypes that “other” minorities and centre the perspectives of white, cisgender, heterosexual, and able-bodied people).

Some of the most high-profile cases have occurred in the Young Adult genre, one of the largest markets in fiction, which is heavily impacted by the views of a predominantly young, ideologically left-leaning, and social-media-fluent readership. In more than one instance, publication of apparently “problematic” YA novels has been delayed while the authors have been asked to do significant rewrites in order to “fix” the offending aspects.

In such a climate of fear and potential shaming, it is easy to see how sensitivity reading has been seized upon by publishers as a kind of moral insurance. In this view, the sensitivity reader is a sort of risk consultant, providing strategies against backlash and potential loss of sales. Furthermore, the process of consultation takes on a highly charged moral dimension in which a nebulous stamp of virtue is placed upon the writer and the work. No wonder people are opposed to this process—it’s hateful and soul-sucking, and it does smell of censorship.

“Most important to me in my work as a sensitivity reader is that the process not become prescriptive or reactive, a quick fix to moral panic that tells the author what they can or cannot do in the name of political correctness.”

Yet I have to say, my own encounters with sensitivity reading work—on both ends of the process—have been a far cry from a grim inquisition by the literary gestapo. In most cases, I find being a sensitivity reader a joyful and truly enlightening process in which I am privileged to encounter that most vulnerable of creatures, a manuscript in progress.

The discussion that follows is one of exchange, and one that is truly literary in the sense that what we do is read deeply into the text and the ways in which characters and story arcs are constructed. We examine the tropes and narrative archetypes that have traditionally been used to construct minorities and colonized peoples as “other,” and we look for ways of exposing a deeper truth. Most important to me in my work as a sensitivity reader is that the process not become prescriptive or reactive, a quick fix to moral panic that tells the author what they can or cannot do in the name of political correctness.

Rather, I believe that the best sensitivity reading happens in a context of curiosity and a true desire for cultural exchange. In this process, there is real potential for the writer to become not only more knowledgeable about the perspectives of others, but to become a better writer because they are better equipped to perceive the cultural values and literary tropes that inform their work. The sensitivity reader also benefits from the process by way of practicing critical reading and editing, while also being financially valued for their unique cultural perspective.

“We would have to accept that writing that offends or disturbs is not evil by default, and that the occasional cultural and literary blunder does not in itself constitute a traumatic act of violence.”

What would it take to create a literary context that allows for such an ideal exchange to become a standard part of any editing process? In the first place, those to the right of the issue would have to give up a knee-jerk reactivity against the ways that social justice values seek to change literary production and consider the possibility that there are, indeed, benefits to opening up space for minority voices and minority criticism. They would have to consider the possibility that sensitivity readers bring more to the table than political correctness, that we are for the most part skilled writers and editors with literary and cultural knowledge.

Those on the left would have to acknowledge the frightening historical precedents of moral censorship that do exist in history. Moreover, we would have to give up the utopian fantasy that any piece writing could ever capture the complexity of the world and all of its power imbalances and colonial histories. We would have to accept that writing that offends or disturbs is not evil by default, and that the occasional cultural and literary blunder does not in itself constitute a traumatic act of violence. We must rein in the impulse to purge the frustration born out of generations of oppression on any individual author.

The publishing industry, for its part, would have to stop thinking of literary creative ethics in terms of market risk. Publishers and editors would need to encourage authors to embrace the reality that any text is to some extent co-created, and that this is an opportunity for deep self-reflection and growth in one’s craft. They would also have to be prepared to stand behind authors whose work is intentionally controversial.

In short, we would all have to be brave, compassionate, and truthful—three values that are not, I imagine, so controversial after all. All this in the goal of supporting new ways of bringing new stories into a world that, in these times of change and struggle, so desperately needs them.

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Kai Cheng Thom is a writer, performer, lasagna lover, and wicked witch. She lives and dreams from the unceded Indigenous territories that make up colonial-era Canada. A prolific poet, fiction writer, and essayist, her published book-length works include the award-winning Fierce Femmes and Notorious Liars: A Dangerous Trans Girl’s Confabulous Memoir (Metonymy Press), a place called No Homeland (Arsenal Pulp Press), and From the Stars in the Sky to the Fish in the Sea (Arsenal Pulp Press).