One night I was up rather late, as I often am, and I was thinking. You’ve probably played with this idea a bit yourself—you know, the one where you start to wonder if anybody is experiencing remotely the same reality. Do we see colors the same hue? Hear sounds the same pitch? Do some people like blue cheese because it literally doesn’t taste the way it does when I eat it? How would we ever know?
But what was interesting about my thought train that evening was what I started to wonder next. A switch was thrown somewhere along the line, and it all went in reverse. A second possibility dawned on me—one that was somehow even more stunning, at least at that time of night.
What if everyone’s reality is very much the same?
What if being you actually feels a lot like being me? What if the air we breathe, the water we drink, the stars we look up at on clear nights—what if it all comes in through the same basic human filters? What if the way we navigate our days is really a lot like any other human brother or sister? Haven’t you ever lain awake and thought to yourself—wow, you know, I could have been born anyone? I could have been born anywhere, any race, any time period, and more than likely I would lie awake one night just like this, wondering why.
“Write what you know.” That’s what people say. In fact, if you dare to branch out into territory you may not have directly experienced, a lot of people these days will make it a moral issue and maul you for it. #ownvoices. Are you a man? Don’t even try writing a female character. Are you white? You have no idea how to portray a non-white character. If you don’t have a certain disability there is absolutely no way you can write a character with that disability fairly and accurately. You just don’t understand. YOU WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND.
Recently, I came across this quote.
“Writers don’t write from experience, although many are hesitant to admit they don’t. …If you wrote from experience, you’d get one book, maybe three poems. Writers write from empathy.” –Nikki Giovanni
I’ve written a lot of characters who are not me. Some people would be really upset about that. Some people are offended by the idea that other people might, in fact, be able to imagine what they go through. They don’t want to consider the possibility that all human experiences might be rooted in things common to all human experience. They want to divide people by gender, race, age, economic status, disability…anything—everything. I don’t know why. But that kind of alienation is the enemy of art.
When you read a book with a great lead character, you find yourself slipping into that character’s skin without even questioning it. You no longer care if they’re rich or poor, black or white, male or female. You bond to them and live their story. And, more than likely, you come to understand it. No, you’ve never been there. But because the artist took you there, you empathize. And you empathize because the author was empathetic toward the character—not because the author and the character necessarily had anything in common.
A lot of artists spend more time inside their own heads than anywhere else. The ability to create art gives us a much-needed way to connect with the world outside. It’s a miracle, actually. And even an imperfect attempt to understand others and see through their eyes should be respected. Because through empathy-driven art, it’s possible to let go of the barriers we have built between us, and see ourselves in each other.