Re: Elizabeth Wheatley’s Recent Update
By Thio Isobel Moss
As ever, there are a few controversies rocking the book world. I generally stay out of it, but one centers on a creator I strongly identify with, being something of a book goblin myself. I am, of course, referring to Elizabeth Wheatley’s announcement that she is switching to fade-to-black and removing explicit scenes from five of her books.
Let me say right up front that, despite having been aware of and having followed Elizabeth Wheatley for some time, I have yet to read any of her books. As such, I’m not qualified to make any remarks on the content. This post will, therefore, be limited to philosophy, personal experience, and opinion.
I’ve come across several arguments for and against Ms. Wheatley’s actions—mainly that her scenes do not objectify either men or women, that they have been instrumental in recovering from abuse and/or trauma, or that they are her books and that her choices should be respected.
As an author, though new to the industry, it is hard for me to imagine any greater compliment than having something I’ve written prove helpful in any healing process. Based on my familiarity with Ms. Wheatley and what she’s said of her own personal history, I can only imagine she feels the same. However, this fails as an argument for her to keep her explicit scenes.
Every author has to determine what they will and will not write about. This is a difficult decision because what can aid one can also damage another. An author has to accept that fact. Authors must also take into account that, like everyone else, we are dynamic. We do change.
Those who are urging her to leave the scenes alone are speaking from their own experience, which is perfectly valid, but limited in scope. Readers aren’t wrong to experience disappointment, but that does not create a claim on the author. They are not taking into account Ms. Wheatley’s personal experience, and this is a very personal choice, despite being done publicly. Every work of fiction is, to one extent or another, autobiographical in some way. It cannot be escaped.
People compare works of great effort and detail to babies for a reason. They are an extension of the self. But what happens when, as is inevitable, the originator of the work changes in some way? Usually nothing. We change constantly, and leave things behind. An author, though, earns passive income from books already written. If those books, which I have compared to taking paying guests on a guided tour of my mind, no longer reflect the author's values, that income becomes a punishment.
What other options are there? Well, she could make her books free and accept that, though she will no longer profit from them, her creations will continue to have a life beyond her—thus addressing only half the problem.
She could unpublish the books…and sacrifice the work she put into them and the profits they would continue to earn. Would that be better?
Or, she could do what she did: give fair warning, explain herself without making judgments on her readers, and change 5% of the story, thereby protecting her own mental and emotional health.
I do not see what is so controversial about that decision.
Perhaps this isn’t common knowledge, but authors routinely update book covers and the books themselves to keep them relevant. You may notice errors disappearing in manuscripts—or appearing. Any time human hands touch a book, mistakes are going to occur.
Ms. Wheatley is, I grant you, making a more drastic change, but it is not crossing some inviolable line. She is reacting to the current cultural climate. She has made observations and decided to, potentially, inhibit her own marketability to preserve her integrity. This takes considerable courage, particularly at this place in time.
It is also a challenge. There are known triggers to engage an audience—fear, scandal, sex; by removing one, particularly in a genre that relies so heavily on those triggers, a story can go flat very quickly. There is, however, a whole language of intimacy that largely gets ignored.
Once on a ride through the country, I saw a car pulled over to the side of the road. We stopped to see if anyone needed help. They did not; the couple had stopped to dance in the rain. They were not in the least embarrassed by us; their moment was not ruined. If anything, I suspect it grew because we shared their pleasure in the shower, the scenery, and the beauty of life. We went on, feeling a great contentment that is difficult to distill into words.
Such moments extend beyond spice, enemies-to-lovers, or other common tropes. I’m not throwing stones here: I read them and will continue to do so, but there is more to fiction, and I think that is a very good thing.
