Writer Ethics & Literary Citizenship: An FAQ

Never admire quietly. We humans are so fragile and it’s important to give people their flowers while they're still here. ~ Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

This post is about literary citizenship—which also involves ethics and karma. What it’s really about is generosity. When

Sarah Fay

interviewed me about teaching on Substack in her new Visionary Series recently, that’s what she focused on—my generosity:

Substack Visionary Jeannine Ouellette: How Generosity and Expansion Lead to Meteoric Substack Growth

And it is true: I am unusually generous. I’m also unusually honest. It’s just how I’m built.

This means I tend to share everything and hide nothing. Writing in the Dark on Substack contains a few hundred posts worth of my intellectual property published between December 2022 and today, much of which is available free to all. Many free subscribers open every email, which is so amazing.

And it only makes sense to me to be generous in this way, since so much of what I have learned about creative theory has also come to me the same way—by reading, mostly online, where I spend much of my time as a writer.

Here’s an example: In the writing community, I am widely and perhaps best known for teaching the practice of attention, something I’ve written about constantly here at Writing in the Dark since 2022.

I’ve even developed and teach a highly specific and concrete process for paying attention which I call “shimmers and shards.” I made it up, coined that phrase, and developed clear instructions for how to bring shimmer/sharding to the page as a way to exponentially deepen your writing. For this process, I am inevitably indebted to brilliant writers before me, especially Pam Houston and her “glimmering” practice, and Marie Howe for her approach to teaching students to say “the thing itself'“ in her Intro to Poetry class, which she described to Krista Tippett in an interview.

I have never studied with Pam or Marie, nor do either of them have a craft book published. But I know about their practices from reading online interviews and craft essays about their teaching, which has inevitably influenced mine. How could it not? Therefore, I consistently credit these two brilliant women writers for helping me to deepen and clarify my work as a writer and teacher of writing. Others I thank for influencing my understanding of attention and creative writing (and living) are Mary Oliver, Simone Weil, and Albert Einstein—and many more. For my understanding of playfulness (another central concept at Writing in the Dark), I frequently credit Paul Matthews and John Cleese, and the entire Oulipo Compendium, among others. Etc., etc., etc. Just today, Graham Strong of Writing with Wild Abandon quoted my craft essay about how learning to play on the page fundamentally changed my writing forever.

This—crediting others whose work influences our own ideas—is a crucial part of literary citizenship.

But not everyone does it.

I’ve learned that the hard way. Maybe it’s not surprising, given that I write so prolifically and intricately here at Writing in the Dark (and elsewhere) about my creative principles and practices, that some people would draw from this body of work without attribution or thanks. When I see evidence of that, I don’t like the feeling. No one would. But I will not stop being generous, because generosity has fueled my practice for three decades of writing and two and a half decades of teaching.

Generosity is a central component of who I am.

Over a year ago, I wrote specifically about generosity in a post called To Have, Give All To All, Or What It Means To Write (& Live) Generously, saying:

I’ve been thinking about generosity. What it means to live with a mindset of abundance rather than scarcity. What happens when we soften and open to the world around us. What happens when we allow ourselves to be of rather than apart.

Below is another longer quote from that even longer, more intricate post (the rest of the excerpted post addresses, among other things, self-revelation in writing along with an incredible structured writing prompt based on an ecstatically generous flash piece by Brian Doyle):

It also takes courage to teach generously.

Recently, in another circle of writers talking about writing, someone asked, “Whenever someone asks, ‘how’d you do that?’ I’m always a bit torn on how much to give away. I mean, I’ve worked at this. Should I really just offer up everything I know?”

I think any writer can empathize with this sentiment, considering all the energy we put into our work, the countless hours of struggling to breathe life onto a page. It does not surprise me that some writers might feel trepidation and even resistance when asked to hand out keys to the kingdom, to pull back the veil, to open the portal to the mystery school itself. And I can’t say that I’ve never, not even once, felt the tension of that internal battle myself—or at least faint twinges of it.

But, mostly, I am blessed to be free of this tension. Perhaps because I am and seem to have been born into (as a student and friend recently pointed out) the “teacher archetype.” It’s just how I am wired. As much as I live in the world as a writer, I live in the world as a teacher. These two shapes within me are as intertwined as my lungs and heart. I wouldn’t know how to separate them if I tried, and the joy each brings me is also inextricably tied to the challenge each presents. As a result, I’ve learned I need to give it all away. To not hold back. To teach and share generously. This is what makes my life feel vivid, wild, adventurous, and real.

Also, in an “enlightened self-interest” sort of way—I’ve found that teaching generously makes me a better writer. I think of a phrase I learned from my dear friend Tyler (a writer and a Buddhist)—“to have, give all to all.” Tyler learned this first during his childhood, when his grandfather became involved in A Course for Miracles. Ever since Tyler introduced me to this phrase—”to have, give all to all”—it has been ringing in my ears, even though I myself have never dabbled even a tiny bit in A Course in Miracles and have no intention of doing so (nothing against miracles). Still, I resonate with the wisdom that to have, we must give. This tenet appears in the teachings of virtually every spiritual tradition around the world since the dawn of time. And for me personally—at least with regard to writing—I find that every time I give all the wisdom I have, I receive exponentially more in return…

There’s enough everything for everyone, if only we stop hoarding and start sharing.

So. Back to today’s topic of literary citizenship as a function of generosity. I believe in writerly generosity because it’s so damn hard to make one’s way in the world as a writer who reaches readers, with or without pay. Just consistently reaching readers and having our work make a difference in the world is hard! Many—actually, I’m going to be honest here, most people who think of writing with the hope of reaching readers and making a life out of it eventually give up.

That’s just one of many reasons my teaching of writing focuses on more than just the publication side of the equation. It’s also why I do not teach writing solely as a means to publication, but instead as a way of living. I have always said that at Writing in the Dark, writing is a metaphor for life, and vice versa.

When I say writing is a metaphor for life and vice versa, I mean that being a writer is a way of living fueled by paying very close attention to the world, being ravenously curious, sustaining genuine playfulness (which is so very hard for so many people!) and surprise. Being a writer is a way of seeking truth through a process of unearthing, discovering, and openness to the unknown rather than reciting what we already think we know. Additionally, being a writer means striving to do all this through the lens of bodily experience, fueled by desire and an intention to embrace (or at least endure) uncertainty—which makes us vulnerable.

These are the core concepts behind what it means to write in the dark.

Indeed, so central are these core concepts that if you search the the Writing in the Dark archive for keywords like attention, curiosity, play, wonder, surprise, and vulnerability you will find them in almost all of my hundreds of posts, along with a healthy dose of appreciation, laughter, generosity, embodiment, and desire. Virtually every post I write at Writing in the Dark addresses these concepts and the precise ways in which they interact with our writing and our creative practices.

You might ask why I would spend so many words mapping the overlaps between how we live and how we write (or create in general)?

And I would say to you that I do not know any other way.

Writing saved my life because through writing I learned how to live with more attention, curiosity, playfulness, appreciation, and surprise, more generosity, openness, and an infinitely vaster sense of possibility. And the more I live this way off the page, the more these qualities bloom in my writing on the page.

As I always say, writing is a metaphor for living, and vice versa: we are narrative beings, always writing a story about and through our lives, whether our pen ever touches paper or keyboard or not. We understand our lives through the lens of story and language, and therefore when we learn to do language (thank you, Toni Morrison) with our whole heart, it changes everything.

What does all this have to do with the headline of this post, which addresses literary citizenship?

Everything.

Because if the way we live is the way we write and the way we write is the way we live, there is no distinction between the way we treat our own work as writers and the way we treat the work of other writers. Literary citizenship is about the ethics, respect, and generosity with which we treat the work of other writers, and how we lift them and their work up as often as possible while avoiding the capitalist competitiveness that can drive us to see other writers as “in our way” in some giant race to publish our words.

Sometimes, people have failures of generosity in their literary citizenship because they believe that since writing is so competitive, it is a competition. This is a grave mistake. Writing is not a competition. It is a holy creative act through which we remake ourselves and the world and it should be treated as such.

With all this in mind, I’ve created an FAQ addressing some possible questions around the ethics, respect, and generosity of literary citizenship, which ultimately is as simple as this gorgeous advice from Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, of which I was reminded by the beautiful writer Mesa Fema yesterday:

"One of the mottos I like to live by is 'never admire quietly.' If I admire something about somebody I think it's important to tell them. We humans are so fragile and it's important to give people their flowers while they're here.” ~Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

I would only add that, in addition to telling people directly when we admire them, we should also praise publicly by sharing their work, quoting them, crediting them, thanking them, helping them, sharing resources and opportunities with them, and doing whatever we can do to celebrate them—especially if their work has in any way influenced our own.

That’s what literary citizenship looks like—it’s the practice of doing what we can to lift other writers up, amplify their voices, widen the circle of awareness around their work, etc. And it’s about thanking them publicly if/when their work inspires/informs/contributes to any part of our own, and generally doing whatever else we can to help each other as much as possible through making introductions, paving way for collaborations, and so forth. And by the way, none of this has to come at the expense of our own work, though—never. That’s the thing about literary citizenship—it’s a clean fuel. It burns bright and benefits every single member of the entire writing community. That’s how this machine works (thank you, Ada Limon).

Now that we’ve gotten this far, we probably don’t even need the FAQ, but, just in case, here it is.

Literary Citizenship FAQ

How often should I praise and share the work of other writers?

Often! Whenever you are moved by something someone wrote—praise it! Share it! Give the flowers away! Often! There is no benefit to stinginess.

What if the other writer’s work influenced mine, though? I would rather be seen as original, so should I keep quiet?

Absolutely, positively not. You should ALWAYS be transparent and vocal when another writer’s work has influenced your own! Always. This is why you see hundreds of other writers’ names mentioned in Writing in the Dark, and why I am always attributing material and celebrating the work of other writers that undergirds my own approaches, both to teaching and writing.

The point is, no idea is original! Your ideas were not born in a vacuum. Always, always, always credit others. Always.

Yes, but what if the other person is much, much smaller than me, and hasn’t written a book about their ideas yet? What if they just write about their ideas online? Do I still need to credit them? Especially if they’re not famous? No one will ever know.

You will know. Karma is real.

Seriously, though. What if the other writer is a competitor of mine? I need to get ahead. Crediting or sharing their work would disadvantage my own.

Writing is not a competition. It is a holy creative act through which we remake ourselves and the world and it should be treated as such.

What if the other writer is way bigger than me? Do I still need to credit, praise, and share their work if it moved me or influenced mine?

Every single time. You always must credit, praise, and share the work/names of writers whose work has influenced yours, and you always should praise and share work that moves you.

Also: No one is ever so big that they are immune to love. We all need flowers.

What about reciprocity? If I praise or share someone else’s work, shouldn’t they share mine, too?

I don’t do those kinds of obligatory exchanges. For me, obligatory agreements about sharing each other’s stuff feel strange, inauthentic, and forced. These arrangements also feel kind of obvious when I see them, so I do not enter into them. That said, when someone is especially kind to my work and/or lifts me up in some way, I always always always remember and try to return the favor if I can if/when an opportunity arises. That’s different from an obligatory “you share my stuff, I’ll share yours” agreement which, as I said, I avoid. But if you do that kind of thing and it’s working for you, great! I’ve just found that for me, I need to share, learn from, praise, quote, and credit the work that really moves me.

I also think this is also how I earn and sustain the trust of my readers and students.

So, to be a good literary citizen, do I have to introduce someone to my agent or write a blurb or recommendation for everyone who asks?

No. See above. You should share, recommend, and introduce work/writers that genuinely moves you. That said, if there is anything you can do to help someone whose work is not in a place where you can authentically share/recommend it, and you have the time/capacity to do that, by all means, do. This can come in the form of recommending writing groups and communities, craft books or Substacks (like Writing in the Dark!), mentors, etc. Obviously this can get tricky, so only go there if you can do it without hurting or offending the other person. I can’t navigate that for you—all of these circumstances vary far too widely for me to even try. But, if the opening is there to offer someone a steppingstone or path forward, it can be a kindness to do so.

So basically, we have to thank/credit everyone who influences our work, whether they’re big or small, help everyone we can as much as we can, and sing loud and clear about work we love so that other people will know about it and other writers will get farther ahead, instead of trying to get ahead of them?

Yep. That’s it.

It sounds like I should open my heart and start thinking of this writing thing as a metaphor for life, where we really are all in it together. Hey, it’s like that rising tide lifts all boats thing. Is that what you are saying?

Yes. Also, please look out for the little guy. Someone being “smaller” than you does not make them or their dreams less real. So, yeah: look out for the little guy and do what you can to lift them up.

You will never regret it.

PS The following posts go into more detail on my writing-living-teaching philosophy grounded in attention, curiosity, play, openness, surprise, and more, in case this missive got you hungry for more. Meanwhile, I am very glad you are here.

Eleven Urgent & Possibly Helpful Things I Have Learned About Writing From Reading Thousands of Manuscripts

Substack Visionary Jeannine Ouellette: How Generosity and Expansion Lead to Meteoric Substack Growth

How I Grew My Substack Part One

How I Grew My Substack Part Two