Can writing change the world? I don’t have a definite answer to that. But I’m sure I’m not the only one who has been changed by other people’s writing and who’s also dreamed of writing something that would change someone else—if not writing something that would change the world (or at least, a significant part of it), the way Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring transformed the environment movement, or Caroline Criado Perez’s Invisible Women exposed the inequality that exists in our world because of gaps in data.
If one takes too realistic a look at the figures, then it can be argued that the number of authors who’ve been able to have such an impact on the world is quite small, especially when compared to the millions of books that are published across the world each year. So, statistically, we’re going to need huge odds in our favor to be in the company of authors like Carson or Perez. It might even convince us to give up any hope that writing can change things.
But the truth is that our writing has more power than we assume. It’s impossible to change the world—it’s just too big—but it’s not impossible to have no impact. We have some power in the immediate areas around us—our families, our friends, our neighborhoods and local communities are all places where our participation can make a difference. And if not even those, then we have power over ourselves. Over who we are and what we think.
When we write, with or without the expectation of making a difference with our words, there’s no guarantee that we will change others. But there is a guarantee that at least one person will be transformed by that writing—our own selves.
If we work with the pressure of using our words to bring about changes in the world around us, we may never get started. We will reject ideas that don’t, on the surface, seem “important.” You might want to write about a woman who steals stars from the night sky, but you might end up writing articles on the climate crisis. While both are valid and both are important to you personally—we’re multidimensional, passionate—you might think the latter are more important, more “necessary.”
But no form of writing is more important than the other. We need all kinds of writers (and artists, journalists, researchers, activists) to provide vision, alternatives, evidence so that our imaginations, be they rooted in science fiction or in data revealed through investigative journalism, can be nurtured, so that we can shape a better future.
On the surface, it’s difficult to predict what kind of writing will inspire people to take action, to innovate, experiment, legislate. It could be a poem, a short story, even a single sentence. The reaches of influence are random, unpredictable. By trying to control this process, by writing what might matter instead of writing what we feel compelled to write—through our love for a genre, or through responsibility towards a community—we lose our voice. Our words are the most potent when they have our voice behind them and that voice comes when we write from passion, honesty, care rather than when we approach writing from a cold, removed sense of obligation.
It’s important to note that we can be responsible, active citizens of the world or even of our communities without necessarily making writing the medium through which we create change—we can write for ourselves, then help others through our jobs, through volunteering, or through simply being good neighbors.
Clinging to the potential, unpredictable impact of our writing on others can be unhealthy, unhelpful. Instead, if we write from passion, if we write when we are compelled to, when the silence nags us, or when the pain demands channeling into the creation of a louder voice or a cozy retreat, we can bring out stuff from deep within ourselves. This internal matter is often honest and can be the very key that provides potential for connection with a reader—and through that connection, a change.
I’m not arguing that we should give up all efforts to use our writing for the greater good. Every voice, every imagination matters. The world is too complex to control, but that very feature of it is what increases the number of possibilities so much.
So what can we do, exactly? There’s no one specific answer, but several possibilities. Over the last few years, I’ve found that it matters who’s doing the writing. Underrepresented voices need to be heard more. So do underrepresented languages. The internet is perhaps one of the most effective ways to share our visions and ideas with as many people as possible, but a lot of it exists in a limited number of languages and so one way of making a difference is for multilingual writers to write in languages other than “global” languages like English—just think of what it would mean for a person who only speaks these other languages to come across words similar to those that have transformed you.
Consider also the things you know that many others don’t. Writing is also sharing knowledge. Shine a light on what’s ignored, what’s less known, or is unknown and needs to be searched.
But if you can’t do that, or if you’re interested in something else, celebrate it, as Ray Bradbury says. Joyful writing matters just as much and can also give people the ability to look at the world in a new light. As James Baldwin said, “[…] your aspirations and concern for a single man in fact do begin to change the world. The world changes according to the way people see it, and if you alter, even by a millimeter, the way a person looks or people look at reality, then you can change it.”
Bio: Ratika Deshpande is a writer from India. Her work has appeared in Authors Publish, Reactor Magazine, the Brevity Blog, and other platforms.
