Why I Keep Writing When the World Is on Fire

This post was inspired by a thoughtful question from Almost Lisa.

Writing has always been how I make sense of the world.

As a neurodivergent person, I didn’t always understand the people around me or the rules I was expected to follow. Storytelling became a way to cope, to translate emotions that didn’t fit neatly into conversation, and to survive experiences that were difficult, confusing, or painful. Long before I had language for my gender, writing gave me a private place to explore it. Long before I understood trauma, writing helped me hold it at arm’s length and look at it safely.

For many writers, myself included, writing is cathartic in a way very little else is. It allows us to express parts of ourselves that usually remain hidden. It also offers escape. When we build a world on the page, we set the rules. We decide what matters. We decide who survives, who is protected, and what justice looks like. That sense of agency is powerful, especially in a real world where control is often limited or nonexistent.

Lately, though, so many of us are wrestling with a familiar and uncomfortable question. When real harm is happening in front of us, when people are losing their rights or their lives, how do we justify joy? How do we justify imagination? Why should we get to feel the pleasure of creating when others are fighting simply to exist?

There are days when writing feels harder because of what’s happening in the world. As an American trans woman living in a very red state, the fear is not abstract. It is personal. It is daily. Some days, escape feels irresponsible. Fantasy can start to feel too detached, like I’m looking away instead of paying attention.

But the longer I sit with that discomfort, the more I realize something important. Writing is not a denial of reality. It is a response to it.

Queer stories, especially, are not frivolous in times of crisis. They are acts of resistance. They say that our inner lives matter. They say that joy, tenderness, and imagination are not rewards reserved for peaceful times. They are tools we use to survive the worst ones.

Writing gives shape to fear instead of letting it stay formless, and offers a way to reclaim hope without pretending everything is fine. When I write, I am not ignoring the world. I am insisting that it can be better.

And I know I’m not alone in this. I’ve talked with other writers who feel the same tension, the same guilt, the same pull between bearing witness and needing respite. Readers feel it too. Some read less when the news grows darker. Others seek stories more urgently, searching for a place to breathe.

If you are a reader and you turn to fantasy in troubled times, know that you are not doing something shallow or selfish. You are taking care of yourself. If you are a writer struggling to create right now, you are not failing. You are human.

For me, the answer is simple, even when it’s not easy. I keep writing because queer stories need to be told, now more than ever. Writing helps me feel a little less helpless and a little more hopeful. It keeps me sane. And if the worlds I create offer even a small measure of comfort or clarity to someone else, then the joy of writing is not unearned at all.

It is necessary.

Featured image photo credit: Tama66