Power, Empathy, and Presumption

Or, The Condescension is Strong in This One.

I was at one end of a packed twelve-top in a bougie French steakhouse in Midtown Manhattan when someone asked me, “do you think you can write from the perspective of someone who has no power?” The question floored me. It was unexpected. The asker was a fellow writer. Far more accomplished than me. A New York Times bestseller, in fact. On top of that, we’d never met before. I sat there and wondered, do they ask everyone this?

Thrillerfest is a yearly industry conference. Writers, agents, and editors sit in windowless conference rooms and on hotel barstools. Discussions are had, drinks are drank (drunk? drinked? I should know that). This was my third year attending and every one’s been a blast. I’ve learned a ton and made good friends. One had invited me to the dinner, and I was thrilled (thrilled/Thrillerfest; get it?).

Everyone there was a writer. Published and knowledgeable about the industry and the craft. Sitting down, however, I grew nervous. I’ve published short stories, won an award, have a well-respected literary agent, co-written screenplays being shopped around Hollywood. But I hadn’t sold a novel. Did I belong with these people? I guess I wasn’t the only one wondering.

Do you think you can write from the perspective of someone who has no power?

In the weeks since, I’ve thought a lot about this. It bothers me on so many levels. Writing fiction—decent fiction—demands empathy. Without it, characters will be flat. Or worse, stereotypes. Putting oneself in another’s headspace—or trying to—is a prerequisite. This person had not read my work. Exchanged no more than a dozen sentences with me. But they felt comfortable enough to question my ability to empathize. Over the course of a two-hour-plus dinner, this question was not put to anyone else.

I keep asking myself why.

Flashback to the night. The long, packed table. Conversations limited by ambient noise and geography. I talked only to the three or four writers nearest me. Of which the asker was one.

Here’s what they knew about me: I was an agented writer; had a novel on submission; a man; white; a former NYPD homicide detective. That’s pretty much it. Yet that was enough for them to assume I could not step outside myself. That my worldview was limited. I’ve been writing for years. Have friendships with published authors. Many have read my work. Offered feedback and criticism. None has ever questioned my ability so bluntly.

The asker sat opposite me. Buttered bread. Took a bite. I needed an answer. I sipped water and stalled.

Think of the mindset that prompts this question. It assumes I’m lacking. Not of talent or craft but of basic humanity. My willingness and ability to understand why people behave as they do. Consider the unspoken implication: they didn’t ask if we could write from the perspective of one without power. Only me. In their eyes, my gender, race, and former career not only empowered me, it dehumanized me. Negated my lived experience.

I scanned the room. Sharp servers hustled pricey wines to well-heeled diners. Simply being there—at a high-end Manhattan restaurant—meant all of us had some kind of power. Free time and disposable cash. Freedom to spend hours pounding away on our manuscripts. Hubris enough to think our stories deserved reading.

My thoughts came together.

I am a son of New York City. Born and raised in the Bronx. A product of public education. I grew up poor; three generations in a two-bedroom, pre-war walk-up apartment. Was the first in my family to graduate college. Worked for the NYPD for twenty years. Arrested the violent and depraved and hopeless addicts hooked on opioids. Found unidentified, elderly Alzheimer sufferers in bus stations. Recovered young children taken unlawfully by unfit parents. Attended a dozen infant autopsies. Informed mothers their sons had been murdered. Learned killers’ life stories. The broken families. Awful childhoods in abject poverty. Lives led in broken-down housing projects, dodging endless cop frisks and stray bullets. For two decades I tried to do my best. I hope I succeeded more than I failed.

Yes, I think I can write about people who have no power. Because I have lived. I have watched.

Most of all, I have listened.

Check, please.