Dear Indigenous visionary:

Writing in all its forms is a scary act; it makes us vulnerable and exposes our softest parts to a world not known for its gentleness. But there’s magnificent power in that vulnerability, and it’s deserving of acknowledgment. And I’m filled with such deep joy each time another powerful voice joins the Indigenous literary world. I hope you’ll think of these words as an honoring and a hope for the important work you’re about to undertake.

Too often we’ve been told that our words don’t matter. Too often we’ve been told that Indigenous people are unworthy of consideration as writers. We quite literally have centuries of colonizers telling us, our families, and our ancestors these things. Do not believe them. Your work is the inscribed embodiment of the survival and struggle of generations, the realization of possibility that’s so different from what so many of our ancestors had to face. It’s understandable that you might sometimes be afraid, or feel insecure, or feel clumsy or uncertain or any number of other emotions that turn the blank page into an enemy, an accusation, an unfillable emptiness. We all do, believe me! But don’t let it stop you, please. We need your work so much.

Some of that fear comes from good places of humility and the early, fitful stages of learning this craft, but too much of it comes from colonial society and its bigotries. They’re wrong in their silencing judgments, as they’ve always been. You have every bit as much right to have your stories and poems and plays and memoirs and songs and other works alive in the world as anyone. If you have the gift, you’re called upon to use it for the People, your own and the rest. Gifts grow in the sharing; they diminish the more we hide them. It doesn’t matter why we hold back—fear, selfishness, shyness, modesty. If you’re given a gift, if you’re called to do this, you can take comfort in knowing that you’re not called to take on a task that’s beyond your ability. And your words are needed.

Two important and often underappreciated aspects of a writer’s success are self-advocacy and mentorship. You’ve got to get out there, get your work seen, show up at readings, do the work that gets your words into other peoples’ lives—it’s rare that a writer succeeds just by writing. Many of the most talented writers struggle for recognition; less agile writers may thrive out of sheer determination. Luck is a big part of it; drive is another. But they’re only part of the equation. It makes a huge difference to advocate for your work, and to have more established writers advocate on your behalf, provide mentorship, guidance, cautionary notes, and editorial advice. It won’t be long before other writers start to look to you for support, so be the mentor you had or—if your mentors are in short supply—be the mentor you wish you had.

If you have the gift, you’re called upon to use it for the People, your own and the rest.

This is another point: we’re part of a community, but too many people—including some of our own and some of those who claim affiliation with our nations—forget this simple truth. It’s not just about what we receive but what we give to one another that makes the real difference. The Indigenous-lit world is a small place, and for all the strength of our work the conditions for success are challenging—we need to take care of each other. In both Canada and the US the mainstream literary scene tends to hold up one or two Indigenous writers at a time, while leaving the rest to fend for themselves. It’s important to help one another, to uphold one another’s work, to celebrate successes and grieve losses, to engage in this beautiful struggle together.

You’re part of a lineage, a tradition, a rich, vexed, complicated, troubled, and beautiful history of literary achievement. That can be a deep wellspring from which to draw strength. Please don’t accept the idea, even from our own, that Indigenous writing is a contradiction in terms, that our writing is only a colonial construct. Our peoples have been communicating knowledge in various media and forms since time immemorial, and although our oral traditions and histories are vitally important—especially in our imperiled mothertongues—they’re not the only way we’ve expressed our dreams, hopes, fears, and possibilities. It needn’t be one or the other—we can be part of all these things. And, to my mind, we should be, as there’s no place in this world where Indigenous voices don’t belong. But remember, too, that this tradition of which we’re a part is made possible only because those other traditions and languages have been held, nurtured, and protected—let your writing strengthen that necessary work rather than erase it. Writing isn’t an inevitable good; it can harm as readily as help. Not all things are meant for the page—return to the teachings that give guidance on how to do this work responsibly.

In Canada, the last few years have seen the loss of some powerful, beautiful writers and scholars in the field: Beth Brant, Richard Wagamese, Connie Fife, Sharron Proulx-Turner, Jo-Ann Episkenew, Renate Eigenbrod, among others. In my experience one thing that connected all these people was their generosity to other writers and enthusiasm for Indigenous voice finding its rightful place of honor in the world. Without them, that world would be immeasurably poorer, and many lives would be diminished. Each of them, Indigenous and non-Indigenous alike, made an important contribution through their work, and we honor them still.

Generosity isn’t a weakness—it’s a profound, generative strength. Be strong, even when you don’t think you can be; be bold, even when you’re scared; be humble, even when you feel unworthy and are desperate for other peoples’ praise to make you feel less insecure or uncertain about yourself and your work. We all have gifts to share, stories to tell, ideas to contribute, but we never do these things alone, and there are many eyes watching as you go, looking to you as a role model even if you don’t want to be. Indigenous writers still aren’t so commonplace that we can take any one of us for granted—we need all the good minds we can get. But we also have so many amazing models of excellence to look to.

We need to encourage as many voices as possible, so that every reader can find the writers who speak to them.

There are people who want to hear your words, desperately. There are others who don’t. Keep your focus on the former, because the latter won’t want to listen no matter how good you are, no matter how much you play by their rules. Don’t waste your time feeding the sated; nourish the hungry instead.

Sometimes being kind means being critical. Criticism at its best is an act of profound generosity; it’s about making our work better, smarter, more nuanced, more engaging. Just because someone says something critical about your work doesn’t mean they don’t like it, or that they don’t like you, or that your thoughts and art are unworthy of consideration. Sometimes it’s just that they see flaws that you’re too close to the work to see, and they want to help you do better; often it’s specifically because they like your work that they’re offering helpful criticism. When done well, criticism is labor-intensive, time-consuming, and deeply committed work; it can be a true gift to the writer as well as to readers. And remember that constructive criticism isn’t the same as belittling negativity—there’s a really important difference, and it’s necessary to learn the distinction. The former is about polishing until the light gleams brighter; the second is about shattering the glass.

So some readers won’t like your work. It’s inevitable. And you’ll be fine. It doesn’t mean your work isn’t worthy of an audience—it just means the work you do doesn’t connect with them. Not everyone’s work interests you, either. That’s why we need to encourage as many voices as possible, so that every reader can find the writers who speak to them, challenge them, and inspire them in ways no one else can. And you may be the writer they need right now. Find your voice, find your audience, find your writerly purpose, and keep with it.

As peoples all over the world have known since making meaningful marks on stone, bark, and flesh, writing is power. Like all power, it can be used to good, neutral, or cruel purpose. Not everything you write has to hold your people up or even be about Indigenous matters, but at the very least it shouldn’t make things harder for your kin or add to the degradation, dehumanization, and diminishment of Indigenous peoples. The colonizers have ample stories doing that work without our own joining in.

To be an Indigenous writer is to be part of a long legacy of struggle and survivance, of determination to speak truth into a world that too often insists on Indigenous silence.

Read widely and without genre snobbery—there are lots of ways to write, and many forms that can help us realize our vision. Besides, most Indigenous writers straddle two or more forms and multiple genres, so whatever your interests, read beyond them. Be a fiercely partisan reader of the work of Indigenous writers, Black writers, women writers, queer writers, other marginalized writers, and all the intersections in between. Read the mainstream, too—the world is filled with beautiful voices. But first and foremost, advocate for Indigenous writers. Share the work. Tweet it. Blog about it. Check out their work from the library—in Canada this, too, benefits writers. Set up a reading group. Go online and review it. Teach it. Share your dog-eared copy with a friend, and encourage them to get one of their own. Be a cheerleader for our writers, storytellers, and visionaries. Some of my personal models for this commitment in Canada are Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm, Richard Van Camp, Cherie Dimaline, Joanne Arnott, Warren Cariou, Deanna Reder, Lee Maracle, and Leanne Simpson, some of the very best Indigenous advocates for Indigenous writers I’ve ever met. They love their people, they love their writers, and they love the words and work that writers are called to do in the world. And they’ve been incredible mentors to so many of us, and continue doing so. Be the advocate for others that you would want for your own work.

There’s no shame in being called an “Indigenous writer,” just as there’s no such thing as being “just a writer” divorced from context. The latter is a mythical and pernicious category used to normalize colonial categories of value and to pathologize the work that’s unashamedly grounded outside of white straight maleness. To be an Indigenous writer is to be part of a long legacy of struggle and survivance, of determination to speak truth into a world that too often insists on Indigenous silence. Hold up that title with pride. If others try to cram you into their little colonial box, stretch beyond their boundaries. There’s no one way of being an Indigenous writer, but the specificity of your experience—and of the communities to which you belong—matters a lot, and it deserves to be named.

Reach out to the writers who inspire you. One of the sad truths about our field is that far too many of the elders who cleared the path have been pushed to the side by the generations that followed. This is especially the case with poets, particularly Indigenous women, who so often have to work two or three jobs just to get by; they’re brought in occasionally for poorly compensated classroom lectures or conference talks (and are often expected to take time away from paid employment for it), but their old work is neglected and their new work isn’t encouraged. We’ve got to do better about honoring those who made possible the vibrant field we have today. They fought battles we can hardly imagine, and continue to do so—let’s show them some love and help make more space for their work. And don’t imagine that all emerging writers are young people—some of the most important emerging voices are older folks, including elders, who also want to share their words in the world.

If you’re a young writer, please honor those who came before, but don’t give blind obedience; offer respect, not submission. Sometimes the tracks set down are too well worn; sometimes you’ll be called to cut new trail, to lead us to better vistas. Sometimes those who came before can see only what they’ve done, not what you’re called to do. Honor them, be kind, but be brave, too. We need what you offer now. And don’t suppose that older, more established writers aren’t also experimental contemporaries who are doing trail cutting of their own—let the work show the possibility, not the age or the reputation. A lot of the best work being done now is by those who have honed their craft and nurtured their gift for decades; a lot is also by newer writers, too.

My hope for you is that you always remain curious, compassionate, and courageous. The world is a hard enough place, with too many people wedded to deadly certainty and so insistent on their own narrow rightness that they’d burn down the rest of the world to ensure their singular vision reigns supreme. That’s a colonial condition, and it can only bring harm. Indigenous writers can offer something different. You offer something different. You and your work are a continuation of the possibility and realization of your ancestors’ hopeful struggle. The wounded world still needs you, now as much as ever. We need you, as do future generations.

Thank you for all you’re doing. Now, it’s time for you to get back to your own writing—your readers are waiting.

All my very best,

Daniel

Daniel Heath Justice (Cherokee Nation) is Canada Research Chair in Indigenous Literature and Expressive Culture in First Nations and Indigenous Studies and English at the University of British Columbia. Widely published in the field of Indigenous literary studies, his critical and creative work engages issues of Indigenous being, belonging, and other-than-human kinship. His newest book, Why Indigenous Literatures Matter, was recently released by Wilfrid Laurier University Press.