You Are Not "You"

 As I’m revising my upcoming book, I’m reflecting on its past, present, and future. 

You Are Not “You”

Believe, at least for the time being, that you are anyone and everyone, including me.

That’s how you wanted to open your book on human evolution, regularly employing the second person perspective: You are like this. You did that. You used to think one way. Now you think another. Trying on the author’s perspective helps us see how blind we’ve been to the personalities that have crafted the facts of life and have perpetuated the make-believe narratives we’ve accepted as science. With that newfound sense, we can tell new stories, better stories, or no stories at all about where we came from and who we are, about human nature.

But before you could pitch that new prophylactic opening, sure to ward off reader discomfort, bound to bubble up down the line when they first read “you”;

before you could defend the second person as a necessary tool for shifting the reader’s evolutionary thinking away from distinct, competing individuals to an always interconnected, collaborative whole, something more powerful than “we”;

before you could defend this point-of-you as showing, rather than telling, how personal perspective shapes science and the fictions we tell with facts, they told you to “ditch the second person.” Something about a feted New York novelist getting away with it long ago, but it not serving your book. “There are places where it’s like watching you talk to yourself.”

Back then, you see, your manuscript included, You’re always reading your way through the books around the house, which made your partner look up from the page and blurt, “No I’m not!”  After the uproar, the literary significance of what immediately followed [something about Metamorphosis being about the sister’s transformation, which is a section you later struck] was lost.  

 Oh boy. Did you just say “literary”? That’s probably where you took a wrong turn.

See, you have no idea how to write. You have no business having literary ambition. This is merely a science book you’re writing and even it demands a level of writerly competence that you’re struggling to realize.

So far, much of the feedback you’ve received from the pros is comprised entirely of words you know well, but in new combinations that you do not. So sometimes you nod along with what they’re saying, uh-huh, just like when you’re tired of asking someone to repeat what they’ve already said three times too softly and quickly for your ears and brain to comprehend.

Ignorance, ineptitude, lack of skill and talent, and an aging auditory apparatus. All that must be the root of the problem here, not necessarily the second person itself. Someone else with lettered or unlettered skill and talent would be able to write the book you’re trying to write. Not you.

Sure, with the second person you had success on your blog. Your you…you… you … posts resonated more than others—maybe engaging readers the way that you’d become N.K. Jemison’s protagonist in the Broken Earth Trilogy. But when you applied the second person to your book’s pages, it did no such thing.

Immersion into another person and away from one-man-army individualism, you believed, and still do, is the key to transforming human evolutionary thinking. But you fumbled the script. You dropped it down the shithole. And nothing, not even throwing your phone and wallet down after, could make you save it now. Say no more. You heard them loud and clear.

They read “you” but they couldn’t be you. You are annoying, jarring, disorienting. It’s not just a better writer who could write the book you are trying to write, it’s a better person. A more relatable person. And an admirable one who earns the reader’s committed effort to walk in their shoes. Not only did you fail to bring people on board, but you turned them off: no one wants to be a crazy person who talks to themselves [sic]. The Second Person, whoever they are, is only who you wish you were: someone people could stand to pretend to be for a little while.

You are clearly a First Person. Real, typical, and yet somehow also not easy for real, typical readers to transform into. Readers can only metamorphose into exceptional people—people who can make the bedrock quake, people who can behead a troll, people who are fiction, made-up, even people who are pregnant teenaged pizza delivery drivers with a drinking problem. Those people, Novel People, imaginary people invite readers into their skins. Fiction People can be Second Person, can be you. Non-Fiction People, like you, cannot.

Reading your First Person p.o.v., I… I… I… means they can empathize with you or not. It’s their choice. If you’re too different from who they are, in their minds, then they’re probably not very deep into you and they’re able to keep their distance, if that makes them more comfortable. But why must everyone be so comfortable? Oh, must be the money.

In reality, in Nonfiction Land, we don’t choose to be who we are and we can’t choose to be distinct from anyone. There is no First Person in 3.7 billion years of connected life on Earth. Reality is, I am you, as you are me, so we are we, and we are all together. The Walrus wasn’t wrong.

Atomized organisms comprised of atomized traits built by atomized genes is a fiction and it’s why mainstream evolutionary thinking doesn’t make any sense to you. It’s not merely philosophy, it’s the storytelling game, and it’s the practical and logistical limitations of speech and language. Explaining why mainstream evolutionary thinking doesn’t make any sense to you, and isn’t good enough science, takes more than explanation, more than talking the talk. It takes walking the walk. One way to walk the walk is to put the reader in your shoes.

Are we really supposed to assume that readers of non-fiction are so different from fiction readers? Are they that terrible at transforming themselves? At imagining? At trying something on? If so, then why even bother to change their minds about human evolution at all?  The evidence, they’re thinking; it’s the evidence that will change their minds. But they’re thinking wrong. If the facts were enough, then we’d be free already.

While you makes everyone you, and, together, you are a more fitting adversary for old make-believe stories, you is weird. You’ve got to find a way forward as I. They win. But you can make it work so you win too:

I contain multitudes and those multitudes are you.