Why Are Authors Expected to Be ‘Authentic’?

The recent Oscar-winning movie American Fiction – an adaptation of Percival Everett’s novel Erasure by screenwriter and director Cord Jefferson – offers a sharp critique of the racial stereotyping prevalent in the publishing industry.

In one scene, Theolonius “Monk” Ellison, played by Jeffrey Wright, is at a literary panel to promote his new book. The event is sparsely attended. Monk then decides to join the crowded session of celebrated black author Sintara Golden, who is promoting her book We’s Lives In Da Ghetto. Golden gives a reading in an overtly black vernacular, pleasing the audience but annoying Monk.

In another scene, Monk and his literary agent are on the phone with a publisher interested in his latest novel, My Pafology. Monk wrote it as a satire of black stereotypes, but the publishers take it seriously. Under his agent’s pressure, Monk adopts a “black” speaking style in line with his pseudonym Stagg R. Leigh. The publishers love it, mistaking it for authenticity.

Such scenes abound in American Fiction. As an academic and author of several books, Monk faces the harsh reality of needing to fake-write the kind of book “they want.” The satire underscores the deeper issues of what the publishing industry considers “authentic” and the pressure it places on African-American authors.

Monk resists the expectation that he must “write black” and “talk black” to serve as a spokesperson for his race. But the more he resists—by moving his books to another shelf in a bookstore or initially refusing the publisher’s bid—the more the audience becomes aware of the limitations imposed on his self-expression.

“Look at what they publish,” Monk says. “Look at what they expect us to write.”

Fictional characters like Monk and Sintara Golden highlight the reality faced by authors of color, who are expected to perform a certain version of themselves in public. This often involves adopting an “authentic” but ultimately phony persona for readers, literary gatekeepers, and other industry stakeholders.

The demand for “authenticity” is not limited to the American market. Global literary discourse also pressures authors of color to produce narratives deemed “authentic” and to embody this “authenticity” publicly. However, this often raises questions about what qualifies as an “authentic” author and whether narratives are predetermined by race, ethnicity, and language.

Laura Mandell, an assistant professor of English, argues that when we discuss “great literature” by associating it with an author’s name, we confuse the author with their work, subtly reinforcing the idea that authors are their literature.

Another reason for this expectation is that publishing a book turns the author into a public figure, even if they try to resist it. This is evident in the case of Elena Ferrante, whose true identity remains a mystery.

Authors of color often navigate these expectations by employing personas. At a literary event in Hong Kong a few years ago, Junot Diaz, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, shared his perspective on his identity.

Diaz uses a mixed register of Spanglish, nerd jargon, and taboo slang in his writing. He acknowledges both his racial and class background and his transcendence through literary accomplishments. “I’ve always told people that whatever your formula is about being Dominican, being African diasporic, or being poor, put me outside of it,” Diaz said. “Whatever your test is, I have failed. I am happier to fail everybody else’s formulas.”

Diaz’s strategic performance acknowledges his background while resisting reductive formulas of authenticity. Similarly, Monk in American Fiction resists being categorized solely based on race or ethnicity, even as he is asked to perform that identity.

Madeleine Thien, Booker-nominated author of Do Not Say We Have Nothing, offers a different approach. Unlike Diaz, Thien embraces her pigeonholing, almost weaponizing it. During an interview about reviewing culture in Canada, Thien discussed the frustrations and misreadings faced by writers of color.

“[Reviewers] make sweeping generalizations about a place without actually being familiar with it,” Thien said. “Most have not read a single novel set in those regions, yet they write reviews with no conception of their own limitations.”

The paradoxical nature of contemporary literary discourse around “authenticity” requires authors like Thien to perform their activism, wielding identity politics and responsibility to their community. However, unlike Diaz, Thien discusses her responsibility to the larger culture, performing the expected outrage in diversity conversations.

The idea of being true to oneself now extends into identity politics, pigeonholing writers to produce certain narratives. It’s not “write what you know,” but “write what only you know.” Deviation from this renders the work or the writer inauthentic, a significant taboo in postmodern culture.

In a later scene in American Fiction, Monk and Golden have a quiet lunch together. As jury members for a literary prize, Monk gently suggests that Golden’s writing panders to stereotypes. Golden deflects, implying that Monk’s academic privilege makes him unaware of the realities of black life.

The film deliberately leaves this unresolved, highlighting the complexity of the issue. Both Monk and Golden, like Diaz and Thien, navigate the expectations of authenticity in their own ways, making choices that are true in their contexts.

I was in touch with the authors I interviewed, Junot Diaz and Madeleine Thien, while doing my PhD.

Source: The Conversation