A few weeks ago, I wrote a story. A little fantasy tale to spice up my freelancing days. I don’t often post fiction on my blog, but it had been a while since I wrote something just for me, and it felt good to let my hair down for a moment and get back to the kind of writing I know best. 

So, I edited my little tale, dressed it in its finery, and got it ready to meet the public… but something made me hesitate before hitting publish. The story was finished, spell-checked and Grammarly approved, but there was a tiny voice at the back of my mind that questioned if it was a good idea to put this particular story on the front page of my website.

Why? Because this story was written the way I usually write. And the way I usually write includes graphic violence, strong language, and explicit depiction of blood and death. 

I’m a speculative fiction and fantasy author, which means most of the things I write contain elements of the fantastical, the mysterious, and things that go bump in the night. But they also tend to lean towards the more dark and twisted side of the genre. Those are the stories I love, and those are the stories I write. 

But writing fantasy stories for a fantasy audience is one thing. Publishing my work on a website that attracts a variety of readers for a variety of reasons is another matter entirely. 

Most of my days are spent writing and reading dark fantasy, so I’m aware that my idea of what constitutes ‘dark’ is likely very different to someone who prefers reading rom-coms, and different again from someone that binges true crime. If someone stumbles across my work and enjoys it, awesome. That’s why I write. To give people a little distraction from their day, a few minutes of magic and mystery. But what if there are people in my audience who don’t want to read that kind of story? People who haven’t signed up for bloody violence and strong language. And if they stumble across my story with no warning as to the subject matter, will my work have the opposite effect? Instead of magic and mystery, will it cause distress, distrust, or worse? 

The easiest answer would be not to publish anything that might offend. Choose a different story altogether, or cut the more graphic themes. But that idea feels like a step in the wrong direction. While your work might not be for everybody, there has to be a way you can still publish dark stories, send them out into the world, swear words and all, without worrying that they will accidentally find the wrong audience. 

Welcome to the debate of Content Warnings in fiction. 

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Content warnings: A contentious debate

Content warnings are contentious little things. Some authors hate them with a passion, while others simply ignore them, but as a whole, the world of fiction publication seems to have agreed that content warnings are not something that needs to be added to fiction.

Certain mediums use them more than others; they’re common in Manga, for example, and they’re mandatory in film and TV productions, but the general consensus for fiction is that when a reader picks up a book, they are accepting whatever content that book contains, no warning necessary.

And honestly, I used to agree. I once picked up a short story collection by Chuck Palahniuk and got two tales in before closing the book in disgust and banishing it from my collection. I still remember that story today, it’s the type of story I wish I never read, but I chose to read a Chuck Palahniuk book! What was I expecting? I went into that book with my eyes wide open and reaped the consequences of a poor decision. And honestly, would a content warning have changed my mind? Probably not.

Apart from Mr. Palahniuk, who I still read with intense caution, these days, my bookshelves are filled with authors I have learnt to trust. After spending time with their words, I have gotten to know how they explore the world and have come to trust that when they tackle certain themes, they will do so with tact and care. I don’t need a content warning for a new Neil Gaiman story or a new book by Victoria Schwab because I know and trust that when these authors take their characters into the dark, as they so often do, they will do so with purpose because it’s what they need to do to tell the story they want to tell. Brandon Sanderson, George R. R. Martin, these authors don’t shy away from difficult topics. Still, they confront them in a way that matters, in a way that holds your hand through the trauma, through the violence and bloodshed, and eventually, they lead you out the other side and stand with you while you come to terms with what happened.

But what about when you come across a new author, someone whose work you’ve never read? Sure, certain assumptions accompany particular genres; with fantasy, you can assume there will be violence, monsters, and probably some magic; with romance, there will likely be sex scenes and romantic tropes; and with Sci-Fi, it’s common to have some form of political dominance and social rebellion. But what about the multitude of other themes that could be present? One shouldn’t need to stay away from an entire genre just in case they cover a topic you’re not comfortable with. And just because you like a particular genre doesn’t mean you’re ok with all potential subplots that genre could include. Just because I like fantasy doesn’t mean I like reading about torture and abuse. Just because you like vampire fiction doesn’t mean you’re ok with non-consentual intimacy.

So, how can a reader protect themselves from themes they don’t want to be exposed to before jumping in? And whose responsibility is it to ensure the fiction we write finds the right audience?

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Art and informed consent

For starters, let’s throw out the term Trigger Warning. It implies that the person being ‘triggered’ is somehow in the wrong and that the only reason not to read or expose yourself to specific themes is if it ‘triggers’ a negative emotional response in you. I don’t read paperback romance novels, not because they trigger an emotional response, but because I’m not particularly eager to read about weak female characters portrayed in stereotypical roles. That’s not a trigger for me; it’s simply something I don’t have any interest in reading. You don’t have to be ‘triggered’ to know what you don’t want to read.

But even if we go back to the less divisive term ‘Content Warning’, it still brings implications of coddling the reader, protecting the moral majority from the darker side of fiction, and censoring what authors should and shouldn’t write about. There will always be particular themes that a lot of people will find troubling to read and will likely want to avoid, but that doesn’t mean an author can’t write about them. Doesn’t mean it’s wrong to enjoy books that jump head-first into the dark. You can write whatever story you want, no matter how dark it gets; that’s the beauty of storytelling. But shouldn’t a reader be given the chance to decide if your story is one they want to read?

This is where we come to the idea of informed consent.

In medical care, the principle of informed consent governs pretty much everything we do. A patient is only able to consent or decline medical care if they have been informed of all the risks and benefits and are hence able to make an informed decision. Informed being the operative word here. If one doesn’t know or understand all the potential outcomes, you’re not working with all the facts. Only when you have been provided with all the information can you make an informed decision. Otherwise, it’s just guesswork.

Though this idea is not intended to describe art or how we consume it, informed consent is an intriguing way of thinking about the interaction between an author and a reader. When you read a book, you are agreeing to be told a story by the person having written it, and you generally use information from the book’s blurb and your previous knowledge of an author’s work to inform that decision.

But what about when that author is tackling new themes not present in their previous work or when a blurb doesn’t indicate that certain troubling themes will be present in the story? Unless you have been provided with enough information, are you really able to make an informed decision? Or is it, at best, an educated guess? And if all you’re doing is guessing, what are the consequences of making a poor choice?

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Dead Dove: Don’t Eat

Content warnings have been widely used in fan fiction for years, a sub-genre of writing that often covers controversial and mature themes, and it’s interesting that something commonplace in one storytelling space has yet to make it to more mainstream publications. Content warnings such as graphic violence, major character death and explicit content are widely used on fan fiction sites to earmark potentially troubling content, and these tags help readers find work they are interested in while also avoiding work they know they’re not.

One of the best tags I’ve come across that exemplifies this point is Dead Dove: Don’t Eat. This phrase comes from an episode of Arrested Development, where a character finds a bag labelled “Dead Dove: Do Not Eat” and looks inside only to find a dead dove, before stating, deadpan, “I don’t know what I expected”. You got exactly what you were warned about; what did you think was going to be inside? And this idea goes hand in hand with the mentality of informed consent and allowing people to understand the type of work they’re about to read.

Dead Dove: Don’t Eat is basically saying, “I have told you what this story is about. If you don’t like it, don’t read it”. A sentiment I can fully get behind. Just because I don’t want to read about particular themes doesn’t mean someone can’t write about them. But if you tell me what your story is about, then I can decide whether I want to read it or not.

If I choose to read it, knowing what topics it covers, and I don’t like it, that’s on me. Just like if I look inside a bag labeled Dead Dove, I can’t get angry when I see a dead dove. But if you didn’t tell me about the Dove. If I had no idea it was coming and was blindsided without any way of steering clear of that kind of content, then I might have a reason to be a little pissed off at the author, or whoever else left a Dead Dove in my kitchen.

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Why do so many of us hate the idea of content warnings?

As someone who tends to write fiction on the darker end of the spectrum, I have struggled with the idea of content warnings for years. Why should I brand my work with a scarlet letter just because it doesn’t conform to the way Marjorie in Wisconsin sees the world? If you don’t like it, don’t read it! Right?

There are a lot of arguments against content warnings: they can ruin your secret ending, give away underlying themes you want the reader to find on their own, brand your work with the negative rather than the positive, or tell the reader what they should take away from your work rather than letting them work that out themselves. And yes, I hear and agree with all of those statements.

But I think the main reason so many authors reject the idea of content warnings is because it feels like coddling your readers, like yet another extension of the bubble wrap mentality of trying to protect people from something they don’t need protecting from. The world is messy, full of monsters and dark things waiting to jump out and scare us. We don’t get content warnings on life; we don’t always get to choose what we are exposed to at work or in our personal lives, so why would we need warnings on something so innocuous as a collection of words?

And really, what are the consequences of reading a story that disturbs you? Of reading something you didn’t really want to read, would never have chosen to read, and being forced to sit with that uneasy feeling, uncomfortable thoughts making a home in your head whether you want them to or not?

Reading can teach us so much about the world, how others see it, and the lives they lead, but it can also teach us about ourselves. If you’re never exposed to a troubling story, how will you know where your limits lie? Unfortunately, facing the dark and distressing is part of life, and if we can learn how to deal with that in the controlled world of fiction, we might be better prepared when we get blindsided by it on an idle Tuesday. I am not saying you have to intentionally expose yourself to harmful and disturbing content, but finding out what scares you and how to overcome that emotion is part of learning to understand yourself.

And fiction is about as controlled a medium as you can find. We choose when to keep reading and we decide when to stop. We are an active participant in the process. We’re not sitting back and letting things happen at us, but rather making the choice to keep going into the dark, one step at a time. Every book comes hard-wired with a safe word, and we can pull the plug whenever we like.

So, as a reader, I say bring on the disturbing, the dark, the weird and the wretched. Step out of your bubble, find new voices to take you into the night, and get comfortable with being uncomfortable.

But what about as a writer?

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It’s not all about the reader

Content warnings don’t censor writers. Let’s make that clear.

Content warnings are not telling you what you can and can’t write, or shaming you for including certain themes in your work. Instead, they give you the freedom to write about what you want without fear. If you tell people about the Dead Dove and they agree to read on, you don’t have to worry about showing them the Dead Dove. Content warnings help your audience prepare for the stories you want to tell them and let you focus on writing the story you want to tell, no matter where it takes you.

I am sure I’m not the only writer who has paused part way through a scene and worried that the story you’re writing is too dark for your readers. That you will alienate a portion of your audience if you take the story where you want it to go. As a writer, your intention is not typically to disturb your readers, but you also don’t want to censor yourself by trying to work out what might be too much for an average reader. You’re not writing for an average reader; you are writing for your audience, people that like the twisted way you think and the dark places you venture. Holding back, watering down, these are not the hallmarks of great writing, and I firmly believe that it’s better to write a story people either love or hate than one that invokes ambivalence.

A good writer will always consider the impact of their words, will take on troubling themes with tact and respect, but with content warnings, but you needn’t be scared of tackling dark topics for fear of alienating your audience. You can rest assured that the people reading your words, going with you on your journey, are doing so because they wish to be there. They have been warned of the road ahead and have made the decision to continue. People may still dislike your work; they might still leave your world feeling disturbed or uneasy, but, in the kindest way possible, that’s on them. You gave them fair warning. What they do with that information is up to them.

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It lands with every author to decide if they want to use content warnings. Writes should never be censored, just as books should never be banned, but that absolute freedom comes with a caveat. You can write whatever story you want, but should your readers be given the opportunity to decide if they want to read it?

No, I don’t know which themes in particular need content warnings and which don’t. I know the type of stories I want to be warned about, but that’s entirely subjective, and I won’t presume to write a list of topics that every reader might want to avoid. A simple “mature content warning” could be all your work needs, or a more in-depth “note to the reader”; if you choose to expand on what “mature” really means. Your genre, your medium, and where you publish your work will all affect the kind of audience you’re exposed to, and the type of warnings you might need. There is no black and white rule. We are all free to decide for ourselves.

Where do I stand on the matter? I honestly don’t know. As a writer and a reader, I can understand both sides of the argument. And while I agree that dark stories not only teach us that monsters exist but that they can be killed, I think it’s only fair to give people a little heads up if you’re about to chuck a Dead Dove at their feet.

For me, for now, content warnings serve a purpose. I never thought they would, always put myself firmly in the “don’t like it, don’t read it” camp, but writing is as much about telling stories as it is about self-discovery, and the further I wander down this creative path, the more I am finding out about the kind of writer I want to be.

So before you reject the idea of content warnings on principle, give it a moment, let the idea sit for a while. Try them out. See how it makes you feel. You never know, it might surprise you.