Why ‘Safe’ Writing Is Usually Boring
"I really liked the story," the email began.
I knew there was a "but" coming. There is always a "but" when someone starts by telling you how much they liked your work. It’s the verbal equivalent of a polite cough before a difficult conversation.
"But the language... the profanity. You’re going to alienate a lot of religious readers who would otherwise find your journey inspiring. It feels a bit... unsafe."
I sat in my office in Waynesville, looking out at the mountains, and I thought about that word.
Safe.
I spent the first thirty-six years of my life being safe. I was raised in "The Truth", the name Jehovah’s Witnesses give to their world. In that world, "safe" was the only currency that mattered. You dressed safe. You spoke safe. You thought safe. Your entire life was a curated gallery of sanitized perfection, designed to prove to the world that you were a "Good Slave" to the organization.
But here is the thing about safe writing:
It’s a lie.
And lies are boring.
The Mask of "The Truth"
Growing up as a Jehovah’s Witness means learning to split yourself in two. There is the person you are, and there is the person you are allowed to be. The person you are allowed to be doesn't use "salty" language. She doesn't have messy doubts. She doesn't acknowledge the jagged edges of her own humanity.
I learned early on that if you want to keep the peace, you have to sanitize the soul.
"Is this appropriate for a Christian?"
"Will this stumble your brother?"
These were the questions that patrolled the borders of my mind. They weren't just about movies or music; they were about how I told my own story. If I couldn't be "clean," I couldn't be seen.
When I finally walked away from that life, I traded one form of "safe" for another. I found myself behind a counter, wearing a different kind of uniform.
"My pleasure."
"How can I serve you today?"
"Have a blessed day."
Working at Chick-fil-A was a masterclass in performative pleasantry. I was good at it. I could hold the smile while my world was falling apart. I could deliver a perfect chicken sandwich while my identity was in the middle of a controlled demolition.
I was being safe again. I was being professional. I was being exactly what everyone expected me to be.
But I wasn't being real.
The Myth of the "Safe" Reader
When a critic tells me that my memoir, Good Slave, is "unsafe" because of a few four-letter words, what they are really saying is that they want the "Chick-fil-A" version of my life. They want the "My Pleasure" version of trauma.
They want the story of a woman leaving a cult, but they want her to do it in a navy blazer with a side of waffle fries.
Why do we think readers need to be protected from the truth?
Why do we assume that religious readers are so fragile that they can't handle the vocabulary of a person in pain?
Sanitized writing avoids the ugly places.
It polishes the image at the expense of the connection.
It creates a barrier between the writer and the reader.
It treats the audience like children instead of adults.
If I am writing about the moment I realized my entire belief system was a cage, I am not going to say, "Golly, I was quite upset." I am going to use the words that lived in my throat at that moment. I am going to use the words that felt like fire.
If you remove the heat, you remove the light.
The Book Publishing Process Is About Truth
At Lou Dog Studio LLC, I talk to a lot of aspiring authors who are worried about being "too much." They come to me for self-publishing services or ghostwriting services, and the first thing they want to do is sand down the edges of their story.
They are afraid of what their mother will think.
They are afraid of what their church will think.
They are afraid of looking "unsafe."
I tell them the same thing I told myself:
"The parts you are most afraid to write are usually the only parts worth reading."
The book publishing process shouldn't be about creating a product that everyone likes. It should be about creating something that someone needs.
And nobody needs a sanitized version of your life. They need to know they aren't the only ones who have felt the jagged, ugly, profane reality of being human.
Are you writing to be liked?
Or are you writing to be understood?
Authenticity as a Creative Service
When I help a client through the book publishing process, my goal isn't to make them "safe." My goal is to make them honest.
Whether I'm providing ghostwriting services or helping an author navigate self-publishing services, I am looking for the voice that they were told to hide. I'm looking for the version of the story that doesn't wear a uniform.
In Waynesville, I’ve found a community that values the real over the refined. There is a grit here, an honesty that matches the terrain. It’s a far cry from the suburban sterility of my past, and it’s the perfect place to build a studio dedicated to "Fearless" creativity.
If my writing alienates a reader who requires a filter to engage with my humanity, then I am okay with that. I didn't leave a high-control religion just to find a new set of rules for what I’m allowed to say.
I’m not a "Good Slave" anymore.
I’m an author.
And authors don't have to be safe.
They just have to be true.
The email from the critic is still in my inbox. I haven't deleted it, but I haven't replied yet either. I think I’ll just send them a link to this post.
No, actually.
I think I’ll just keep writing.