Every year in December, Aqueduct Press invites its authors to share the books, movies, music, plays, and assorted related things that moved them in 2025. A new blog post is put up each day until they run out, usually some time in January.
One of the best things about these lists is that they’re not restricted to work that came out in 2025, which means they can and do include a lot of older books, etc.
Mine went up last Saturday. It’s all books because I seem to be doing more reading than anything else these days even if I did venture out to hear Ruthie Foster in concert.
I recommend reading them all and making a list of things you want to check out!
This is the Japanese edition. I am reading the English translation, not this version.
One of the (many) reasons to browse bookstores is that you stumble across books that you never heard of and would not have known to look for because it would never have occurred to you that you wanted to read a book about that particular thing until you stumbled across it.
Right now my morning book is one that fits that description. It’s called The Fall of Language in the Age of English, by Japanese writer Minae Mizumura (translated by Mari Yoshihara and Juliet Winters Carpenter). I’m sure I bought it at East Bay Booksellers, because they sell a lot of small press and academic books and are a very likely place to run across the books you didn’t know you wanted until you picked them up.
I’m not 100% sure I bought it there because I’ve had it awhile and just got around to reading it. (Yes, I do that all the time. Doesn’t everybody?) It is a perfect book for my daily reading practice, which requires books that are best read a few pages at a time because they give you something to chew on.
(I should note that this daily practice of reading for about 15 minutes in the morning is far from the only reading I do. It is in a way of reading akin to meditation, which is very different from diving into the world of a novel.)
This book is about writing in national languages (and what constitutes a national language) when so much of the world’s written work is written and published in English, which is a universal language in much the same way that Latin was a few centuries back. But it makes its points slowly, clearly discussing important points along the way.
The whole book is fascinating, but here’s the concept that got to me on a personal and gut level as a writer:
The first prerequisite for fine literature is that the writer must see the language not as a transparent medium for self-expression or the representation of reality, but as a medium one must struggle with to make it do one’s bidding.
This, I think, is the essence of being a writer, the combination of having something you want to convey – be it a story, a philosophical approach, an understanding of the world – and struggling to find the right words for expressing it.
(The term “fine literature” makes me, as a science fiction writer, uneasy, since it is often used to exclude many pieces of writing I consider very fine indeed, but I define it more broadly as work that aspires to more than basic communication.)
This is in no way the same as learning how to apply the rules of grammar, though understanding them is one of the underpinnings of writing. It does, however, require a deep and abiding familiarity with the written language you use.
As a writer, I find this to be doubly true for fiction. Except for the part about writing by hand. I think it’s fine to compose stories, especially novels, on a keyboard.
Writing builds resilience by changing your brain, helping you face everyday challenges
Ordinary and universal, the act of writing changes the brain. From dashing off a heated text message to composing an op-ed, writing allows you to, at once, name your pain and create distance from it. Writing can shift your mental state from overwhelm and despair to grounded clarity — a shift that reflects resilience.
Psychology, the media and the wellness industry shape public perceptions of resilience: Social scientists study it, journalists celebrate it, and wellness brands sell it.
In my work as a professor of writing studies, I research how people use writing to navigate trauma and practice resilience. I have witnessed thousands of students turn to the written word to work through emotions and find a sense of belonging. Their writing habits suggest that writing fosters resilience. Insights from psychology and neuroscience can help explain how.
Writing rewires the brain
In the 1980s, psychologist James Pennebaker developed a therapeutic technique called expressive writing to help patients process trauma and psychological challenges. With this technique, continuously journaling about something painful helps create mental distance from the experience and eases its cognitive load.
In other words, externalizing emotional distress through writing fosters safety. Expressive writing turns pain into a metaphorical book on a shelf, ready to be reopened with intention. It signals the brain, “You don’t need to carry this anymore.”
Translating emotions and thoughts into words on paper is a complex mental task. It involves retrieving memories and planning what to do with them, engaging brain areas associated with memory and decision-making. It also involves putting those memories into language, activating the brain’s visual and motor systems.
Writing things down supports memory consolidation — the brain’s conversion of short-term memories into long-term ones. The process of integration makes it possible for people to reframe painful experiences and manage their emotions. In essence, writing can help free the mind to be in the here and now.
Taking action through writing
The state of presence that writing can elicit is not just an abstract feeling; it reflects complex activity in the nervous system.
Brain imaging studies show that putting feelings into words helps regulate emotions. Labeling emotions — whether through expletives and emojis or carefully chosen words — has multiple benefits. It calms the amygdala, a cluster of neurons that detects threat and triggers the fear response: fight, flight, freeze or fawn. It also engages the prefrontal cortex, a part of the brain that supports goal-setting and problem-solving.
In other words, the simple act of naming your emotions can help you shift from reaction to response. Instead of identifying with your feelings and mistaking them for facts, writing can help you simply become aware of what’s arising and prepare for deliberate action.
Even mundane writing tasks like making a to-do list stimulate parts of the brain involved in reasoning and decision-making, helping you regain focus.
Making meaning through writing
Choosing to write is also choosing to make meaning. Studies suggest that having a sense of agency is both a prerequisite for, and an outcome of, writing.
Researchers have long documented how writing is a cognitive activity — one that people use to communicate, yes, but also to understand the human experience. As many in the field of writing studies recognize, writing is a form of thinking — a practice that people never stop learning. With that, writing has the potential to continually reshape the mind. Writing not only expresses but actively creates identity.
Writing also regulates your psychological state. And the words you write are themselves proof of regulation — the evidence of resilience.
Popular coverage of human resilience often presents it as extraordinary endurance. News coverage of natural disasters implies that the more severe the trauma, the greater the personal growth. Pop psychology often equates resilience with unwavering optimism. Such representations can obscure ordinary forms of adaptation. Strategies people already use to cope with everyday life — from rage-texting to drafting a resignation letter — signify transformation.
Building resilience through writing
These research-backed tips can help you develop a writing practice conducive to resilience:
1. Write by hand whenever possible. In contrast to typing or tapping on a device, handwriting requires greater cognitive coordination. It slows your thinking, allowing you to process information, form connections and make meaning.
2. Write daily. Start small and make it regular. Even jotting brief notes about your day — what happened, what you’re feeling, what you’re planning or intending — can help you get thoughts out of your head and ease rumination.
3. Write before reacting. When strong feelings surge, write them down first. Keep a notebook within reach and make it a habit to write it before you say it. Doing so can support reflective thinking, helping you act with purpose and clarity.
4. Write a letter you never send. Don’t just write down your feelings — address them to the person or situation that’s troubling you. Even writing a letter to yourself can provide a safe space for release without the pressure of someone else’s reaction.
5. Treat writing as a process. Any time you draft something and ask for feedback on it, you practice stepping back to consider alternative perspectives. Applying that feedback through revision can strengthen self-awareness and build confidence.
Resilience may be as ordinary as the journal entries people scribble, the emails they exchange, the task lists they create — even the essays students pound out for professors.
I have 2 posts for you in the same day because this week is suddenly impossibly different. I wrote the prior post before the massacre and am spending my whole Chanukah dealing with consequences for myself and friends. My Baltimore nephew just checked in on me and I never would have thought that, with US shootings, it would be he who had to check in on me.
If you need to understand what happened, ask me, and I’ll post more next Monday. In the interim, I’m seeing a total lack of knowledge about Jewish Australia. Loads of generic good wishes and concern for safety, and some friends write to me directly and most put general statements on FB and don’t think that, just maybe, every single Jewish Australian is in mourning. Some people are full of theories about the role of Israel and want to share their theory without stopping to say, first, that they’re sorry that so many people were murdered and they mourn with us. Their thoughts count more than the humans caught up in this mess. This is what happened here when we heard about the Tree of Life stuff from 2018. I have a friend who goes to that shul and I was there for her then and she’s there for me now and it’s all so wrong. We should be complaining about the weather, not worried about getting safely through the week.
Even the least antisemitic non-Jewish Australians other Jews. American friends help. I wish the reasons for you understanding were not so full of hurt, but I’m grateful to every single one of you who reaches out to me.
How do we handle this? For me, books always help. I posted about this on Facebook – I thought I’d copy my post for you here. maybe books help you, too. After all, Jewish Australia is very, very different to Jewish America. For one thing, we think we’re much wittier and we like our spelling more and… Australian Rules Football. (The footie is an argument in itself – ask me why sometime)
From FB, but with more notes):
Jewish Australia is in the news for the worst possible reason and it might help some people if they know who we are. Jewish Australians may not be many, but our culture is diverse and very Australian. I thought you might like some books to understand a bit better. I’ve included one of my novels, because it’s specifically about Sydney Jews and so that you can have a novel to read if the others are too much right now. It’s safer: the protagonist merely discovered she has Jew cooties – having Jew cooties was much less scary back then.
Apple, Raymond. The Great Synagogue: A History of Sydney’s Big Shule (one of the most important synagogues in the country, and definitely the most important Modern Australian Orthodox synagogue in Sydney, often targeted by marchers who claim they’re not bigots – not yet bombed – the recently-bombed synagogues were in Melbourne)
Baker, Mark The Fiftieth Gate (Mark was an historian, just ahead of me at university. Australia has/had per capita, the biggest Holocaust survivor population outside Israel and one of these survivors was murdered on Sunday. Mark had to deal with those issues as an historian and also a child of survivors. This is that book.)
Gawenda, Michael My Life as a Jew (very recent. Michael was the editor of a major newspaper and so experienced antisemitism quite differently to most of us. He was born in a displacement camp.)
Kofman, Lee and Tamar Paluch Ruptured (a new anthology that shows the path Jewish women walked in the time after October 7.)
Polack, Gillian The Wizardry of Jewish Women (I’ve written far more Jewish things than this, but this is a novel exploring Jewish Australia from the view of someone who nearly lost all their Jewish past. What’s important about it here, is that Judith’s friends are all people from the Left who would not even talk to her now. I’m exploring this a little in short stories, which my Patreon folk have been reading. When I have enough, I’ll think about a story collection. I’m only 2 stories away from enough.)
Rutland, Suzanne The Jews in Australia (the standard history, dated but a very handy introduction)
Sackville-O’Donnell, Judith The first Fagin: the true story of Ikey Solomon (This is a fun way of discovering what’s now Tasmania’s early Jewish population. The differences between Fagin and the guy who inspired him are immense and tell a lot about antisemitism and how it warps things.)
Zable, Arnold Jewels and Ashes (And Aussie classic, all about the last days of a family in Bialystock. Arnold is one of our best story tellers and helped me understand why my grandfather wouldn’t talk about his childhood nor his lost family. His father brought him to Australia in 1917 or 1918, and 35 years later there was no family in Poland at all. Arnold was the last family connection to leave. His family was on a boat on the way here and were banned from entry because Australia had put up fences to keep jews out. Arnold’s family managed to be accepted in New Zealand and they moved here later. In the book, Feivel is the one who married my mother’s cousin. 120,000 people is not a lot, but it’s an enormous number compared with the hundreds in Australia prior to 1810 or the thousands in most of the 19th century. Older families are very interconnected, which is why I have so many links with the authors of these books. I don’t have the same links with post 1950s arrivals – we’re a complex bunch.)
If you want more, try here: Australian Jewish Writers Database | Jewish Australia It’s not updated frequently and it’s not complete, but it gives you a sense of the range of Jewish voices in Australia. You won’t hear most of those voices at Australian literary conventions. I’d love to see suggestions for other books that talk about Jewish Australia.
We’re not a big community, and we only go back to 1788, but there are lots of connections between this group or that group. Some other writers have no idea I exist, while others have known me or my family forever. Through my family, I am connected to several other writers. Some of them have met me but are unlikely to remember me. My favourite example of this is Michael Gawenda. His sister married my uncle and Michael and I sat on the same table at my cousins barmie. Arnold Zable is another example. His most famous book includes relatives of mine. And one conference of the HNSA I found myself next to one of my favourite children’s writers… who turned out to be my aunt’s best friend. Others were connected through school or university: Mark Baker was just ahead of me at university, while Raymond Apple went to Sunday school with my mother when I asked him. He was my rabbi when I lived in Sydney.
How does this play out everyday? We catch up a bit when we see each other, or we do introductions from scratch because we didn’t know each other well as it was 20 years since last time, or (and this one happened to me recently) the usual checks on “Are we related” can turn into something hurtful.
One of the reasons Jewish Australians know each other is because we have a kind of verbal code to find out connections. We talk about relatives and their experiences past and present – this also works with almost anyone with a military background and, entertainingly, with the very far left – or it used to, when they would chat with me. One New Year’s Eve I was sitting with a member of the Communist Party of Australia and we chatted happily for ages because “You’re A’s cousin!” When someone has not had a traditional upbringing, they don’t know this and much hurt can ensue. This is a more recent phenomenon, and most arises when someone from the left needs the right shibboleths said to accept that I’m an acceptable Jew to talk to.
Anyhow, if you want to read more books or want to learn specific aspects of Australian Jewishness, just ask. Books help. Questions and answers help even more.
I logged in, expecting to tell you how the hate in Australia (which began as antisemitism and is now extending) is so tightly focused that your best friend might be bullied and you might not see it. When I’m alone, that bullying eats up a chunk of my day each and every day. This last week, however, it was less than a minute of each day and it was not every day. I was able to talk work with colleagues. When I sat down here, it struck me that I don’t often talk about that side of my life.
I used to. I used to be the kind of irrepressible historian who got excited for everyone. I’m still that historian. I don’t get to talk about it so often, is all.
Instead of dwelling on the bad side of life, then, let me find one page of notes from one day of the conference (one in forty-five pages of notes from the conference) so that you can enjoy history with me. We all need time out from hate, after all and every single US reader here had a lot more trouble to handle in the every day.
Some of you know that one of my novels (Poison and Light) is about how future humans use the past to hide from a present they found uncomfortable. Right now, a group of Australian scholars is examining how people in Early Modern England (and elsewhere, but the papers I heard were on Early Modern England) use history to imagine the future. The discussion was wide-ranging. They talked about witches and about ghosts, about predicting disaster and about what happened when the disaster failed to occur, about pamphlets and politics and poetry. It was the perfect panel for fiction writers and an exceptionally strong example of why fiction writers should get to know Medievalists and Early Modern scholars. Every other minute I thought of a writer who should have been there, asking questions about the ghosts and about the politics. The worlds they explain and the concepts they explore help us understand what we write and help us write it the best we can.
How does this understanding work in practice? My notes have an outline describing how the chair (and the head of the research project, who of course I talked to afterwards and of course we’ve planned to meet to talk about the science fiction side of things) breaks down the concepts of Imagining the Future into categories that can be explained.
She spoke about writing that give models of temporality: utopias, dystopias, and the mundane. Think about how these categories fit modern science fiction. Poison and Light is half-dystopia and half mundane, because all of my fiction talks about the lives of individuals and so the mundane is important to them. China Mieville (to my mind) writes dystopias and so does Sheri S Tepper.
But who writes utopias? I can think of earlier writers, like Sir Julius Vogel. Help me out! Who is writing now and has written a utopia that brings history into the future? We were given the theory of Star Trek, because it claims to be in a perfected future (at least for humans) but the reality of Star Trek is not utopian. Star Wars is, however, dystopian. It’s much easier to find examples when one looks to television. But I want to talk about novels!
She then moved to scales of temporality, whether the novel is set near (Earth!) or far away (Poison and Light again, since it’s in a solar system far far away – I may have attended the conference as an historian, but during this panel I felt so seen as a writer). With TV, my mind goes straight to the Jon Pertwee years of Doctor Who and compares them with (of course) Star Wars … again.
Why is the near and far important? Because so much of historical writing is used to discuss this apocalypse, or that. How far is apocalypse from our everyday? Much further, if it’s not on Earth. And here Poison and Light fails. It’s set far away, but Earth faces apocalypse while the people on New Ceres pretend they live in the eighteenth century. (I’m seeing this now with the lucky souls who are not enmired in hate – they are the people on New Ceres, while most of us are, alas, on Earth.)
I keep thinking that this whole project can help me understand my own New Ceres universe. I’m writing a second novel set on Earth next year, where the 14th century and the 17th century and how we deal with post-apocalypse join the party. My project echoes the ideas of people hundreds of years ago as humanity faces a bleak present. Where some people find refuge in fancy dress, others find refuge in explaining the world through ghosts and looking at neighbours as if they themselves are the catastrophe.
The last category asks whose future it is. Is it personal and everyday? Is it national? Is it a global future (my New Ceres again), a human one… or is it post-human.
The experts were historians and literary historians and most of the examples (by a long, long way most of the examples) belong to our past. The categories were however, really handy for questioning and understanding science fiction. And now you know why I will not give up that side of my life. I have learned so much in such a short time, and my fiction benefits.
Every time universities lose these experts, we lose the benefit of their thought and learning… and our everyday suffers.
Let me go away and think about what our lives would be like if we didn’t have these little injections of learning to help us tell better stories. No, let me not. Let me go away and write more fiction, celebrating the worlds of both historians and writers.
It has come to my attention that this year’s Nebula Awards include one for poetry. This is a new and welcome addition, given the amount of excellent poetry published over the years in science fiction and fantasy magazines, not to mention collections published by Aqueduct Press, among other publishers.
It happens that I had a poem this year in the anthology Alternative Liberties, a book conceived of on election day in 2024 and published on January 20, 2025. The publisher, B Cubed Press, has made a point of publishing anthologies that use speculative fiction and poetry, plus the occasional essay from SF/F writers, to address the political struggles of our time.
In addition to my poem, Alternative Liberties includes stories by such people as Louise Marley, Adam-Troy Castro, Brenda Cooper, and Elwin Cotman. It’s highly recommended reading for our time. By the way, the publisher has put out a call for a sequel, More Alternative Liberties. Submissions must be in by December 20.
I’m reprinting my poem from the anthology here to make it easy for any SFWA members who would like to consider it for the poetry Nebula and also to encourage people to get copies of the whole anthology. You could give copies of it to any friends or relatives who might have voted badly in 2024 and come to regret that, just as a suggestion.
As most people know, i write a senryu to capture my mood each morning. This poem consists of five senryu reworked from among those written in my daily practice.
Not Civilized Yet
The election proved
what I’ve been saying for years:
Not civilized yet.
Grifters, broligarchs,
and extreme Christians in charge.
Not civilized yet.
Cops and presidents
can get away with it all.
Not civilized yet.
Control all women.
Who cares if old people die.
Not civilized yet.
We’re fighting once more
for the rights we thought we’d won.
Not civilized yet.
Six or seven years ago I got a Fitbit for Christmas. Not one of the fancy ones–mostly what I wanted was a wearable pedometer. But by the time I adopted the technology, my Fitbit would tell me all sorts of things about my heart rate, my exercise level, my oxygenation, and yes, my sleep. And I got the Fitbit at about the same time that I began to look at the correlation between sleep and brain health, especially in later life. And six years ago, my sleep scores were… not stellar. Fitbit grades on a 1-100 scale, based on time spent awake and asleep, time spent in each sleep stage (light, deep, REM and awake… which I would not have thought was a sleep stage, but there you go), movement during sleep, and sleeping heart rate. I don’t think I’ve ever gone below 60; the 70s are “fair,” and the 80s are “good.”
If families have mythologies of their own (they do) one of the roles I played, and was weirdly proud of, was “the last person to turn out her light.” This probably grew out of my childhood difficulty in going to sleep–once I was broken of thumb-sucking, anyway. Most nights I would crawl out of bed and sit in the window of my bedroom to read by the streetlight–until my mother discovered that I was ruining my eyes this way. At that point she said “Okay, read until you’re tired, then turn out your own (subvocalized) **damn** light.” From that point on, I usually read until midnight, even as late as 2am. Given that I had to be up at 7 or for to school, I don’t know how I survived. But I did. In fact, throughout most of my adult life I got by on 5-6 hours of sleep a night (with occasional weekend sleep orgies of 10 hours… and that ended when I had kids who wanted my attention regardless of what I wanted).
This, I now know, is not healthy. So for the last six years I have been working on a conversion of manners: I now go to bed around 10pm most nights, read for a while, and (if all goes well) am asleep by 11. Over those last six years I have trained myself to fall asleep faster–breathing techniques, lavender pillows, temperature checks, light-blocking curtains, no screens before bed, reading soporific material–you name it, I’ve tried it. I have worked out a system of sorts, and I am pleased to say that my sleep scores are now almost always in the 80s. Sometimes even in the upper 80s.
But last night I hit 90. Excellent.
I feel like I should get an award. If I could figure out what I did last night to attain excellence I would do it every night. So I checked the statistics.
Last night slept for 7 hours and 13 minutes. I was awake for a total of 31 minutes in tiny increments. I had an hour and 51 minutes of REM sleep. I totaled 4 hours and 22 minutes of light sleep, and 59 minutes of deep sleep. My oxygen variation was low, and my sleeping heart rate was 59. Fitbit only detected movement during 2% of my sleep. That accounts for a 90.
A week or so ago, I slept for 7 hours and 14 minutes. I was awake for 17 minutes, clocked an hour and 27 minutes of REM sleep, 5 hours and 3 minutes of light sleep, and 44 minutes of deep sleep. My oxygen variation was low, but my sleeping heart rate was 69! And I was restless about 5% of the night. My score for that not-terribly-different night? 83.
So what do I learn from all this? A lot of the things that affect my sleep I cannot directly influence. How often I’m awake seems to be a function of whether I’m comfortable, and while I strive to be, obviously in the middle of the night sometimes I’m not. Maybe I’m thinking too much. I cannot, as far as I know, control the quantity of REM sleep I get. Or my sleeping heart rate. Dammit, there are too many variables.
I will note that yesterday we went to see a screening of the Stephen Sondheim musical Merrily We Roll Along (it’s terrific) and I know that the music inserted itself into my dreams. Maybe the secret to upping my sleep score is musical theatre?
I spent a week in Melbourne. I learned a lot, mostly about the Middle Ages, because I was at one of my favourite conferences and so many scholars are breaking old walls and talking across disciplines and reducing bias. This is not universal. It’s Australian experts in the Middle Ages and in Early Modern history and literature. Also, it was one of those rare conferences where there was no antisemitism. There were individuals who were on the verge of saying something, but they looked up and caught themselves and found non-hateful ways of asking questions or of answering questions.
ANZAMEMS (the organisation whose conference it was) has a good history in this regard. I’ve been a member for squillions of years and, while sometimes I’ve been isolated, I’ve never experienced hate.
My most fun moment was when one of my undergraduate lecturers called on me at question time. He remembered my name… This is not always guaranteed 45 years after that degree.
My paper was about how museums tell stories of the past and how those stories can be worrying. I used one example, with a few pictures and compared it with some other museums. I played safe and the museum itself was in Germany. Several people came up to me afterwards and said that they need to read museum’s displays more critically.
What I intended to show (and what I actually showed, judging by the responses!) was that we take many of our stories from what we see and hear over our lives. When we’re not critical, we get so much bias and hate from well-intended people. I put my theory into practice at an in-service at the State Library of Victoria. The librarian was not at all impressed with me. She had claimed that the writers in some SF magazines on display were Australian, when every single one of them was American. The magazines were printed in Australia because of the really interesting politics in the US at that time, but they were still US magazines and are very famous for this. She also wasn’t entirely happy with me when I asked her why they only had Jewish ritual books and no other indication of Jewish book culture (or other Jewish cultures) when for every other ethnic or religious group on show they answered questions about books (authors, genre history, the nature of the book itself – the display using Islamic texts explained the texts, but was all about the binding and its brilliance and variation). Her excuse was “We borrowed the display objects from the Jewish Museum and this is what they gave us. I know the Jewish Museum. I used to teach the guides at the Jewish Museum. And I know their collection. That cabinet was part of a conversation between the two museums and for it to be only about the very-religious and without some of the basic explanations (why the miniature Torah was no longer able to be used was a very book-related query that was not asked nor answered) is due to the shape of that conversation. I want to know what the State Library asked for. Was it “Jewish items”? Was it ritual items? Was it book history (which was the subject of the exhibition)? There was a conversation that needed to happen before that display cabinet was filled, and it obviously didn’t happen or didn’t happen in the best way.
My conference was extraordinary in that it consistently asked the questions and discussed the answers and most topics were nicely nuanced. The SLV and the street marchers the day I arrived and the day I left were more typical of current Australia.
And I just realised I wrote you a post while I was away. It’s on my laptop and I haven’t downloaded it yet! Next week…
Alex Washoe, a writer I follow on Facebook, posted this quote the other day:
Your style is a function of your limitations, more so than a function of your skills.
– Johnny Cash
It got me to thinking, which was her purpose in posting. It’s certainly something that applies to all kinds of artists.
There are many different kinds of limitations. I recently finished the book What Can A Body Do? How We Meet the Built World by Sara Hendren, who teaches design for disability at Olin College of Engineering. The book is much more than an explanation of cool methods developed to address various disabilities (created both individually and as systems); it also gets into discussions of social and philosophical complexities.
For example, she discusses the experience of Audre Lorde, who had a mastectomy and declined to use a prosthetic, only to discover the expectation that she should wear one to make other people comfortable even if it was not comfortable for her. Hendren observes:
Her post-op prescription for prosthetics was never solely about functionality; it carried a social meaning.
And a discussion of humans as tool users – one of the most basic things we do – leads her to muse “your everyday life offers non-stop evidence that the body-plus may actually be the human’s truest state.”
Because I’d recently read the book, my first reaction to the word limitations was to think of those that come with every human body. Even if you aren’t disabled, there are things your body won’t do that someone else’s does easily.
Some people are very physically flexible; others will never be no matter how much stretching they may do. Certain activities require certain body types – ballet dancers are a good example, one made most stark by the fact that so many of them are retired by the time they are forty because even with the perfect body they are doing things that cannot be sustained into old age.
However, a lot of people who have a passion for dance have found ways around that, ways that incorporate their limitations. There are dancers who perform in wheelchairs, dancers that have curvy bodies and big hips, dancers who are not remotely young. Their limitations are part of their style.
A singer might have a voice others find pleasing, but still have a limited range, which affects the songs they sing and the way they sing them. That is style. In fact, there are some singers whose voice is not necessarily pleasing to all – Bob Dylan comes to mind – who make a virtue of that necessity. Continue reading “Limitation as a Virtue”…
That may well be the question being asked by “No Kings” protesters, who marched, rallied and danced all over the nation on Saturday, Oct. 18, 2025.
Pro-democracy groups had aimed to encourage large numbers of Americans to demonstrate that “together we are choosing democracy.” They were successful, with crowds turning out for demonstrations in thousands of cities and towns from Anchorage to Miami.
And while multiple GOP leaders had attacked the planned demonstrations, describing them as “hate America” rallies, political science scholars and national security experts agree that the current U.S. administration’s actions are indeed placing the world’s oldest continuous constitutional republic in jeopardy.
Once a democracy starts to erode, it can be difficult to reverse the trend. Only 42% of democracies affected by autocratization – a transformation in governance that erodes democratic safeguards – since 1994 have rebounded after a democratic breakdown, according to Swedish research institute V-Dem.
Often termed “democratic backsliding,” such periods involve government-led changes to rules and norms to weaken individual freedoms and undermine or eliminate checks on power exercised by independent institutions, both governmental and non-governmental.
Even so, practices used globally to fight democratic backsliding or topple autocracies can be instructive.
In a nutshell: Nonviolent resistance is based on noncooperation with autocratic actions. It has proven more effective in toppling autocracies than violent, armed struggle.
But it requires more than street demonstrations.
One pro-democracy organization helps train people to use video to document abuses by government.
That momentum can be challenging to generate. Would-be autocrats create environments of fear and powerlessness, using intimidation, overwhelming force or political and legal attacks, and other coercive tactics to force acquiescence and chill democratic pushback.
Autocrats can’t succeed alone. They rely on what scholars call “pillars of support” – a range of government institutions, security forces, business and other sectors in society to obey their will and even bolster their power grabs.
However, everyone in society has power to erode autocratic support in various ways. While individual efforts are important, collective action increases impact and mitigates the risks of reprisals for standing up to individuals or organizations.
Here are some of the tactics used by those movements across the world:
1. Refuse unlawful, corrupt demands
When enough individuals in critical roles and institutions – the military, civil servants, corporate leaders, state government and judges – refuse to implement autocratic orders, it can slow or even stop an autocratic takeover. In South Korea, parts of the civil service, legislature and military declined to support President Yoon Suk Yeol’s imposition of martial law in 2024, foiling his autocratic move.
2. Visibly bolster the rule of law
Where would-be autocrats disregard legal restraints and install their supporters in the highest courts, individual challenges to overreach, even if successful, can be insufficient. In Poland, legal challenges in courts combined with public education by the judiciary, lawyers’ associations initiatives and street protests like the “March of a Thousand Robes” in 2020 to signal widespread repudiation of the autocratic government’s attacks on the rule of law.
3. Unite in opposition
This year’s Nobel Peace Prize winner, Maria Corina Machado from Venezuela, is an example of how political parties and leaders who cooperate across differences can offer an alternative vision.
Voting autocrats out of office remains the best way to restore democracy, demonstrated recently by the u-turn in Brazil, where a pro-democracy candidate defeated the hard-right incumbent. But this requires strategic action to keep elections truly free and fair well in advance of election day.
6. Organize your community
As in campaigns in India starting in 2020 and Chile in 2019, participating in community or private conversation forums, local town halls or councils, and nonpartisan student, veterans, farmers, women’s and religious groups provides the space to share concerns, exchange ideas and create avenues to take action. Often starting with trusted networks, local initiatives can tap into broader statewide or national efforts to defend democracy.
Bringing together people across ideological and other divides can increase understanding and counter political polarization, particularly when religious leaders are involved. Even in autocratic countries like Turkey or during wartime as in Ukraine, deepening democratic practices at state and local levels, like citizen assemblies and the use of technologies that improve the quality of public decision-making, can demonstrate ways to govern differently.
The end of American democracy is not a foregone conclusion, despite the unprecedented rate of its decline. It will depend, in part, on the choices made by every American.
