Your Stories Matter More Than You Think: Lessons from Jason Stanley’s “Erasing History”
"The goal of the fascist assault on education is to produce individuals who cannot think for themselves, who cannot question, who cannot challenge authority." - Jason Stanley, Erasing History
Why Your Stories (Yes, Yours!) Matter More Than You Think
I've sat across from dozens of authors during strategy calls, and I've heard the same hesitant tone of voice more times than I can count.
The hesitation to take up space, to be loud, to tell their story.
I’m an author too, so I understand that little voice of doubt that sneaks up on us.
“Why would anyone else want to read my book?” it might say one day. The next, “it’s just a romance novel, it’s not important.”
Every day, the voice comes up with something new, but it’s always a variation of “I'm not sure my story really matters."
Why do we think this? Because we’re told it every day.
“Sit down. Be quiet. Don’t make a fuss. You’re not important. No one cares what you have to say.”
We hear this message day after day.
The truth is, much of the world doesn’t want you to realize that your stories DO matter.
Why? Because stories are powerful.
And they matter now more than ever.
“Erasing History: How Fascists Rewrite the Past to Control the Future”
Here's what Jason Stanley's book “Erasing History: How Fascists Rewrite the Past to Control the Future” makes crystal clear: if stories didn't matter, they wouldn't be worth attacking.
Let me say that again: If your stories didn't matter, they wouldn't be worth attacking.
And make no mistake—they are being attacked.
This isn't just about writing craft or finding your audience. This is about cultural survival.
Every story you don't tell and every time you convince yourself your voice doesn't matter—that's a victory for those who would silence you.
Author Jason Stanley, a Yale philosophy professor who has spent years studying authoritarianism, shows us that the battle for our future is being fought not just in voting booths or courtrooms, but in the stories we tell and the stories we allow to be erased.
As authors, we’re not just entertainers or even artists—we’re the guardians of something much more precious.
What Jason Stanley Teaches Us About Stories as Weapons
Stanley identifies five pillars that fascist movements use to control narrative and, through it, society itself.
Understanding these tactics isn't just academic—it's essential for every author who wants to understand why their work matters and why it's under attack.
National Greatness
National Greatness demands that only certain stories get told—stories that glorify the dominant group while erasing anything that complicates that narrative.
Your romance novel featuring a Mexican-American heroine? Your fantasy with a disabled protagonist? Your memoir about growing up poor?
These stories threaten the myth of a simple, pure national identity.
National Purity
National Purity goes further, systematically erasing the voices and experiences of anyone who doesn't fit the approved mold.
This isn't just about removing books from libraries—it's about creating a world where certain stories never get told because the storytellers have been erased.
National Innocence
National Innocence requires rewriting history to remove uncomfortable truths.
When your historical fiction explores the real experiences of enslaved people, or your contemporary novel addresses police brutality, you're threatening the carefully constructed myth that "we've always been the good guys."
Strict Gender Roles
Strict Gender Roles target any story that shows alternative ways of being human.
Your YA novel with a gay protagonist, your women's fiction about divorce and renewal, your memoir about escaping domestic violence—all of these challenge the rigid categories that authoritarian movements need to maintain control.
Vilification of the Left
Vilification of the Left attacks any narrative that questions existing power structures.
Your dystopian novel about corporate control, your contemporary fiction about workers organizing, your memoir about finding community through mutual aid—these stories are branded as dangerous propaganda.
The Historical Pattern: Whose Stories Get Erased
Fascists target stories first because stories don't just reflect culture—they create it.
They shape how we see ourselves, how we understand what's possible, how we imagine different futures.
Stanley writes that "hearts and minds are won in our schools and universities"—but I'd extend that to include every bookstore, every library, every digital platform where stories are shared.
But these tactics aren’t new.
The playbook Stanley describes has been used throughout history, and authors have always been among the first targets.
From the burning of the Library of Alexandria to the Nazi book burnings, authoritarian movements understand that controlling stories means controlling reality itself.
They don't just burn the books—they erase the memory that those books ever existed.
The mechanics of literary erasure are both brutal and subtle.
Sometimes it's obvious: banned books, closed libraries, authors in exile or prison.
But more often, it's insidious: publishers who won't take risks, critics who dismiss certain voices as "not literary enough," educational systems that teach a narrow canon while ignoring vast territories of human experience.
Think about the literary "canon" you learned in school. How many women writers were included? How many authors of color? How many working-class voices? How many LGBTQ+ perspectives?
The absence wasn't accidental—it was constructed.
For centuries, a small group of gatekeepers decided which stories counted as "literature" and which could be safely ignored.
The Brontë sisters published under male pseudonyms because female voices weren't considered serious. James Baldwin faced censorship and exile for writing honestly about racism and sexuality. Zora Neale Hurston died in obscurity, her work only rediscovered decades later.
These weren't isolated incidents—they were systematic exclusions designed to maintain a particular vision of whose stories mattered.
Contemporary examples are everywhere. Maia Kobabe's “Gender Queer” became the most challenged book in America precisely because it tells an authentic story about nonbinary identity. The book's graphic memoir format makes abstract concepts tangible, helping readers understand experiences they might never have encountered otherwise.
The fierce organized attempts to ban “Gender Queer” from libraries and schools prove Stanley's point: the story is being attacked because it's powerful enough to change minds and help people feel seen.
When voices are silenced, entire communities lose their sense of identity and possibility.
Children grow up believing their experiences don't matter because they never see themselves reflected in stories. Adults struggle with isolation because they think they're the only ones who feel the way they do.
The psychological impact ripples across generations, creating a culture of self-censorship where people silence themselves before anyone else has to.
The Contemporary Battlefield: Authors Under Attack
Stanley's analysis isn't just historical—it's a roadmap for understanding what's happening right now. The tactics he describes are being deployed against authors across America, from school board meetings to social media harassment campaigns.
Today's silencing tactics are sophisticated and multi-layered. Legal intimidation includes lawsuit threats against authors, publishers, and even librarians.
Legislation targeting "divisive concepts" or "inappropriate content" creates a chilling effect where publishers self-censor rather than risk legal challenges.
Economic pressure works through organized boycotts, platform removal, and pressure on publishers to drop controversial authors.
Social harassment includes doxxing, death threats, and coordinated online attacks designed to make authors too afraid to continue their work.
Some authors receive death threats, and other writers decide never to publish their work out of fear.
Then there are school board takeovers, library defunding, and the gradual replacement of education professionals with ideological enforcers.
This affects us all. Romance writers wonder if their diverse characters will cause their book to be banned. Memoir writers hesitate to share their authentic experiences because they're afraid of harassment and threats.
This is how authoritarianism wins—not through dramatic book burnings, but through intimidation and bullying.
The false choice between "safety" and authenticity is one a human should never have to make.
But here's what Stanley's work makes clear: there is no safety in silence.
The attacks will continue regardless of how much authors try to appease them and toe the line.
Even seemingly "harmless" genres like romance and fantasy carry “subversive” messages.
When a romance novel shows a woman choosing her own path (heaven forbid!), it challenges patriarchal assumptions. When a fantasy novel features a diverse cast working together, it models inclusive communities.
When any story shows different ways of being human, it threatens rigid hierarchies and the power of the elite few.
This is why the "it's just entertainment" defense doesn't work. Entertainment is never "just" anything—it's how we learn about the world, how we develop empathy, how we imagine different possibilities.
Why Every Author's Story Is a Form of Resistance
Understanding the attacks on storytelling isn't meant to discourage authors—it's meant to help them understand the true power of their work.
And there is good news: the democratizing power of the internet has created unprecedented opportunities for authors to bypass traditional gatekeepers.
Self-publishing, social media, and author websites allow stories to reach audiences directly, without institutional approval.
This is why building your author platform isn't just about marketing—it's a political act. Every author website is a small declaration of independence from the systems that would control which stories get told.
The ripple effect of authentic storytelling extends far beyond individual readers. When one person feels seen and understood through a story, they're more likely to share that story with others.
When diverse voices gain platforms, they create space for even more diverse voices. When authentic stories reach wide audiences, they shift cultural conversations and social norms.
But the impact isn't just contemporary—it's historical. The stories we tell today become the record that future generations will inherit.
When we fail to tell our stories, we create gaps in the historical record that can be filled with propaganda and lies.
This is why I get so frustrated when authors dismiss their own work as unimportant. It's not just false humility—it's a fundamental misunderstanding of how culture works.
The question isn't "Is my story important?" The question is "Who benefits from my silence?"
Consider how Gender Queer has become a touchstone for other LGBTQ+ authors. Kobabe's courage in telling their story authentically, despite the backlash, has created space for other authors to share their experiences. The attacks on the book have actually amplified its reach, introducing it to readers who might never have found it otherwise.
This is the paradox of censorship in the digital age: attempts to silence often backfire, creating more attention and support for the targeted voices.
But this only works when authors have the courage to continue speaking.
Practical Strategies: Turning Awareness Into Action
Understanding Stanley's analysis is just the first step. The next is figuring out how to apply these insights to your work as an author.
For authors questioning their impact, I recommend a historical context exercise. Research what voices were silenced in your genre during different time periods.
Romance writers, look into how women's sexual agency was censored. Fantasy writers, examine how marginalized communities were erased from mythologies. Memoir writers, study whose personal stories were considered "unsuitable" for publication.
This research serves two purposes: it shows you that the attacks on diverse storytelling aren't new, and it helps you understand the historical significance of the stories you're telling today.
Community Building is Essential
Connect with other authors facing similar challenges. Join organizations that support diverse voices. Attend events where you can meet authors who share your experiences or your commitment to authentic storytelling.
The isolation that censorship creates is one of its most powerful tools—community is the antidote.
Documentation is Crucial
Keep records of your journey as an author. Save the messages from readers who tell you how your story impacted them. Document any attempts at censorship or harassment you face. Archive your work in multiple formats and locations.
Future generations will need this record to understand what storytelling was like during this period.
Build a Digital Platform
Building your website and social media presence becomes even more important when viewed through Stanley's framework.
Because while traditional institutions can be captured or intimidated, author-owned platforms become refuges for authentic voices.
Your website should be professional and reflect your brand, but it should also be strategically designed to circumvent potential censorship.
This means owning your domain, maintaining your email list, and creating multiple touchpoints with your audience so that no single platform can silence you completely.
Even if they change the algorithm, a website survives.
Strategic storytelling involves sharing your work and your process while managing risk intelligently.
This doesn't mean self-censoring, but it does mean understanding the landscape and making informed decisions about how and where to share your most vulnerable work.
The Stakes: What We Lose When Stories Die
The consequences of successful narrative control extend far beyond the literary world. When story diversity diminishes, so does our capacity for empathy and understanding.
The empathy crisis we're experiencing isn't separate from the attack on diverse storytelling—it's a direct result.
When people only encounter stories that reflect their own experiences, they lose the ability to understand and relate to others.
When certain communities are systematically excluded from popular narratives, they become easier to dehumanize and oppress.
The innovation deficit that results from homogeneous storytelling affects every aspect of culture, from entertainment to technology to social policy.
When we lose diverse perspectives, we lose the creative solutions that emerge from different ways of seeing the world.
The economic argument for diverse voices is compelling: audiences are hungry for authentic stories that reflect their experiences.
The success of diverse authors in recent years proves there's a market for these stories. When publishers and platforms restrict diverse voices, they're leaving money on the table.
But the cultural stakes are even higher. We're at a moment when we're either going to expand our understanding of what it means to be human, or we're going to contract into increasingly narrow and rigid categories.
The stories we tell and support in the next few years will determine which direction we go.
What we leave for future generations depends on the choices we make now.
Do we want our children and grandchildren to inherit a rich, diverse literary landscape that reflects the full spectrum of human experience?
Or do we want them to inherit a sanitized, controlled narrative that serves the interests of those in power?
Your Story as Your Resistance
Stanley's analysis shows us that we're not just facing a political crisis—we're facing a narrative crisis. The stories that define our culture are under systematic attack.
The response can't just be political; it has to be cultural. It has to include every author who decides to tell their authentic story despite the risks.
This brings me to an important question: What story are you not telling because you're afraid?
Maybe it's the memoir about your struggle with mental health. Maybe it's the romance featuring characters who look like you. Maybe it's the contemporary fiction that addresses the issues your community faces.
Whatever it is, someone needs to read it. Someone needs to feel seen and understood.
Someone needs to know they're not alone.
The historical imperative is clear: you are the author that future generations need.
And the stories you don't tell today, will be gaps in the record tomorrow.
The practical next steps are straightforward but not easy. Start that project you've been putting off. Build that platform you've been avoiding. Share that story you've been hiding. Connect with other authors who share your commitment to authentic storytelling.
The long-term vision is building a legacy of authentic voices that can't be silenced, can't be erased, and can't be controlled.
This requires both individual courage and collective support.
Your community commitment means not just telling your own story, but supporting other storytellers in their journeys. It means using whatever platform you build to amplify others.
It means creating space for voices that haven't been heard.
As I wrote in my blog about Ava Reid’s “A Study in Drowning,” all the protagonist wanted was for "just one girl, only one, to read my book and feel that she was understood, and I would be understood in return."
But she never knew how her book affected people because she didn't control her story. In her world, her female voice was silenced.
You have the opportunity to control your story. You have the tools to reach your readers directly. You have the power to ensure your voice can't be silenced.
Stanley's warning is clear: the cost of silence in the face of systematic erasure is the loss of democracy itself. But his analysis also shows us the power we have to resist.
Your story matters. Your voice is unique. Your perspective is valuable.
And in our digital age, you have the power to make sure the world hears what you have to say.
Don't wait for permission. Don't wait for gatekeepers. Don't wait for someone else to champion your work.
Build your stage. Tell your story. Change the world.
Because stories change us, connect us, and make us more human.
Your story deserves to be part of that transformation.
The digital revolution has made it possible.
The question is: are you ready to be part of it?
