We Reading Or Rioting?

Literature has always been at war. Every generation fights over which novels deserve space on which shelves, which stories should be told, and who gets to tell them.

But I've watched the conversation shift over the last eight years of leading a book community. Identity politics in books have become a mirror of our broader cultural and ideological divides. Suddenly, we’re not just debating what’s inside the pages but also discussing the authors, the readers, and the discourse itself.

I have guided my community through some of the most tumultuous moments in bookish history: infamous fandom fights, Soap Gate, public reckonings, cancellations, and the evolution of online discourse. I have seen the rise and fall of the original bookish Facebook communities, the rise of both Bookstagram and BookTok, and the myriad of rightful responses to authors whose actions led to deep feelings of betrayal.

I understand how culture, books, and community collide, fracture, rebuild, and reform, which is how I know we are getting this wrong.

Through it all, the foundation of my leadership has been simple: if you listen to your community, they will naturally tell you what they need. The moment we stopped listening to each other, we failed. And now, more than ever, we need to find common ground—especially when the internet insists it doesn’t exist.

Take Onyx Storm. Rebecca Yarros dominates the newly crowned “Romantasy” sphere, with Fourth Wing catapulting into must-read status almost overnight. Her success is undeniable. She’s writing what people crave: high stakes, high fantasy, high…you know. And yet, the moment Onyx Storm hit shelves this week, the conversation wasn’t just about dragons or morally gray love interests. It was about her.

Her handling of Gaelic influences. Her political leanings. Her ability, or inability, to write outside her lived experience.

This is where things get messy. Because there are valid critiques, and then there are purity tests. And increasingly, bookish spaces are blurring the line between the two. The question isn’t just, “Does this book have problematic elements?” It’s becoming, “Can we even engage with this book without endorsing everything the author thinks, believes, or represents?”

And that’s where we, as a community, are losing something essential. When the conversation shifts from what books can do to who books are for, we stop engaging with literature as an art form and start using it as a weapon in ideological battles.

Because here’s the truth: authors whose personal beliefs, wrongdoings, or behavior create conflict among readers are not new to the literary world. The real question isn’t just, “Do I agree with them?” It’s, “What do we do when an author’s views challenge our relationship with their work?”

Do we discard it? Do we reclaim it? Do we even have the patience, as a community, to hold these conversations rationally?

Books have never been safe spaces. Nor should they be. They unsettle, challenge, and force us to inhabit perspectives beyond our own. That’s the point of literature.

But the way we engage with books is changing. Instead of allowing stories to stretch the boundaries of what we know, we are increasingly reading for personal affirmation and ideological safety. We demand perfection from our authors; we burn it down when they don’t meet our impossible standards.

And here’s the thing—you can critique something and still engage with it. You can hold space for discussion without demanding purity. You can acknowledge both harm and impact. What you can’t do, at least if you want meaningful conversations, is shut down every book, every author, and every reader who doesn’t align perfectly with your worldview. That’s not progress. That’s division.

And it’s a division we can no longer afford.

If books are to remain a space for real dialogue and connection, we have to stop turning every release into a faction war. We must stop assuming that a book, an author, or a reader who sees the world differently is inherently an enemy.

And the responsibility for this change starts with us. Readers. Writers. Editors. Publishers. Everyone who loves books. We must actively choose inclusivity—not just as a buzzword but as a practice.

That means reaching across the shelf, extending our hand, and, most importantly, keeping it extended even when others would push it away.

Because in all this, we are looking at something far greater than a debate. We are losing the chance to understand each other. The opportunity to build bridges instead of burning them. The ability to let books do what they have always done best—pull us into lives, experiences, and perspectives that are not our own.

We read to know we are not alone.

If we let go of that, what the hell are we reading for?