Standard craft advice tells you to show, not tell.
To kill your darlings.
To write tight.
To use active voice.
To avoid adverbs.
These sound like neutral writing principles. They’re not.
Craft rules were developed primarily by white writers analyzing white literature for white readers. Then they got dressed up as universal laws — objective standards that separate “good” writing from “bad.”
What they don’t tell you is:
For Black and Brown writers, these “neutral” craft rules become weapons. They get used to police your voice, dismiss your perspective and force you to translate your truth into something more palatable for white comfort.
This is craft in the context of oppression.
And until you understand which rules actually serve your work and which ones are just gatekeeping dressed up as pedagogy, you’ll keep questioning yourself instead of the system.
How “Good Craft” Became Code for “White Craft”
Let’s be clear about where craft advice comes from.
The writing workshops. The MFA programs. The craft books that get assigned as required reading. The editors who decide what’s “publishable.”
Overwhelmingly white spaces. Overwhelmingly white voices.
They studied their own literature - Hemingway, Carver, Strunk & White - and declared the patterns they found to be universal principles.
“Good writing is concise.”
“Good dialogue is sparse.”
“Good prose is invisible.”
But what they were really saying is: “White middle-class American literary aesthetics are the standard. Everything else is deviation.”
So when you show up with:
AAVE that’s grammatically consistent but doesn’t follow Standard English
Cultural references that don’t need translation for Black readers
Storytelling rhythms from oral traditions, not written ones
Rage that doesn’t perform measured response
Joy that doesn’t center white comfort
You get told your craft needs work.
It’s not because your craft is weak — in many cases it isn’t. It’s because your craft doesn’t conform.
The Specific Ways Craft Advice Weaponizes
Let me be specific about how this plays out.
“Show Don’t Tell”
What it means in white craft spaces: Create vivid scenes. Let readers draw their own conclusions. Trust the audience.
How it weaponizes against Black writers: Your anger needs to be more subtle. Your pain can’t be stated directly. Your rage must be shown through “complex” character development, not named outright.
Here’s what this looks like in practice:
White writer writes:
“She watched her son’s teacher call on every white student twice before acknowledging him. She gripped the edge of her chair.”
Feedback: “Beautiful restraint. The tension is palpable.”
Black writer writes:
“She watched her son’s teacher call on every white student twice without acknowledging him. Even though his hand was the first to go up with each question. This was her son’s first experience with racism - and he didn’t even know it. And they’ll tell you you’re imagining it.”
Feedback: “Too on the nose. Show us how she feels instead of telling us it’s racism. Trust your readers to understand.”
The double standard: White writers get praised for subtlety. Black writers get told we’re not subtle enough - but only when we name racism directly. The “show don’t tell” rule becomes a weapon to keep us from calling the thing what it is.
Toni Morrison told. James Baldwin told. Audre Lorde told.
They showed too. But they refused to hide truth behind craft “rules” designed to make people comfortable.
“Kill Your Darlings”
What it means in white craft spaces: Cut anything you love that doesn’t serve the story. Don’t be precious about beautiful sentences.
How it weaponizes against Black writers: Cut the cultural references. Remove the AAVE dialogue. Delete the grandmother’s wisdom that white readers won’t understand. Trim anything “too specific” to Black experience.
Here’s what this looks like in practice:
White writer writes:
“’You’re being unconscionable,’ her mother said, which reminded her of that summer at the Cape, when Dad had used the same word about the neighbors’ poorly maintained garden.”
Feedback: “Love the layered memory and the vocabulary - very literary.”
Black writer writes:
“’You ain’t got the sense God gave a goose,’ her grandmother said, which reminded her of summers in South Carolina, when Big Mama would say the same thing about anybody acting brand new.”
Feedback: “I don’t understand this dialect. Can you make the grandmother’s dialogue more accessible? And ‘acting brand new’ needs explanation — not all readers will understand what that means.”
The double standard: White writers get to keep their darlings - the Cape, unconscionable, poorly maintained gardens. Black writers get told our darlings (AAVE, Big Mama, acting brand new, South Carolina summers) need to be cut or translated.
Your darlings become code for “anything that centers Blackness.”
Zora Neale Hurston kept her darlings. Every piece of Eatonville, Florida. Every “Ah” and “chile” and proverb. And they tried to tell her it wasn’t literary enough. Emphasis on tried.
“Write Tight”
What it means in white craft spaces: Remove unnecessary words. Make every sentence earn its place. Economy of language.
How it weaponizes against Black writers: Your prose is too lyrical. Too rhythmic. Too much repetition. It needs to be “cleaned up.”
Here’s what this looks like in practice:
White writer writes:
“The light filtered through the trees, dappled and golden, the way it always did in September, the way it had that first summer, the way it would again.”
Feedback: “Beautiful use of repetition for rhythm.”
Black writer writes:
“The music was in her body. In her bones. In the way her grandmother used to hum while braiding her hair. In the way her daughter hummed now, the same song, the same rhythm, the same knowing.”
Feedback: “This feels repetitive. Tighten it up - you’re saying the same thing multiple times. Cut it down to one clear sentence.”
The double standard: White writers using repetition for rhythm = literary technique. Black writers using repetition for rhythm = needs to be cleaned up.
Jesmyn Ward writes “loose” by white standards. Long, flowing, repetitive sentences rooted in oral tradition. She won two National Book Awards. Her “excessive” prose is mastery of a different aesthetic.
“Active Voice Over Passive”
What it means in white craft spaces: Put your characters in action. Make them agents of their own stories.
How it weaponizes against Black writers: Your characters are too passive. They need more agency. Why don’t they just fight back?
Here’s what this looks like in practice:
White writer writes:
“She let her boss take credit for her work again. She hated herself for it, but she needed this job.”
Feedback: “Good internal conflict. We see her trapped by economic necessity.”
Black writer writes:
“She let her boss take credit for her work again. In the meeting, she’d felt her face arrange itself into something neutral. She’d learned that expression from her mother, who’d learned it from her mother - the art of swallowing rage to survive another day.”
Feedback: “Why doesn’t she speak up? This character feels too passive. Give her more agency - have her confront the boss or start looking for another job. Readers need to see her take action.”
The double standard: White characters can be trapped by circumstance and get praised for complexity. Black characters in the same situation get called passive - because the advice doesn’t account for the reality that our passivity is often survival strategy. We live this shit every day.
When your character lives under surveillance, under threat, under systems designed to punish resistance — passive voice might be the most truthful rendering.
White craft advice assumes your characters have the privilege of action. That agency is always available, which we know isn’t always true for us.
“Avoid Adverbs”
What it means in white craft spaces: Strong verbs don’t need modification. Adverbs are crutches for weak writing.
How it weaponizes against Black writers: This one’s just arbitrary as hell.
Here’s what this looks like in practice:
White writer writes:
“She left quickly.”
Feedback: “Avoid adverbs. Try: She fled / She bolted / She rushed out.”
Black writer writes:
“She left quickly.”
Feedback: “Avoid adverbs. Try: She fled / She bolted / She rushed out.”
The deal with this one: It’s the same feedback for everyone, but it’s still bullshit. This rule exists because Stephen King said so in a craft book. That’s it. It’s preference dressed up as law.
Some languages and oral traditions use adverbs naturally for rhythm and emphasis. They’re not crutches — they’re choices.
Use adverbs when they serve your work. Ignore this rule when it doesn’t.
The Pattern: Policing Disguised as Pedagogy
See the pattern?
The same techniques get praised in white writers and criticized in Black writers.
Repetition for rhythm = literary when they do it, excessive when we do it.
Cultural specificity = rich detail when they do it, inaccessible when we do it.
Naming racism directly = trusting readers when they do it, being “too on the nose” when we do it.
Strategic passivity = complex character when they do it, lack of agency when we do it.
This isn’t a violation of craft principles. This is refusing to assimilate.
The Way I See It
Here’s what I’ve learned since starting my editorial business back in the days of covid:
Good craft serves your vision. Not their comfort.
Craft is a tool. Tools have purposes. The question shouldn’t be “am I following the rules?” The question should be: “Does this choice serve what I’m trying to create?”
Sometimes tight prose serves your vision. Sometimes expansive, rhythmic language does.
Sometimes showing through scene is powerful. Sometimes telling directly is more honest.
Sometimes active voice creates agency. Sometimes passive voice reveals truth about power.
The tool (craft) isn’t the problem. It’s the assumption that white aesthetic preferences are universal laws — that’s the problem.
How to Use Craft Without Being Used By It
So what do you do with craft advice now that you know it’s often weaponized?
1. Ask: Who is this rule serving?
Every craft rule serves someone’s aesthetic preference. Whose preference is it? Does it align with your vision or contradict it?
“Show don’t tell” serves readers who trust metaphor more than directness. If your work requires directness — tell.
2. Look at who breaks the rules successfully — and learn from them
Toni Morrison “told” constantly. Her narrators offered direct commentary.
Zora Neale Hurston wrote “loose” lyrical prose full of dialect.
James Baldwin’s essays are full of “unnecessary” repetition for rhythm.
Jesmyn Ward writes long, flowing sentences that white minimalists would cut.
They’re considered masters because their “rule-breaking” served their vision.
3. Trust your instincts about your own work
If a craft rule makes your work feel less true, less yours, less alive — question it.
Your gut knows when you’re assimilating vs. when you’re refining.
One feels like shrinking. The other feels like clarity.
4. Get feedback from people who understand context
I’m a professional editor, y’all. Hear me when I say this: not every reader can give you useful craft feedback.
Useful feedback names specific craft elements and explains how they’re working (or not working) in service of your vision.
“This feels off” = not useful
“The pacing slows here because you’re using three paragraphs of backstory right when tension is building” = useful
“I didn’t connect with this character” = not useful
“This character’s actions contradict their stated motivation in chapter two, which breaks trust” = useful
“This dialogue feels unrealistic” = not useful
“This code-switching feels inconsistent - she uses AAVE with her family but not with her Black coworkers, and I’m not clear if that’s characterization or an oversight” = useful
But here’s what happens way too often:
Readers — regardless of race — who’ve internalized white craft standards as “correct” will give you feedback that’s actually just opinion dressed up as craft advice:
“The cultural references are distracting” = I don’t understand them, so cut them
“The dialogue needs cleaning up” = make the AAVE more palatable for me
“This character needs more agency” = I don’t understand strategic passivity as survival
“You’re being too direct about racism” = this makes me uncomfortable
Even Black readers can give harmful feedback if they’re measuring your work against white standards.
If they learned craft in white workshops, read white craft books, internalized that “tight” means Carver and “literary” means minimalism - they might tell you your work needs fixing when your work is fine.
Find readers who:
Understand craft elements by name (pacing, tension, arc, stakes)
Can separate personal preference from craft effectiveness
Recognize different aesthetic traditions as valid (not just deviations from white norms)
Ask “does this serve the writer’s vision?” instead of “would I write it this way?”
Understand that your “rule-breaking” might be mastery of a different tradition
The best feedback helps you refine your vision — not replace it with theirs.
5. Separate craft from gatekeeping
Some craft advice is genuinely useful: structure, pacing, character development, narrative arc.
Some craft advice is gatekeeping: “proper” grammar (meaning white), “accessible” language (meaning translated), “universal” themes (meaning white-centered).
Learn to tell the difference.
The Shadow Work Connection
Understanding which craft rules serve you and which ones are oppression in disguise?
That’s shadow work.
You’ve internalized voices:
The writing workshop that told you your dialogue “wasn’t quite right” (because it was AAVE)
The teacher who praised “clean” prose (code for white aesthetic)
The editor who wanted you to “develop” the character more
The feedback that made you question your instincts
These voices live in your body now.
Every time you sit down to write, you’re filtering your choices through their standards. Questioning your authentic voice. Second-guessing your craft decisions.
It’s not because your craft is weak. Of course, there will always be room for improvement.
It’s because you’ve been taught to distrust yourself.
Shadow work excavates those internalized voices. Helps you separate:
What’s actually serving my vision
What’s gatekeeping I internalized as truth
What’s my authentic craft vs. What’s performance for white approval
This is the work Write From the Wound does.
Seven days of excavating inherited blocks. White gaze wounds. Nervous system survival responses. All the conditioning that makes you question your craft when your craft is fine - it’s the context that’s oppressive.
Liberation Through Craft Mastery
Here’s what I want you to understand:
Mastering craft doesn’t mean following rules.
It means knowing craft deeply enough to make conscious choices about when to follow conventions and when to break them.
It means trusting your instincts about what your work needs.
It means refusing to shrink your voice to fit aesthetic preferences.
It means using craft to serve your vision — not performing craft to earn approval.
The greatest Black writers didn’t follow white craft rules. They mastered craft on their own terms. They created work so powerful it forced the “rules” to expand.
You can do the same.
But first, you have to excavate which “rules” you’ve internalized. Which voices are blocking you. Which craft advice is actually gatekeeping.
That’s the shadow work.
Join Write From the Wound
If you read this and felt something shift — recognition, rage, relief — this work is for you. And I invite you to join us.
Write From the Wound is a 7-day shadow work journey specifically for Black and Brown writers ready to excavate what’s really blocking them.
Not craft books that assume white aesthetic is neutral.
Not workshops that police your voice.
Not advice that makes you question your instincts.
It’s a deep excavation of:
Inherited silence from ancestors who couldn’t speak
White gaze wounds that make you perform instead of create
Nervous system blocks that traditional advice doesn’t talk about
Internalized “rules” you learned to survive — not to thrive
What you get:
Immediate access:
Welcome Guide (how to prepare)
Tarot/Oracle Basics (demystifying the tools)
Complete Resource Library (books, teachers, practices)
Starting January 19:
7 daily emails with teaching, prompts, practices, rituals
Tools for working with resistance, ancestral patterns, craft gatekeeping
Framework for building a liberation practice that serves YOUR vision
Presale price ($17) ends Sunday, Jan 18
Regular price ($27) starts Monday, Jan 19
You have 5 days to join at presale price.
Everyone starts the journey January 19 together.
Stop questioning your craft when the context is what’s broken.
Start excavating what your true blocks are.
The underworld is waiting.
With love and fire,
Lakeisha, High Priestess of The Story Temple
Write From the Wound is a 7-day email journey created by Lakeisha, High Priestess of The Story Temple. I’m an editor, teacher and practitioner who works at the crossroads of craft, culture and spirituality. I teach Black and Brown writers to write from liberation, not performance.
Questions? Drop a comment down below.
This is really helpful for me in a number of ways. I've been trying to figure out what you mean when you say white writing rules don't fit Black writers (paraphrased). This gives me some clarity on that. But I have to add that the "rules" feel too arbitrary and confining to many white writers, too, including me. They aren't even based on the literature of our culture at all. Dickens, for example, wrote anything but tight. His sentences are long, often lyrical, frequently with rich dialogue, though not AAVE, and he probably never met an adverb he didn't like. My theory is that the current "rules" were written by people who didn't have the patience to read more than a few words strung together, were never exposed to poetry, and had limited vocabularies, or by editors who had to churn through too many manuscripts. Your section on How to Use Craft works for everyone. We each have a story to tell that can only be told in our own words and voice. Personally, I love that enrichment.