The nonfiction prison writer has it the hardest. We are denied the full exercise of our skills. Prison policies and circumstances stop us from converting the English alphabet into enjoyable prose.
Why?
Because we are not allowed to access the internet. Without online access, we cannot conduct updated research. We cannot compare and contrast popular opinions with other popular opinions, and we cannot fact check our claims. The hurdles nonfiction prison writers face seem endless.
Without internet access, we are stuck with books and magazines. The same books and magazines that face scrutiny when they arrive at the prison. The same books and magazines that get denied for content just because prison staff believe we shouldn’t learn about a particular subject, and the same books and magazines that we can’t afford if we are poor or lack outside support. In a situation like this, we can’t access the information we need to develop credibility.
Every writer knows research is fundamental to any good piece of writing. So, without the proper information, we can’t produce. When we complain, they tell us to use the prison library. You ready for this? Most of the books in the prison library are outdated. The 1950s! The 1980s! 2002! Information has long evolved.
But we’re forced to use it anyway. Talk about disconnect. We’re forced to become historical analysts just to create an interesting piece. We’re left to talk about the civil war, slavery, or times before the internet. We’ve been transported into the past and left there.
Now, of course, here and there, we get some up-to-date books. They float around, but the let-me-see-that-next list is so long, most of us will be released by the time the book reaches our hands.
And when we complain about that, they tell us to have our family and friends buy us or send us the information. Have you heard about prison mail policies? Right. That doesn’t work either. We all know what friends and family say, “I can’t do it right now.” “That’s too much.” “I’ll get it later.” All we can do is sit in that cell and wait, hoping some day they get it done, but I don’t blame them for it, I get it, they have a life to live too.
So, what is a writer to do?
We still write. We find ways. We network, we write prisoner rights organizations, we contact research organizations. A few of them still use snail mail addresses and like the snail mail it is, we must wait a very long time to get the information we need, but sometimes we get it.
Then there’s those times when we just sit in the cell inside our own frustrations, stuck, as the interesting idea lingers inside our mind begging to be born. These times are the worst. Imagine these thoughts incarcerated just like me, longing to be free, but can’t get out. All they need is a statistic, a report or a study, but without it, these thoughts get denied their birth, their freedom onto the earth.
Oh, and did I remind you? We still use typewriters. Yes, typewriters. What’s that? Younger prisoners ask me this all the time as they stand there and stare at it like a Back to the Future time machine. It’s a thing that helps you type words onto a piece of paper. But don’t mess up, it’s hard to erase and if you do mess up, plan to ball up the entire piece of paper and start over. That’s a typewriter.
I wish I had a laptop. I think this out loud all the time, but it’s not coming any time soon. I asked. Anything that is capable of reaching the World Wide Web is banned. So here I type.
But sometimes I write too, with those ancient tools known as a pen and pencil. These are the precursor tools to all your digital fantasies. I like pencils, but not the pencils they sell us. When I sharpen them, the lead just keeps on breaking. It breaks and breaks until I take the pencil and snap it in half.
However, I love the ink pens. They are cool. I collect them and I love how they write. But I still have one problem with them – I still need my writings digitally formatted! (Ahh! I yell inside my head). But hey, that’s life, right? You take what you get, and you work with it.
Yeah, but I prayed for a typist yesterday. I know one is out there. They will come along and tell me to calm down and they’ll ask me, “What do you need me to type?” Talk about dreams come true. I’d be thrilled.
But until then, all I have is my typewriter, my pen and my raggedy pencils. I’ll make the best of it until the Supreme Consciousness answers my prayer. I have faith one day it will all come together and then I’ll be able to fulfil my bigger dream: becoming the best writer of the 21st century. Am I dreaming too far? Don’t worry, somehow, I will figure it out. In the meantime, all I can do is write.
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