Resisting Dystopia: 4 Mindset Shifts to Send a More Hopeful Story Into the World

Essayist Rebecca Solnit claims we are "hemmed in by stories that prevent us from seeing, or believing in, or acting on the possibilities for change."^[1]

She is referring to climate stories from all sources, including industry, but I can't help but feel she is addressing me, too—a small-time writer of essays, poetry, and fiction about ecology and environment. Her premise makes me question what I am responsible for writing into being, for writing into the world.

(What Is a Cli-Fi Novel?)

As I report the devastating climate facts, as I tell disturbing climate stories, am I creating the impression that total environmental destruction is a foregone conclusion?

I have no intention of knocking dystopian fiction, which provides a way to acknowledge where, without intervention, the planet is headed, and which provides a way to mark all that is being lost—organic content from soil, water from groundwater reserves, species by the second. And for those of us who feel alone in our ecological grief and unable to express it without scorn and dismissal, those stories allow us to mourn.

Still, I wonder whether the same ends can be achieved without contributing to a potential epidemic of despondency and despair, to the cultural certainty that we're heading toward existential doom, which, based on the current state of science and technology, need not be the case. There are countless innovative technological solutions, influential climate warriors, and rising movements demanding change. Science tells us there is time for course correction and that only the willingness to intercede is missing.

We cannot create what we cannot imagine. Usually attributed to Lucille Clifton, this statement highlights the critical work of artists to envision and draw the outlines of what is possible, in a manner so deeply compelling that readers and viewers cannot help but consider the existence of those possibilities and fill in those outlines with their own energy and conviction.

As I write about environment and ecology, I know I must accept the climate status quo and report it accordingly. I must acknowledge the staggering odds against course correction and the unconscionable indifference of those possessing the power to take needed action. And I want my writing to bring a more hopeful possibility into existence: specifically, a world in which individual agency matters and our collective, communal actions have tremendous impact. I want my writing to forswear despair.

Easier said than done.

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As I attempt to write about ecology and its catastrophic losses, to speak for the voiceless when it seems no one is listening, to advocate for change when I feel powerless, I am realizing that my mindset needs attention. I have to tend it so that it repeatedly calls me to witness the beauty that's still present, reminds me of innumerable people quietly treasuring and battling for the natural world, and whispers in my ear that every effort matters.

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For me, this tending includes:

I quickly realized that curling up in a ball with the covers over my head wasn't offering any relief from my ecological grief—the internal anguish about the unceasing loss of landscapes and species. Rather than pushing away that anguish, rather than avoiding the overwhelming influx of negative information, I am learning to sit with that pain, to feel it fully. When I can do so, that grief begins to turn, to show its other side, which is my blazing love for this world and my will to protect it—like a mother who defends whom she loves.

Because I read, research, and write daily, I spend much of my time indoors, staring at screens, lost within digital landscapes and my own mind. I'm a bit of a homebody, so I must consciously prompt myself to go outside and witness what's still present, still beautiful and thriving, and to look, look closely and deeply, at the life forms for whom I'm speaking and advocating. I don't live near what people traditionally associate with nature's bounty, like mountains and oceans and rivers. Still, my own backyard and my own city parks show me the majesty, intricacy, and regenerating delights of nature—the flight of herons, the antics of ants, the emergence of spring ephemerals.

Once I'm outside, I'm reminding myself to feel my connection to the planet within my own body. Sometimes, I take off my shoes and feel the ground beneath my feet, chiding myself that it's not dirt, but rather, living soil—the source of my food, the home to myriad overlapping ecosystems. Sometimes, I place my hands on the trees, move my fingers through their leaves, or lie down underneath, visualizing my tiny place within the entire web of life, tuning into my gratitude for the tremendous privilege of life on Earth.

My outlook skews pessimistic, and I've spent years waiting for hope, for signs that the climate crisis can improve, that people are at last understanding the severity of our time constraints. Now, I've stopped waiting. Instead, I am acting as though I am hopeful, which, instead of sapping my will, provides me the energy to act, speak, and share the stories that need to be told. As I do so, I am learning that those actions on my part generate the hope I've been seeking and connect me to so many other people who are acting, too.

As I continue to cultivate my mindset in these ways, the resulting shifts are changing me and even changing my writing, ensuring it acknowledges possibilities and infusing it with hope. That cultivation is helping me to write through my heartbreak and to write from the place of my deepest, most abiding love for Earth. It is helping me to write stories that do more than sound an alarm, but also remind, remind, remind that it's not too late, that there is money, technology, and time to do the needful. 

It led me to write a protagonist who feels utterly ineffectual against the forces arrayed against her, but who finds the source of immense power deep within herself. It led me to write a second character, so deeply identified with Earth that she seemed translucent as she moved through the forest. And then, I wrote both of them into a story in which isolated individuals united to thwart an unscrupulous billionaire. It became my debut novel, 108: an Eco-Thriller—my own opportunity to send a more hopeful story into the world.

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^[1] Rebecca Solnit, "'If you win the popular imagination, you change the game': why we need new stories on climate,"  The Guardian, Guardian Media Group, January 12, 2023, https://www.theguardian.com/news/2023/jan/12/rebecca-solnit-climate-crisis-popular-imagination-why-we-need-new-stories.