The author Jacqueline Woodson has been in censors’ cross-hairs for years, simply for writing queer characters into young adult books and documenting racial consciousness. But she’s unusually indomitable in the face of adversity. A MacArthur fellow and former Young People’s Poet Laureate, Woodson is the author of more than forty books for children, adolescents, and adults. She has multiple Newberrys and a National Book Award (for the memoir, Brown Girl Dreaming) under her belt. And despite finding her work on banned book lists in Florida and Texas, she has no plans to flinch—let alone slow down.
In addition to an adult novel (in progress, “about friendship”), Woodson is currently working on an animated adaptation of her children’s book, The Day You Begin. When not writing, she moonlights as the head of Baldwin Center for the Arts, the non-profit she founded in 2018. Modeled on havens like MacDowell and Cave Canem, BCA offers residencies to writers from the global majority.
I wanted to talk to Woodson for a few reasons. For one thing, her perspective feels pleasantly pivotal at the moment, as she speaks to such a wide swathe of young and adult readers. I was also curious to hear how she plans to sustain her spirit in the months ahead, which look so grim for creatives who’ve drawn conservative ire.
We spoke about navigating book bans, juggling political and creative commitments, the best-selling novelist who skipped out on a certain writers residency, and one highly niche literary dinner party. Our conversation has been condensed and edited for clarity.
Brittany Allen: We’ve been covering the phenomenon of book bans, and I know that you have a lot of firsthand experience with that. Is it true that Judy Blume alerted you to the fact that your books were being banned?
Jacqueline Woodson: The context is, she had called me because—and this was years ago, a different level of book banning—she was doing an anthology called Places I Never Meant to Be, of [work by] authors whose books had been banned, and she wanted me to be in it. And I’m like, I don’t have any banned books. And she’s like …yes, you do. And this was before social media, where you didn’t know. The only thing you know is that oh, I haven’t been invited to these schools in Texas that all my folks are getting invited to. I haven’t been asked to speak at this conference.
And that’s when it started dawning on me that there were definitely places where my work was not being embraced, shall we say.
BA: What did it feel like to learn that your work had been banned from certain public places?
JW: I remember back in the day when people would talk about book bans, people would say “Oh, you must be excited! Because the minute they ban a book everybody’s running to get the book and read it.” But now we’re living in a different time, where it’s legislated. If books are banned, and people try to put them into the hands of young people, they lose their jobs. Librarians are scared, teachers are scared. And for me, it’s heartbreaking.
That’s when it started dawning on me that there were definitely places where my work was not being embraced.
To come into this art, wanting to create stories that were not there when I was a young person and wanting no other young person to feel themselves invisible in this world? The attempt at erasure is heartbreaking to me. It’s not even about me, it’s about the young people that don’t get to see themselves.
BA: Do you think navigating this level of censorship, particularly with your young adult work—has it changed how you conceive of your work, for your readers? Or how you think of your mandate, your subjects, your audience?
JW: [Laughing] Not at all.
There’s things I’ve never really done. I don’t curse in books, because I feel like it breaks the dream of the fiction. And, it dates it. I mean there’s certain words we used in the 90s that we don’t use in the aughts. So it’s not like my books can be censored for quote unquote inappropriate language. There’s not a lot of sex in my books, because a lot of times the characters I write about are at the beginning of figuring out sexuality. And those were things I held true from pretty early on.
I think the style of my writing has changed because the way people read has changed. When I was first writing, I had longer chapters, longer sentences, and people had longer attention spans. And now my chapters are shorter, the sentences play in length, and rhythm is really important to the narrative just because I know people hear a lot of the world.
BA: You’re incredibly prolific in all these different mediums. Screenplays, novels, picture books. I’m curious about what that juggling looks like in your life.
JW: I’m laughing because down there at the end of the table there’s a screenplay I need to finish today, and there’s a picture book I promised I’d get to my editor, and there in my bag is my adult book that I promised my other editor I’d get a draft of on Monday. So we’ll see what gets done today.
Talk about short attention span! It’s easy to switch gears for me, because when I get bored I’m like let me just work on this other thing that’s more interesting right now. And I just love it all. I love every medium of writing. Like I love writing for the newspaper because it uses a different part of my brain that requires research and thought. And then, writing picture books? It’s poetry. It’s really just, line by line, telling a story that you hope a young person will be engaged with for thirty two pages. And then adult books, I can just go wild with time and character, knowing the reader will stay with me on a journey.
BA: So would you say that juggling is an intuitive way of working for you? Or do you think the world has pushed you toward any particular genre balance?
JW: I think more than the world it’s the interior world. And it’s also motherhood. I talk about writing BC and AC, Before Children and After Children, because having children really made me think about scheduling and focus and the timeframe in which I had to write—before they got home from school. And years and years of that really shifted me.
And I think the world is so much more disruptive. And that taught me that I have to have a whole other kind of focus. I was looking at Instagram this morning, and I was just scrolling and I looked up and thought, okay you have just spent ten minutes scrolling, what do you have to show for it. Put it down.
BA: That’s a daily struggle for me as well.
JW: There’s only so many recipes you can save and not make!
BA: I want to circle back to parenting, but let’s stay on juggling for a moment. I wanted to ask how you balance advocacy work with your writing. Namely, the running of Baldwin Center for the Arts. Where does that sit in your daily work mix?
JW: It’s a lot of work to have a nonprofit. It’s a lot of work, making sure the fellows are okay, choosing the fellows, making sure the grounds are kept up, and in terms of the money… will we have money to run it next year? And next year? And I think, these are hours that could be spent writing.
But then I meet the fellows and I’m like, this is why I’m doing it. Because they’re so grateful, and you forget there are so many people who don’t even have a quiet room to write in. Or a space away from their family. Or away from their job. Where someone has said, you matter, I’m gonna get you here, I’m gonna pay for your travel, I’m gonna pay for your meals, and I’m gonna ask nothing in return. And you’ll see what you can do with that.
It feeds me in that I’m doing something. I’m in service.
BA: I want to applaud the mission of the space, as a specifically designated haven for the global majority. I’ve been to a few residencies, and I can see how important it is. To have a space that is, um. “For the people.”
JW: You don’t have to explain.
It’s so funny—I was talking to someone who I was at MacDowell with in the 90s. We had this really good cohort. Colson [Whitehead] was there. And we were pretty young. But the person reminded me that Colson left, he bounced, he was like “I’m outta here.” And I was like—oh my goodness. I have pictures of us, but I don’t remember him leaving.
And I have another friend who went recently, a person of color. I had been telling him, “go go go, this is like salvation.” And he texted me, he’s like “Where have you sent me?!” I guess he had ants in his bed? It calmed down. But he was like, what fresh hell is this…
BA: It’s very deep in the New England…woods. Oh, that’s so funny.
JW: Did you go to the NBAs last night?
BA: No I didn’t, some of my colleagues did. I think they’re still recovering in the Slack. Did you have a good time?
JW: I did. It was a really interesting night in terms of thinking about the politics of everything. Where we’re at, how people are dealing. Two of the writers who won last night were Palestinian, and they gave beautiful speeches. Just beautiful, heart-rending speeches. And many people in the audience didn’t clap.
And I was like—where are we? We’re talking about coming together and supporting literature and really thinking about the future of how we’re going to do this in this regime, and this is…[the mood]? The complexity…it gave me serious pause.
BA: That’s painful to hear. Though unfortunately I’m not surprised. Under that political umbrella, how are you holding on to your literary community these days?
JW: I have my people. I feel so grateful for that, to have people I can gather around a table with. My best friend in the world, Toshi Reagon, is a performer/civil rights activist/amazing person, and we were supposed to have a dinner last Sunday with our combined families just to talk about what the plan is for 2025. And one thing she always talks about is how important it is not to rely on social media for our revolution, for our survival.
Race is a Tuesday in my family. We’re an interracial family, we’re dealing with all kinds of stuff all the time. And folks of color talk about race. It’s inevitable.
So my community is gathering in small groups with people I love and really having the hard conversations. Thinking about what it means to take care of each other in this time. A lot of my friends are writers, artists, performing artists. And that helps, because we’re all thinking about what it means economically, what it means in terms of the future of our art. What it means in terms of IP, because there’s so much going on with AI.
BA: How are you finding ways to talk about and through this political moment to young readers, and young people in your life? Are there particular stories or modes or messages that feel useful?
JW: I live in a very transparent family, so we talk about everything all the time. Recently I was in Ohio, doing a project with Ming Smith who’s a beautiful photographer, and one person in the audience asked a question that people always ask, How do you write about hard things in your literature? And I always push back, because I know what they mean by hard. They’re asking how I write about race.
And… is race is hard? Race is a Tuesday in my family. We’re an interracial family, we’re dealing with all kinds of stuff all the time. And folks of color talk about race. It’s inevitable. What’s hard for us is that other people don’t. And I think that in talking to young people about The Now—it’s part of a conversation. Like, yes this is devastating for some of us. Why is it devastating? Let’s talk about where it lives in your body, and what you can do with what you have to make it a little bit better. So much of what This Now is trying to do is make us feel powerless. And I don’t think we are. I don’t think any individual is.
And kids are so resilient and amazing. They’re like, I can be nice to my little brother, I can help my mom, I can read more books and learn about history… They really are open and honest about their desire for engagement. I find them much easier to talk to than adults, both through the narrative and in person. But they’re also so filled with joy. Like an indestructible joy. And that gives me hope. It feeds me that I know that if all else fails, we have young people who are thinking deeply about the world.
BA: Oh, yes.
JW: I’m thinking of a conversation I’ve had with a couple of young people in my life who didn’t vote for the presidential candidate. Didn’t vote for either. And I was like, come on, you know voters rights, we fought for this—but then, listening to them? They’re tired of voting for the “best of the two.”
And I was like, I don’t agree—especially given this election which was so important—but you know? I hear you. You deserve better. And so many of them are really engaged with what is happening in Palestine. They want what we all do, a ceasefire, they want this to end, and are very outspoken about that. And I see the devastation on their faces, I see it in the world, you know, I am living it. Like the fact that we can have this conversation while that’s going on.
So I am constantly thinking globally, and trying to expand. Think bigger. Because it is not just about my age old ideas about things.
BA: Absolutely. I’m excited by the idea of these intergenerational conversations. Within households and beyond.
JW: Yeah. I love it.
Because remember back in the day? I didn’t want to be with my parents. And I’m like, wow, you guys wanna hang with us and talk to us? And I also remember a time when I didn’t want to hang too much with young people, but it has changed. It is a much more interesting conversation across lines of gender, class, age, all of that.
BA: Does that entry-point begin with your children?
JW: [Laughing] I think it begins with their cousins.
My son can be very engaged. Last night we were talking about The Great Gatsby, because that’s what he’s reading. We talked about why in the twenty-first century is he still having to read The Great Gatsby.
BA: I actually, yesterday, saw a play version of The Great Gatsby. It was seven hours. So that’s on my mind today, too!
JW: Oh my goodness. You stayed for seven hours?!
BA: Yeah, they have like a dinner break and everything?! It’s this big theatrical event at The Public Theater.
JW: That’s so interesting because—and I don’t know if you saw on Instagram, but Min Jin Lee, author who wrote Pachinko, has these amazing dinner parties? And she had one where we read the full play of Much Ado About Nothing. James Ijames [the playwright] cast us in different roles… and I hate that kind of stuff. I got cast as Beatrice, and I was like I don’t wanna do this. But it was so wonderful! It was like four hours, with lots and lots of food in between. But for four hours, that’s the only place we were. We were there with people, and with Shakespeare, and we were having a good time. And I don’t know when I had done that! Spent that kind of time just disengaged from the world, doing a thing that brought me joy?
So I could totally see why [Gatz] would be something I’d wanna do.
BA: Yeah, the exercising of sustained attention was really neat. And oh, that party sounds so lovely.
I wonder, what else is getting you through? In terms of shows, books, art objects, modes of community building at the moment–?
JW: You know, I’m loving cooking these days. It really brings me a kind of quietude and joy. And I was thinking about books—have you read C Pam Zhang’s book, Land of Milk and Honey?
BA: I haven’t yet!
JW: That one I read a while ago. And it’s about—it’s like the near future and there’s no food, and these very wealthy people have hoarded all the food, and this woman goes to work as a chef there—and it’s kind of beautiful and devastating and then beautiful again. Good books have always got me through. Reading young people’s literature has always been helpful.
And I dunno, just having good conversations with people who are not afraid of talking about what’s happening. Feels really healing.
BA: That’s beautiful. May we all keep doing this!
