Jason Reynolds on the Cost of Writing and the Courage of Black Art
By: Madeline Wright
On October 24, 2025, bestselling author Jason Reynolds took the stage in the Camille Olivia Hanks Cosby, Ed.D. Academic Center Auditorium for An Evening of Enlightenment, the inaugural event of Spelman College’s reimagined Department of Literature, Media, and Writing. The room was full long before he appeared, and a quiet anticipation settled over the crowd as students, faculty, and families waited to hear from someone whose work has shaped so many young readers. When Reynolds finally walked out, he paused before speaking, as if measuring the room’s energy. His voice carried a rhythmic softness that made the space feel smaller, almost intimate. What followed was not simply a keynote lecture but a meditation on craft, ancestry, imagination, and the often invisible cost of choosing a life devoted to language.
Early in his talk, Reynolds described writing as “an inside-out job,” a process that requires silence, solitude, and a willingness to sit with the parts of yourself that are easier to avoid. When he shared that creating work he is proud of “comes at a tremendous cost to me,” the sincerity in his voice made the weight of that statement unmistakable. Hearing him speak so plainly about the sacrifices behind his books made me reflect on my own work as a writer and creator. It led me to ask what it means to take my craft seriously. What do I owe the stories I want to tell? What do I owe the people who shaped me? What parts of myself am I willing to place on the page?
Reynolds made the courage behind artistic exposure feel visible. Pulling something internal and fragile into the open always carries risk. People may misunderstand it or handle it carelessly. Yet artists choose to share anyway. Listening to his lecture helped me recognize that courage in writing is steady, intentional, and deeply personal rather than dramatic.
One of the most memorable moments came when Reynolds talked about community. He admitted that writing pulls him inward for long stretches and laughed as he acknowledged that he is not always the most responsive friend in the middle of a project. But the people in his life understand his rhythm. They know silence is part of creation rather than distance, and they trust that he will return with intention when the work allows. This idea resonated with me because it captured something I have often felt but never named: to create honestly, I cannot be everything to everyone. There are moments when I need to be inside myself. The people who understand that are the ones who help me remain whole.
That truth also carries implications far beyond the artistic process. In social justice work, there is a concept known as rest as resistance—the idea that preserving oneself is not a retreat from the movement but a refusal to be consumed by systems that demand endless urgency from Black people. Reynolds’ reflections on silence reminded me that Black artists, like Black activists, are often expected to be perpetually present and perpetually producing. But art—and liberation work—require interior space. They require room to breathe, to imagine, to replenish. Allowing Black creators and organizers to be full people, not constant symbols, is a radical and necessary act for any sustained movement.
Reynolds also spent time naming the voices who shaped him. He listed the artists he considers part of his foundation, including Walter Dean Myers, Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, Langston Hughes, Nikki Giovanni, Nina Simone, D’Angelo, and his own father. He explained that he keeps luggage tags with his parents’ names attached to his bags so that, wherever he travels, he brings them with him—into rooms, opportunities, and worlds they could not have imagined for themselves. That image struck me. It reframed lineage as both memory and movement, a way of honoring those who made our lives possible while acknowledging the distances we travel because of their sacrifices. Hearing him share this prompted me to consider my own lineage and the people whose imaginations built the ground I now stand on.
His reflections also shaped how I understand the long-standing debate around the responsibility of Black artists. Some Black creators believe that the Black experience is inseparable from their work and that its presence is a natural part of their storytelling. Others argue for the freedom to create without being asked to represent an entire community. Reynolds offered a deeper truth: if writing requires an infusion of the self, and if the self is shaped by Blackness, then Black art will always carry the Black experience—not out of obligation, but out of honesty. Thinking about this made me recall how Toni Morrison refused to center her novels around whiteness because she believed Black life was already worthy of artistic attention. That example helped me understand Reynolds’ point more clearly: Black art is shaped by truth, and truth contains both history and possibility.
Later in the talk, Reynolds spoke about learning to live with a kind of creative suffocation, an idea that lingered with me long after the event. It reminded me of the conversations many Black children have far earlier than they should—conversations about safety, perception, and the parts of ourselves we are taught to protect. These early lessons do not disappear with age. They shape the imagination, the risks we believe we can take, and the weight Black artists carry when they choose to tell the truth. Understanding this helped me see that the cost Reynolds described is not only personal. It is generational.
By the end of the night, I understood more clearly why Reynolds’ work resonates so deeply. He does not write around himself. He writes through himself. His stories carry lineage, community, imagination, and the responsibility of telling the truth as fully as he can. His keynote reminded me that writing is not only a craft. It is a cost, a calling, and an act of becoming. For Black creatives, it carries the weight of memory, expectation, and the hope of future generations. Taking the craft seriously means accepting both the sacrifice and the possibility it demands.
As I walked out of the auditorium, I felt a quiet clarity settle in me. I want to be serious about my work. I want to honor the people who came before me. I want to create with the kind of honesty that Reynolds insisted the art deserves. I am left with the hope that readers understand that engaging with Black art means recognizing the histories and pressures that shape it—and that doing so with care is part of how we honor the communities who create it.
