We Know What You Did

The victims of the publishing industry's cultural revolution are not going to go quietly

Survivor of one of the cruellest cancellations, Rachel Rooney

When the news that the BBC were planning a podcast on the cancellation of Kate Clanchy, it was interesting to hear some of the responses from people I know in publishing. Those of us who have been battling for free speech in our industry were all for it. Good, we thought, it’s time to hear her story. Those who think she has had too much airtime already were suitably appalled. However, I was intrigued by a third response, namely that of people who sounded vaguely surprised, and espoused that they’d forgotten that such a thing had happened and wondered why it was all being dragged up again now. With the tide turning on cancel culture, it seems there’s quite the appetite to brush all that past ‘unpleasantness’ under the carpet.

I mention this, because such an attitude seems to demonstrate confusion about something that is abundantly clear to me. For people who have loftily kept out of the culture wars of the last decade there seems to be a slight air of puzzlement that those who have been affected are still banging on about it. After all, isn’t that old news? Why can’t people just move on? I would suggest that they are failing to take into account the heavy price people have paid across the spectrum (this has not just happened in publishing but throughout the arts, in the NHS, education etc etc) for being cancelled. One common cry you often hear, is that x hasn’t been cancelled, they’re always on the news/in the papers, what are they complaining about? A view that spectacularly misunderstands that a soundbite on GB News and an interview with the Daily Telegraph doesn’t actually pay any bills once your detractors have ensured you’ve lost your livelihood.

My involvement in this fight started during lockdown, when I witnessed my friend Gillian Philip being cancelled in real time, for the crime of retweeting JK Rowling. I watched in horror as she was subjected first to an intensive pile-on and then a complete betrayal by both her publishers and agent. Within twenty-four hours her career in publishing was over. Even though both her publishers and agent knew that she had recently lost her husband and was the sole provider for her two children. The swiftness and brutality of if it was shocking (and I speak as one well versed in the harsh way publishing can turn on its own, having experienced it myself and seen it happen to others). It left me feeling incredibly scared to speak out in her support. At the time, I was working at Mills & Boon, which is owned by Harper Collins (who published Gillian’s books in America). It was lockdown, my husband was unable to work properly, and I was the major breadwinner. I couldn’t afford to bring the mob to my door and felt extremely shitty that I daredn’t support a friend publicly. This is something the people who think cancellation amounts to a simple online spat just don’t understand: the repercussions of seeing just one person losing their job has a chilling effect on those around them. No one wants to be next, so people remain silent, and that has been very bad for free speech generally, and publishing in particular. I’ve lost count of the number of friends I have in children’s publishing who told me they were afraid to speak up, or who have ended up leaving that part of the industry because it has become so toxic.

Scroll on a year, and I witnessed the Kate Clanchy affair from a distance. It was unseemly, unpleasant, people on both sides got deeply hurt, and it culminated in Sir Philip Pullman resigning from his position as President of the Society of Authors. In a former life I have met Sir Philip a couple of times and I know him to be a man of kindness and great integrity. What happened to him also shocked me deeply, and the lack of support he had from those in the industry who should have known better was appalling. Even more appalling was the insistence in some quarters in taking the worst possible interpretation of his words, and indeed Kate Clanchy’s.

Another year passed, and, in the summer of 2022, and on the very day that Salman Rushdie was attacked, I and many others were stunned when Joanne Harris (the then Chair of the Society of Authors) tweeted a jokey poll about death threats. By now, I had left my job and was working freelance. I no longer cared if speaking out would damage my career, and this was the point at which I moved from quietly fuming to taking a more pro-active approach. Together with some friends, I became involved in producing an Open Letter requesting that Ms Harris stand down from her position, as to our minds she had brought the Society into disrepute. I hasten to add, that I didn’t — and still don’t — know Joanne Harris (though I have met her since) and none of this was personal. Her behaviour in this and other matters, did not seem appropriate for the Chair of an organisation like the Society of Authors. As is usual with open letters, nothing resulted from it. But what I hadn’t expected were the many messages we received from people who wanted to sign our letter and were too afraid to do so publicly for fear of repercussions on their own careers. That was enough to convince me that something had gone very badly wrong in the industry. As a result, we brought forward two resolutions at the SoA’s 2022 AGM. One requesting that Joanne Harris step down, and one that the SoA supported freedom of speech for all its members. I wrote about it here (The Lion’s Den - by Juliasbookchat - The Glinner Update).

It was a deeply unpleasant experience, and one I had no wish to repeat, but again, a groundswell of support from members (and ex-members, many of whom left as a result of the resolutions being voted down), made me think it would be worth standing for the Board of the SoA in an attempt to change this narrative. I therefore stood on a freedom of speech platform in 2023 and was proud and honoured to be elected that year. I remain very grateful to all those members who put their faith in me.

I am not allowed to speak about anything that was discussed in meetings I attended or share any information I was privy to during my time on the Board (unless it’s in the public domain), which I accept as being part of my directorial duties. (In every single job I have had it is normal to keep certain matters pertaining to the workings of the company private.) However, I did find the confidentiality clause I was required to sign, before I took my place on the Board, pretty draconian. An organisation that is confident in its position, particularly one that answers to its members, should have the confidence to allow them to know what the people they have elected are talking about. One of the valid criticisms that is often made about the SoA is that as an organisation it’s opaque. This does not help.

What I can say, though, is that I made it very clear from the moment I joined that I believed the likes of Kate Clanchy, Rachel Rooney, Philip Pullman and others had been badly treated, and that the SoA had let them down. I believed then, and believe now, it would not be remiss of the SoA to offer apologies to those who have been subject to cancellation. Particularly when, as in the case of Rachel Rooney, the charge to destroy her career was led by other SoA members. (She wrote about it here: Wrapping Up Rachel Rooney for Christmas). Unlike Kate Clanchy, Rachel was a long-term member of the SoA and they did nothing to support her in her hour of need, which led Gillian Philip (also a member at the time of her cancellation) to conclude that there was no point in seeking help from her union. Let that sink in. Personally, I believe what happened to Rachel was the most egregious situation of all, and the SoA has failed her badly.

Unfortunately, the Board did not appear to share my position, and I was repeatedly told that the SoA cannot police its 12000 members. While I broadly agree with this, there is a huge difference in my opinion, between those members having online arguments with one another, and those who actively set out to destroy the livelihoods of others because of a difference of opinion. Being a member of a professional society comes with responsibilities. One of which is to act in a professional manner. Trying to ruin the careers of those with whom you disagree is about as unprofessional as it gets. And while the SoA has a dignity and respect policy (Dignity and Respect - The Society of Authors) it doesn’t go far enough in my view. Being a member of the Society of Authors is a privilege, not a right. And if you seek to cause harm to your peers, there should be an option to take that right away. As I said earlier, I was unable to persuade my colleagues of this, as there was an understandable defensiveness around what had happened and people wanted to move on. I do actually get that, but I also felt that these stories were not going to go away.

Which brings me back to the Clanchy podcast. When I heard about it, I realised that I had a conflict of interest, as eighteen months ago, I became involved in SEEN in Publishing (part of the Sex Equity and Equality Networks that have sprung up in both the private and public sectors) as a means to support those who feel silenced by what’s happening in our sphere, and a way to protest it. Given that SiP stands up for freedom of speech, it was inevitable that we would need to approach the SoA on this issue. I recused myself from the situation and was not privy to anything that was discussed at the SoA about it. When it became apparent that an apology was still not forthcoming, I decided to resign ((((Julia Williams)))💚🤍💜 on X: “Two years ago I was honoured to be elected to the Board of the SoA. It is great sadness I have recently decided to resign for reasons given in the attached statement. I wish my former colleagues well. https://t.co/gHDQGIlwFV” / X).

As I have explained, I cannot speak about matters that were discussed when I was on the Board. However, I can, and would like to, discuss the real-life impact that cancellation has on people, something I wish everyone in publishing would take note of. The Society of Authors is not the only organisation who were unprepared for the viciousness of the cancel culture wars which raged so widely during Covid (though they were happening well before it, Covid certainly exacerbated things).

Why, given that this all happened four/five years ago, are people like Kate and Rachel still unhappy with the way the SoA and the wider publishing industry has behaved? Surely, it’s time to put it behind them? Kate has a new job, and her books were republished by Swift. Rachel has a wonderful new book out Granny’s Flag. Why don’t they just get over it?

In Rachel’s case, she had this to say in a recent interview on the SEEN in Publishing Substack (Interviews from Publishing’s Coalface: Rachel Rooney):

“My cancellation is complete in that it’s pretty clear there’s no coming back within mainstream publishing. I’m unlikely to get any apologies from those who’ve wronged me on various levels — though I have tried over the years. After exhausting almost all avenues, I now feel a certain detachment and view myself very much part of cancellation history. But it’s an episode that shouldn’t be forgotten nor one that I can forget as it has affected, and continues to affect, every aspect of my personal, professional and financial life. Rather, I have assimilated what has happened, am relieved the abuse is mainly over and remain determined to speak out if I witness other authors within publishing being subjected to similar houndings. There is something quite liberating in having your bridges burned. No one can touch you.”

Fortunately, I have never been cancelled, but this to me seems too high a price to pay. And I know the fear that accompanies other people’s cancellations. Many children’s authors still remain silent because of that fear. But if you really really don’t know what it means, read anything by the fabulous Jenny Lindsay (who gave voice to many people who have suffered cancellation in her book Hounded) and says this:

“Cancel culture is too slight a term for the experience of losing your entire livelihood, so many trusted friendships, trust that those with political power — imperfect as they might always be — care about truth, and all while a reality-denying ideology is slowly embraced by every sector in society. ‘Hounded’ is the term I’ve always used, because ‘cancel culture’ is just one part of it. No, it isn’t possible to get over entirely, partly because it never really ends. The issue itself is continuing, a daily reminder of what caused your life to be upended; some hounders go quiet, others take their place, the experience morphs and shapeshifts and attacks sometimes come from the most unexpected of places. But you have to try. Rebuild within all of this. Not saying it’s easy, but you can’t live in the hurt forever, and (important to remember) nobody in this battle deserves that either.”

Jenny lost not only her career as poet in Edinburgh, but friends, and the backing of people she’d supported for years. Ultimately, she had to leave the city she loved. Even now, when she is finding her feet again through her non-fiction there are people who wish to bring her down, with in one instance a Creative Literature Scotland Officer complaining to an independent bookstore that Hounded was on sale there.

For Gillian, being the best-selling author in the Erin Hunter series wasn’t enough, she was abandoned by her publisher, agent, many former friends and now earns her living delivering parcels. The effects of her cancellation are still ongoing, and she has this to say about it:

“Cancellation is something that doesn’t just happen to you once and then it’s over; it’s an ongoing process. In my case, the casual cowardice of my publisher, employers and worst of all my agent (who was paid to represent *my* interests, not theirs) meant an end to my career in mainstream publishing and the bulk of my income, but that was just the headline result.

“The emotional and psychological damage was staggering. Callous betrayal by people you trusted — and with whom you worked extremely well and closely for years — is quite the lesson in the worst aspects of humanity. The trolls who came after me in June 2020, as I always say, were acting according to their natures. Scorpions gonna scorpion; they’re not really worth my attention. The truly unforgivable people are the ones who submitted to those scorpions without a single thought for what they’d put me through, and not a care or interest for the truth or otherwise of the allegations.”

And of course, as well as the emotional cost of cancellation, there is a real-life impact in terms of lost income and having to reinvent yourself. As Gillian also explains:

“The financial repercussions have of course been savage; I’ve had to start afresh. I now work a manual job for minimum wage and have had to sell the house my husband and I worked for and built, so that I could downsize. My husband died just five weeks before my cancellation — a fact of which my employers and agent were fully aware, but my grief and loss were irrelevant to them — so of course I no longer had his pension to fall back on.

“Undoubtedly there was an impact on my mental and physical health. I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer four years after the events of 2020, and I have no doubt the stress of both the cancellation and the resulting court case was a significant factor. I abandoned the court case in 2024 when the impact to my health was becoming clear; I had lost on a technicality and apart from the stress of continuing with an appeal, I did not want to ask my supporters for more financial assistance just to get through that barrier when other cases were mounting up in the courts — cases with more direct impact on the issues of women’s rights and child safeguarding.”

Can anyone who was involved in this debacle really look themselves in the mirror and not feel ashamed? Gillian is a wonderful writer with a strong moral compass, and she no longer writes. And all that has been lost – for what? Do the people in the industry who could have supported Gillian really feel this was the right thing to do?

The personal costs of cancellation are also vividly highlighted in the Everyday cancellation in publishing - Sex Matters, written by Matilda Gosling and commissioned by Sex Matters and SEEN in Publishing (see section 6: The Impact). It should be shocking to everyone who read it that victims of cancel culture have considered suicide, been ill and lost money because of this bullying behaviour, and quite frankly, it’s a stain on our industry.

Unfortunately, though things are beginning to shift slightly, there are still people who haven’t got the memo. Only recently, the fabulous children’s writer Onjali Raúf, who has endured abuse and threats of cancellation for a number of years, was once more targeted by The Little Literary Society Bookshop UK, who decided that it would be a good idea to tell people not to buy Onjali’s books direct (also JK Rowling’s). (SEEN in Publishing issued this statement about it Statement from SEEN in Publishing - SEEN in Publishing.) When Rachel Rooney objected, they then added her to the blacklist. As a result of this, Onjali received eighty-seven death threats. This is insane. How can a disagreement about what a talented author says lead to people who claim to be kind issuing any death threats at all? Why aren’t more people in the industry up in arms about this? They should be. We all should be.

The final word, I think has to go to Kate Clanchy, whose podcast kicked this all off again. Kate has been writing the finer detail of her cancellation here: Kate’s Substack | Substack. It is clear from reading the accounts of (The Allotment Committee and a Giant Marrow

Four Tweets By Joanne Harris

) that she has been through a horrible process, from which she is only just recovering. I take my hat off to her for this final response she wrote for the SEEN in Publishing Substack (An Anatomy of Afterward by Kate Clanchy) where she seems to be turning a negative into a positive.

“I remind myself that I’m lucky, in the grand scheme of things, to have attention paid to me at all. Many other cancellations – most – are endured in long, cold silence, not brief, hot rage. They are enacted in slippery, hard to complain of, deficits – in invitations not arriving, work drying up, calls not made. Most are irreparable because they feed on themselves: the people who have shamed others don’t want to remember; they turn away or double down. Cancellations leave scars – stiff, numb, distorted areas – across previously functional companies, charities, arts organisations, universities and schools. It is much better to have my wounds aired, even if it stings.”

It does appear that things are slowly changing for the better, thankfully (though a precedent has been set, and I think we need to remain vigilant to ensure that the pendulum doesn’t swing the other way), and many people want to put that ‘unpleasantness’ behind them. Particularly, in the nice, kind (oh so kind!), world of publishing. The SoA is not the only organisation that has failed authors, too many publishers, agents and other organisations have also done so. Everyone was ill equipped to deal with a ruthless activist agenda that was promoted widely through social media and took a grip at a time when real life was on hold thanks to Covid. But it was going on before that, and to a degree it is still going on. For the keyboard warriors out there, still itching to condemn those with whom you disagree, I’ll say this. Remember: you are affecting someone’s life when you call for their head. Stop, think, before you press type. Consider the people who you might be hurting. Do they really deserve it? In the immortal words of my favourite fictional hero, Atticus Finch: “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view . . . until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.” If you can find the humility to do that, we’ll all be better off.