JK Rowling, The Ink Black Heart, and the problem of misplaced authority.

When I used to think of JK Rowling, it was about how she managed to weave a world that was as full of wonder for my eldest son, as it was for my youngest, despite there being fourteen years between them. For a modern book series to be able to equally fascinate kids born at the opposite edges of a generation seemed almost magical to me.

But then Rowling began to use her words not to create magic, but rather division, writing posts on Twitter that were gender critical (GC) in nature. Basic GC tenets are that sex is a biological, binary, immutable fact, that gender is a social construct, and therefore that trans men are not men and trans women are not women, with the belief that the latter should not be allowed access into women’s spaces. Such a viewpoint swings the door wide open to prejudice and discrimination against trans people. A narrative of “women are being erased” and predatory men attacking cis women in “women only” spaces is emphasized by GC rhetoric, whipping up a climate of fear and transphobia.

Rowling made an initial GC tweet in December, 2019, in support of GCer Maya Forstater, who was fired after tweeting that a person cannot change their biological sex.

Posted Rowling: “Dress however you please. Call yourself whatever you like. Sleep with any consenting adult who’ll have you. Live your best life in peace and security. But force women out of their jobs for stating sex is real? #IStandWithMaya #ThisIsNotADrill.”

By June 2020, Rowling had doubled down, her views quite clear. In response to an op-ed about global menstrual health, Rowling quote-retweeted the article, stating:

“‘People who menstruate.’ I’m sure there used to be a word for those people. Someone help me out. Wumben? Wimpund? Woomud?”

Other tweets quickly followed, including:

“If sex isn’t real, there’s no same-sex attraction. If sex isn’t real, the lived reality of women globally is erased.”

As time went on, Rowling continued posting tweets that only accepted “adult human females” as women, discounting the womanhood of trans women everywhere. She began using her keyboard like a sharpened stick, her words drawing a clear line in the sand, planting herself firmly on the gender critical (GC) side when it came to trans rights, while many of her former readers stood, betrayed, on the other.

At the time, I too was actively in the gender critical camp, and considered Rowling’s controversial views to be “brave”, “feminist”, and “respecting the rights and dignity of women”. The fact that GC beliefs only acknowledged the rights and dignity of some women, while invalidating those of others, went over my head.

Eventually, I began to disengage from gender critical ideology, finally acknowledging it to be an anti-feminist, fearmongering, and discriminatory movement which seeks to deny trans and nonbinary people their basic human rights. By the spring of 2021, I fully renounced being GC. Rowling, on the other hand, became more and more immersed in all things gender critical.

In July, 2022, Rowling went a step further, publicly praising right wing media personality Matt Walsh, over his trans exclusionary film, “What is a woman?”

Tweeted Rowling: “…your film did a good job exposing the incoherence of gender identity theory and some of the harms it’s done. Many institutions I used to admire have uncritically embraced this dogma.”

It seemed that Rowling had fallen ass over teakettle into the extremely exclusionary world of the gender criticals, becoming known more for her extreme political stance, rather than for her once so magical books.

Lately, several of Rowling’s GC tweets imply a level of expertise she simply doesn’t possess. On September 16th, she tweeted: “Only 2% of sexual offenders are female. 88% of sexual assault victims are female. Trans women retain male strength advantage and male patterns of violence and sexual offending. We know TW aren’t all predators. However, the evidence shows that some are.”

As “evidence” to her claim, she provided a link to a brief paper written by three professors who are widely known for their GC stance, one of whom teaches philosophy. The paper is shoddily written, with several “author notes” that add confusion, rather than clarity, to the reader. The paper provides limited data upon which to base any firm conclusions; a meta-analysis it is not. Despite this, Rowling uses the 4 ½ page writeup to back her tweet. For anyone not trained in research methods, this could be quite persuasive, indeed.

With influence often comes misplaced authority. By Rowling’s sheer power, celebrity status, and widespread appeal, the words she says, and the posts she tweets, carry significant weight. The above tweet is written as if she were a professor of criminology or a fairly objective social scientist, rather than a novelist. Rowling is an intelligent person. Surely she is cognizant of the fact that her influence makes her ideas, credible or not, much more impactful, whether she is trying to sell toothpaste, or gender critical views. In her exalted position, to not do one’s due diligence before tweeting such comments as if they are “facts”, is unconscionable.

It is within this charged environment that I learned of Rowling’s new adult novel, the latest in a series of crime thrillers written under her nom de plume: Robert Galbraith. Despite being an avid reader, I’d never so much as picked up one of her more recent books. While I rarely know the full backstory of the authors I read, Rowling’s past exploits are only as distant as her latest tweet. Further, given that her gender critical positions are harmful to so many, particularly when amplified by her elevated status, I began thinking about tackling this 1012 page opus.

Did her new novel include transphobic content? Or was it merely an inexplicably long read? At that point, I didn’t know.

Then I began to hear suggestions of other forms of stereotyping, including a brief passage supposedly infantilizing an autistic teenager. While the passage is so short it could easily be missed, the stereotyping of an autistic girl still sticks. She is mentioned as having been charged, along with her neurotypical peers, with having helped plan a terrorist attack. However, unlike her peers, who are convicted of the crime, her charges are dropped. The only reasons given for this are that she is “profoundly” autistic, and socially naive, the implication being that the interpersonal challenges autistic people experience can make them incapable of knowing right from wrong, and thus not be culpable of a crime. Hearing this made me incensed, as it perpetuates damaging stereotypes about autistic people. Two of my children are autistic (including one of Rowling’s former Harry Potter fans), and they are the ones with the strongest sense of morality and justice. Further, I was recently diagnosed as autistic, myself, and am fully aware that my past actions as a GCer have caused harm. Being autistic isn’t a “get out of jail free” card. At the very least, Rowling should have explained the reasoning behind why this autistic teen was found to be blameless.

When I expressed anger about this online, I was responded to with “How do you know what Rowling wrote if you haven’t even read the book?”

Fair enough.

And so, having now finished The Ink Black Heart, here is what I found and what I didn’t. Consider it to be my review.

First, what I didn’t find. I didn’t find significant content or themes of transphobia in the novel. Saying this is not granting Rowling absolution for her inflammatory gender critical views, nor does it mean that the GC crowd should pop the corks off their champagne bottles just yet. Because, what I did find (and not one or two examples, but an entire theme) is equally troubling. Threaded throughout the novel, by this highly well-known and influential author, is the dismissal and lazy stereotyping of yet another vulnerable group of people: those who suffer from what are often referred to as “invisible illnesses”.

The term invisible illness means exactly that: an illness, disease, or condition which is not immediately seen by others, but is as debilitating as those that are easily recognized. The term encompasses many types of chronic conditions, disabilities, or diseases that significantly impact a person’s functioning, but often are difficult to diagnose with a simple test or two. Despite frequently appearing “healthy”, sufferers often experience serious, chronic symptoms that may impair their ability to consistently complete even routine daily activities. Symptoms are often “multi-system”, and cause significant impairment. Examples include chronic pain, extreme fatigue, often not improved by rest, sleep difficulties, digestive problems, memory issues, heat intolerance, faintness, a sudden drop in blood pressure, or weakness. Invisible illnesses include autoimmune diseases (e.g., Crohn’s disease, lupus), Ehlers-Danlos syndrome (EDS), postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome (POTS), irritable bowel syndrome (IBS), fibromyalgia, and myalgic encephalomyelitis (ME), also referred to as chronic fatigue syndrome (CFS), to name a few. Neurodivergent conditions (e.g., autism), and mental health conditions (e.g., clinical depression or anxiety) also fall under the umbrella of an invisible illness.

Many invisible illnesses are by and large not a part of the general public’s lexicon, and are thus often misunderstood. They frequently take years of misdiagnoses (which may involve multiple tests, procedures, and referrals to a revolving door of health professionals), before being properly diagnosed (if at all). Not only must individuals suffering from an invisible illness deal with their chronic symptoms, but also by doubtful (or unsympathetic) strangers, family, or even health professionals. While many invisible illnesses are now recognized by the medical community, achieving a diagnosis can be highly difficult, with those presenting with symptoms often viewed as “exaggerating” their problems. Such disbelief is much greater within general society.

Particularly if one is a young person, one’s symptoms are often labeled as exaggerated or “all in your head”. Too often, sufferers are referred to mental health professionals instead of, rather than in addition to, continuing to pursue a possible medical diagnosis.

As a former clinical psychologist, I know this only too well. When I last worked, a decade ago, I would meet with clients who were referred by physicians who had not been able to come up with a medical diagnosis for what were devastating physical symptoms. Not finding a clear reason for a patient’s suffering can be frustrating for any health professional, whose treatment plan often depends on an accurate diagnosis. Many of these health professionals were compassionate, hoping that psychotherapy could be beneficial to the person. However, others were not, deeming the patient’s physical symptoms as fantastical.

While I tried my best to help clients by providing them with the tools I had for learning how to cope with chronic pain and the stress of being ill, “learning to cope” should not be the goal of any clinician, particularly when the reasons for the client’s debilitating problems are not yet known. While learning how to accept what is not in one’s control, and trying to figure out how to still live a meaningful, rich life with a chronic condition, is indeed an important part of therapy, such acceptance should not mean that the medical avenue towards finding a diagnosis is closed.

In the years since working as a psychologist, I’ve seen some positive movement within the health care community in terms of both understanding and acknowledging that often complex invisible illnesses such as ME/CFS are valid medical conditions (ME/CFS was previously dismissed as “the Yuppie flu” by health professionals). For far too many who are suffering, however, such movement remains much too slow, with the path towards even obtaining a diagnosis far too long. As a result, any real increase in public awareness or acceptance of illnesses that aren’t obvious to the naked eye, remains at a standstill.

I know this intimately, having witnessed my daughter go through her teen years experiencing recurring, debilitating pain and extreme digestive problems, which led to numerous, often invasive (and humiliating) procedures, only to have her symptoms trivialized or dismissed (“You should take more walks”; “Baths help!”, “Avoid baths!”, “It’s your anxiety talking–try more therapy!”, “Just think positive thoughts!”, “Practice lazy-8 breathing!”). It was only in the last year that she was diagnosed with fibromyalgia, and, following a week-long hospitalization, also with ulcerative colitis. While yes, therapy definitely helped her to cope with clinical anxiety issues, it did little to reduce the pain that would cause her to double over on the floor, crying out for help.

It is for her, and for others like her, that I am writing this.

As was true for my daughter, those suffering from an invisible illness (or illnesses) are often young, an age group that is too frequently dismissed by health professionals (including psychologists) as being attention seekers (“Look at me!”) and drama queens (“Poor me!”), who are at high risk for social contagion (“OMG, I read about this online–I must have it, too!”). In other words, if a young person (and in particular, a teen girl or young woman) meets with a health professional who is not trained in invisible illnesses, a bias already exists the moment they walk in the office (“You look so healthy! You’re too young to be this sick!”). It’s no wonder that many sufferers may want to give up, as repeatedly having to advocate for oneself, when no one believes you, is damn difficult for anyone, let alone if you’re a teenager or young adult.

It is also no surprise that, when feeling ignored, dismissed, disempowered, and likely very much alone, many individuals seek out others who have similar experiences. Doing so by connecting online makes good sense, given that the often unpredictable symptoms people struggle with can make scheduling “in real life” meetings often impossible. Many people suffering from an invisible illness refer to themselves as “spoonies”, based on an idea developed by blogger Christine Miserandino, who used it as a metaphor to explain what living with a chronic illness (lupus) was like. Spoon theory uses individual “spoons” to represent units of energy, with a chronically ill person having a limited number to be used throughout any given day. How quickly one’s spoons are used up depends not only on the activity being done, but on such factors as pain level, sleep, or if one’s symptoms have worsened or improved. On some days, even basic activities such as showering and making meals may use up all of one’s spoons. Regardless, the number of spoons one has is finite. Many have found this metaphor not only helpful for themselves, but for others in their lives, in terms of better understanding what living with a chronic illness is like.

Unfortunately, the term “spoonie” has been used against sufferers to mock or trivialize their experiences, somehow suggesting that if someone identifies as such, they must be defining themselves purely by their illness, with the added implication being that said illness might not even be real.

Keeping this in mind, the idea that any author with widespread influence would promote such stereotypes is unconscionable. What writer with power would propagate the belief that a vulnerable group’s experiences are invalid, worthy of mockery and derision? Could it, perchance, be a writer who has done the very same thing with another marginalized group before?

Throughout The Ink Black Heart Rowling contrasts people who have valid, visible, “real” illness/disabilities, with those who do not. Between these two groups lies a chasm, the distance between them too large to ignore. Members of one group are described as strong, the other weak. One group is stoic, the other emotional and dramatic. One group desires to “get on with it”, to live their lives “despite” their difficulties, to even excel, while the other not only wallows, but defines themselves by (and perhaps even revels in) being ill, the term “spoonie” tossed around like a football. Can you guess which group is which?

One of the two protagonists of The Ink Black Heart is Strike, a man with a visible (“real”) disability. He is a private detective trying to find a murderer in this not bad/not great crime thriller. When we first meet Strike, he is described as a man who isn’t conventionally handsome (this is emphasized repeatedly), but still attracts rich, unbelievably beautiful women who are lucky enough to meet him.

He is also an amputee who experiences pain and discomfort on a daily basis, having had lost much of his leg during a bomb attack as a soldier. And soldier is the key word. Strike’s disability, while often causing him significant, quite realistic suffering, does not stop him from solving great mysteries. No. Strike soldiers on. He goes beyond the call of duty, despite the physical harm he may be causing himself by overusing his damaged leg, bewitching a slew of gorgeous women along the way. Because? That’s what people do who have legitimate, visible disabilities. Do they wallow in their suffering, or demand the compassion of others? No, sir. They don’t define life by their challenges. Instead, they grab it by the balls, often annoyed if anyone deigns to mention their potential limitations. Spoonie-schmoonie!

A lesser, but still significant character in the book is Vikas. He is described as a young genius, a former child prodigy who entered Cambridge University at the age of 16, obtained his PhD in astrophysics at the age of 23, and who (obviously!) won an international research award before his prefrontal lobes were even fully developed.

Did I mention that he has cerebral palsy, is confined to a motorized wheelchair, has limited function in his hands, and has to use other forms of communication, other than speaking verbally, to convey his thoughts?

Oh, gentle reader. Why should I? After all, he is only doing what anyone with a real, visible disability or illness does. They get on with it. They are resilient, and don’t get stuck in the muck. They refuse to define themselves by their challenges, or let any limitation get in their way. Because? Wallowing is only something people who desperately want to use their illness or disability to gain attention and sympathy do.

Of course in the real world those with significant visible disabilities can be (and are) as bright, creative, and capable of achieving great things, as those who are not ill/disabled. Rowling describing disabled characters so positively could have been a very good thing, an enlightening thing, had their accomplishments not been venerated at the expense of those with medical conditions that are complex and not so visible. Unfortunately, Rowling instead hammers us over the head with the stereotype of invisible illness sufferers (#spoonies) as indulgent, self-pitying catastrophizers, people who can never stop complaining, and who can never be quite satisfied, like Princess and the Pea.

The primary “princess” in The Ink Black Heart is Kea, who is depicted as a diva incarnate, someone whose entire raison d’etre is to be in the spotlight.

Our initial impression of Kea is from her Twitter bio, which reads:

“Spoonie–CFS–POTs — fibromyalgia — she/they”

(Note: Kea is only referred to as “she” throughout the novel, so I will use that pronoun, as well)

On Kea’s tumblr page is an image of several spoons, on which she describes herself as “Disabled artist — fashion, music and bird lover — life right now is mostly about being sick”, as well as “CF — fibromyalgia — POTs — allodynia — I need more spoons…”

Also on tumblr she writes: “It’s fine not to ‘work’ or ‘achieve’. Feeling guilty that you aren’t able to do either is the result of internalized capitalism”.

Kea overuses hashtags to the point of ridiculousness, something that the valiant Strike or Vikas would never stoop so low to do. At one point, fourteen hashtags are listed, including “spoonie”, “cfs”, “invisible illness”, “triggers”, and “ableism”.

Kea is continually described as a young woman who does not “get on with it”. No. In sharp contrast to our swarthy hero, or to the child genius who made his parents proud, Kea drops out of university, runs back to her mother, and hides out in her childhood home. Kea is painted as a 25-yr-old who refuses to grow up, instead seeking validation and attention for her supposed ailments through social media, as well as online communities of fellow attention-seekers. Chronic fatigue syndrome? Fibromyalgia? Some odd condition that involves fainting? Oh, poor, silly Kea. Clearly you are faking, or, at best, exaggerating your circumspect problems, as sprinting out of your home at one point to avoid having to speak to Strike (despite supposedly being bedbound) clearly proves. When it comes to Kea, it’s all about me, me, me!

Kea is described repeatedly as exuding unbelievable beauty, a stereotypical milkmaid, her skin a perfect porcelain, her eyes bright, her lips ruby red, her hair shining.

Since time immemorial, beauty has connoted health. Kea is obviously a pathetic, yet aggravating, likely duplicitous young person who squanders her one redeeming feature–her highly visible beauty–by fixating on what’s invisible and likely unreal. How can you expect any of us readers to take you seriously, Kea? Rowling certainly doesn’t.

In case there’s any doubt that Kea, with her “spoonie” hashtags and her multiple vague illnesses lacks credibility, a meeting at a pub between her and Strike makes her ridiculousness clear, with Kea being depicted as an attention-seeking, highly dramatic person, in sharp contrast to the level-headed, rational Strike. In reaction to sad but expected news, she begins to sob dramatically, reminding Strike of his equally dramatic ex-fiancee, who seemed to revel in such histrionic public displays.

During the same meeting, Kea uses her physical symptoms as a diversionary tactic, including saying she is experiencing tachycardia, dizziness, and faintness, while rubbing her chest dramatically, and clutching the table with both hands to emphasize the severity of her problems. Strike, of course, ignores such displays, making it obvious that Kea is play-acting.

A lesser character is also described as suffering from ME/CFS, the highly unpleasant Inigo. Unlike Kea, he is described as sickly looking, his face puffy and yellow, his legs suggesting muscle wasting. Yet much like Kea, he seems intent on making sure others are always aware of his extreme suffering, screaming and swearing from a wheelchair at his daughter to keep away when she has a slight cold, yelling that he will end up bedridden for several weeks if she remains in the room (note: later in the book, despite requiring a wheelchair throughout his home, he is able to walk to a pub, using only a walking stick, in order to make a clandestine phone call). Again, much like Kea, he is a petulant, demanding character, who also seems to believe the world owes him its full attention, his frequent bellowing at his family clearly meant to be as aggravating to the reader as Kea’s hysterics. Both he and Kea share not only an invisible illness (ME/CFS), but refuse to even attempt to live meaningful lives. Both are (at the very least) prone to exaggeration, with incredibly unappealing personalities. It seems that for Rowling, these things are inextricably linked.

So, why does the way Rowling describes illness and disability, the way she shapes her characters as either having legitimate, recognizable physical challenges or questionable, blown-out-of-proportion problems an issue? Why not just read the damn book for what it is, a decent, yet overly verbose, and bewilderingly long thriller? Why take offense?

Because, as any author who intends to write about characters whose experiences are completely foreign to their own knows, before putting pen to paper one must ensure that the appropriate research has been done, however time-consuming that might be. This is particularly true when it comes to writing about characters with disabilities or illnesses. Because? Authors (especially those whose books are best sellers worldwide) are well aware that how they depict a condition, community, or identity will inevitably influence their readership, especially if said condition, community, or identity is not well known.

Thus, by repeatedly implying that visible illnesses or disabilities are the ones that are legitimate, and are associated with resilience, stoicism, and “getting on with it”, while those that are invisible are possibly fake, and are inevitably related to the weak personality of the supposed sufferer, societal stereotypes and prejudice are only bolstered.

Adding to that is the casual mockery of those who call themselves “spoonies”. Rowling’s narrative reinforces a prejudice that has been found within society, as well as health professional circles, since the days of Freud: that of the quintessential hysteric. It’s implied that such people are stuck in the muck of their disabilities, that they tend to exaggerate their problems, and should not to be taken seriously. Dismiss them, mock them, pity them, distance yourself from them. Don’t allow them to suck you in with their unremitting demands for attention. Don’t be a part of their ongoing drama. Their problems are often of their own making, created by boredom or an imagination in overdrive, and are, quite frankly, self-serving. People with real illnesses or disabilities don’t allow themselves to be defined by their difficulties. They pull themselves up by their bootstraps. They succeed at the art of living, sometimes even pushing themselves too hard. A person whose meaning of success is a day in which they showered, cooked, and did laundry is therefore pitiful, as such a low bar must be due to a weak character, rather than to the fact that there are real limits one can’t always overcome, when dealing with a debilitating condition.

Yes, Rowling is a novelist. Yes, of course novels can have characters who are flawed. And yes, of course it isn’t a novelist’s job to educate their readers, but rather to entertain, the world of Strike being as fictional as that of Harry Potter. That said, Rowling’s role as the creator of fantasy does not mean that she is blameless. Quite the opposite.

While it’s true Rowling introduced readers to the concept of “muggles”, and no one was the worse for it, the same can’t be said when it comes to invisible illnesses and “spoonies”. When an author writes a character who is part of a vulnerable or disenfranchised group that has a history of being stereotyped, and they depict said character in a way that only promotes and reinforces such stereotyping, that is a problem, whether the stereotyping is grossly offensive or more subtle.

As is true of society in general, the average reader of The Ink Black Heart is unlikely to have much awareness or understanding of chronic illnesses such as fibromyalgia or ME/CFS, other than that the sufferer may be exaggerating their symptoms for attention, or may even be faking. After all, the “Yuppie flu” concept was widely accepted by the health care community not that long ago.

Keeping this in mind, it’s disturbing that the only characters an author of incredible influence creates who have these misunderstood illnesses are individuals who are highly unpleasant, dramatic, histrionic, and likely duplicitous. To the average reader, Kea (or Inigo) may either be their first introduction to people with invisible illnesses, or may serve to reinforce stereotypes they already hold towards family members, coworkers, or acquaintances.

A large proportion of Rowling’s readers are middle-aged, the very demographic most likely to have adolescent or young adult children. As mentioned previously, it is young people with chronic, complex symptoms who are at heightened risk of being dismissed or doubted by those in their lives, too often deemed a demanding liar or a suggestible dramatic, when they try to talk about or seek help for their chronic difficulties.

What an injustice Rowling is doing to these individuals, by giving their parents, friends, or family “evidence” that they were right all along, that the extreme exhaustion, recurring pain, or sudden faintness their teen or young adult is experiencing is truly is “all in their head”. And forget calling oneself a “spoonie”, or trying to connect with people online who truly “get it”. Such online communities are clearly toxic to “suggestible” young people, as Kea’s character shows. After all, Rowling said it, so it must be so.

Again, with great influence comes misplaced authority. And, whether it’s tweeting about trans women being a potential threat to cis women, or creating fictional characters with uncommon illnesses who are self-pitying, attention-seeking stereotypes, the damage is the same.

While I shouldn’t have been surprised by what I found in The Ink Black Heart, I still was. Do better, Rowling. As yes, I read the damn book.