Cailey Tin: First and foremost, thank you, Julia, for taking the time to have this interview with me. Having your YA dystopian debut novel Lone Player come out this July 2023 must make you very busy, and we’re so excited about its release! Without further ado, here are 16 burning questions prepared for you–all about the writing process, book recommendations, and getting your debut trilogy through the publishing process. 

What was the core idea that inspired your debut novel, Lone Player? And its name is also super cool, where did you get it from?

J: I found my inspiration for Lone Player when I was about twelve years old. I was scrolling through Pinterest and found a photo of a playing card tattoo that I really liked. It got me thinking–what if everyone had playing card tattoos? What would that society look like? I eventually tied in population control, and after that I developed the system of Running and Chasing.

While this is what inspired the world-building aspects for me, at its core, I suppose the main thing that inspired Lone Player was the concept of a Runner and a Chaser actually knowing each other. I was really interested in this relationship dynamic. I kept thinking, how can you unlearn that kind of hate? Or is there even hate there to begin with? I wondered what would drive a person to Run or Chase in the first place, even if they knew the consequences, which is how I eventually came up with the relationship between Ren and Eddie.

As far as the title goes, it actually took me quite a bit of time to find one that I felt suited the book best. I tested out a lot of different names, but I didn’t come up with Lone Player until I was scrolling through a list of playing card terms, and that one immediately caught my eye. The term refers to an independent card player, essentially, and I thought it really tied into the overall theme of the book.

What aspect of your books do you treasure the most? Were there any scenes that felt particularly easier or harder to write?

J: The aspect that I treasure the most in Lone Player is probably the relationships between all the characters. I spent a lot of time really diving into sibling bonds, platonic friendships, and romantic interests. I wanted to reflect all sorts of relationship dynamics authentically.

In Ren and Eddie, I wanted to explore the conflict one might feel when they care for someone who may or may not be “good for them,” and the kind of bonds that are created when people go through hard experiences together.

Since I’m really close with my brothers (they’re my best friends), I also really wanted to illustrate strong sibling bonds between Ren and his twin sister Margot, Eddie and her younger brother Milo, and another sibling pair that readers will eventually get to know.

A lot of scenes in Lone Player felt really natural to write. I’ve talked about this before, but I essentially write my first drafts out of order; I’m always writing down scenes that pop into my head, and eventually I put them all in the right place like I’m doing a puzzle. The first ever scene I actually wrote was Ren completing his first assignment as a Chaser. While a lot of details have changed since Draft 1, that one flowed really naturally. All the scenes with Aaron and Eddie felt really easy to write, too.

However, there were a lot of scenes that were really challenging for me, and it took me quite a few drafts to get them right. I really struggled with Ren’s training chapters and also with some of the fight scenes. The single hardest part to write was definitely the climax, since it contained a lot more action than I was used to.

When did you know that you wanted to be an author? Did you write any books you’ve written before Lone Player? 

J: I’ve been a writer for as long as I can remember. I’ve spent my whole life planning story ideas and starting books I never finished. Storytelling is just something I’ve always done and I’ve never not been writing something.

I’ve always wanted to publish a book. However, in terms of my career, I didn’t realize I wanted to be a professional author until quarantine. I grew up wanting to be a marine biologist so I could study cartilaginous fishes (sharks, rays, etc.), but after my chronic Lyme disease and co-infections took a turn for the worse in the middle of my sophomore year in high school (which was also the start of quarantine), I realized a physically-demanding job like that might not have been too realistic for me, especially after I had a couple of major leg surgeries. Plus, while I love science, I hate the math that comes with it.

So during this time, when I was about fifteen, I realized I wanted to be an author instead. Writing was the perfect solution. It was flexible enough to work around my illness and bad legs, and I just really felt drawn to it. Maybe I’ll do something else on the side someday to keep me busy— like working the front desk of some haunted Victorian-style inn or antique shop— but writing is at the center of what I want to do.

I haven’t written any books before Lone Player. As I mentioned before, I grew up writing, but I never actually finished an entire project until this book. I don’t think I would have finished it if it weren’t for the Lost Island contest, which gave me the deadline and pressure I needed to get over my fears and simply write. I still can’t believe my very first (and very rough) manuscript won, but to me, it’s an important symbol of what might happen if you do things that scare you now and then.


How long do you take to draft your books, and what does your author process look like? 

J: The amount of time it takes me to draft my books varies from project to project. For Lone Player, I wrote the first draft in 28 days because I was in such a hurry to submit it in time for the contest. After my publication deal, when it was time for me to write Draft 1 of the second book, it took me about three months to finish it, more or less.

I’ve been working on my current WIP (Project Sink— the YA fantasy romance I’ve been working on when I’m on Lone Player breaks) since the end of March, and after two months I’m about 60k words in. But I have other works in progress that I’ve been chipping away at really slowly, like my young adult fantasy series, Project Spirit, which has been around for a little over a year and I’m only a few chapters in.

So it really just depends on a lot of external factors, and how much of the book I already have figured out in my head. [As for] my writing process, it’s pretty chaotic. I mentioned this earlier, but I like to write my books in pieces.

I start out with a document where I make basic bullet-point notes about the characters, setting, plot, etc. Then I add a section called “Scenes to Organize,” where I write down all the scenes that are floating around in my head so I can keep track of them and organize it all later. I usually have a chapter-by-chapter outline that I’ll sort these scenes into.

This all goes on while I’m drafting. While I do like to have the skeleton of an outline before I dive into a writing project, I’m mostly a discovery writer, and I never have a book fully planned out before I start drafting.

Are there any characters from your book that are similar to real life people you know? (And do they know that a character is based on them? Haha.)

J: I don’t usually base my characters off of people in real life. Sometimes it happens subconsciously, but not in Lone Player. However, certain aspects of my characters are definitely inspired by real life things. For example, while Margot is her own character and we’re not really that much alike, her experiences with chronic Lyme disease and co-infections and mental health are inspired by my own. I’m also pretty sure Eddie has pieces of my anxiety, and Ren definitely has a bit of my OCD. None of this is really on purpose but I think a lot of my characters each hold different aspects of my personality.

I only realized this a week ago, actually, but I also noticed that parts of Ren and Eddie’s dynamic are heavily inspired by certain people I’ve been around in earlier parts of my life. Their story is completely fictional, but like Ren and Eddie, I also had a childhood friend I pushed away because I let my fear control my life, and like them, I’ve always been too afraid to reach out and try to make amends. I don’t think this particular person knows that pieces of our story are hidden in Lone Player but it’s definitely something I included subconsciously.

What would you say is your interesting writing quirk? 

J: I’d say my most interesting writing quirk is the fact that I dream in stories. A lot of book ideas come to me in my sleep. Sometimes it’s literally like I’m watching a movie. There are characters played by actors, plots, movie trailers, a soundtrack, even a credits sequence at the end. It’s really bizarre. One of my most vivid ones even has its own folder in my Google Drive as a potential writing project.

Have you ever written something and loved it at the start, then lost motivation mid-way and gave up on it? If not, how do you deal with a lack of motivation as an author?

J: I’ve definitely written things I’ve loved at the start—and then lost motivation mid-way. Although it’s really challenging, I do believe motivation is something that constantly fluctuates, and I think it’s really important to listen to your own intuition as a writer. If you’re not held down by publication deadlines or external commitments, I think it’s important to simply write what you’re in the mood for. If you’re not feeling up to writing something, that’s okay! You can come back to it later and that’s the beauty of being a writer. Just make sure you never delete any of your ideas.

Lone Player is actually the perfect example of this. Like I mentioned before, I came up with the idea when I was about twelve. I brainstormed a bit, sketched out some character ideas, and then gave up on it because I got distracted by another project (that I don’t remember). But I kept that page of notes on my Google Drive, and by the time I was seventeen, searching for an idea that felt right to work on for the Lost Island contest, I stumbled across those notes again. Now, I have a debut novel ready to be published on July 8, and publication deals for the next 2 books in the trilogy.

Another example is something I heard from Brandon Sanderson’s writing lectures on YouTube. He mentioned that it took him ten years to get Way of Kings right, and now it’s one of his most successful books, and the first in a really moving series that readers feel very connected to. It’s one of his best works.

So when you lose motivation, don’t think of it as the end of a project. Think of it as a detour. We’re meant to do things exactly when we do them, so I think if you’re drawn to other projects, that’s perfectly okay. It’s also completely fine to give up on a project if it feels right. But if you’re struggling with your motivation, maybe it’s simply time to switch things up a bit.

What is the most difficult part of being a writer for you? 

J: For me, the most difficult part of being a writer is the insecurity. Thanks to my anxiety and OCD, I struggle with a really bad imposter’s syndrome. I always feel like the things I’m writing make no sense, or that I’m upsetting people, or that I’m just not good. Another thing I worry about is that my story has already been written, or that it’s too simple.

There are so many worries a person can have as an author, especially if you’re a perfectionist like me. But by writing through the worries, I’ve learned a lot about how to handle my fears and perfectionism. The best thing you can do if you struggle with something similar is to write anyway, even if it’s scary.

Has dystopian books always been your favorite genre, or do you plan to write something else in the future? (P.S. if you love dystopian books, don’t be shy in dropping some recs hahahaha.) 

J: I love dystopian books, but my favorite genre has always been fantasy. I was raised on sci-fi and fantasy classics, and while I love both, fantasy is my home. I’m actually a bit surprised that I chose to write a dystopian novel for my debut, because fantasy was always what came easiest to me. However, I’m only half surprised, since I came up with the idea right in the middle of the 2010’s YA dystopian era. I think my favorite YA dystopian rec is the Arc of a Scythe series. I also really enjoyed The Fifth Wave, and The Hunger Games, of course. 

I have a lot of writing plans for the future. There are a couple dystopian ideas in there— a really fun post-apocalyptic one particular— but mostly fantasy.


Did you always know that Lone Player was going to be the first book of a trilogy? And what was the feeling of knowing that you were embarking on a journey that could take a considerably huge amount of time? 

J: I think I always knew that Lone Player was going to be the first book in a trilogy. When I submitted the first draft for the Lost Island contest, I honestly had no idea what book 2 or 3 would be about, but it just felt like the kind of story that would make a good trilogy.

It’s pretty strange to think about how long this journey has already been and how long it will be. I was seventeen when I wrote the first draft, and now I’m nineteen and a completely different person. By the time the third book is out, I’ll be in my twenties, and probably someone entirely new. It’s really weird to think that this trilogy is going on a journey right alongside my own journeys in life, but it’s also very comforting to think about how much progress I’ve made. Excited for what the future holds!

Being an author while juggling it with school is extremely difficult. How did you navigate this?

J: Yes— being an author while in school is really hard.

I mentioned my surgeries and my battle with Lyme earlier. I was too sick to finish school so I had to graduate early and take a few years off of school while I was still at home, so when I wrote Lone Player, I was actually already graduated and kind of taking a gap year, if you will. This is how I had the time to write Lone Player in only 28 days.

Now that I’m in college, however, I have to be really strategic about how I balance out my writing. I make an effort to write a little bit every day. With last semester’s schedule, I had at least four hours total in breaks between classes every day, so I’d spend that time writing in the library. I also made an effort to visit coffee shops after class to get some writing done before I got home, which is when I worked on my assignments. Separating my schedule based on location really worked for me. Libraries and coffee shops were for writing, and home was for homework. It’s all about finding a balance that works for you, and being consistent with your writing habits. The more consistent you are, the easier it is to fit writing into your schedule.

Since you’re also an avid reader, I’d like to know–what books inspired aspects of your own projects? Do you read the same genres you write? 

J: Yes, I’m definitely an avid reader! Scythe, The Fifth Wave, and The Hunger Games were definitely huge inspirations for Lone Player, since I read those books in middle school (around the same time that I developed the idea for LP).

I usually read the same genres I write, mostly fantasy. But I’ve also been enjoying a few contemporary romances lately, which isn’t something I expected.

If you’re curious, my favorite book is definitely The Cruel Prince! Cardan has my whole heart. I also really enjoyed An Enchantment of Ravens and A Far Wilder Magic.

On the topic of books, who are your favorite authors and what aspect of their writing do you admire the most? 

J: My favorite authors include Holly Black of course, Brandon Sanderson, and Margaret Rogerson, among many others. I love the characters and fairy folklore in Holly Black’s work, the world-building and intricate plots in Brandon Sanderson’s, and the really immersive, almost Ghibli-esque quality of Margaret Rogerson’s writing.

What was the first book that made you cry? 

J: The first book that made me cry was probably All the Light We Cannot See. I sobbed for hours after reading that book, and I re-read it three times after and cried even more. But if you want to go even farther back, then it was probably the Puff, the Magic Dragon picture book.

What journey do you want readers to go through as they read Lone Player, along with the other two books in the trilogy? 

J: There are quite a few journeys I think readers might be able to go through while reading Lone Player, including the rest of the trilogy. I think at the heart of the story; I want people to explore the relationships they have in their own lives. I really want readers to dive into what exactly makes them love and why they do it. I also want the story to invite readers to question their own ideas of right vs. wrong.

If you could tell your younger self anything writing related—whether it be publishing advice, drafting tips, anything, what would it be? 

J: If I could tell my younger self anything writing-related, I think I’d tell myself to just write.

I know you’re afraid. I know you’re scared of getting things wrong or not being good enough. But write anyway, because there is no such thing as bad writing. You can’t edit a blank page, and you can’t improve without actually getting the words out first. Always remember that writing is healing, and writing is growth—and it’s okay to do things that scare you every now and then.

Connect with Julia online!
Website- https://juliarosemaryturk.carrd.co/
Blog- https://veryrosemaryreads.com/
Instagram- https://www.instagram.com/juliarosemaryturk/
Visit Lone Player on Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/en/book/show/62210793

Julia Rosemary Turk is an author and artist based in Northern California. She loves all things creative, and she spends her days downing matcha lattes and writing stories. Julia is the winner of the Lost Island writing contest and will have her debut novel, Lone Player, published by Lost Island Press this July 2023. In addition to writing, Julia loves spending time with family, playing cozy games, and listening to indie rock. She's been battling chronic Lyme disease since childhood and considers her illness a crucial part of her identity.

​What is that? Above me, what is that? Inside me, what is that? What is that I see and touch, what is it I have known and found and remembered but cannot tell in words, preserve in words, make eternal in words. What is that I cannot save, from itself and from disease and from time, in words? What is that which I know and lost and see in dreams, as revelations, blind prophecies?

What is that intelligence divine, as Boethius had it, and the mortal reason which stumbles and falters and falls about it? Why, us! — This, only this, I know. I lie seeing it. I lie next to it. I’ve faltered and fallen about it. I see it and know it but cannot take it, save it, preserve it, tell it — for eternity. 

This is the tragedy of language, this our damnation, this the mark of our sin — that we are fleeting, that the world must fall away, that we do not know what we see, that we stumble over our feet, that we make a terrible clatter with words that still must end in silence, nothingness, emptiness — that language and we are mortal — that we can only begin and not be, that we can only begin to exist and not exist, that we are mute — that we stumble and fall in heaps about an empty center, in laughable absurdity, in empty metaphor. — This is the mark of our sin.

Where is our sin? Is it an emptiness or an excess? Can we see our sin or only its mark? We are damned to half-blindness; we only know marks and symbols, metaphors and vessels of our truth, allegories and abstractions of ourselves; we only know language and not the thing inside it, not the thing it holds.

For what the war? What is there? What do they want? What do they have, what have they known that they have not (that is not there), what have they lost, what is that which they cannot lose, that for which the earth is washed in blood. 

I see them and where they go. I know the stolid stillness of defense. I know they are virtuous. 

For what the war? For them and for their wings I stand. For the sacred mind, for the mind’s freedom I lay down utterly my neck. 

For the mind is to be worshipped, for God is of the mind, for the mind made the world and then a God to make it. For a person is mind and not body. For the mind is the soul. I worship the mind and collect its tears. And its tears are words, its tears are language — and we are minds but do not know them, and that separation and that distance is the distance of man from God, of body from mind — we are minds but do not know them, we do not know ourselves — damned to only look ahead, damned to half-blindness — we do not know our minds, we do not know ourselves — and words (language) are our tears — ours is a language of weeping. Silence. For what the war?

God and his word are the mind’s, that divinity’s, that humanity’s. The mind thought, and all came to pass. The mind made God. 

Poetry as possession of the poet. As Heidegger has it, poetry comes from beneath the poet, from the earth, through the poet; poetry as the earth’s mire and filth, poetry as disgust at the earth and at nature. — Poeta vates. The poet as prophet.

Chaucer’s mundanity, Chaucer that pierced the folds of history, that rose from medieval tedium and made himself naked to the night storm, to the violence of the future. Geoffrey Chaucer, that remembered the pining Boethius and the self-pricking Augustine and the free-living ancients, that wound history and tradition and poetry into a vortex that unfurled itself two centuries later, and the Renaissance and Shakespeare and Milton and brave England came to be. 

And Geoffrey Hill that poetic digger who died seven years ago, who saw and birthed our human past into the back-blind present and put on us metaphor’s armor that we may stand and hold and live past the night storm. I found that armor and wore it and it has heavied me and made me see the earth beneath me, Heidegger’s earth beneath the world, Heidegger’s poetry, Heidegger’s poetry as the brute earth and sea that possess me and rise through me, through my head as an Athena from her depraved father. — The poet is blind and is nothingness, is absence, and poetry is of itself, conceals itself, looks forward and back, is presence, is everything. — Chaucer that first wound up the mystery. 

Baudelaire’s dreams, Baudelaire’s abyss, abyss of thought and symbol. The abyss of language. Language that is at once overcome by poetry, conquered by poetry, and that births poetry, lays it down, structures it, births it. Baudelaire’s dreams: the sea, the winged poet and the mocking sailors, the morning’s muses and the night storms, phantasms, the night’s fever, the disease of thought. Baudelaire’s dream of a literature after God, a world after God, a people that killed God — as Hegel and Nietzsche dreamed not long or far away. This dream Bach in his blind cave knew, Bach new God had died, and so sought to make God with his cantatas, his passions, his fever and fugue, the Art of the Fugue, Die Kunst Der Fugue. 

But hypocrisy can be smelt. He was frightened, and I forgive him. Baudelaire’s dreams, Baudelaire’s abyss. My disgust at myself, my disgust at death, my life as a turning inwards and disgust at the sight. Death can be smelt. Schumann smelt his death, and they thought him mad. Van Gogh too, Keats too, Shelley and Byron perhaps. Yes, Death can be smelt.--

The mind is the only eternity. The mind is the only God. And I lay it down, mind, eternity, God, in ink onto the page.

How many eternities will I make? Many, many. And I will need none of them between the last breath and death, that silence, that dark metaphor, that abstraction of the flesh, — I’ll need none of them. But see, death is no eternity; it is a cursed and fallen soul. It is all except eternity. It is the maker of eternity. Only my words, only my tears, will be left when it comes and takes me — Death, the taking wind, my winter — And my words will sing in the winter of my days.


These numbers, all this I have been given, I have found by prophecy under the first snow of winter — where the flowers were, where the earth lies dead, where the poet digs. 

The poem as a choice, as the necessity of itself over all else. The poem as the negation of eternity. The poem as a radical, political choice of itself over all else — a choice of the oblivion of language, the temporality of language, the inadequacy and vulgarity of language — a rejection of eternity for withering ecstasy — a rejection of eternity for oblivion, of divinity for damnation, of divinity for sin, of God for man.

“In the day we eat thereof our doom is, we shall die.” So Milton heard, so the Fathers, so the twentieth century mutters and spits, so I remember, so we know and say, so we thank them that made us. 

Winter blows the taking wind. A fever comes. A cold fever. The body rots under new snow. Winter takes away. The wind takes away. Life takes away. Death takes away. And what is left? 

The word that is the mind. The mind that is the word. The mind that is God. God that is the word. The poet that is God. The mind, the word, the poet. Neither life rots me nor the wind blows me off, because my word remains. 

All this I found in winter, heard of the wandering wind. All this in winter, of the wind.

​Nickolas is a columnist for the Paper Crane.

​Caption: ​The Virgin Annunciate, Antonello da Messina, c. 1476. The Virgin is, here, come to the knowledge of her conception of Christ not by an angel but from the book before her, from the Word. The act of materially impossible conception, the birth of Christ, comes to be, comes to existence, only when it is written of, passing from the Virgin’s verbal annunciation to the written chronicle of the birth, passing from Word to Word — with the material being of the birth of Christ between these, with the fleshly and actual real, with the time of the phenomenon, being irrelevant, if not nonexistent. The Virgin hears the announcing angel, reads the text before her, and at once knows of the birth, at once births and foresees and remembers. It is written, and it is known and was and is at once. Thus the world is made in or by the Word; thus we are made and come to know ourselves as our gaze falls upon the Word; thus the Word is the initiating gaze of God, as the face or mask of God, which we reciprocate; thus we, as the Virgin, birth the Word and from our rotting flesh eternity comes forth, thus in dust and at the end eternity begins, the Word stands.

What, in its creation and being, emergence and existence, movement and stasis, action and witness; what, in its creation of itself and of its subject; what, in its spontaneity and eternity; what, in its appearance, sudden or eternally postponed; what, in its beginning and end and timeless being; what, in the reality, in the world it creates; what, in its creation and its gaze upon itself, upon its creation and upon the world; what, in all these, in itself, is the Word?

Treating the Word simultaneously to be the singular or particular element — though in itself a whole of wholes (syllables, morphemes, etc.) of parts or indivisible wholes (individual letters) — of language, of language as art (poetry) and to be the whole of language and of the poem, the word becomes a whole in itself (the particular word) and a whole existing or emerging as the apparent accumulation of wholes (the Word of particular words) — or the image, the indivisible reflection, of such an accumulation. We then approach the question of the Word as symbol, as mask behind which there is nothing; the question of the birth of the Word, whence it comes and whither; the question of the Word’s subject, that which the Word represents, mimics, becomes — the mask which the Word (itself a mask) wears; the question of the Word’s meaning, the subject which the Word itself creates, either initially or retrospectively; and the question of the Word as it is in the subjective, passive and absent gaze — the Word as it emerges and moves forth and stands motionless in its being, at last part of a greater indivisible image (a poetic image whole), reflected from the sum (the above accumulation) of words. 

The last question — of the Word as it is in our subjectivity, our absent gaze, as it is thus a perception or symbol of its objective self, a mask before a mask before nothingness or absence — presents to us the conclusion, or rather a notation which is stepping stone along a greater path, that the Word creates itself, demarcates itself its terms and limits and foundation for existence. This self-birth nevertheless is not preceded by this self-demarcation of the footing for this birth, but the latter process occurs simultaneously with the former — both thrusting the Word into absolute existence (absolute existence as object-existence that does not follow any movement of becoming, towards existence) — the Word, in its birth and foundation to hold its birth, being neither emergent nor moving but already existing. The Word does not emerge from out or within the present time, from out or within our gaze, as a phenomenon, but rather enters our gaze from without, stands across from us, in absolute and timeless being — and we, mute, wordless, take the Word — that come to us from outside our gaze and our subjectivity — for our own. 

The Word is neither emergent from nor existent within our gaze which is directed towards the present, our subjectivity, but comes to us and emerges from us as a timeless, abyssal, insuperable whole of itself. This is to say — as the ancients called poets prophets (poeta vates) — that the Word, if a timeless transcendent and descending whole, is the face God, a mask behind which is the presence of absence, a symbol which thrusts forth and stands unmoving in absolute existence, without a present or past or future. And as the Word descends and falls to come within our gaze, we scarcely raise our heads and already we see it in its wholeness and know it and birth it from our lips and pens as the fruit of our thought — a fallen, mortal, material fruit that was whole and eternal before its earthly conception. The resultant sum of words — brought into ink from the thrusting forth of this wholeness, this poetic force in thought — similarly births itself and builds the foundation to hold its birth simultaneously. And, at last, this divisible sum of words creates through reflection an indivisible image (the poetic image whole) which creates, inhabits and transcends each word and part; this image, then, is the Word, the mask before the mask, the face of God in its absolute, unconquerable, unmoving presence and existence without birth or death. The space across which this poetic image whole is reflected is an empty space, the material world, the world of thought, the world and being behind the subjective gaze. 

The Word — as we see it and take it and cast it with our rotting hands onto the rotting ground — is eternity surrogated by mortality, gold found amidst but not formed from dust. It is our tragedy, of our blindness, that our gaze sees our end and nothing beyond it. As it is a presence, the Word is the face of God, a mask which looks at us and we at it, which speaks to us and we write — and we, poets, fall into the earth, kissed and thrown forth by the divinity. We weep and trace an eternity in the dust, we weep and from our rot sing our tragedy, we weep and birth the divinity and end after the birth — we, mute surrogates, passive hordes — seeing, knowing, weeping and without words. 

​The question of national identity, and the questions of national sovereignty and territorial integrity which arise from the question of national identity, all of which are central to the Russo-Ukrainian War, must be defined categorically, addressed and resolved universally, if this war, and the historical conflict of which it is born, is to end at last — if at last life, the human right to live, is placed above everything else, above all ideas and philosophies and politics, if at last the guiltless masses cease to bleed for the ideas of the fanatical few. 

Language — as it is the expression of a people, their distinct political and cultural voice that emerges out of historical conflict, settlement and political struggle — prescribes the individual to a people sharing the language and, consequently, to the history, artistic and literary expression and political struggle of that people. These facets of society — historical and political consciousness, artistic and intellectual expression — as much as they exist within language and are born from language, create for the people of that language a collective understanding of self, of shared history and present-day politics — a collective world-gaze which, as distinct from those of other societies, drives a distinct expression through art and politics. This drive for expression (and thus for existence), as it is directed by collective history, creates a collective people’s culture and concept of nationhood or national identity.  

Being born of a people collected together through shared historical and political experience, with a shared world-gaze, national identity has its original root in language. After language, a people, then a collective consciousness, then a world-gaze, then a culture and politics, then a society and national identity come to be. A nation, then, comes into being after all the aforementioned as a political, practical, differentiation of that people and history and culture, of that society and language, from all others. A political state emerges out of that people, a society forms, geographical borders are defined — and so a nation, as a practical institution for the preservation and protection of a people and history and culture and the language that binds and births all these, comes to be. 

Thus, a people’s national identity, and the language in which it exists, precede and transcend the nation which is a political and purely practical institution that holds within it a people and their identity and language but can in no sense be equated to these or conceived to inform these. 

Russia — as Nazi Germany in the last century and all fascistic and fanatical societies that place the realization of a political or historical-religious mystical vision before life and the individual’s right to live — has premised its aggression in Ukraine and violation of the practical structure of nation (and national borders) on the suggested Russian national identity of inhabitants of eastern Ukraine, a claim deriving from the Russian language usage of those inhabitants. Russia would annex Ukrainian national territory and establish a Russian nation, in the practical structure of a nation, after violating Ukraine’s nation structure; denying a people’s and the individual’s foremost right to live which precedes any notion of national identity, history or language; and thus rejecting the necessity of a nation as a practical structure functioning, in the first place, to preserve a people, to protect human life. 

Russia’s hypocrisy in first violating the (Ukrainian) nation structure, dismissing the foremost value of human life, only to erect a Russian nation structure over mass graves and razed cities — neither to preserve a people nor to protect human life, but first and foremost to establish a new and false national identity — must be denounced, socially and politically, and prosecuted, legally, in the strongest terms and with greatest urgency. For, as any fascistic war, the Russian invasion of Ukraine, reverses the purpose of the political and practical nation structure from firstly preserving a people and thus human life to firstly preserving a national identity, culture, history and language. This reversed nation structure is false — for neither can national identity exist without human life nor should it, as any political ideology or philosophy, be valued before human life or be built on its oppression and sacrifice. 

We, living not a hundred years since the Holocaust, since the second World War, since the Bosnian and Rwandan genocides — we, inheritors of the last century’s evil, our forefathers’ evil, began our century’s first war in Europe and have turned deaf to the historical cry of all those millions oppressed and persecuted and slaughtered. And we commit the same sin, carry into our century the same evil: to value ideas and ideology before life, history and politics before life, national identity before life, land before life; to oppress, conquer and triumph; to deny, again and again, that others have the right to live, the right to life, that they are human.

The war must end, but only with the victory of the nation over national identity, life over ideology, Ukraine over Russia. And as language, as a people and their collective identity and distinct world-gaze, as national identity, transcend the practical nation structure, they must not remain passive to their nation’s bleeding, to its strife for survival — for the nation protects a people, preserves language and history and identity. And without the nation, without just politics and incorruptible law, without principle and courage, we, the people of the world, against evil, in our struggle to life, for all our visions and histories and philosophies, are nothing.

Nickolas is a columnist for the Paper Crane.

​Cailey Tin talks to Shanti Hershenson regarding her creative writing process, coping with severe bullying through poetry, creating awesome book blurbs, and navigating novel publication as a teenager. 

Mr Smith Goes to Washington centers on the efforts of an individual senator against a legislature nearly totally corrupted by a political machine (controlling both public opinion and the government’s private dealings), greed for political and economic gain, and fear of retribution and political ruin for anything less than total allegiance to the political machine’s agenda. Corruption being thus entrenched and the function of government being thus perverted to serve only its members’ personal gain, Mr Smith (in believing politics to be honest, the Senate virtuous and the endurance of the founding principles of American democracy in modern politics) represents the outsider’s, the idealized view of government. The absurdity of Mr Smith’s ignorance is a counterpoint to the absurdity of the total Senate’s corruption, and, while both are improbable, Mr Smith’s characterization is necessary within the satire that is Mr Smith Goes to Washington. Although Mr Smith’s character, his naiveté and boyish reverence for  the American ideal are sentimental and improbable, analogs to his qualities of outsider and disrupter of the status quo (and to his popularity for these qualities) may be drawn from the popularity of the outsider and disrupter in modern American politics; this popularity, unlike that of Mr Smith, stems from public cynicism or apathy, not, as in the film, from idealism.

The film portrays corruption as the norm in state and federal government and personal gain as the aim of government. In this, the film exaggerates the profusion of government corruption, and to this exaggeration the opposite must likewise be an exaggeration: Mr Smith, in contrast to those in power who view power and government as a means for profit, believes that American democracy is unconditionally just, its principles immovable, its founders infallible. Mr Smith, therefore, does not recognize the necessary imperfection, conflict and confused but democratic progress that is government. In this way, Mr Smith’s characterization is improbable for a senator, although necessary to the plot.

Arriving in Washington with little more than knowledge of American history and  abstract sentiments on the virtue of American government, without any knowledge of the practicality of government nor the sensationalism of the media nor the extensive influence of Taylor nor the cynicism of senators, Mr Smith’s effort to pass legislation creating a national boy’s camp becomes a struggle to defend himself against slander, against Paine’s accusation of fraudulence, to prove himself honest and his slanderers fraudulent. Reciting the Declaration of Independence and Lincoln’s Gettysburg address, Mr Smith struggles to remake the Senate into the honest, virtuous body he believed it was; to accomplish this he must overcome Taylor’s influence and the senators’ greed and fear — thus disrupting the corrupt status quo. In this, Smith’s characterization as disruptor is necessary to the plot, believable and applicable to modern politics.

Modern American politics is in part defined by the public’s belief, however unfounded, in the corruption of government. This belief in institutional and, increasingly from the Republican party, electoral corruption attracts cynical or apathetic voters to populist, seemingly outsider candidates (as Donald Trump) who are characterized as Mr Smiths: honest candidates seeking power only to remake government, removed from the practicality and intrigue and thus the alleged corruption of the status quo. Beliefs in the entrenched corruption of government are unjustified and threaten to remake a just democracy into a tyrannous rule of the majority; populist candidates, like Donald Trump, who claim to fight corruption sooner are themselves corrupt, self-serving and undemocratic. Thus, the idealized, virtuous, disruptive image of the political outsider that is Mr Smith is applicable to modern politics sooner as a facade to self-interest, disruption of a democratic status quo, and the chaos of authoritarianism than a necessary reality. Mr Smith’s knowledge of American history, reverence for democracy and American government must be met by the modern politician with a critical and constructive perspective and comprehensive knowledge of the practicality of government. 

The importance of Mr Smith Goes to Washington is its exaggerated, satirical quality which portrays the potential for the corruption of any government, even of American democracy, if the politician fails to balance idealism and skepticism, traditionalism and innovation; if greed is followed before duty; if power becomes its own end. The film at once cautions against cynicism and encourages skepticism and nuanced understanding of politics. In a time of increased polarization, misinformation, media bias and intolerance of disagreeing views, the film portrays the potential for any government to corrupt, any democracy to cease to believe in itself and in the power of one individual against injustice. This portrayal of what may be if we surrender our individuality, our healthy skepticism to the apathy and discontent by which authoritarianism comes to power, is ever more relevant. 

The improbable character of Mr Smith is, then, a symbol of the might of the individual, the urgency for principled government and faith in democracy, the importance of moderation, the necessity for tradition and improvement — for no institution or individual is without flaw.