Sensitivity Readers

Sophi Raju

In my third novel, The Dare, the main character, Lizzie, has epilepsy, and since I don’t suffer from this condition, I made it my business to research it carefully. The book had already been through the copyediting and proofreading stages in the UK and so I was a little surprised when my American publishers told me they wanted to ask a sensitivity reader with experience of epilepsy to take a read prior to publication. I must admit, I was a little apprehensive. What if this reader wasn’t happy with my portrayal? What if I’d made some glaring mistake that would throw the whole premise into the air? 

But any fears I had about the process were soon allayed. My editor was at pains to point out that this was in no way because they’d caught any red flags in the manuscript or were concerned that I hadn’t handled the depiction of someone with epilepsy in a thoughtful, sensitive way. It was, she explained, because there has been a lot of conversation recently surrounding questions of authenticity when a fictional character has an experience, particularly a marginalised experience, that is different from the author’s own, and that they were moving to make it more of a standard practice to have someone with direct and personal knowledge of that experience to take a read. All they asked of me is that I would consider any comments the sensitivity reader might make, or any questions they might raise.

Sensitivity readers are hired to read and assess manuscripts with a specific representational issue in mind. They help to steer the author away from any inaccuracies or one-dimensional representations, and cover areas such as ethnicity and sexuality, physical and mental health, disability and class. They are not, as some would suggest, about censorship, or taking away an author’s freedom of expression. Besides, it would be impossible for one sensitivity reader from a particular group to represent every potential reader from that same community. The notes they suggest come from their own personal experience. Ultimately, all they can do is offer advice and guidance – it is the author and publishing house who make the final decisions. 

As it happened, I found the whole process to be incredibly positive and helpful. My reader validated the research I had undertaken by indicating when something I’d written really rang true with her. She also suggested a few minor changes to wording in one or two places in order to add that extra layer of authenticity, and made me aware of one particular sentence I’d written that might, perhaps, have the potential to cause offence. Now I know there are some writers who might say it’s a slippery slope if we start having to cut everything out of our novels that might possibly offend someone, and I don’t entirely disagree with that argument. But I see no harm in having such things pointed out and then making an informed decision as to whether to keep them in or not. In the end, I decided that the sentence I’d used wasn’t strictly necessary and that a simple re-wording achieved much the same result. 

Since the book came out in March, I’ve been greatly moved by the number of readers with epilepsy who’ve contacted me to say that Lizzie’s thoughts and feelings have chimed with them and that some of her experiences mirror their own. I daresay there will be some who don’t feel the same way, but all I can say is, I have tried my best, and being open to the guidance of a sensitivity reader was an important part of this process.