Every year, Banned Books Week comes around like a mirror we’re asked to look into—and what we see reflected says a great deal about who we are becoming.

The books that end up on “challenged” or “restricted” lists rarely surprise me anymore. They tend to be the ones that speak too plainly about what others would rather not confront—identity, power, the environment, grief, or truth. If a story makes us uncomfortable, it’s easier to remove it from reach than to ask why it unsettles us.

If I’m honest, many of my own books could probably find their way onto those lists.
Stories that speak of youth defying systems, of ancient forces rising against human arrogance, of governments rewriting morality under the guise of progress—these are not comfortable subjects. They’re not meant to be. But that’s the point. Fiction has always been a rehearsal for reality, a space to test our courage and empathy before the world demands them for real.

The trouble is, we now live in a culture that often blurs the line between accountability and erasure. When a story, an idea, or a voice challenges the dominant narrative, the reflex is to cancel—to deplatform, to silence, to scrub from view. But if we silence everything that unsettles us, we lose the capacity to discern, to debate, to grow. Censorship doesn’t begin with governments; it begins with collective fear disguised as virtue.

We must remember that banning isn’t always a bureaucratic act. Sometimes it’s an algorithm deciding a story is “too sensitive.” Sometimes it’s a publisher declining a manuscript because it won’t fit the marketing grid. Sometimes it’s readers policing each other, deciding what stories “should” or “shouldn’t” exist.

Yet the measure of a healthy culture isn’t how it protects its comfort—it’s how it protects its storytellers.
Because storytellers are memory keepers. They remind us of what’s been lost, hidden, or rewritten. They risk misunderstanding to tell the truth as they see it. They walk that thin, essential line between reflection and rebellion.

So this week, as others celebrate banned books, I don’t just think of the ones that made the lists. I think of the stories that never made it to shelves at all—the ones that were quietly discouraged, self-censored, or buried under the weight of “not now.”
Those absences haunt me more than any list could.

Storytelling is, and always has been, an act of faith. Faith that someone will listen. Faith that truth, however inconvenient, is still worth speaking.
And so we keep telling.
Even when the world grows uncomfortable.
Especially then.

Welcome to Stone and Signal. I’mLawrence Nault.

Not all resistance looks like protest. Sometimes, it looks like a story toldin the margins. A book no publisher wanted. A poem written at midnight. A truthspoken, even when the room falls quiet.

Today’s episode is about storytelling as resistance. About choosing tospeak—softly, clearly, persistently—in a world that benefits from your silence.

"The forest doesn’t argue with the axe. The ocean doesn’t plead with the net. They remain silent, wanting only to live—and they die anyway. Those who say silence protects you should ask the land how that worked out."

[Segment 1 – Why Storytelling Is Inherently Political]

All stories carry a worldview. Whether they mean to or not.

They say something about who matters. What deserves remembering. What getserased. What gets sanitized or monetized. And what’s quietly disappeared.

That’s why silence is never neutral. And that’s why storytelling—especiallyhonest, uncomfortable, inconvenient storytelling—is a form of resistance.

I don’t mean resistance as spectacle. I don’t  mean viral posts or callouts that echo for aday and then disappear. I mean the quiet kind. The long game. The slow burn.The kind that plants seeds. The kind that remembers. The kind that refuses toconform to a world that’s speeding toward collapse, distraction, and denial.

Every time we choose to tell a story that centers a marginalized voice, asilenced truth, or a forgotten history—we interrupt the narrative of dominance.Every time we write into the shadows, we expand what the world is allowed toremember.

Resistance through story isn’t new. It’s how entire cultures survivedcolonization. It’s how memories outlived regimes. It’s how revolutions foundtheir shape. From folktales whispered under threat to banned books passed handto hand, storytelling has always been a form of defiance.

And not just defiance. Continuance. Refusal. Identity.

In Indigenous cultures around the world, stories weren’t justentertainment—they were law. They were memory. They were inheritance. They toldyou who you were, where you came from, and what your responsibilities were tothe land, to your kin, and to the future.

To tell those stories, even now, even after centuries of attempted erasure,is to stand in resistance to everything that tried to silence them.

That’s why I say: telling a story is never just telling a story. It’sdrawing a line. It’s taking a stand. It’s saying, “This happened. This matters.This will not be forgotten.”

[Segment 2 – The Indie Path]

I started self-publishing almost two decades ago. I believed in the freedomit gave me to write the stories I needed to write—not the ones that fit a trendor a market.

Later, I stepped back. The industry was shifting. My life was shifting. ButI never stopped writing. And now, I’ve returned—more  deliberate. More rooted.

Independent publishing has never been easy. But it has always beennecessary.

It’s where the uncomfortable truths live. The niche voices. The books thatdon’t promise profit, but offer perspective.

Writing outside the mainstream lets me speak about what matters—youth power,environmental grief, Indigenous resurgence, and systems that need to bechallenged.

Not everyone wants to hear these stories. But I keep telling them. Because Ibelieve they need to exist.

Indie spaces allow for depth. For slowness. For a kind of integrity thatdoesn’t hinge on performance metrics. I can explore ideas that haven’t beensanitized for mass appeal. I can sit with contradiction, ambiguity, and ache.That’s not just freedom—it’s responsibility.

[Segment 3 – Stories the System Ignores: AI, Censorship, andControl]

We’re living in an age where technology is reshaping everything—includinghow stories are created, distributed, and erased.

I write about AI—its connection to us, and the possibilities that lie justahead. And out of necessity, I research it deeply, so the stories I tell remaingrounded, not speculative for speculation’s sake. But I don’t trust the systemsbuilding them.

When algorithms decide what’s seen, nuance disappears. Speed is rewarded.Reflection is not.

And beyond the tech itself, there’s something more insidious—the normalization of silence. The way cancel culture flattens complexity. The way disagreement turns into exile. The way digital platforms reward outrage and punish depth.

As an indie writer, I’ve watched this play out in the literary world. Onemisstep, one unpopular idea, and you’re not just criticized—you’re erased.

It’s a chilling thing for a storyteller to witness. And it’s why I keepcarving out space—not just for my voice, but for others who are quietly holdingspace for truth.

Stories that are censored, deplatformed, or quietly buried are often theones we need most.

And when AI begins to mimic those stories—without context, without soul—itbecomes even more urgent to preserve the originals. The ones made in grief, injoy, in resistance. The ones with fingerprints on the pages.

AI doesn’t feel urgency. It doesn’t grieve the way humans grieve. It doesn’tcarry generational memory. So when it writes, it does so without the bloodmemory, the lived pain, the ancestral tether. And when we allow those AIversions to dominate the landscape, we risk replacing witness with simulation.

There’s also a danger when tech companies start to curate not just what wesee, but what we’re allowed to create. When automated moderation removes a poemabout loss because it contains the word "death." When a story aboutprotest is throttled by an algorithm labeling it controversial. When platformsbury uncomfortable truths in favor of content that   keeps us scrolling.

This is what censorship looks like now—not overt bans, but silencing byomission. By ranking. By obscuring.

That’s why storytelling today requires more than courage. It requiresawareness. Intention. Sometimes, encryption. Sometimes, exile.

But more than anything, it requires community—a network of readers, writers,and witnesses who are paying attention, and willing to hold space for storiesthat challenge the system.

[Segment 4 – The Sacred Work of Holding Space]

Telling stories is only part of the resistance. The other part is listening.

Creating space for others to speak—especially those whose voices have beenhistorically  ignored or distorted—is aradical act. And that work, of holding space, is sacred.

We live in a world of noise. Endless timelines, breaking news, and reactivecomment threads. But holding space requires something different. It demandsslowness. Stillness. It asks us to pause long enough to hear what’s not beingsaid.

Too often, we ask youth to speak but fail to build the scaffolding thatallows their voices to be heard with care. We ask them to be brave but don’tstay long enough to hold their bravery. We amplify selectively. We tokenize. Werush to share, but not to sit with.

To truly empower people—especially young people—we have to do more than justsay “We believe in you.” We have to slow down, shift the structures, and bewilling to change because of what they say. We have to create ecosystems thatnurture—not extract—their insight .

That means rethinking who gets the mic—and who controls the edit. That meansrecognizing emotional labor and making room for stories that aren’t neat oreasily consumed. The messy ones. The painful ones. The ones told through tearsor laughter or both.

It also means becoming comfortable with discomfort. Knowing that whensomeone shares their truth, it might unsettle ours. That’s not a threat—it’s agift. And it’s part of what makes storytelling sacred. Not because it makes usfeel good, but because it makes us feel more alive.

Being a listener is active work. It’s not waiting to speak. It’s nottolerating silence until it’s your turn. It’s being transformed by what youhear. Letting someone else’s words rearrange something in you.

To create space for resistance through story, we must build spaces that canhold pain, rage, joy, wonder—all at once. Spaces where people can speak withouthaving to explain. Where survival isn’t the whole story, but the startingpoint.

That’s the kind of storytelling that doesn’t just resist—it regenerates.

[Segment 5 – Reflection & Invitation]

If you’re a writer, a creator, or simply someone with a voice that’s beenpushed to the edge—I want you to hear this:

You don’t need permission to speak.
You don’t need approval to matter.
And you don’t need a platform to begin.

Resistance doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it whispers.
Sometimes it takes the shape of a poem. A journal. A single sentence that won’tlet you go.

So tell your story. Hold space for others to tell theirs. Make room forcomplexity. Invite contradiction. And trust that if you tell it with heart,someone, somewhere, will hear it when they need it most.

If you’d like to read more of my work, you’ll find my books wherever storiesare still allowed to breathe. Sales help support this podcast—and the quiettime it takes to create it.

You can also find transcripts and reflections on my blog.

Thank you for listening.
Until next time, may your signal find the stones that hold it.