When LeRon Barton’s face appeared on the projection screen in the center of the room, the thing that jumped out at me was his timid sociability.
Barton, wearing a tight black T-shirt adorned with the Beatles logo, seemed to harbor a shy charisma: He sat leaning forward with his shoulders tilted inward, and listened and spoke with intention. But he also hyped up the crowd when he needed to.
The virtual event, open to all who were interested in writing and publishing, was held in the Cornerstone room: a theater-like hall inside Farmington Correctional Center’s reentry center in eastern Missouri. Guest speakers have become increasingly common since April 2024, when Proximity for Justice hosted a TEDx event here. LeRon Barton was a speaker at that event and now he had returned to speak with us again.
He introduced himself and thanked a high-level case manager who organizes all events related to the Reentry Center, and to us, the attendees, for our interest. With the soft, humble tone of one who prefers conversation to presentation, Barton introduced the day’s topic: our stories.
I was surprised. I had come prepared to hear his testimony, to deconstruct his writing process and to take all the notes I could with the intention of rigorously applying his wisdom to my own craft. But he wanted to talk about us.
“How many of you all like reading and writing?”
A few hands went up.
“Music? Movies?”
More forms of storytelling, more hands raised.
He went around the room asking participants about their favorite books.
As a self-proclaimed nerdy child, he reminisced about reading textbooks and writing poetry, and about the mentor who offered guidance as he began to write stories focused on what it means to be Black in Kansas City and in America.
These early pursuits served as a jumping-off point for the development of his first book, “Straight Dope: A 360 degree look into American drug culture,” for which Barton interviewed a wide variety of individuals living and working in communities impacted by illicit drug use and distribution.
He began writing for various websites and magazines like Slate and The Harvard Business Review. He wrote about his relationship with his father and a story about his friend coming out as gay. His works were, by and large, his stories.
For Barton, storytelling is existential: “If we don’t tell our stories, how will we know we existed?”
Storytelling is transporting: “Your story can take you from this small space, can take you all around the world.”
Storytelling is transformative: “One bad decision doesn’t make the book. It’s just a chapter in [the story of] your life.”
And finally, storytelling must be authentic: “Don’t be phony. People will see through that shit.”
On writing
After sharing that advice, Barton asked us what we like to write about.
One participant shared that he was writing an autobiography about growing up in St. Louis, coming to prison at 17 and trying to pave a new path. Barton asked what the writer hopes readers will get out of it. Over the past several years, the man explained, “I [have] learned that I have a voice,” that being silent is detrimental, and that “I am not alone.” He wanted his story to show that we all have shared experiences, and that this realization brings peace and empowerment.
Another member of the group lamented that he was having trouble finding a home for his book of poetry. “Don’t write for somebody to put you on,” Barton said. He suggested taking advantage of free platforms like Medium and X. The publishing industry, he argued, doesn’t have a lot of money. Traditional publishers aren’t looking for challenging content: They’re looking to play it safe.
At one point, Barton taught creative writing classes in a county jail. While teaching the course, he would sometimes use his independent platform to publish promising students. He didn’t wait for a publisher like Penguin Books, and he didn’t want them to either. “Don’t worry about finding a home,” he said. “Create your own home.”
Another group member shared that she wants to use her writing to build bridges between distant cultures, to strike a balance between using personal experiences for relatability and illumination. How does Barton approach this balance? “I try to tell the truth. My job is to make the picture clearer … to be as accurate as possible.”
The implication was that this hyper-honest approach to composition serves both ends.
“Be honest. Be real. Be authentic,” he said. “Some people are not going to like what you write; that’s all good. When studying the work of others, listen for truths. See what they get right and wrong in order to find your niche, to find the course that needs correcting.”
What if you write for a sense of escapism? One of Barton’s key insights was that it is often best to write from your own experiences. But what if you want to write about someone else?
“I might want to write about being an alien,” another group member said. “I might want to write about being a woman. About being a white man. I want to leave prison sometimes, man.”
Barton offered sincere validation. His advice was to just write; if it’s just for a release or an escape, that’s OK. Seek feedback to help make your stories sharper, more relatable, easier to connect with. But for now, just write.
“You said write about the Chiefs?” the man called out, referencing Kansas City’s professional football team.
“You better!” Barton hollered back.
