By Finocchietta Selvatica
I’m 31 now, and since the age of 16, I’ve understood my desire to remain childfree. Therefore, I’m quite accustomed to the criticisms: “You’re selfish, immature, heartless. You don’t know how to commit. You’ll never know love. You’re a disgrace to your family because you won’t continue the lineage…”
Let’s set aside the notion that “be fruitful and multiply” made sense in less resource-exploitative tribal times. Let’s also overlook that carbon footprints drastically reduce without children or that some critics would change their minds about my reproduction if they knew I’m not straight. Let’s even overlook respect for AFAB (assigned female at birth) self-determination, as we aren’t just baby-making machines. While these are crucial reminders, my viewpoint will be different.
From such criticism, I perceive a persistent theme: even if you haven’t accomplished anything relevant, having children fulfills the primary duty of leaving a part of yourself in the world that’ll hopefully survive after your physical death. I understand the human need to live beyond death. It’s one of the five basic fears we share, regardless of geographical region, age, gender, sexual/romantic/religious/political orientation, social class, etc. The fear of not existing, being forgotten and disappearing into nothingness is something we grapple with daily, seeking ways to alleviate the horror it causes us.
I attempt to fight this fear by writing books. In this article—which I recognize as challenging, and hope will be insightful, deep, and only a little irreverent—I will explain why this path isn’t that strange. In fact, it might demonstrate enormous responsibility, respect for life, and a firm grasp of ethical principles.
1. Books as Living Entities
For most writers, books are alive. There can be an emotional bond, though less intense than with another human, and immense satisfaction in bringing them to life. You can pour so much of yourself into those pages, discovering and rediscovering yourself through the story you’ve created. A book represents me far more than birthing another human who, despite being related to me, rightfully has their own free will, thoughts, and feelings. People who see having children as a canvas to be filled with their favorite colors often forget that’s egocentric, even narcissistic. Giving life while trying to direct the child’s future without caring about how they will grow is a thousand times more selfish than not wanting to have children. It also shows less foresight, responsibility, and empathy. Though we can romanticize books as “alive,” they’re still objects. I can vent every ambition and desire by writing them, without worrying about stifling their self-determination. I do no harm by replacing the desire/need with a creature made of letters rather than a human who should rightfully emancipate from me.
2. Control and Autonomy
Precisely because books are inanimate objects, I’ll never worry about them meeting “toxic acquaintances” and being led astray. A book can’t be modified or rewritten if the publishing rights are in my hands for at least seventy years after my death. The final word about my intentions and interpretations is mine. A book is always my creation, reflecting me without causing any pain. I find it more intimately and viscerally mine than children, who must be respected as separate beings. Knowing and respecting a child’s individuality, no matter how physically or characteristically similar, is mandatory. Many heartaches and rejections, especially for LGBTQIA+ children, stem from an inability to accept this truth. Therefore, a book will always represent me better.
3. Physical and Emotional Toll
No matter how painful giving birth to a book is, it will never match the physical pain of childbirth. My body won’t deform, nor will I endure hospital staff abuse (which is dangerously common in Italy!). I won’t need to change my diet, suffer postpartum depression, or be left alone with the expectation that I’ll instinctively know what to do. A book doesn’t cry, get sick, or drive me crazy with needs I can’t understand. I can solve any problems with the book without the emotional drain of parenting.
4. Societal Pressure
Since society doesn’t dictate that my life is meaningless without writing books, I don’t feel the same pressure. I can make mistakes, change my mind, and improve with each new book without being labeled a “bad mother.” I can keep a book private until publication, avoiding the invasiveness that often accompanies pregnancy. I decide when to write and when to enjoy my private life without worrying about hurting the book’s feelings. My dedication won’t impose the glorified sacrifice often seen in motherhood rhetoric. It will be tailored to me, leaving me more mental, psychological, physical, and emotional resources.
5. Money Matters
This might seem mean to some, but quite evident: I’ll spend much less money on books than on children. The planet and my wallet will thank me since I’m part of a poorer generation compared to the previous ones. And the belief that having children provides a better return, economically or otherwise… is subjective. There are equal, loving, respectful relationships I can cultivate with partners/friends/acquaintances, offering fulfillment without the drain of parenting. Anyway, I have no intention of conducting an experiment with human children to check if my fulfillment is less than that of those who believe otherwise.
6. Control Over Legacy
I can revise new editions if necessary to prevent my books from aging poorly, especially in self or indie publishing. Instead, overriding a child’s will to ensure they grow well would be violent and absurd. With books, the worst that could happen is appearing ridiculous for trying to ride a wave of success for too long or making poor marketing choices—no suffering inflicted, no personal boundaries violated. Just my responsibility to understand when to stop.
7. Disowning Creation
If over time I no longer see myself in my book, I can disown it without causing harm. In the worst cases, I might have to acknowledge writing mediocre or harmful things, apologize, rewrite, or stop distribution. Disowning a human child, however, would be devastating. How many people suppress their true selves out of fear of being outcasts? Parent-child relationships can be complex, especially when values clash. As a survivor of several forms of abuse, I wonder if I could love children who became harmful. This conversation on parenthood is crucial, as societal conventions often overshadow personal ethics. None of this applies to a book, which cannot transform into something so dangerous/painful.
8. Independence and Creativity
While research and industry involvement are crucial, I can produce a book alone. I don’t need to freeze gametes, worry about my menstrual cycle, or find an AMAB partner to create it. A book is truly mine alone, conceived independently, and can be brought into the world at any time. To me, this independence is more rewarding/freeing than motherhood.
9. Longevity and Impact
Books outlive people and can reach many more individuals. They can change lives, represent causes, and be kept in circulation for centuries. In the greatest cases, an author’s name can be immortalized in literary studies. Children, however, eventually die. Conditioning descendants with guilt and the obligation to continue a lineage is limiting, whereas finding a different meaning to existence, one that frees others’ choices, is more ethical and fulfilling.
In conclusion, I understand the need to escape death in another form. The desire to affirm our existence and preserve it shouldn’t be judged solely on selfishness/altruism. But some expressions of this desire are more functional than others. Having children just to ensure a part of my DNA survives is terrible. It would be limiting, unsatisfactory, and unethical for the children born to quell my anxieties. Finding fulfillment in writing and admitting that I don’t want human offspring is more honest. And I’ll leave to other articles the rhetoric of all the love I’m missing without bearing human children. Love, in fact, takes many forms, and the joy of dedication, commitment, pleasure, empathy, and sharing can be experienced in many ways, including relationships that don’t involve raising and educating a child. Since reality is subjective, redefining motherhood from a childfree perspective is valid and necessary. And that’s my ultimate hope: to redefine the concept of legacy like the childfree, non-monosexual, aware human beings we are!
Finocchietta Selvatica lives in Italy and is equally passionate about devouring books and french fries. She identifies as polysexual and panromantic, sees the writing craft as lifeblood, and intersectional feminism as home.