If you pay attention to current discussions of literature, art, or even music, you have no doubt stumbled across accusations of “cultural appropriation.” When JK Rowling mentioned “skin walkers” on her Pottermore website, she was accused of appropriating the culture of Navajos. Justin Bieber was blasted for wearing dreadlocks, accused of appropriating a Black hair style. Jeanine Cummins, author of American Dirt, took a tremendous amount of flak for writing about a Mexican immigrant when she’s never been one.

I remember years ago when a writer for a TV series about teenagers was discovered to be—gasp—over 30 years old! How dare she claim to be capable of writing about teenagers? Never mind that she had already written many episodes for the hit series. A prizewinning Australian artist creating Aboriginal dot paintings was revealed to be—omigod!—not an Aboriginal person, although clearly a master of the Aboriginal dot style. He’s been erased from the internet and is probably living in exile on some remote island now.

Even I, an infinitesimal speck in the universe of writers, have experienced this prejudice of “you can’t do it if you’re not it.” I was once verbally offered a contract for a prizewinning children’s book I wrote about a Kikuyu girl in Africa. Upon learning that I was not African-American, the editor immediately withdrew the offer.

Writers throughout history have written from the points of view of many others. Mary Shelley, author of Frankenstein, was neither a male scientist nor a monster. How did Leo Tolstoy write Anna Karenina when he was never a woman? How dare Gene Roddenberry write about a pointy-eared Vulcan named Spock? He clearly had no idea how many other planetary species he had insulted. I guess we’ll find out when they arrive to teach us how ignorant we actually are about their cultures.

Good writers are observers, researchers, and explorers. We are creative. We live in our imaginations as well as in the real world. We try to “step into another’s shoes.” We are often telling someone else’s story, and why shouldn’t we be allowed to do that? In my Neema mysteries, I tell the story from three points of view: a female scientist, a male police detective, and a gorilla. That’s at least two and half violations of “cultural appropriation,” because although I am female, I’ve never been a scientist. The protagonist of my Run for Your Life trilogy is a teenage girl of mixed race. I guess I get points for having been a teenager at one time, but I don’t have a Black father like my character. I also own a salwar kameez, the tunic-and-loose-pants-and-long-scarf ensemble worn by many Hindu and Muslim women—am I not allowed to wear that? Just shoot me now.

Can a Black or Hispanic author write from the point of view of a Caucasian character? I have no problem with that—do you? Can a Native American man wear a suit and tie, or does he need to don bark and buckskin so he won’t be accused of appropriating White culture?

Yeesh. I once read the beginning of a book that was written from the point of view of an elk. While I rolled my eyes and certainly thought that was over the top, it certainly never entered my brain to say the author couldn’t write that passage because she wasn’t an elk.

So, publishers, please publish more varied voices and authors of different backgrounds so we can read about their authentic experiences. Critics, discuss the stories and the characters all you want. We all have individual tastes and preferences; that’s what makes the world a richer place. But please, let’s share ideas and cultures. Let’s encourage imagination, not stifle good writers. Let’s not talk about “cultural appropriation.”

We call it the Pear Garden, and this is how it started. I come from a family of dog lovers. Almost everyone has or has had dogs: my husband and I, our kids, my siblings, nieces and nephews, cousins. When they pass, we grieve for our fur babies for a long time; and we always remember them fondly, even after we adopt a new pet.

A few years ago, one of our great nieces and nephews came to visit with our daughter, Jessica. Emil was maybe about nine or ten that year and still grieving for the family’s dog, Pear, a lovely, gentle Golden Retriever who had been laid to rest a few months before. Emil was still sad about the loss. We live on Lake Ontario, and Jessica and Emil went off to the beach to collect smooth stones at the water’s edge. Then they came back and painted them with creative, colorful designs including four of them each with the initials that spelled “PEAR.”

Behind our garage there’s a mulched bed of shrubs with some spaces between them. The stones were artfully arranged in one of those spaces to honor Pear’s life. We said prayers and sang songs.  I had wondered if the stones would survive our harsh winters, but to this day they are as bright as when they were first painted.

A few weeks ago, our niece, Suzanne, her husband, Tom, and their two daughters came to visit. While they don’t have a dog, my brother and sister-in-law, Didi and Grammy to the girls, had recently sent Gus, their sprightly Wheaton terrier, over the rainbow bridge.  Maya and Hannah had loved Gus and were taken with our Pear memorial. Our daughter was visiting this time, too, and a little while later we added painted stones for Gus.

When I told my sister about the expanding garden, she remarked that when she and her husband visit us from Florida this fall, they would like to paint rocks and place them in our garden for their beloved dog, Sally, another gentle Golden who had recently succumbed to an unexpected illness.

In the past, we’ve scattered the ashes of our own dogs where they most liked to romp and kept the remainder in ornately carved boxes stacked upon shelves in our library. Now I’m thinking that we need to paint stones for them and add them to the growing display. Our adopted Beagle, Nova, has been with us for about a year-and-a-half. We love her dearly, and she’s as much a member of our family as our other dogs were. I hope, though, that it will be years before painted rocks bearing her name are placed beside the others.

As it turns out, there’s a new tradition that’s begun in our family to remember all the dogs we’ve loved. Perhaps Pear is watching somewhere from puppy heaven, proud to have been the first of these and pleased that we’ve named our memorial garden after him.