Class and Making Art

Part 1 of some personal thoughts that have been running through my mind over the past year, and  need to get off my chest--even if it means admitting weakness and anxieties. Today, some self-doubt about my "true" calling: do people like me aspire to things that are "above our station"?

In December 2010 I graduated college, and my parents took out loans for a few semesters at my alma mater (I was so relieved to find out that they didn't have to take out loans for all of them). But since I'm the beneficiary/recipient of the loans, I'm the one who has to pay the loans back.

I have been paying back the 30,000+ dollars that I now owe...which will be even more as time progresses and interest mounts. And as I have failed thus far to find steady employment, it will take longer than I expected... unless I win big. This is partly my fault, of course: I took no part in the financial aid process, allowing my mom to do it instead. And I probably should have started looking for jobs and internships sooner than I did. Like a fool without a trust fund, I focused instead on my studies, art, and social life instead of my financial future. Who did I think I was, cavorting around with a bourgeois lifestyle instead of living within my class?

The main thing I'm concerned about is how long will I have to be in debt. I'm going into writing, publishing, and possibly academia, after all. Two of these have the potential to pay well and pay off, but two also do not. I'm afraid that I won't be able to succeed, that I will become poor and be forced to live with my parents...who are already suffering from the side effects of aging and economic woes, and still have two more kids to put through school before they're out on their own. In this context, I guess my biggest fear is that my dreams will remain unfulfilled, and worse, that debt will further prevent me from seeing them become more than dreams.

Famous writers have been in debt, of course: but for their education? If I went back to when I was looking at colleges, I would again choose to go to a private, artsy-fartsy college like my alma mater. But I can't think of any writers who struggled through student loan debt...maybe it was because they didn't have to struggle.

See, to study writing is a professional and artistic endeavor traditionally relegated to the privileged few. It was something until relatively recently only those whose parents or spouses were wealthy enough to provide well for them. There were some educated among the poor and minorities, but they were few and far between. And not many of them made a living on their writing, or even lived to see it published. This goes for all the fields of work and art where formal schooling is often necessary, but the arts have a particular privilege that is more evasive than many other fields: the fact that most artists, musicians, and writers will not make much off their work, if at all. This compels them to find other work.

Now I'm not saying that all artists should be able to just do art full time--sometimes we may need the discipline of a workday to get our shit together--but it helps if you have benefactors to support you. It's related to the fact that unpaid internships are more viable for rich kids than not-so-rich ones, and how girls like Rebecca Black are able to make music videos in spite of a desperate need for voice lessons. Wealthy relatives are able to make connections, get their kid a leg up on the rest: this includes attending the best schools. Rich kids are the only ones who get to study whatever they want unscathed of financial burden, unless they're disowned or something.

I've occasionally wondered during my tenure at college if I was aspiring to be a member of a class that I am not a part of. What good is what is basically an English degree in today's world? People do still read and write, and ebook technology, coupled with the internet, is adapting the industry to this brave new world. But will I ever make any good money doing what I truly love to do: telling stories? Statistics point to "no". I've wondered if I should have studied astronomy, or psychology, or computer science, thus getting a degree that was actually "useful."

I do not regret it.

It should not be that people have disadvantages coming into this world, just because of the parents they were born to. I realize that though I have at least a decade of debt (unless I get lucky or desperate--or if the world ends, of course) ahead of me, I have plenty of advantages over others because of my parents, who support me no matter what I choose to do. And if us artists decided not to study our craft--or even do what we want to do and put it out there--art would remain the realm of only the rich and the white. Will student loan debt really be able to prevent me from putting myself out there in the age of the internet? Probably not.

I guess my fear is really the fear of all of us who have this insatiable drive to create, but teeter on the brink of poverty when our voices are just beginning to emerge. The fear of disappearing into a life we do not want to live. And all because of a lack of funds. It's more than unfair--it's criminal, robbing us young people, and society at large, of our contributions.

More Posthumous Praise for David Foster Wallace

The other day at work I had the pleasure of proofreading an anthology of essays by contemporary writers, thinkers, and journalists, which featured two essays by the one and only David Foster Wallace. I also just recently finished reading his essay collection A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again. I've written a bit about him before, and I'd like to expand my thoughts to his nonfiction, which bears a lot of similar characteristics to his fiction--albeit less tangential and unorthodoxically structured.

Wallace is one of those writers whom you like more and more as you get more familiar with their particularly peculiar style (like that great guy who's a little rough around the edges, a new bicycle, or prog-rock bands). The first work of his that I read, I liked enough to read more, and after reading three whole books by him (Infinite Jest, Fun Thing, and Interviews), he's become one of my favorite writers. I read Infinite Jest too early to truly enjoy it, as I think I'd like it better now that I'm more accustomed to Wallace's style. Perhaps I will read it, in bits and pieces, again.

But what's much more remarkable about Wallace's writing is his voice. This is most apparent in his essays, as his fiction isn't always third person. The details he gives in both genres are so intricate and yet so strange and striking as to almost be hyperbolic, making the mundane and generally not very interesting (tennis, state fairs, Caribbean cruises, among others) absurd and extraordinary. Wallace's journalistic style is observational and honest to his point of view. He also meanders from topic to topic, though it all underlies the same basic themes of the essay.

One of the numerous praises included in this edition of the book called Wallace, unimaginatively, "smart and funny"...and that really sums up his narrative voice (though the phrase "clever and humorous" better reflects his writing level). Though the more carefully crafted writing voice is not necessarily indicative of an individual's speech abilities, I can imagine that Wallace would be rather a pleasure to converse with--and it makes me all the more sad that I will not be able to meet him, at least in this life (not that I'd ever have the guts to approach an admirable writer at a book signing or whatever).

What's more (and this is what I was originally getting at) is that his writing voice makes him a person who's so--likable. Part of it is the fact that he does not write himself out of the nonfiction story he's telling (very often because he is experiencing the subject), so we get a lot of his perspective. And I found that I could identify with his various thoughts about a given situation, since he reasoned them so well. And I don't agree with Wallace on all things, by all means. He does acknowledge his privileges and shortcomings (though he doesn't feel entirely good about it), and he's nonjudgmental. Wallace occasionally ribs on a strikingly funny character of a person, and certainly expresses pity for and admits an inability to identify with ordinary folks, but does not accuse anyone of anything. Rather, he almost admires these ordinary people who end up in his essays, as he himself feels like a dysfunctional member of society. Though perhaps they could stand to be a bit more thoughtful (not in a condescending way, though).

It's impossible for me to say whether his writing style was indicative of his true self--one would think that such thoughtful prose would only come from the heart of the writer, as it often is. And from some of the posthumous articles I've read about him, it seems as though it does ring true. There's enough to say about David Foster Wallace to make up an entire dissertation (if someone hasn't already, I'm sure they're on it now that his oeuvre is complete), but for the sake of brevity, I'll stop here. If unusual, funny, and absurdist fiction or nonfiction floats your boat, check out his writing!