Nearly a year ago, I tried to start a conversation about how privilege helps art and when that’s important to acknowledge. It didn’t go so well.
It started with happening across a BookTok video that claimed that author Alex Aster was an industry plant. I’ll admit that I was intrigued, mostly by this idea of an industry plant in publishing. I had no idea who Aster was and was surprised to find that despite my involvement in BookTok, I had never seen her account, which at that point had nearly one million followers.
Aster was preparing to publish a book and much of the content promoting her new release focused on her publication journey. There were a bunch of videos that emphasized her “decade” of rejection (she started writing when she was 12), her hard work, and her status as a “full-time author in NYC in [her] 20s.”
The more I looked into Aster and the release of Lightlark, the more feelings I had about success stories in publishing and on social media and the safety nets that allow people to pursue their dreams. Of course, that is a less interesting story to tell. Addressing how your rent is paid, or how you have health insurance, or how you have time to write multiple books has less of a ring of virality to it.
I put all of this in a video that was careful not to lay the blame at Aster’s door. I just wanted to remind people that bootstrap narratives help no one and are often misleading. I shared a genuine wish that we all had the systems in place that allowed us to create the art or the content that we wanted.
What followed was a week of attacks that were hilariously in the name of protecting a Latina woman— Aster, not me. Her career, mental health, reputation, and feelings as a white Latina were worth protecting. Mine, as a Black Latina, apparently were not.
I’m thinking about this again not because of Aster, but because the reality of how much easier it is to create art from financial security is top of mind for me, your friend who is currently both jobless and struggling to create much of anything.
Earlier this year, I resigned from my job. I had been working on an exit strategy, applying, and interviewing at other places, but the toxicity of the work environment reached a level where it felt like I was absorbing critical damage. I was also concerned about the position staying would put me in, and the liability I was taking on by remaining where others were doing harm. So, I left. I had a little bit of savings and confidence; I could just support myself with my savings for a month or two and dedicate myself to finding a job full-time.
Two months into the job search, as I started to get nervous about the job market, the number of unanswered applications I was submitting, and how many of the companies I interviewed with told me I was one of hundreds and hundreds of applicants, I started to think about a plan B. I mean, I still needed (need) a full-time job, and I’d love some health insurance again, but if the search was going to last much longer than I planned, I needed a way to keep a roof over my head and food on the table.
I know, I thought. I’ll work as if I’m a full-time content creator.
I’ve been making content online for 14 years now. That’s not counting the bad poetry I published online in middle school, but since we’re counting the stuff we did as teens, I’ve been making content online for 24 years now. I’d be lying if I said I never thought about what it would take to do this as a job, if somehow between sponsorships, AdSense, the two pennies TikTok shucks at my face every day, and the freelance work I do as an editor and sensitivity reader, I could pay my rent. My content schedule has always been a big shrug and *confetti cannon* vibes, but if I made content more consistently, took on longer reading projects, pushed my Patreon, maybe, just maybe…
That could still all be true, but I wouldn’t know, because every day I wake up and check my email to see if anyone wants to interview me. Then, I sit and feel the crushing weight of all the projects I keep telling myself to start, but perhaps I should spend that time applying to more jobs instead. Then, I try to read, but I find I can’t focus. Then, I start up the Sims 4 and feel very guilty every second that I’m playing and very jealous of my Sims family, who is thriving. Then, I think “well, what if I made Sims content,” and then I feel even worse.
It’s a never-ending cycle of having time to create but not the security. And back when I had the security, I was sneaking creating into what little time I had. If this description is giving you trauma flashbacks to the COVID shutdown, yeah, me too. Remember that knee-jerk reaction that said a pandemic sounded like a great time to make the best art of our lives? The jokes about writing King Lear as many of us faced uncertainty in our financial and health outcomes? The way we belly-flopped right into that age-old idea of the “starving artist,” the one who creates works against all odds and makes their greatest art in the most dire circumstances?
The reality is that art, like most things in life, requires resources. Time, energy, health, materials, and yes, money.
I know I’m not saying anything particularly new here. It’s Hot Labor Summer, and we’ve got headlines about people fighting to have their art compensated fairly enough to sustain themselves. We are also contending with all these questions about who gets to do art and who gets to do the menial labor.
Bookish communities, at least the ones I’ve been a part of, have never been terribly great about acknowledging the role privilege plays within them. I remember watching BookTube videos in my early days that were about “how to get started” and all the advice was about being yourself, magically having good lighting, and maybe throwing hundreds of dollars at a good camera. And even so, no one addressed Internet access, a quiet and spacious area to record, pretty privilege, racist algorithms (and viewers, if we’re being honest), and time to make videos, particularly if your magically good lighting was sunlight, but you also had a job to be at. No one talked about how they amassed the hundreds of books stacked behind them. No one asked how those amongst us who were talking about books full-time on the Internet were managing to do so.
It seems to me that for every story of someone writing a book in their spare time, keeping full-time jobs even after publishing, and using advances to carve their way out of debt, there is someone using that story as an aesthetic. And whether the story is true or… less true… we applaud it. “Amazing,” we say! “You did art by sacrificing sleep and eating instant noodles. What a success!”
Of course, when the story is… less true, it becomes even more nefarious. It feeds into the idea that hard work and tenacity are the only ingredients to success and thus if you have not succeeded, you haven’t worked as hard as others.
I suppose I’m writing this because I’m tired. Tired of the idea that privilege and resources don’t play a role in who gets to create and who gets to succeed. Tired of the idea that success is only achievable through individual effort and not through a system that provides support. And tired of feeling guilty for not being able to create as much as I would like because I’m too busy worrying about rent, and bills, and health care.
I suppose this is also meant as a reminder to you, friend. A reminder that you are doing amazing in a system that would capitalize off your struggles and your art if given the chance, but seldom wants to pay for your art so that you don't have said struggles.
It also unintentionally served as a reminder that Lightlark was a really bad book.
Inspired By:
This is usually where I post what inspired my musings. I’m not sure how weird it is to post myself here, but alas.
Currently:
Elsewhere:
I’m about half-way through my chapter recaps of A Court of Thorns and Roses. Every new chapter brings a fresh dose of “how the heck is this a best-selling, much beloved book?” I’m also working up to thoughts on the misogyny of this work and its use of sexual assault as a plot device. Joining my Patreon also gives you access to my Discord, which is a really great place to be.
I joined Threads, but honestly, I haven’t found my flow there. How are we all feeling about Threads?
BookNet Fest is selling t-shirts to help raise money for our 2024 event. I’m partial to this one:
This resonated w/ me so much! I am a stay-at-home mom, working on my novel. It’s been a long ongoing journey but I do acknowledge I wouldn’t be able to pursue writing without my husband’s financial and health insurance support. What’s really discouraging about living as a creator/writer working toward publication is not only the privilege that’s not discussed but also how youth is a characteristic of success. I’m in my 40s and it’s discouraging to see young writers who don’t publish by a certain age say they won’t or will never be able to publish bc they thought they’d be published by 22/23? I had seen Aster’s book at the book Tok table and looked her up. I can see why she’s so marketable but it is discouraging to also see how seemingly easy it was for her to get published too. As a POC writer in her 40s, it’s looking almost impossible at times. Anyway, thank you for sharing your thoughts. You’re the only book Tok reviewer I trust! 😊