Privilege is a topic that doesn’t always receive the subjectivity and nuance it deserves. In “How I Got Here,” writers reflect on their experience of privilege (or lack thereof) in their writing careers. We hope these personal essays will help us appreciate the complexities of individual experience and view each other in a clearer light.
I began writing novels not long after I turned thirty, which coincided with a life reckoning that made writing feel more important to me and, for that reason, feasible. At the time, I was playing in a band making the transition from relatively full-time (regularly recording and touring) to something far less committed. As I took stock of the decade that had passed and looked forward to the one ahead, the prospect of temping in law firms and record-store clerking to pay the bills, as I had done for the previous few years, was less enticing. I wasn’t making much money—around 12-15k per year—but I didn’t need much, because 1) I had no student loans (my father paid for college *and* law school with no demands/no questions asked), 2) I was (am) white, male, advance-degreed, and ‘straight-acting/appearing,’ which among other things gave me access to higher-paying paralegal temp work, so I could work 80-100 hours for one or two weeks (not unusual in the litigation department of a law firm) and then not work at all in the follow weeks, so that I could go on tour or do whatever else I wanted, 3) I had no children or dependents, 4) I lived in a group apartment in Brooklyn where I paid around $200/month in rent and utilities, 5) I had no conditions that required access to the healthcare system, 6) I never used credit cards (I didn’t even have one), and 7) I didn’t think about retirement savings and everything else that weighs on the minds of most people after you start to glimpse old age. In short, I was (sort of) young and (very) oblivious, something I could afford to be because I implicitly understood that if anything really went wrong, my family would provide a safety net. Does this seem crazy? In retrospect, it seems a little crazy to me, but to be fair to my younger self, I don’t think my level of privilege (however you want to define it: financial, racial, gender) was noteworthy among my Brooklyn (and law school) peers. I didn’t have a trust fund, for example, nor did I receive any kind of monthly stipend or allowance, which is far more common than anyone outside of the New York Times Styles section admits. Still, there’s no denying it: I was enjoying a full plate of privilege.
At the same time, I wasn’t happy about the thought of being a struggling musician indefinitely, not because I didn’t love the music part of it, but because, thanks to coming out around the same time – and being in my first serious romantic relationship – I was beginning to think that I wanted to live a different life. The prospect of going on tour, which had always made the humiliation and drudgery of law-firm work worth the emotional cost, was no longer enticing. (I loved working in a record store, but the pay was basically free records and pocket change.) I didn’t necessarily need to find the kind of job I vaguely pictured when I heard people talk about ‘doing something you love,’ but I wanted to find stable, paying work that (unlike law-firm temping) didn’t make me hate myself. Or made me hate myself a little less, which – thanks to my recent transition to an openly gay person – I was beginning to learn was not only possible, but also desirable. Romantic life did not have to be a constant churn of unrequited longing and melancholy: I wanted to say the same about my work life.
The fall after I turned thirty, through a friend from a Prospect Park Sunday pickup soccer game (more privilege), I found a temp job with a professional publishing company (meaning books for accountants, doctors, and lawyers). From a use-your-brain standpoint, it wasn’t a huge improvement on temping at law firms—I was mostly filing loose-leaf pages in three-ring binders—but it exposed me to the fundamental mechanics of publishing (editorial, production, sales/marketing) and exposed me to a workplace where everyone wasn’t miserable or vengeful. People actually left at five and took lunch breaks. The low stakes of this kind of publishing appealed to me. I began applying for permanent positions in the industry and within a few months landed a full-time job as a developmental editor with a legal publisher, meaning a job with a salary, health and retirement benefits, sick time, and paid vacation: in short, everything you need to live with dignity in the United States, and almost none of which is provided by our government.
This job delivered in the ways I hoped it would. I liked my co-workers, a mix of quirky suburban commuters and urban shadow dwellers. It was nice to pass someone in the hall and not feel invisible or worthless. Not everything was perfect: it was still a corporation, which meant there was a layer of suited vice-presidents who malevolently wafted across the office armed with spreadsheets, revenue forecasts, and threats of consolidation/layoffs, but I was too low on the ladder to do more than glimpse these titans from afar (and still too young/privileged to feel too concerned about layoffs). The work was not exactly stimulating, but at least I was peripherally engaged in the kind of legal analysis I had studied in law school. I continued to learn about publishing, which as a lifelong lover of books was interesting and validating to me. More notable than the work itself was the amount of it, or, to be more precise, the lack. I remember the moment when, a few weeks in, I realized that, even though it was Tuesday morning, I had done everything I needed to do for not only that day, but for several more to come. I wondered if everyone at the company was in a similar position and decided not to investigate. I understood the nature and extent of my responsibilities; I didn’t want to trouble anyone by asking for more to do, particularly if it wasn’t going to add to my pay. It was also apparent to me that this was not a company where I could expect to rise in the ranks. Editors either languished or, eventually, they left. For now, I was happy to languish.
Most weeks, my job required maybe ten to fifteen hours of actual work (meaning the work I was paid to do) to complete, which left the other twenty-five or thirty hours to do with what I pleased, so long as I remained in the office. At first, I was astonished by the canyon of time that had opened up in front of me. I knew that I had found something valuable, even if I couldn’t put a number on it. With nothing else to do, I started reading as many gay-themed books as I could, which was something I had missed during the first thirty years of life and now craved. After completing this informal but rigorous undergraduate degree in gay literature, I followed up with an equally informal but even more rigorous MFA during which I wrote my first two novels. The first ended up in the back of my desk drawer, and the second I sold (via an agent) to a big, corporate publisher. By this point—seven years into this job—I remained committed to writing, but I understood that the economics of a publishing career in literary fiction (or at least the kind of fiction I wanted to write) were beyond me; I never felt comfortable in a corporate publishing environment (and they didn’t feel comfortable with me).
I found a new job, which was followed by several more—still in publishing, albeit in the nonprofit sector—that became increasingly challenging and time-consuming (and rewarding, because I like the books I work on and admire the authors who write them). Though I’m sometimes tempted to wistfully recall when I would go to ‘work’ and spend eight hours rewriting a two-paragraph scene, I don’t feel as obsessed by writing as I once did; I tend to think that there’s only so much existence one person can document. I now write on evenings and weekends and am (somewhat) more efficient with my time. I published a second novel and am slowly working on a new one. It’s enough. But I remain grateful for having had the chance to be obsessed with writing and to have had ample amounts of time to pursue it. It’s an opportunity that I believe should be granted to everyone, not just those lucky—or privileged—enough to find undemanding corporate jobs or have trust funds of whatever else pays the way for so many (but not enough) of us.
Our country, the richest in history, has more than enough money to provide a universal basic income, no strings attached. It’s just a choice we need to make, in the same way we could choose to give everyone healthcare, housing, food, education, and retirement: the necessities of life. It wouldn’t have to be a fortune, but it should be enough to escape the market-driven, work-or-die gauntlet that currently frames the lives of so many people in this country. Do you want to spend your life looking out a window and going for walks? No problem, here’s your check. Want to write a novel? Be our guest. If there’s anything this year has made clear, it’s that whatever system we’re operating now is not only unsustainable but is also the source of a collective misery and financial despair that is increasingly palpable and destructive. We are ruining the planet and killing ourselves in the process. How rich does anyone need to be, particularly when it comes at the expense of so many others? Would it mean that companies will need to raise wages to entice workers to join their ranks, which might lower profits? Perhaps, but exactly why is that a problem? I’m also sure that a significant number of people receiving a basic income would set about reconfiguring their lives in a way that would provide purpose not only for their lives, but for the entire country. Nobody should be forced to work at all, let alone be forced to work for $7.25 an hour. We need people to disengage and think about how to do things better. Let’s pay all of us—and not just a select few—to exist.