I finally finished the first draft of my collection of short stories (hence the non-posting). I am one of the smart suckers that’s talked about in this Slate article: graduate students in the humanities who are cheap labor and doomed to go into a job market already overcrowded with other humanities grad students. Here are some people who took issue with that.
My cousin recently called my degree in creative writing a luxury degree. I bristled a bit at the description, but well, she’s right. It’s not a degree that guarantees me anything and isn’t necessary to be a writer. Doctors have to go to medical school. The path to law is also clear. The arts–writing, music, painting, etc.–proffer a murky trudge to those who want to make it their career. A guy once said when I told him I was a writer, “So you just write down stuff that you imagine.” It felt like such a small life when he said it. It felt childlike and unimportant. I suppose playing around all day, goofing off with your imaginings doesn’t sound much like work. It sounds luxurious. But, I think more and more, after having lived a life when work never felt like anything but work, that the idea of living a life of luxury, all play and no worries, should be my goal. I’m thinking it should be everyone’s goal.