Navigating A Literary World That Doesn't Look Like You

A response to a salient reader question.

Before I get to today’s post: some housekeeping. 

ONE: First and foremost, thank you to everyone who hit me with questions and feedback after my last post. It was nice to hear from so many of you, and to learn more about what makes Dwell useful. Today’s post is in response to one question I received. I’ll address others in future posts. 

TWO: Since I last posted, there have been a few cool developments related to my forthcoming novel, VICTIM, that I wanted to shout out.

1. She Reads included VICTIM on a list of most anticipated books of 2024 alongside forthcoming works by Tommy Orange, Kiley Reid, Xochitl Gonzalez and Kevin Kwan.

2. The Miami Native Magazine, a new literary venture in the city, published an essay I wrote about the process of writing VICTIM in Miami, some of the odd locations where the writing happened, the characters I met, and how the city’s laid back ethos helped me actually enjoy the process.

3. Noted journalist and novelist

   Ross Barkan
   shouted out VICTIM (and Dwell) in a recent round-up of recommended writing. 

4. You can now enter this Goodreads giveaway for your chance to win a free advanced-reader copy of VICTIM.

And now, without further ado... 

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C, a reader who I’m very happy to have connected with, wrote in last week with an excellent question that I think is on the minds of a lot of male writers these days, and, in particular, male writers of color—especially those who’ve spawned from hyper-masculine, urban cultures and upbringings like I did. 

It goes as follows: 

It can feel super lonely to try to submit and apply to the same MFA programs, lit mags, residencies, etc., when I feel like the majority of writers in this literary community are white women. I have few other writers I can look to as role models for Latino/masculinity/etc., you included. Do you ever reflect on this and have guidance for how to continue wanting to have your voice heard in a field that is dominated by other demographics? 

Every other day there is a big think piece on masculinity. Who are we supposed to model ourselves after? How should we behave? Where are the lines, and who is tasked with drawing them? 

Naturally, I think a lot of this has spilled over into the literary world. 

After decades of men—mostly white men—running the tables in this racket, a lot of dudes seem to be wondering how they should write in a culture that has become increasingly dominated by female writers, readers, and publishing employees, and executives. 

That last part isn’t speculation, by the way, nor should it be controversial. It is simply the truth. The question is: What does this mean for a male writer? 

There are some who argue that an industry dominated by white women, and, in turn, the tastes of white women, has led to the watering down of fiction, particularly “masculine” fiction, which is extremely hard to define and slippery, sort of like “wokeness.”

There are others, however, who argue that industry changes are needed and overdue; that men who feel squeezed out need to be squeezed out, and perhaps need to take a hard look in the mirror and reevaluate themselves. 

I see merits to both arguments. But I also think that it isn’t all that useful to focus on these concerns.

My advice, C, is to ignore all of this “discourse” and focus on the one thing that you can control as a writer: The writing. 

I knew the publishing world was white when I first entered the business. It went without saying. But it wasn’t until I got closer to it—getting an agent, getting a manuscript in shape, submitting to publishers—that I realized that it was also a particularly female-led enterprise, too. 

But because of the personal journey I went on before I reached these stages—a process I’ve written about, in which I decoupled myself from expectations, Literary Twitter, and a very narrow idea of what literary success looked like—I didn’t really care about either of these realities. 

What was important to me, ultimately, was that I had put my all into writing a great novel. A novel I knew was precisely the kind of book I always wanted to write, and not a book I wrote because I thought the “market” might like it. 

What was important to me was that I had an excellent, devoted agent out there representing me. An agent who’d read multiple drafts over a number of years, invested untold hours into me, and who, from the beginning, got what I was after and only seemed concerned about making sure I executed my vision to my highest artistic capabilities. The fact that she happened to be white wasn’t really of consequence to me. 

That is the approach I have taken throughout this entire process, in fact. 

And it is worth noting that while I do believe it is true that people of the same ethnic background, race, or other demographic similarities ultimately share bonds that are deeper, or that perhaps form faster, than those who don’t share those similarities, I also know from my personal experience moving through various elite and non-elite spaces that just because someone looks like you or has a similar background as you, doesn’t always mean they really want to help you. In fact, I’ve been on the receiving end of serious animosity, jealousy, and retribution for perceived slights by people, who, on paper, you might assume I’d be extra tight with.

That there was a 99.9 percent chance I’d be working with a lot of white people by the time my book was landing on publishers desks last Spring, didn’t strike me as all that important. What was important to me, is that I would hopefully find people—white, female, or otherwise—who got my book. 

And it was clear from the very first conversation with my editor at Doubleday that she got it, and more so, that she wasn’t interested in fundamentally changing my vision for VICTIM, unlike another editor I met with who, again, on paper probably seemed more compatible, but in reality wanted to fundamentally transform the project into something unrecognizable. 

Now, I don’t want to sound so naive as to write-off the fundamental barriers of entry there into the literary world, and into the idea of publishing a book, or even the idea of going to an MFA program. Those are quite real, and cut across lines beyond just race and ethnicity, including, perhaps more distinctly, class. I also believe in the importance of diversifying the literary world, again, from a class perspective specifically.  

That notwithstanding, I don’t buy the notion that because many of the literary world movers and shakers are white women these days, it is impossible to publish your book if you’re a man, or a man of color, or if the male characters in said book are extra “masculine” or, perhaps, rough around the edges and don’t comport themselves to what the New York Times or the Washington Post deems acceptable for a man to do and say these days. 

In fact, I’m proof that this isn’t the case.

VICTIM isn’t out yet. But when it is, you’ll meet Javi. And you’ll see that he doesn’t have it all together. He’s not a tough, macho guy pawing at girls, but at the same time he’s not reading off of a formal, notarized letter to girls he tries to sleep with asking for their strict consent. He’s not the dude lecturing others about their toxicity and acting self-righteous. He’s also not some sexist prick who believes women are only meant to serve the desires of men.

He makes comments that some might find offensive, has a propensity to admire women’s bodies and not feel ashamed about it, has deep admiration for his single-mom and her ability to conquer all, and finds ambitious women extremely attractive. 

In short: He’s not perfect, he’s not clean, and that was by design. 

Part of what I wanted the novel to do, and what felt important for me to do, was to explore his complex masculinity, and how it becomes shaped when you come from a community like the one I grew up in. A community where how many girls you had, and how little you spoke to them, and frankly, how badly you treated them, was looked upon as currency. Where music streamed in my ears telling me I needed to sleep with as many girls as possible, and needed to kick them out immediately after we were done. As terrible as this sounds, it was the reality, and I felt it important to represent that on the page. Represent where a dude like Javi might get these tendencies from and how much of an uphill battle it is to change them—even if he wants to.

The point is not to explain things away, but to show that these sorts of tendencies and mindsets don’t come from nowhere. To portray the full scope of his humanity, instead of trying to sweep it away or write a more sanitized version it.

And you know what? A lot of my female, white, readers seem to appreciate this. It is actually something I’ve been complimented on in VICTIM, past fiction, and in my past non-fiction writing about boys and men. Being able to capture raw masculinity, or developing masculinity, in an authentic manner. Not glorify it, mind you. But capture it. Honestly and truthfully.  

Which, I guess, leads to my long-winded ass answer here: You can never know how anyone will really react to your writing. And I think you can’t assume that people of your same demographic makeup will appreciate it more than people who look completely different.

In fact, as I’ve learned on this journey, the results will likely surprise you. You’ll likely find fans and supporters from corners you least expected. And that is because all readers have particular desires and are looking for particular things in a book that excite them at any given moment in time, no matter their gender or the color of their skin. And trying to suss out what that is, or what might hit and when, is a losing game.

Thus, my advice is this: Write the story that you really want to write. Write it as best as you can. Get input from readers you trust. Go to the workshops and conferences that support what you’re doing—or don’t go to any at all if you don’t want to. Go to the MFA program that has professors you really want to work with—or don’t go at all and write on the off-hours of your day-job.

And when you finally have that book, find someone to represent it who really gets it. Listen to them when they speak about the book. Really listen. Don’t focus on what agency they work for or what big shots they rep. Listen to their words. And do the same if you find yourself in the fortunate position of listening to an editor at a literary publisher, too. Don’t focus just on the money or the prestige, listen to the people who you’ll be working with, and trust your gut.

Move toward the people who validate what you’re after, and away from those who don’t. 

This business is a business. It’s constantly changing. There are always new trends and new landscapes. And as a writer, as an artist, it’s foolish to get caught up in this reality. Do your best work, and do your best to get it out there, and after that, let the chips fall where they may.

My publishing ride, alongside my team of mostly white ladies, has been pretty smooth. I haven’t bent over backwards. I’m publishing the book I wanted to publish. I have all the punches in there, and didn’t save any up. I didn’t get put through the wringer of a sensitivity reader, there weren’t delicate conversations about changing scenes or dialogue. Every change made to the manuscript was one I agreed to and was happy to make. Every input by my editor only served to make the book stronger, and sharper, to advance toward my aims, and the aims she also believes in. In fact, I’m happy that she brought a different perspective to the book; that she pointed out areas to improve upon that I wouldn’t have noticed.

It’s been a wonderful process. I know I’m fortunate in that respect. I have read horror stories. And perhaps I did just get lucky, I don’t know. 

But part of me thinks this happened because for the last three years or so, I’ve been really intentional about working with people who get what I’m after, who see my vision, and want to help it. And at the end of the day, that is what is most important to me. 

As for the part of your question about heroes, and finding others to model? My advice would be to identify the models you do have, and hold on tight. 

I don’t have a whole lot either. But I have some. Writers like Paul Beatty, Junot Diaz, Ernesto Quiñonez, Mat Johnson, and Victor LaValle come to mind. The list is small, but it’s there. My advice would be to not look at it from a scarcity lens. If you have two or three writers who seem like a guiding light, then, bueno, you’re on a good path my friend. And if I’m one of those right now—a prospect that is extremely humbling, considering I really don’t think I’ve done much yet—then hold on to me, too. 

At the end of the day, that is what this is all about. I dedicated my book to the Bronx, and to the ghetto nerds around the globe. And I meant it. I had some heroes who wrote their truths, who put their full humanity, and the full humanity of their loved ones on display, and inspired me to do the same. And the most meaningful thing to me about this whole ride is being able to, hopefully, do the same for a generation after me. To keep opening up doors, opportunities, avenues, and lanes. 

I was reminded of all this when Junot Diaz noted in a recent, excellent, post (link down below) that his first book of stories Drown didn’t sell. “Two years later I was able to buy boxes of remainders for a few dollars,” he wrote. 

Are you kidding me, son? Drown? A book I read in a night and that, quite literally, gave me the permission to write the little stories and anecdotes about my upbringing in the Bronx that eventually transformed into VICTIM. How could it not have been the biggest thing? 

And yet, it was. To me. And, I know, to a bunch of other readers out there, though perhaps far less than I realized. 

And that is my point. If you write what you’re really supposed to write, what you feel called to write, it will connect wherever it is meant to, which will probably look a lot different than whatever you expect. 

Hence, eschew expectations, C, and any other writers out there who perhaps feel outside the literary circle for whatever reason—male or female.

Focus as much as you can on the work that will, hopefully, create more space for yourself and for others like you. Find your community where you can, and pour into it—no matter how small it is. Support each other, do what you need to do to get your stuff out into the world, and hope it makes an impact in some way or another. 

After all, what the fuck else are we really doing here?  

Peace, 

Andrew  

Recommendations: 

• Jason Parham on how the social media landscape has radically shifted for millennials, leaving them platform homeless. 

• Junot Díaz
  ’s post “The Italic War”, which is about so many things, but above all, to me, is about what I’m getting at in this post: Being authentic to yourself and the community you hail from and are attempting to capture on the page, even if it might require a bit of a fight.

• Also relevant to this today’s post, is this essay/review by Laura Miller in Slate assessing the demise—and, perhaps, celebrating the apparent resurgence?—of the ambitious “White Guy” social novel, like those written by Jonathan Franzen, Jonathan Safran Foer, and Michael Chabon in the early 2000s.

• This long profile of super agent Andrew Wylie in the Guardian is also relevant, and functions as a sort of obituary for the power-hungry, wheeling and dealing agent and literary world of his hey-day.

• Finally, another part of C’s question was about recs for authors and books that capture the urban male experience, and more so the urban Latino male experience. Here a few that immediately come to mind, aside from those I’ve already mentioned in this post:

  • Piri Thomas, and in particular Down These Mean Streets

  • Manchild in the Promised Land by Claude Brown

  • The Residue Years by Mitchell S. Jackson

  • Give My Love to the Savages by Chris Stuck

  • Rap Dad by Juan Vidal

  • Clockers and Samaritan by Richard Price

  • Short Eyes by Miguel Pinero