Hello, hello! My friends! We’re back! That’s right, it’s time for another mesmerizing installment of Am I the Literary Asshole?, the advice column that’s willing to shotgun a beer with you and also provide critical feedback on your manuscript (albeit through the hazy mist of said shotgunned beer). I’m your host, Kristen Arnett, and I just got back from a life-changing week on faculty for the Tin House Summer Workshop. I need to tell you, I feel genuinely refreshed in both spirit and mind. It is a good, special thing to be around other writers and celebrate not only their work, but the fact that we are in community together. People: this is what it’s all about. To care for one another. It’s what makes any of this worthwhile.

Through the veil of tears, I’d love to offer you some red wine and ask you to clink your glass with mine. Now let’s check in on our questions, shall we? We’ve got some interesting ones today!

1) Hello! I work as a librarian in a large city public library. I love serving the public here, which I’ve done for almost 15 years, since the mid-aughts. But I realized over the pandemic that I could push many of my back burner job tasks to the background. I could simply write and edit fiction most of the day. I started an MFA, which takes more of my work time away. The library isn’t in shambles. And the librarians in their late twenties and early thirties are doing most of the above-and-beyond public programming work, like I did when I was their age. But I still feel guilty about not giving my best self to my public library and instead giving it to my writing. Is this just the vocational awe of public libraries, or am I the literary asshole?

This speaks to me quite directly, because for many years I was working on writing my stories and novels from the very same space: a library desk!

I think this is going to be a response that frames you less of the “literary asshole” in this situation, and more of an instance of why you’re choosing to remain in the library when it seems that your ambitions and passion lie elsewhere.

When I was working my full-time job and writing my short fiction, essays, and then my first novel, I was at a public library running the ILL department and children’s services, then over at an academic library solely in charge of ILL, and then finally switched jobs to be put in charge of a circulation department at a law library. Those jobs were very different animals, mostly because only one of them was a management position.

The management job (the last one) meant that most of my duties amounted to directing the people who worked under me: allocating on-the-ground tasks like shelf reading or manning the desk, making sure everyone got paid, parsing out hours and shifting the calendar, updating data on the backend of the system to accurately reflect new and removed patrons, handling direct conflicts that required a supervisor, etc. But unlike my first two positions, ones that required my immediate on-the-ground attention, the management job allowed for times when I was like you: putting others into positions to get work done. I found myself very… unfulfilled by this work. It removed all of the things that brought me joy in librarianship: intimate interactions with the collection and meaningful connections with the public.

I am now in the (admittedly) very privileged position that allowed me to go into writing full-time, but a large part of my being able to segue to this new juncture in my life was the fact that those intimate connections with library work were no longer in place (at least in management). It feels like you have reached that point in your career. Your attention is elsewhere. You’re devoting most of your time to your work, your craft. You’re in a full-time MFA program, which would further divide your attention. We owe it to the public and our communities to have library workers in place that are fully committed to service. If you’re not mentally present on a daily basis, this is something to seriously consider.

It’s important to ask yourself why you’re choosing to remain in this position when it seems as though your heart is elsewhere. Perhaps there is another role for you in library work that would serve you better as you transition to this different point in your life. I can’t speak fully on any of this, of course, because I’m not in your shoes, but if you’re dreaming of writing when you’re on the desk, maybe find a way to make that happen.

Let me pour you another glass. Sip with me, sit back, let’s get into our second question

2) Ageism is alive and rampant in the writing community, IMHO. Every time I click on some award it’s for people who are all under the age of twenty-five or catering to people who have large social media followings (who are, let’s face it, inevitably young). Am I the asshole for thinking this stinks?

This is absolutely something that’s cropped up in my inbox before. It’s something that will continue to crop up, I think, and that’s because we’re part of a society that values youth and beauty (even in the literary community). Part of this comes from capitalism; the idea that the shiny new thing deserves the most attention (it’s why debuts get so much buzz and second books can sometimes get relegated to the so-what pile), but it’s also the patriarchy slipping through the cracks in its many different forms. Think of it like that meme of unmasking the Scooby Doo Monster. It was the patriarchy all along!

However, I would like to point out that when we focus on these things, we miss out on the efforts that are being made to subvert this kind of “looking” when it comes to the literary community. It’s where we choose to direct our vision that matters. There are spaces that are making room for voices of all ages (including plenty of pieces and lists from the good team right here at Literary Hub). I would also like to point out that I’ll be 45-years-old this year and I feel as though I’m moving into a larger, more exciting part of my career. More established. My time in this community allows me to see a larger, more expansive view of how we embrace new work. We make room for each other, friend. There’s room for us all.

And now it’s time for this last question and you know, what? I’m going there! Better gulp this glass of wine and get right down to it:

3) Have you considered talking to someone or seeking help for your obvious alcoholism?

I need to, once again, reiterate that what I craft and create for you here at Am I the Literary Asshole is a comedy column. It’s a bit. That means that I am amping up the silliness for each iteration. Do we really think that I’m sitting around doing keg stands while I’m typing in a Word document? Answering your questions fifteen tequila shots deep? Chugging an entire bottle of champagne in one go while tackling your grievances?

No. Of course not.

To be fair, quite often I’m sipping on a glass of something—or enjoying an icy cold beer—but that’s because this column was intended to be a fun, diverting place while we’re all navigating the shitshow that is this country and this world. It’s a place for levity. I bring care to your questions, but I also bring humor. I’m using this “question” here as an example, because there have been some people out there who’ve decided to use the anonymous box to choose cruelty. Please don’t.

Buddy, I’m a human being. I’m stressed and anxious and scared just like anyone else. I will say you were being the asshole here with this one, but I hope that we can all learn from this and move forward, gently, together. There are other ways to live.

Truly, it takes very little to just be kind.

That’s all for today. Please continue sending me your (actual, legitimate) questions—either anonymously or through email! I love to see them and I love supporting you. Join me next week when I pour an entire bottle of vodka down my throat (kidding) and carefully examine your literary turmoil (not kidding).

Yours in comedy,
Dad

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Are you worried you’re the literary asshole? Ask Kristen via email at AskKristen@lithub.com, or anonymously here.