I have been meaning to write this post for a while now because it’s something I think about daily, something that has become unavoidable in my life. If you go back and read my post about getting an MFA, you’ll see that I don’t regret going to graduate school for writing or the loaned money that it cost me. But just because I don’t regret it, that doesn’t mean I’m content with the consequences. I know many people who made the choice to pursue a writing degree and are now completely underwater in loans with little hope of surfacing in the near future. To think that you’re going to spend the next ten or fifteen years paying the minimum payment, accruing compounded interest that will eventually double the original size of the loan, is something that, I think, can seriously hinder a young writer’s inspiration. True, writers throughout time have struggled financially and it could be argued that it positively influenced their work (Faulkner, for example). But their financial troubles were more along the lines of “how can I pay rent, how can I eat, how can I drink this month” and not “how am I going to do all that and pay $500 in student loans on top of it.” What it all comes down to is that young writers are doing themselves a great disservice by taking on so much debt and unless you have a hustle outside of writing that pays well, you may never get out of that debt.

Universities are learning what a great money-maker the MFA is, which is why more and more MFA programs start up every year. Despite the economic issues we’re having right now, it’s still incredibly easy for students to get loan money. This is a recipe for financial ruin. What’s even worse is that the demand is there for the MFA; search the internet and you will find blogs dedicated to people applying for an MFA, complete with stories of a young writer not being accepted year after year but wanting so bad to get an MFA that he or she will continue applying every year until they are finally admitted. You don’t think universities notice this? If there is a student willing to take out some loans to go to school for a degree that confers on you almost nothing (in a job possibility sense), universities will create a program to cater to that student to increase their revenue. I’m not trying to paint universities as demons, they do indeed want you to learn and expand yourself, but they are businesses first. Don’t ever forget that.

Very few writers actually make good money; writing should be about the words, not about any financial reward that comes from it. If you get into writing thinking you’ll earn a livable wage from it, enough to support a family and buy a house and have all the conveniences of modern life, you will be in for a surprise. Many people do make money from writing, but they are still a small percentage of the total pool of writers in existence who make nothing. Being successful in writing is hard enough, so don’t purposefully put another roadblock in your way in the form of debt. If I learned anything from my time in an MFA program it’s that your writing, the way you approach it and the places it can lead you, are wholly up to you. You don’t need to drop loads of cash that you don’t have to buy the time to write — you have that time to write right now.

I’m lucky. I have abilities outside of writing that allow me to earn a good living and as such I am taking an aggressive stance on repaying my student loans. I’ve reached a point where I just hate that I’m in debt, it makes me feel trapped, and I want to pay it off sooner than later. When I finally claw myself out of the hole that debt is, I know the air will be much cleaner and I will feel much more liberated. Why? Because I will have far fewer monthly bills, allowing me to instead spend that money on something worthwhile… like life.

This talk of Writer’s Poverty reminded me of Jessi’s post from a few months back questioning why aspiring writers don’t read more literary journals. This was quite a popular essay and even got us linked on the Huffington Post. In her entry Jessi speaks to the contradiction that literary journals want you to read their publications before submitting, but if a writer were to subscribe to all the journals to which he or she might want to submit they would go broke in the process. There is no possible way that every writer who submits to a journal could actually afford to read that journal.

I used to subscribe to a handful of journals, most notably the Paris Review and Zoetrope: All-Story. I ended my subscriptions because, essentially, the work they printed bored me. That’s not to say I was completely unimpressed by anything published in these magazines; I was, however, more often than not nonplussed about each issue as a whole. But I’m willing to give the whole thing another shot.

So I think I’m going to subscribe to some literary journals. I have, for a few years now, wanted to subscribe to The Sun. Every opportunity I’ve had to read one of their publications left me happy I had cracked their covers. It’s also a boon to their journal that they publish monthly and are completely ad-free. But beyond that, I’m not sure to which journals I want to subscribe. Ultimately, I’m looking for some cutting edge work that actually excites me. I’m fatigued by the “me-me-me” writing style about privileged and disaffected youth that seems to permeate the world of the modern short story, so any journal that publishes that kind of stuff is out. I’m also not a big fan of a magazine like the New Yorker… granted, they publish some really great journalism but I, however, am more interested in fiction. I think the New Yorker publishes very safe fiction. But I also don’t want to read stories aping some sort of post-modernist style that don’t really have anything to say; that screams to me safe masquerading as rebellious. So where, dear reader, should I look?

I’ve been dissatisfied with the novels I’ve been reading lately (Nightwood by Djuna Barnes and I’ve Been Down So Long, It Looks Like Up to Me by Richard Farina for two) and literary journals could be the perfect thing to read on my daily commute. I’m thinking of subscribing to maybe five different journals. Let’s count the Sun as number one. Four more to figure out.

This past weekend, B and I attended the 39th Annual Book Fair in Oak Park, put on by the Friends of the Oak Park Library. This book fair is huge; it is hosted in the Oak Park River Forest High School cafeteria and brags over 100,000 books (I’d believe it). We decided to go on opening night, which is integral I think if you want to get the best books. Not that you wouldn’t be able to find some gems on the second night, but the first night is so busy and packed with book hounds, as well as retailers with their little computerized book guns searching for what they need by ISBN, that I feel by night two your chances of finding your own personal buried treasure will have drastically decreased.

The prices for books at the book fair are outrageously low, and since I stick mostly to paperbacks I was able to acquire a considerable haul for only $16. But there are people who go there with dozens of bags, people who bring little wagons (I’m surprised I saw no wheelbarrows), and people who fill wine boxes until the books are spilling over. And the aforementioned retailers, well, they and their overflowing collections, stuffed duffels and canvas sacks, are everywhere. The cheap prices and the vast number of titles call to the bibliophiles, and if you attend this book fair you’ll be face-to-face with the ravenous humanity of all those who think books are worthwhile.

The book fair is an excellent place to people-watch; consider a hot and stuffy high school cafeteria on a summer night, over 100,000 books, and hundreds of people, many so absorbed in their search that they have no qualms with backing their rear-side into you, knocking you over with a bag of books without uttering any apologies, or forgetting that because they are attending a large event, with hundreds of people, in a stifled cafeteria, they might want to shower beforehand. There are books that everybody seems to want — before we arrived, B’s mother (hi Bonnie!) asked us to keep an eye out for Audrey Niffenegger’s The Time Traveler’s Wife; throughout my time at the book fair, I encountered a handful of people wanting the same book. At one point, two different women asked one of the book fair volunteers, almost simultaneously, if she had seen that very title. And then there were books that nobody seemed to want. I have never seen so many copies of Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections in my life. There were so many copies, both hardcover and paperback, I almost considered buying one myself (almost).

My own personal haul is eclectic, I think, as even though I told myself I could spend whatever I wanted, however much it took, I held back and only got what I thought I would really need and really read. Responsible, no? But I have to admit to you that I purchased three different copies of Moby Dick; I couldn’t help myself. One copy, in my defense, is going to be tore up and have its pages lacquered to the top of our coffee table. The other two, though, will reside on my shelf next to my other vintage copy of Moby Dick, donated to me by my own high school English department some ten years ago when they were clearing out their storeroom.

Keeping with the Melville theme, I also picked up The Portable Melville; this book contains pretty much everything Melville wrote besides Moby Dick, including Typee and Billy Budd, as well as stories and poems and personal letters and more. From another of my favorite authors, I bought All The Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy; those who know me know I love McCarthy and it may come as a surprise that I haven’t read this, one of his most famous books. I admit, I avoided Pretty Horses for a while as my writing mentor, Stephen Wright, once referred to the novel as “Cormac McCarthy lite.” Despite this prejudice, I think it’s also good to hold off on reading every book by your favorite authors and maybe save some for later; I haven’t read any of the Border Trilogy (of which Pretty Horses is included) nor have I read No Country for Old Men. That leaves me a couple books for the years to come, giving me a chance to continue to explore, for the first time, McCarthy’s oeuvre.

I picked up a few more modern books with Jane Smiley’s A Thousand Acres, a novel that retells King Lear but on an Iowa farm and has been recommended to me a number of times, as well as Lorrie Moore’s Birds of America. I remember once sitting in the Barnes & Noble in Union Square, killing time before class, reading from Birds of America. Keeping with the ladies, I also bought an excellent vintage copy of Virginia Woolf’s To The Lighthouse, a book all of those interested in post-modernism should read, and Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye. I haven’t read much Morrison, only Beloved, but I’ve heard such great things about The Bluest Eye I couldn’t leave it.

Speaking of the bluest eye, I purchased Richard Ford’s The Sportswriter; I met Ford once when he came to speak to my writing class in undergrad (he attended my alma mater) and dude has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen; he was a dreamboat. I was excited to get Grendel by John Gardner; I’ve heard so many good things about this book and I love Gardner’s how-to book On Becoming a Novelist, it was a perfect acquisition. I can’t give any reason why I haven’t read this book before. Another good buy was Jerzy Kosinski’s The Painted Bird; Being There was given to me a few years back by my friend Rachel and I flew through that novel in a few hours. Here’s hoping Kosinski’s seminal World War II novel is as powerful, painted with his own brand of dark humor, as Being There is.

As a Faulkner lover, I can’t pass up a good vintage copy of one of his books and at this particular outing I was able to get a fabulous condition As I Lay Dying; I love this novel and it’s actually quite strange to me that I didn’t already have it. If you haven’t read Faulkner, or you read The Sound and the Fury and struggled, give As I Lay Dying a shot. Then you’ll see why Faulkner is one of the best authors the US has ever had. From the same period, I got Djuna Barnes’ Nightwood. Barnes is an author whom I’ve never read, and I say that with my tail between my legs. This book has been on my list for a few years now and I think it pairs well with As I Lay Dying and To The Lighthouse, and certainly I anticipate seeing shades of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises. Gotta love the expats.

Finally, we have Marcel Proust’s Swann’s Way. Yes, another author who I am sorry to admit I’ve never read. I could not let this copy of Swann’s Way lie; it is a beautiful vintage hardcover, Modern Library edition. The dust jacket is still in great condition for its age and the pages have yet to brown. I’ve been meaning to read this for years and I can’t wait to tear into this copy.

Overall, a great collection of books for a very small pittance. I love book fairs, despite all the people, and if you’re in the Chicago area and are only now being introduced to this annual book fair, make sure to put it on your calendar. The book fair is always the first weekend in August. Maybe I’ll see you there next year.