on language, accessibility, and consumption
“The end of reading is here,” The Atlantic writes. When I was younger, I used to think that the relationship between being a good writer and a reader is linear. For years, I was told that I must read books not only for the joy of reading but to expand my vocabulary and to strengthen my grasp on language, in order to become a good writer. When I first started writing, it was mostly personal. It still is, I think—after all, art is a reflection of who we are, who we think we are, or who we want to be. Hence, writing is personal. The art we create, the words we write, are ours to claim.
They say art is for everyone but is it? Good art is only accessible in exchange for good money. The commodification of art seems to be an unpleasant concept, even though there’s nothing wrong with selling art. So why does it sound so off-putting? Perhaps, it is because we deem art as something unreachable, putting it on a pedestal—somewhere our kids can’t reach. The over-romanticization of art makes us afraid of it, which causes us to give up and refuse to invest in it as members of the working class. The rich admire art—decorating their houses and adorning themselves with it. The rest of the world asks their children to get a real job. This deteriorates the quality of the art we create. We deprioritize art so much that the slightest touch of it amazes us. We don’t have a standard to compare. It is either excellent or repulsive, incredibly complex—to the extent that we cannot hold amateurs to that standard, or extremely bland. The lack of mediocrity in art renders its flow stagnant.
The need for financial security in a materialistic world suppresses the desire of creating art. It is only logical, however, to think this way. Most people are afraid to take risks. The people who encourage you to take risks are either the ones who have made it or those who have nothing to lose. When you have nothing to lose, the world is your oyster. Your life becomes art. The middle class man cannot afford to turn his life into art while struggling for existence. That is the tragedy of his life. Having this realization made me understand that not everyone can be an artist. The rich are more likely to become poets, writers, and artists just as they are to become scientists, businessmen, and lawyers. This is not because they are more talented but because they have more access—to better books, journals, art, and resources. If I become a good writer, it is because I had the privilege to read.
Writers have always been the torchbearers of change. They mobilize the masses which is crucial for revolution. If so, what is the ultimate motive of writing? If what we write is meant to be consumed by the masses, the language must be simple with minimal flair. The vocabulary used must be restricted and the style must cater to the common man. But then, how shall the common man learn? If we cater to their pre-existing knowledge to make consumption easier for them, how will they grow? More importantly, how will art grow? So the next important question arises: what is more important—the creation of art or its consumption? I read a comment the other day on Instagram. A girl had made a reel about how people rarely know the proper usage of certain popular homophones such as their/there/they’re or your/you’re. The commenter argued that the point of inventing language is to facilitate communication. If context clues help you understand what a particular word is meant to imply, its spelling does not matter. But, if correctness becomes irrelevant because communication still succeeds, what happens to precision? And if precision disappears, what kind of literature becomes impossible to write?
This brings me back to the title of the article—who gets to be a writer? What does it take to become a writer? Writers, like most artists, tend to draw inspiration from their own lives. In order to become a writer, one must first know what to write. The emotions one aims to capture are the most crucial aspect of writing. After all, art is meant to move us. Next, we need to decide the prerequisites to judge the quality of what one has written. Are language, vocabulary, and expression apt meters to decide good or bad? Or is the content more important? Do we pay more attention to what one has written or how they have written it?
Unfortunately, there is no answer. Perception of art is and always will be subjective. We are indoctrinated into believing that we must submit to a rigid set of rules. The lack of rules in the interpretation of art makes it both difficult and easy. If there are no rules, we can all be artists. If there’s no one to judge, we are all good artists. So we let them judge. But how do we know if the judgement is fair? If the rich become better artists, they can never judge the poor. They will never understand their art. The poor will never get to be artists. Then who gets to be an artist? If access decides who gets to create and privilege decides who gets to consume, who do we write for? How do we write? What do we write? Who gets to be a writer—and more importantly, who decides?
