This isn’t an attack on John Pistelli, whose work in general I respect. But the topic of white male novelists and representation in literature is so tiresome, so played out, past its prime, I’d gladly guide it into a suicide pod. But until then, I suppose it gives me yet another chance to rehearse a few points.

Art has been declared dead; that means it’s both marginal and ubiquitous to the point of vapidity. High end literature, specifically, isn’t worth much on the market, and doesn’t command much attention, outside of its own strained promotional efforts and desperate commentary; the world has become so literary, textual, representational; a major reason that remaining readers prefer fantasy, romance, genre is to escape from a reality that is already a dull copy of literary fiction.

Another beaten corpse of a horse is identity; contemporary life already doubles/represents itself constantly, so there’s no need for representation in novels, except for those without much else to do or say. Does no one know the plight of white males anymore because they’re not featured in prize winning novels? An article about adrift and lonely white men is just as good as a novel; it’s the same thing, probably even better; just as annoying, at least.

The current article under discussion, The Vanishing White Male Writer, runs down an index of prizes, lists, fellowships of the last ten or so years that all conspicuously fail to feature any white men at all. The New York Times, Vanity Fair, The Atlantic, The Wallace Stegner Fellowship—nothing.

But what’s interesting here isn’t the absence of straight white men from prestigious publications. It’s that no one cares about these prizes and lists in the first place. Quick, name one writer from the New York Times notable fiction list from the last ten years off the top of your head. Name a Wallace Stegner fellowship recipient. Tell me you knew such lists and fellowships even existed before reading this article. Then tell me about a Nigerian Prince who has some lucrative remote secretarial work for me to do.

Even if a couple of slots opened up for big white novelists, I wouldn’t be included, so why exactly should I feel represented, vindicated or even encouraged by one or two big names in a thoroughly shrunken field? Do I see myself in Don Delillo? Dear god no….

I know it sounds sour to reactionary ears (I have a pair myself) but white men who want power and influence and wealth still do pretty well for themselves, if they have the stuff for it. They usually go into finance, politics, energy, sectors with high stakes. The competition is brutal, undoubtedly, but they hold their own, and not on account of concerns over representation and identity. Bemoan it all you like, but the fact that much wealth and power is still in hands of white men will make sympathy for novelists a hard sell. Representation in art works much like a tribal reservation, only now it’s not imposed, but desired and demanded. In fact, we know things aren’t all bad for white men specifically because they’re not prominent as authors right now. If they started winning literary prizes, then we’d be right to worry about them.

In all seriousness, and for better and worse, there are no rules right now, and there’s no system and no establishment. Write James Joyce fan fiction for all anyone cares. What are you going to lose, exactly, the esteem of someone with virtually no influence? There are more writers and artists than anyone knows what to do with, and not enough money and time to cover a fraction of them. Regardless of your identity, how many prizes your identity category has won lately, most likely you’ll still need a day job, and you’ll still struggle to sell books. More inclusion won’t change that, nor will some heavily advantaged man selling you a mannered version of an already trite and talked to death topic.