I got some bad news this week. I discovered that I’m a ‘privileged, white male’. It was my agent who broke it to me. We were talking about the trouble he’s having in finding a publisher for my book — a work of non-fiction — when the following exchange took place.
Me: What’s wrong with my book?
Agent: There’s nothing wrong with your book. It’s brilliant. It’s moving. It’s funny.
Me: OK. So what’s the problem?
Agent: You’re the problem.
Me: Excuse me?
Agent: You’re a middle-aged, privileged white man. You’re out of fashion — and so is your book. Publishers think you’re too male. Too white. Things are difficult for writers like you at the moment.
When I told my ex-girlfriend that my agent said I was suffering from privileged white maleness (PWM), she gasped, then seized my hands and said: ‘Darling, we’re going to beat this thing together!’
I knew she was just putting on a brave face. ‘Baby, let’s face facts,’ I said. ‘I’m a privileged old white guy — and there’s no cure for that.’
‘But there must be something we can do?’ she said.
I shook my head and told her straight: ‘There’s nothing. I can’t trans. I can’t go gay. I tried going bi in 1974, and I’ve been in therapy ever since. I’ve even tried male consciousness-raising workshops to no avail. I’m screwed.’
I know I may joke about it, but it’s quite a shock for me to discover that I’m — allegedly — a privileged white guy. (I’m not even sure what that means.) I’ve never thought of myself that way. I’ve always thought of myself as just… me. That is, a mess of good intentions and a mass of contradictions. But if I really were a PWG, then maybe I could turn it to my advantage.
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