In my father’s world, which still bore the markings of the class system he had fled seventeen years before, thinking that you were better than the life you had, which had actually allowed him to escape, was also a betrayal of one’s class. If I thought that I was talented enough to be a writer, wasn’t I really rejecting my working class heritage?
Over at Catapult, Lorraine Berry writes an essay about the hurdles of the first and only creative writing course she ever attended.
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