And Then She Fell

by Alicia Elliott

Maybe it’s because now I am writing with the expectation of making a product someone else could sell. Before, it was just for me. That’s the reality, isn’t it? I can’t make art just to make art. I have to make art to sell art. What I write has to be deemed potentially profitable by people who have no idea about my community, who have no concept of any value that lies beyond what can be measured in imaginary numbers and transferred between bank accounts. As though that’s more real than recognition from those you love, those you hope will see your art as honoring them in all their complexity. As loving their flaws and beauty in equal measure. As though sales are more meaningful than realizing your father’s wildest dreams. As though critics’ opinions are more important than making sure your peoples’ stories live on, so they can continue to teach all the coming generations about ourselves, the world around us, and our place in the world.