Years ago, as a black woman from a working-class background, I quickly became aware of how literary happenings were dominated by one particular group: the Oxbridge elite, who not only controlled our country’s politics but also its culture.
Sometimes I’d sneak into events as if I were an intruder, do a quick lap around the room, and sneak back out again. It was the same when I became a fellow of the Royal Society of Literature (RSL) in 2004. It’s not that some people weren’t welcoming, but I felt I didn’t really belong there. This is a familiar story for many writers I’ve encountered who do not fit into an establishment that takes for granted its networks of power and influence.
