Sorry i haven't post int two days, my academic studies have hold me back from my social life this entire week. I wrote a total of 17 pages just this week alone which was very frustrating. A friend of mind is so sick of literature that he has lost faith in literature on it. He realize that everyone writes about the same thing. Stories are written in melancholy fashion for the sake of being so, and do not actually use their melancholy as a vehicle to speak of something greater beyond the confinements of their bad narratives.
I'm going to try to paraphrase everything he said "The New Yorker is publishing garbage. The Paris Review is publishing garbage. The 'Best American Stories of this Shitty Year' are selecting shit, and have had shitty writers write the introductions for their shit (I think one of the recent copies had an introduction by Alice Sebold, who wrote (The Lovely Bones, which was shit). These are supposed to be the crème of the crop when considerate of short literature—but they’re giving me shit. To top it off, I was in Barnes and Noble today, and walking past a small kiosk dedicated to David Mitchell’s fifth novel, I saw only praise for what was undoubtedly David Mitchell’s only shit novel (because dun’g’m’wrong, his previous four books aren’t shit, they’re THE shit – but The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Shit was shit). What do I do? I’m falling into the majority of people who don’t read because “Hyuck, reading is boring.” Yes. Yes, reading IS boring, because everything being published today is shit. And I’m running out of classics. I’ve even turned to reading poetry (John Clare is pretty dope, but still)."
Please excuse language, but he sure makes some good points. Any ideas to address his issue is welcome