Frankenstein’s Monster with an MFA and a MacBook Air
I’d just escaped San Francisco, where I’d watched long-standing communities of people be destroyed, basically, by the people who own the Internet. The city gave me a nervous breakdown. An actual, genuine 20th-century nervous breakdown like a rummy drunkard from a shitty Scott Fitzgerald novel. Nothing separates compos from mentis like rumors of a Twitter IPO. Anyway, I Hate the Internet exploded in about two months of pure bile/recovery from the experience of living at the highwater mark of American hypergentrification. So, yeah, absolutely, I fucking hate the Internet.
How does one navigate being a writer? I whine like a big fucking bald baby and pretend, like everyone else, that I’m not typing morality lectures into devices built by slaves in China. But of course I am.
Showing versus telling, the downplaying of intellect for the sake of emotion, the hackneyed concept of audience identification as reflective mirror, the heavy investment in the lives and concerns of the upper middle class. We could break down these constituent parts and stitch them back together to create a Frankenstein’s Monster with an MFA and a MacBook Air. The Monster would produce very sensitive, well-wrought books (involving intricate water metaphors) about tea-time affairs taking place at artists’ colonies in upstate New York. (Did you know that marriage vows are oft broken by those who spoke them?)
Jarett Kobek in "The Novel Is Dead, Celebrity Is A Disease, And More!"