This is always nice -- "this" meaning when someone with the same feelings you do gets published in The Atlantic. I had to read Guterson's Snow Falling on Cedars in high school, and I felt like snow was falling on me and giving me hypothermia and turning me into a sluggish braindead worm through the entire book. I don't even remember the murder mystery. I just remember that I despised it. I didn't like A Thousand Acres, but at least it wasn't A Thousand Years, like Guterson's book. I tried to read All the Pretty Horses in high school as well, mostly because I wanted to see the Matt Damon film, and I couldn't see the movie without reading the book. The first chapter was total garbage, and the film got terrible reviews, so I gave up. However, I did think The Road was fantastic, so...
But I'm so glad to hear someone else hated White Noise, which was weird and stupid and written like an existentialist fucked a conspiracy theorist and had a baby who started college at age four and never really left. Not as bad as the other two books, but still... not something anyone should ever read in the future.
Granted, I've never seen the skill or charm in A Tale of Two Cities, either, and yet I still worship at the altar of Dickens... so... that was neither here nor there...
How does one avoid pretention or redundancy or sluggishness? I think sincerity is important, and yet, not taking yourself too seriously. Being human is a weird condition, and still it's the most normal thing in our experience. Reconciling these two fractious truths is a writer's job, and it's very, very hard. Especially when you're young, impressionable, and thinking too much. This is why I am not yet done with my novel. I don't want people to think my book is pretentious. Maybe that I still need to grow, not that I have a personality defect. Limitations of style or execution are only temporary. Flaws in tone are unforgivable.
To bed. On the horizon for tomorrow: job interview, brunch in Hollywood, writing, spending some time with a Quickbooks CD...
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