I knew it was going to take a significant something to light a fire under my ass to get me blogging again. I’ve spent the last three months marinating in the American people’s decision to award Donald Trump the presidency, and watching seemingly everyone who swears they didn’t cast a vote for him become completely unhinged (myself included). Friends, family members, colleagues, online acquaintances, and even complete strangers find themselves at odds with each other over how the most unlikely candidate for the big chair is actually managing to sit in it.
Warning: The Malcontent has some strong literary opinions. If you are easily offended, please skip this post. Thank you.
As a student of literature, I am a voracious reader. I’m also a bit of a literary snob. I do not read mass-market paperbacks, and I do not read authors who subscribe to the churn-’em-out-once-a-year school of novel writing. No, I’m more of an, if-it’s-an-author-I-love-I’ll wait-ten-years-for-his-or-her-next-book type of reader. The work doesn’t have to be a literary blockbuster, but I find myself staunchly loyal to the authors whose works I admire. Jonathan Franzen is one of those authors.