October 1st, 2018 - When We Were Happy We Had Other Names

Dear TNY,

I did not finish “When We Were Happy We Had Other Names.”  I stopped at the following paragraph:

Grief? What is grief? One morning when Jiayu opened her eyes she said to the ceiling, Grief, I don’t know who you are, so don’t pretend you know who I am.

Why?  Because all the lines leading up to this were summary, dry, removed of quality, and boring.  This paragraph, though, is horrific writing.  This says that the writer doesn’t care about the reader, storytelling, literature, art, craft, editing, hard work, or basic fucking standards.  And by reflection, you don’t either, TNY.  I could be doing anything with my time.  Why should I waste it on your shitty pages?

Yesterday, a writer friend said to me, “I would pay money to see you meet David Remnick.”  But why?  I mean, it’s not like anything I could say would matter.  Because, TNY, you exude the same narcissism that you decry in our current president (lower case intentional).  Let’s be clear, you’re both pieces of shit who think they are not and you both love what you believe to be the tender sound of your lovely voice.  So that self-check that everyone should be doing (asking yourself about three dozen times a day, “When am I going to stop being a piece of shit.”), you aren’t.  Which means you have no hope of ever not being a piece of shit.

And, much like the above fictional meeting, you won’t hear or heed this now.  It’ll just be my wasted time.  You don’t even know I exist.  This is a toxic relationship. I know you could be better and I want you to so much, but you are incapable of it.  You have a whole world of plebes kissing the ring.  Why would you listen to me?

Here’s to hoping you have a come-to-Jesus and stop being a piece of shit,

Nick