December 14th, 2020 - Rwanda

Dear TNY,

Holy fuck, no way could I finish “Rwanda”.

I started in earnest.  Then I skimmed in earnest.  Then I couldn’t even skim in earnest.  I tried skip-chunking.  I tried isolating sentences.  Nope.  None of it worked.

I think maybe, once again, you have mistaken social agenda for Art.  They aren’t the same thing and agenda over Art does a disservice to the agenda if it’s not actual Art.  So congrats on the negative effect.  No one has to read this story as their lives will always be more important than stories unless you convince them otherwise.  And you won’t do that with such a garbled mess that leans so heavily on cumbersome, herky-jerky summary that the reader can’t leverage to develop enough empathy to care about something that should matter.  And does matter. But that issue has been let down here.

Alas.  I was pumped about this Monday as I thought maybe you would print a good story.  I set real time aside.  But this letter turned out to be a brief one.  Just like the swiftness with which I recognized that you once again shit the bed on literature’s behalf.

Whatever.  I set a high score on my sister’s pinball machine today and I threw -1 on a 9-hole disc golf course.  And I didn’t shit my pants and the van is running well (knock wood).  Pretty much winning the day minus making time for your flimsy fiction.

Later, dickturds.

Nick

P.S. I was discussing with a colleague how fucking fun it would be to have a Fuck the New Yorker table at AWP whenever they have real, in-person AWPs again. I’d love to see you there.