Disappointment

What happened?

Last week I was at the office finishing up some meaningless administrative tasks and preparing for a dull meeting when one of the new young guys came in with coffee and struck up a conversation about film and literature. He was interested in what kind of movies and novels I enjoyed, admitting that he wasn’t well-read at all and has maybe finished ten novels his entire life. We talked a bit about the kind of movies he liked and what sort of things he was into. What I gathered from the conversation was that he always avoided reading because it has always been presented as feminine, lacking excitement, and too focused on the social for him. He wanted to read something literary, dark, violent, and masculine.

I thought about this for a bit and recommended Cormac McCarthys No Country For Old Men. I think it’s Mccarthy's most accessible novel because it was originally written as a screenplay and reading it has a cinematic quality that appeals to modern male readers. It’s also heavy enough to make one think but still ultimately a modern crime western with a straightforward linear narrative. It’s also a damn great novel and a fantastic movie.

That afternoon I got home, made a cup of coffee, sat down at my desk to check my messages, and got the news that Cormac McCarthy passed away.

There is no need for me to write an obituary or appreciation post, McCarthy was a legend, a master of the American novel, maybe the last living one, and in the past week there’s been more than enough words written about him and his work.

What I want to write about, is to ask my readers, who is going to carry the fire? McCarthy was one of the last, if not the last mainstream masculine writer that had an impact on our cultural landscape and wrote and published violent, masculine, poetic, masterpieces, that captured the essence of the American experience. An heir to Faulkner without replacement. Free of the sarcasm and irony that poisons so much of late-20th-century and contemporary American literature. Who is left? Who will go on? What contemporary living writer can I recommend to young men?

One of the major disappointments of the last couple of years for me has been the lack of an interesting and innovative independent literary scene. Half a decade ago, when so many were talking about breaking away from the literary establishment and focusing on independent self-publishing, I expected new scenes to develop. New movements, innovations.

There’s a scene, but except for several outliers, the independent fiction scene is a disgusting mess of pastiche, boosterism, and quantity over quality grifting. There’s a complete lack of intelligent criticism, instead, almost everyone is focused on boosting sales and circle-jerking. Most of all, the saddest fact is that having the means to publish and distribute fiction with a freedom unheard of in the history of writing the best most independent writers showed themselves capable of doing is writing endless pastiche filled with elves, dragons, vampires, and other played out inanities.

I’m discouraged and disappointed.