by rantywoman

I just finished two books by male authors this weekend. Both writers are in their mid-forties.

The book by Author A, who is conventionally successful and fairly well-known, was a memoir about his adolescent, college, and twentysomething years. It has won awards, but I found it to be a poorly-written book in which a typical, white, upper-middle-class suburban kid recounts his (typical upper-middle-class) coming of age as if it was particularly profound and meaningful. Yet, he didn’t seem to have any particularly profound or meaningful insights to impart.

The book by Author B, a novel about a bohemian character painfully transitioning into his thirties, was panned when it came out and quickly forgotten, but I found it to be brilliant, as I do his other books, most of which are unusually well-written and insightful novels about young adults. He is not as conventionally successful as Author A, but he does have a cult following.

I looked up Author A on Facebook. He’s married to a blandly good-looking woman and they have three kids. All of his photos are standard snapshots of the kids.

Author B, on the other hand, is single (maybe divorced), no kids. His photos and posts are about unusual books, movies, concerts, and events.

Now, B may have issues (and has confessed to a past substance abuse problem), but it’s clear where I stand.

With B! B all the way.