Snobbin: Beautiful Trash in the Pop Culture Gutter

Give me life or something less explicit, as the receipt of my boring considerations April 26 is a day of little relevance, posting idly on the internet and floating between transit or transom, trying to maintain a fresh status in the queue of  extemporaneous age (what does that even mean?)  Pop psychology! (The pain) Illiterate (transposed) on a bed of dying critics (capitalism's nightmare  is just an invitation to create garbage (creating a world of carbon copies) What would Baudelaire or Baudrillard think? Build a decadent Disneyland  for your fucked up imaginings.  Rhizomes from another mother, as Deleuze and Guattari found out soon enough (These roots go deep, back to radical and conventional thinking) Buried in the soil mossing yet another stone that refuses to gather momentum. Yet it remains the same. The damn song remains the same. Take that Zeppelin.  Take that Postmodernism. (Are you a capitalized thought?) (Are you a capsized thought?) Take that F...

I used to see myself as an all-too-serious writer when it came to writing fiction. I always tried to write what in the past would have been considered the Great American Novel or those very serious stories that people would read in The New Yorker or The American Mercury . Apparently, I thought of myself as a modernist 1920s-1950s writer telling stories about characters in the vein of Gertrude Stein or J.D. Salinger, exploring the foibles of normal people. I slowly realized that my writing style is close to this vision but not in the way I thought. I am improving my process by writing earthy stories full of humor and straightforward storylines, covering the daily adventures of normal people. I really have no ambitions to write the Great American Novel anymore because I would rather write for myself and the average fiction reader. I am becoming more comfortable in my skin as a writer.  The narrative structures I was creating in more fiction were far different; in fact, I was dabbling...