This? This is a book. No. It’s not a book. It’s a book-length work of words that more or less got strung together from some haphazard idea that fiction, literary criticism, and the beer shits can come together and make something magical.
This? This is magical.
I don’t know. This is a thing. This thing is about 50,000 words. You will not learn anything even if you somehow get to the end of it. You probably won’t even get lost in the world this thing—book?—centers around. Most of the time it’s a bunch of griping about the writing world and a whole crap load of self-loathing.
This is the Internet. This is the Internet in printed form. Neither of us should be surprised.
This should be a pamphlet. This shouldn’t even be whatever is less than a pamphlet. This should be a flyer stapled to a telephone pole looking for a missing cat blog. This shouldn’t even be a thing. This wouldn’t be a thing pre-Internet. Now it is.