The American Man Is the Problem

A couple of years ago, I started writing about the lack of masculine fiction in the literary scene, and predictably, I was lambasted and called all manner of names by the enlightened literati. I was labelled a bro, a beast, and even a misogynist for simply saying the obvious things that my fellow American male writers—and many ladies, I might add—were thinking and talking about privately. But I’ll get to those cowardly dudes later. Start trembling, boys. But the truth is that I owe my career and the many good times I’ve been having these past few years to the cowards and the passive aggressive bureaucrats. I saw an opening, and like the pragmatic Miami guy I am, I took it. The secret is that if you’re talented enough, you can take these spots. I recommend it—if you have the guts, of course. I became a literary truth-teller, a “bad boy” even, which is still hilarious to me. Sure, as far as contemporary writers go, I’m pretty jacked and still carry some of the performative swagger of my jock days, but I’m a sweet, sweet boy. I was right about the state of the literary scene, as evidenced by the articles that have been dropping recently bemoaning the lack of “sad boy” novels and the fact that straight men don’t read.