Not to be in the novelists’ business but I’d like to request a moratorium on books based in Los Angeles and New York.
Don’t get it twisted: I love when the narrator gets sloppy at a bar at which I may or may not have fallen down the stairs; what a thrill when a casual browse through an Erewhon-adjacent grocery store triggers a psychological episode in the protagonist. It’s a mildly annoying yet revolutionary request from a woman who has lived in both cities, but I wouldn’t put forth such an idea without a solution. Thankfully, it’s a simple one: We need more novels set in Florida.
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