I Think Most Short Stories Are Glorified Therapy Sessions: Am I the Literary Asshole?

Hello, readers! I’m your host, Kristen Arnett, advice columnist (and Dad) extraordinaire. I’m excited to welcome you back to yet another special episode of Am I the Literary Asshole? , an advice column that asks if “head empty, just vibes” is simply a nice way of describing a hangover. My head? Empty. But the vibes? Pal, they’re immaculate. Today I’m coming to you live from the beach in sunny Florida. It’s my wife’s birthday this weekend, and buddy, we are celebrating! The waves are crashing, the chips are fresh, and somebody somewhere is making me an icy cold piña colada (hallelujah). What better way to celebrate my wife and nature’s splendors than by hunching over my computer, squinting from the glare, and getting sunscreen all over my keyboard? Grab your coolers, let’s get this party started! * 1) Am I an asshole for not joining book clubs because I have been a professor of literature for 50 years, am tired of “opinions,” and don’t want to suddenly start teaching (or “lecturing”) instead of discussing, or become a know-it-all? I’ll put off immediately answering this question by observing the time-honored tradition of supplying an “amusing” anecdote. I’ve been in a few different book clubs, but the last one I was part of was my favorite. My thought process behind this ranking is simple. There was a manageable amount of us (too many cooks at the beachside grill spoils the char on the burgers), people usually read the material and showed up ready to chat, and most importantly: people were chill. They just wanted a cool night out with friends and a (possibly) good book, they wanted to drink a few beers, and they wanted to have a nice, mellow time. Then somehow a person got invited who (in my opinion) started taking things way too seriously. Each book club meeting began to feel like an interrogation. The intensity of the questioning was akin to that of a crime procedural; I half expected someone to shine a flashlight directly into my eyes and ask where I was the day Lincoln was […]

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