This is sad and creepy at the same time

Ok maybe I shouldn't have done this, but the first link you put, listed a bunch of his "best" articles. I couldn't figure out which one was referring to this post, so I just picked a random on and gave it a shot. People were giving this guy so much praise about his writing style that I figured that I didn't have much to lose. And I like articles about personal stories and journeys sometimes too. And I was in the mood for something light-hearted and personal.

And holy fuck did I feel like that was a waste of time. And I knew going into it that I was reading to kill some time and I still felt like it was a waste of time. I didn't find his prose especially interesting or enjoyable. The subject matter was about his childhood cement mixer, but it always felt like it was building up to some modern personal revelation or something. Honestly I got through 2/3rds (it was so loooooong) and maybe it finally did do that at the end. I'll never know. It was so boring and I'm just done with it.

And I guess I'm just so bothered by how the top comment about this guy's writing is how good he is. And the article in the link is a collection of his best pieces that got way longer than originally intended, again because of how good a writer he is. And in the middle of the piece, after he repeated nearly the same line for the third time, he then apologizes to the reader for not being a more clear writer. And I couldn't agree with him more. Which makes this praise of him all the more baffling.

He even at one point in the piece says (parenthetically) he's going to go back through what's he's written so far and tighten it up to explain things better. That's editing. He just parenthetically told his audience he's going to edit his bloated piece about a childhood memory. No. Fucking. Shit. You're writing a piece for the New Yorker! Editing is assumed to be part of the process. Why did you need to stop your narrative to tell us this? Again, an already meandering narrative that killed steadily wore down my interest.

Idk maybe the New Yorker is too smart for me and I just don't get it. I know I suck with managing my prose when writing but I'm an engineer. My prose needs to be functional for my work. But that's never stopped me from appreciating other authors with gorgeous prose, like Ursula k Le guin, or someone more grounded in reality like Michael Lewis. I don't know. Maybe that was the wrong article for someone just learning about his writing. But holy fuck, I feel like I just don't "get it".

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