About novel and the underglaze of reference and the theoretical. An ongoing uneasiness and sometimes terror of not knowing and not understanding and being uninterested in or incapable of understanding in the ways that variously exist or are performed by scholars in my life since college and in the culture of the department I’ve worked in for 14 years. It is related to the way I’ve always felt one foot in and out of mainstream literary when opposed to so called avant- grade traditions (it’s so nice to have it so publicly pointed out how exclusively white-male that tradition has been described as and how false that is and like slap on the forehead no wonder I was always not really feeling wholly part of either– one was so straight and aesthetically choked and one was filled with boys I thought I should want to date but just couldn’t actually bear and then within each, this or that book I could love, this or that tidbit of a life story I could connect to in a direct way, and therefore claiming as my ground indirect connections to everything and that forming my aesthetic and probably my politics too)  but over time those categories feel increasingly blessedly irrelevant to a visible chunk of culture— other in-betweenies. But simultaneously as I see a potential home for me among writers I see it less in my job and worry about its role in my work. I am not sure how swank hotel maps these concerns but I know it does and I don’t know if that makes it a better or worse book than it could be. My job is my way to have money and such a large part of my way to have interactions with people. What does that do over time?

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