As a form the novel is too elastic to be “under threat” especially by those self-consciously pushing at the boundaries thereof. We could just call it writing. What is writing for?
I had to take a walk, to be in the sun, to feel the crisp fall air on my skin after reading the preface (is it a preface, or a beginning? a disclaimer?) to This Book is Fucking Stupid by Christopher Nosnibor. Why do people substitute asterisks for the vowels in words like fucking? Does it help? What would it help? Maybe I shouldn’t write about Mr Nosnibor (is that his real name?)… about Mr Nosnibor’s book since it’s possible I am just pretending. Another day in the office…
The book is self-reviewing. The preface(?) is ironic?
The books I like to read are a “… mish-mash of documentary and memoir along with social commentary and whatever else comes to hand, all in convoluted plots about writing the book you’re reading…” What does that say about me? Are the books I write “… devoid of plot or characterization…”? Probably. But aren’t there plenty of other books out there just bursting with plot and characterization? Why am I writing a series of rhetorical questions? Perhaps I was a French philosopher in a former life.
Why didn’t I misspend my youth? If one misspends their middle age, is it necessarily a crisis, or could it be experimental and edgy? Or just sad. I’m not trying to be anything for you. I have never starved.