What I’ve long suspected—that American literature these days is dominated by a bunch of MFA-degreed Nancy boys who publish in prestigious literary magazines that nobody reads—turns out to be true, according to this essay by Gerald Howard.
Given my work history, which includes stints as a farm hand, construction laborer, janitor, and Subway Sandwich Artisan™, it seems there really is no excuse for my inability to write a decent short story.
