Okay, unusually for me, I have to say that I really, really dislike this story. I read it in Bull Spec, actually, and hated it there. I listened all the way through the audio, in case it got better a second time through, but I'm afraid the fiery hatred still burst out of every pore and turned me into a shrieking, laughing, Nicholas-Cagean maniac.
I really hate this story.
Specifically, I hate the protagonist, and his smarmy, smug hipsterism. Yes, Writer Man, ONLY YOU see through the fakery. ONLY YOU are the secret master of literacy who can duplicate commercial products with your amazing skill and become like unto a god, and it is only your forbearance and disinterested attitude that keeps you from exercising your power, for after all, what use are those mortal trinkets compared to your ART? And naturally, that Art is far, far too fine and elegant for the crass world to every understand or appreciate.
I hate this man because I recognize that attitude. I had it, once. I thought that I was better than everyone, smarter than everyone, and that the only reason I didn't win every academic award was because I didn't feel like trying hard enough. I made it out of that morass and learned a little bit about reality, but it was a hard and bitter struggle, and I was a god-damned worthless slug of a human being while it was going on. I'm still pretty damned arrogant; this is me AFTER I learned humility, to give you an idea of how insufferable I was.
I hate the story because it coddles this self-absorbed little twit. It creates a world for him in which he really is special, in which he really could be the greatest writer ever, if he but stretched out his hand to take it. It glorifies his quirks into signs of deep wisdom and sings paeans to his inability to say hello to a freaking woman at a coffee-shop because he is so sensitive.
The story looks at pop culture and remix culture and sneers. Derivative tripe, it says, but then, it's what everyone wants. The Philistines. Real artists, true creatives, are above that, on a separate plane, and only pulled down into the muddle because the world is inescapable. The story sighs wistfully at the thought of the pure Art that might be if only the world recognized its genius, if only it were left alone to tap that magical solitary ability it has to touch a higher level. On behalf of all of the pop culture makers, the singers and writers and artists who work hard on that crappy third-tier sitcom, on that commercial for absorbent wipes, on that bouncy teenybopper song, nuts to that noise. Real art IS derivative, because real art, art that speaks to people, art that has something to say and the ability to let people hear it, is art that is made OF and WITH the world, connected to it and spun of its fabric. Art is a conversation, not some Platonic ideal. I often remark that the last truly original statement was, "Let there be light," and everything since then has been building on what went before. (And frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if He'd cribbed it from some other universe.)
I struggle with this even now, because I've got kind of an offbeat sensibility about things, and the stories I write tend to go over peoples' heads. THIS IS NOT A STRENGTH, BUT A WEAKNESS. If I can't write in a way that people understand, then I might as well not write at all. Those who love me tell me that I'm just "smarter" or "better" or whatever, and God help me but I want to believe that, I do, and I get angry when people say, "I don't get it. What did this mean?" in response to something I think is clear. When I recover from that, I regard it as a failure, a lapse on my part, because there is no such thing as art that is too good to be understood, too refined to be appreciated, too original to be successful.
I get so angry about this story because of this tendency of mine, because it would be so easy and so pleasant to tell myself that it's not my fault if my stories get rejected, it's just those darn ignoramuses who can't appreciate my genius. It's painful to me to have to constantly fight off that mindset and remind myself that if people don't get my stories, it's my fault rather than theirs. And I hate having to see a world such as the one in this story that whispers that seductive refrain in my ear, that tells me I'm special, I'm smart, I'm too good for them. I hate pushing that away because I want it so badly to be true...
...and I know that it isn't.
Sorry about this, y'all. Ms. Thielbar, please accept my apologies; you did not intend this message, I'm sure, and it is unreasonable to expect that you would foresee my reactions. I seriously disagree with this story's organizing theme. (And I'm not wild about the motifs; I tend to feel that anyone who can't find their quiet space because of all the technology and gadgets around them is the proverbial shoddy dancer placing the blame on the floor.) I think remixing and deriving new material is the core of art, not its death, and this story bothers me deeply because of that, beyond my irrational dislike for the protagonist (exacerbated by the use of the second person telling me that I'm like him when I have fought so hard to get away from that place).