I was subjugated by the classic canon, Greek myths and their dutifully plagiarized Roman step-cousins since before university. Now, in my second year, I look at a plot and scream, “I hate the supreme court!” (quoting John Waters’ Desperate Living from 1977). The promise of progress presented by a plot infuriates me; I almost said, "Just write a detective novel, mama!" And the sheer gall of an author stretching a thing past 240 pages reeks of an aura I refuse to be associated with, like, “Don’t tell me what the Vietnam War looked like” (Waters, again, naturally).

Lately, as I grow older, I find myself devoted to the short story as a form: so humble, so conscious of its vessel, so…dare I say... demure. Well, yes! 2026 shall be a grand return to the form, with Etgar Keret, David Means, Robert Walser, Kathryn Scanlan, and Tatyana Tolstaya—five queens standing before me...and don't plot me up!

Don’t mistake this for a full novel-divorce, of course. I’ve discovered the Nouveau Roman from France that focuses on rejecting traditional plot and character development in favor of anything but that. I found Nathalie Sarraute last year and I lived and you know what I was actually feeling myself like never before. The lineup is locked: Alain Robbe-Grillet, Claude Simon, Marguerite Duras, Georges Perec, Julio Cortázar, Ann Quin... oh, I just got the giddiness writing this list of authors; a sudden raised hair on the back of my neck shivered to my tailbone and I said, "Yes, gawddd!!!"

So that's the plan for 2026. A reading plan, actually...any plan would work to prevent me from sticking my head in the oven. Anything! A man? Oh, hell no...hmm...actually, I have this crush. Okay, he likes the Elderlings series and The Mirror Visitor quartet...a genre I'm not very interested in, but let's see how this one-sided crush will go. And he likes Georges Simenon, and I can get behind a detective story and have been meaning to read Simenon...maybe this'll achieve the reciprocation of my one-sided crush.

Enough of this man! Because I have two backlogged issues from this year of The Paris Review, and I can't unsubscribe for fear of not being literary enough in front of my friends.

Still here? My god, read something else, people! Give me recommendations according to my demands if you want, and please don't put your reading plan in the comments; one can only read so much third-rate writing a day...but do that if you insist.

my guy is spiralling so much he’s giving me anxiety💀