Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 22147 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 111(@200wpm)___ 89(@250wpm)___ 74(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22147 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 111(@200wpm)___ 89(@250wpm)___ 74(@300wpm)
I fix her with a mock-stern look.
“I think you should get an A but it’s because you deserve it,” I say casually. “Your last paper on the Machado book was incredible, sweetheart.”
“I’m glad you liked it!” she says, perking up and smiling. “I wasn’t sure what you were going to think because my paper was pretty sexual, and I delved into the queer perspective of many characters. But I’m glad it stood out to you.”
I nod approvingly.
“Aria, you’re really talented,” I rumble. “And I would say that even if you weren’t my lover. You have a good head when it comes to analyzing literature, and I was impressed with your close textual analysis as well as the incorporation of third-party sources. How did you find those resources, anyways?” I ask, squinting a bit. “Machado’s book just came out, so I’m surprised there was any literary criticism, period.”
Aria grins.
“I read all the on-line journals, as well as a bunch of popular culture blogs. I know what you’re thinking: that stuff is drivel and this is the garbage that clutters the internet. But I swear, if you dig deep enough, you can actually find some good stuff out there. Maybe it’s not the New York Review of Books, but there are a lot of talented critics who need a platform, and we can’t all work for the New York Review.”
I nod. Aria’s right because there are so many hungry, aggressive authors out there, and critics as well. Before the internet, there was no way for them to get published. The gatekeepers were the editors at storied publications like the New York Review of Books, but these industry editors have seen their influence wane in the digital age. Instead, numerous literary blogs have cropped up as of late, and although I don’t follow them religiously, I do read them on occasion and had reason to be surprised because they’re good. Maybe they’re not rigorous in the same way as the old guard, but they have their own points of view and cater to a different population with different ideologies and identities.
“You know, I think you’re right,” I say slowly while sipping my coffee again. “After all, Machado’s work is genre-defying. It’s literature, certainly, but it’s also gothic horror, queer romance, and short format reimaginings all rolled into one. Why would a publication as staid as the New York Review take Machado? They’re looking for the next Tennyson or Jonathan Safran Foer. They wouldn’t know what to do with a Carmen Machado.”
“Exactly,” says Aria with satisfaction while popping another bite of pancake into her mouth. “They don’t know what to do with someone like her, and so they ignore her. But you know what? The literary establishment is taking note because they’ve seen their influence wane. They know that they’re not kingmakers anymore, and it’s clear that Machado has done just fine without them. Didn’t she win a prize recently?”
“She did,” I nod. “She was a National Book Award finalist.”
“See?” Aria says triumphantly. “There’s a new squad coming to town, and the old guard better be scared. Because they are going to be irrelevant sooner or later.”
I throw my head back and laugh because Aria is so bold and sassy that it’s breathtaking. On the one hand, I’m impressed. My lover is young but she’s keenly intelligent and not afraid to make big claims. I adore the fact that she just puts it out there with a double middle finger.
Plus, her words are enticing because she’s not afraid to spar with me. She’s not intimidated in the least, and when she refers to the “old guard,” she’s referring to fuddy-duddies like myself who hold academic positions at universities. Yes, we reside in the ivory tower, but I’m not offended. If anything, Aria’s sassy critiques get me going in all the right ways and every cell in my body stands on alert as I gaze at that laughing, generous form.
Shit. What I want right now is to tear that robe from her curvy body, and to throw her onto the linoleum floor and have my way with her all over again. I want to sample the sweetness between her thighs, and maybe pour some maple syrup onto her folds before licking it up drop by drop. My eyes gleam, and I’m just about to reach for her giggling curves when suddenly there’s a metal clanking sound by the front door.
I sigh and roll my eyes.
“It’s just the mail,” I say. “USPS still delivers on Saturdays around here.”
Aria giggles.
“That’s good. I thought they were going bankrupt and were cutting Saturday deliveries.”
“Maybe,” I say wryly. “But it hasn’t hit rural Rhode Island yet. Let me see if I got anything.”
I get up from my chair, the furniture scraping a bit, and stroll over to the front door. Damnit. I have a mail slot cut into the wooden slab, and the carrier pushed my mail in so that it’s spilled in a messy heap on the floor. Sighing, I lean over and pick up the various pieces of junk and what not.