The American Man Is the Problem

On “sad boy” literature and the pitiful state of the literary man

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

A couple of years ago, I started writing about the lack of masculine fiction in the literary scene, and predictably, I was lambasted and called all manner of names by the enlightened literati. I was labelled a bro, a beast, and even a misogynist for simply saying the obvious things that my fellow American male writers—and many ladies, I might add—were thinking and talking about privately. But I’ll get to those cowardly dudes later. Start trembling, boys. But the truth is that I owe my career and the many good times I’ve been having these past few years to the cowards and the passive aggressive bureaucrats. I saw an opening, and like the pragmatic Miami guy I am, I took it. The secret is that if you’re talented enough, you can take these spots. I recommend it—if you have the guts, of course. I became a literary truth-teller, a “bad boy” even, which is still hilarious to me. Sure, as far as contemporary writers go, I’m pretty jacked and still carry some of the performative swagger of my jock days, but I’m a sweet, sweet boy. I was right about the state of the literary scene, as evidenced by the articles that have been dropping recently bemoaning the lack of “sad boy” novels and the fact that straight men don’t read.

These utterly boring pieces—published in Esquire and Dazed—have restarted the conversation that I initiated. Now, apparently, the “serious” and “somber” people can talk about this stuff. Boring. And not only are these pieces boring, but they don’t talk about the more interesting—and yes, obvious—reasons behind the supposed lack of literary novels by young men. But don’t worry, I’m here for you again, stating the obvious. I’ll take the heat—and the money—and you can all go on being good boys.

The somber-toned Esquire article—“Where Is All the Sad Boy Literature?”—is concerned with the apparent lack of young men writing about vulnerability and intimacy, but the following quote highlights what the piece is really about: “As a woman, I’m finding myself keen to read more novels from a young male perspective, especially if they’re exploring stories of the diaspora…” What this editor is really saying, and what many in the literary world already know, is that American men need not apply. She mentions “diaspora” because to outright mention masculinity without it is to risk being called out as someone who wants to read books by American men. And if one wants to remain a citizen of good standing in the literary community they better not signal any allegiance to the American man, unless he writes apologetically and shamefully. Still, it’s safer to steer clear of the dreaded American man. He is the problem after all.

The American man is problematic when his fiction features a general American backdrop or point of view that isn’t contingent on the weepy diaspora tale or one that relies on POC suffering. In this landscape, the white American man—unless he’s sufficiently self-flagellating—is obviously screwed. But this disgust for American men also affects men of color who reject the victimization story, or at the very least don’t want to make it the hallmark of their work. There isn’t a singular American male experience, of course, but more often than not, American men from differing backgrounds can break bread and connect over their common kinship suffering under a generalized American malaise. This is a beautiful thing. I love watching a game at a bar and talking with dudes I don’t know or meeting a random guy at a coffeeshop and bonding over our shared American experience. I’ve had these moments with white guys, black guys, Hispanics like me, gay and straight, effeminate and macho, all kinds of guys. We are American men trying to make it in America. This is what the American man is writing about.

 Some of you, I’m sure, have already started counting how many times I’ve said that poisonous word. Some of you are cringing. AMERICAN. It embarrasses you. You’re embarrassed of being an American, I know. I see you post your fashionable book hauls on Twitter, stacks and stacks of novels in translation by those respectable Europeans published by New Directions and Deep Vellum. You panicked white boys, so afraid of your fellow American men of literature, crack me up. Oh, they’ll like me if I post pictures of those European tomes, you surely think. They’ll surely love me if I post yet another Latin American novella, you think.  Well, let me tell you: they don’t like you. Mix in a book by an American man one time, I dare you.

The Esquire article mentions the acceptable contemporary writers practicing “sad boy” literature, and of course, they’re mostly Europeans. Ask an upstanding member of the literary community who their favorite male writers are, and you’ll get the usual suspects: Alejandro Zambra, Cesar Aira, Jon Fosse, Colin Barrett, Benjamin Labatut and fifteen European tome writers. If they’re feeling courageous they might mention Sam Lipsyte or the brilliant—and socially acceptable—Percival Everett. But you already know this, of course. You’re thinking about this when you make your little lists. If you’re an American literary man, you’re painfully aware of this situation; and if you’re a literary lady, you’re always conscious of the specter of the American man. He is bad and cringe and his writing is tainted with that disgusting Americanism. All the while, non-American men are granted far more freedom to write and experiment because they don’t carry the American stain.

The truth is that the American literary scene is as staid and boring as it is because the literary establishment treats male American writers with contempt. Let me be very clear: there’s a small, but vocal subset of American literary women—and their male patsies—who absolutely hate American men. Whenever the topic comes up that men aren’t reading or have abandoned literature, these women mock and berate and gleefully ridicule the American men who simply want a seat at the literary table. I’m not here to attack these women, but it’s important to state the fact that everyone knows to be true—these women hate straight American men and are thrilled that they’re having trouble.

This is an important point if we want to understand the current literary ecosystem because this derision of American men is often driving publishing decisions; the small subset of hateful women is vocal, so the literary women who don’t necessarily hate American men, follow suit. And the few men in editorial positions are obviously under enormous pressure to publish the “correct” types of men, if they even risk selecting one at all. The hate is obviously mostly directed at straight American men, but I want to note that it’s not exclusive to them; I’ve noticed—and I’ve been told—that there’s a rising contempt being directed at what I’ll call the classic American gay dude. This is a guy who isn’t obsessed with identity politics or the social justice concerns of the broader queer community. Hence, he’s a classic American gay dude. Maybe they’re not hated yet, but they’re certainly feeling the heat.

You’re probably thinking that when I say “American man” I mean an explicitly political figure, perhaps even a right-winger. The people who hate the American man certainly think this because they conflate any kind of Americanism with conservatism, but that’s not what I mean when I use the label. It has less to do with patriotism or overt Americana aesthetics—even though I don’t mind them—and more to do with a swaggering American voice and style. The American man I’m talking about may be a conservative or a liberal or apolitical, but that’s not what matters most to him. It’s about audacity and courage and ridiculousness and love and beauty and the willingness to fall flat on your face and embarrass yourself in the service of your art. It’s Henry Miller. It’s Ralph Ellison. It’s Phillip Roth. It’s Barry Hannah. It’s Truman Capote. It’s Charles Portis. It’s James Alan McPherson. It’s all those truly vulnerable, beautiful boys. The haters despise the American man because anything American is now tinged with all manner of awfulness in their minds; it’ s a loaded political term to many of the ultra-progressives that thrive in the literary scene. America is bad, and so a man who identifies as an American man, is obviously an unpublishable cretin who should be shunned. But I’m talking about something much grander than politics. I’m talking about the American spirit. But they probably hate that more than anything else.

So to answer the question that I posed years ago and that all the serious and somber people have conveniently gotten around to asking now: where are all the literary novels by men? For the American man, the answer is obvious—locked away in his computer. Or if in a moment of delusional audacity, he sent it to an agent or an editor, he might’ve even tossed it out when he was greeted with disdain or outright ignored. But you know this. This has been going on for a long time now. Recently, I read an unpublished novel written ten years ago by a friend; he gave up long ago on getting it published, after having been met with the usual resistance, but all these years later he was still thinking about the book. What did I think? It’s a beautiful novel about masculinity, vulnerability, and mental health struggles…written by an American man. The writer is a liberal and the novel’s politics are on the progressive side, but it tackles masculinity honestly and through an American prism. No one took a chance. Many, many such cases for the American male novelist. If only my friend was a raunchy little Frenchman or a Brit like Gabriel Smith or a “serious” Latin American writer with a rich ambassador daddy and predictable anti-American politics.

The novels by American men that do get miraculously published in this landscape face an uphill battle to break out, which explains why so many of these writers—and their editors and publicists—reach out to me privately. In many ways, I am now the representative of the American male writer, because I actually give them a fair shake. Still, conversations often happen in private, with editors sending me books in secret and publicists begging for coverage. This level of fear is as sad as it is hilarious—we’re talking about books here!—but this is the literary landscape that’s been created and cultivated by those who hate American men. You know this, of course. Don’t act all surprised at the lack of “sad boy” literary novels in your boring think pieces in which you pretend to care about the plight of these unpublished men. Which is why I also don’t believe that the people in these pieces claiming that we now need to publish—and read—novels by men because there’s a “masculinity crisis” actually care about this issue. Frankly, I don’t buy it, and I think it’s bullshit that they’re supposedly worried about young men now because they’re falling behind and dropping out of society. I don’t believe that they want to read books by men to better understand them. I much prefer—and respect—the people who own up to their distaste for American men and are thrilled that the industry, at every level—from agents to editors to publicists—is dominated by young women.

Anyway, we shouldn’t read novels by men because there’s a “masculinity crisis” and society needs to be better allies to these broken-down men—that therapeutic mindset has nothing to do with literature. We should want to read books by American men for the same reason that we read books by anyone else: for artistic and aesthetic reasons. My literary project is simple: I want more American voices—of all types—and more diversity from the voices that are currently fashionable and propped up by the literary establishment. We shouldn’t know exactly what types of books we’re going to see whenever a new literary list is published; we shouldn’t be able to predict the style—and mode—in which these books are written. It shouldn’t be this predictable and boring.

Let me get to the cowards, the guys who seethe in silence or just put on their fake, little smiles. You’re passive aggressive; you’re boring; and yes, you’re cowards. Yes, you’re hated by many in the literary scene, and you haven’t received fair treatment in recent years, but you have the option of saying something, of writing something, of being, you know, an American man. But maybe a lot of American men just don’t have the juice and the verve anymore. Maybe they’re also the problem. Maybe there is a masculinity crisis after all—in the literary world. If that’s the case, you unpublished sad boys might as well shove your heads in tote bags and cry cry cry.

The truth is, I don’t want to write about this stuff. I don’t want to care about this, but since I’m the one who started the conversation, here we are. But what we should really be talking about is the fact that there aren’t many of us left who care about American literature. That should worry us. If you’re reading this, whether you like it or not, we’re on the same team. It’s absolutely pointless to have a fractured literary community when it’s already as small as it is. You don’t need to agree with everyone or like their work, but to outright dismiss a massive segment of writers because of their identity is incredibly stupid and an insult to literature.