A colleague recently let me know about the release of the latest “Best of Young American Novelists,” a list compiled by the magazine Granta. The publication enlisted six judges to selected novelists under the age of 35 years old who are seen as up-and-coming stars in the literary world. Twenty-one wordsmiths were picked, receiving the prestigious honor of being considered one of the best young American novelists.
The catch? Seven of these lucky tours-de-force are unpublished.
Un.
Published.
As in “I haven’t put a novel out there. Just take my word for it, please. Please.”
As in “I can’t hand you my novel, but trust me, it is freaking great and I am a misunderstood genius.”
As in “Just wait ‘til I’m discovered. I’m mysterious like that.”
I’m confused (well … moreso than usual). Using this criterion as a standard, can I now claim to be America’s Greatest Young Football Coach?* One of the country’s Best Young Beer Drinkers?** Perhaps our nation’s premiere Young Midget Tosser***? Possibly the United States’ Most Promising Young Limerickist****? Even the land’s Top Young Boss Ridiculer and Sarcasticist?*****
So dream big, young bloggists, artists, search engine-ists and whatever-Will-does-isists … In the immortal words of Jerry Seinfeld, “I’m not sure how official any of these rankings really are.”
* Never technically coached a football game on any level.
** Never technically won a sanctioned drinking contest.
*** Never technically launched a wee person across a room (though I did curse at a blind dwarf with wrenched pants once).
**** Never officially recognized by one of the country’s limerick-judging organizations.
***** Never technically announced as such, though I should humbly say that I would win this hands-down.
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