This was very engaging at a meta level. An unnamed narrator, seemingly the author, but possibly not, seeking essentially the impetus to write what I was consuming. The liminal space of being a person and a character, not knowing what may have the stamp of approval as “factual”, as well as the goals of the character being non standard, create a really engaging way to consume the fiction. I think I paid deeper attention to every scene because there is more to discern, and perhaps even a small challenge to the reader as to what is “real” or not, and why that should even matter. Especially in a story about figuring out how and what to write, even when you have some parameters defined for the project.

I really enjoy Belcourt’s prose work. They’re lyrical and sometimes purple, but not continually. They make casual moments leap off the page because the narrator is putting effort into them, in the attempt to memorialize them - which is then translated to the page, which we then have meta context of. It’s clever, well done, and I like prose like that, generally, anyway. High specificity is always a mark of good writing, even when it courts readers to upturn their nose. Perhaps especially then. This idea of Hemingway, “simple” prose work being The Best, is a bastardization of the form, imo. Never mind that it now feels like the most general, stale, straight way to formulate an authorial voice, and this book is obviously queer. But I’ve said my peace on it.

This is a fantastic piece that sits around 4.5 rounded up, with some connective tissue feeling like it could have brought it to perfection.