The Democratic National Convention is in full swing and I cannot bear to watch it. I love Michelle Obama, and I’m sure she gave a great opening speech, but most of the line-up is so problematic I find myself reaching for a second glass of Coppola Claret before the coverage even begins.
The brutal caught-on-tape murder of George Floyd sparked protests around the world. In the midst of the current global pandemic staggering numbers have risked their lives in the call for justice. “This,” as one expert put it, “is our Selma Moment.” How do we make that moment count?
After reading Myriam Gurba’s furious, chisme-laced preface to her American Dirt review, I can only conclude that her opinions have little to do with the book itself.
Cozying up with a good book is the best thing about self-isolation. My current read, American Dirt, has filled that bill for me. Myriam Gurba offers a much different opinion, and her take is even more breathtaking than the novel she excoriates.
Much of the fallout surrounding American Dirt appears to be the result of marketing tactics over which very few writers have control.
When a writer is fortunate enough to have work published, criticism is an inevitable part of the process. But something about this feels different.