Hi! I’m Jacob, and this is Fslur.
I’ve had the guilty pleasure recently of reading several Substack takedowns, and I want to weigh in. I won’t moralize on this. I love a good read, especially when it’s smart, sharp and correct. Literary beef makes for good drama, but it can be even more gratifying to see someone punch up, to find a deep and furious rant from a humble Substacker about an inexplicably popular author. Get ready, the library is open.
One such takedown came across my feed recently targeting Ocean Vuong, particularly his latest book, The Emperor of Gladness, this summer’s would-be literary darling. I haven’t read any of Vuong’s work, largely because I’ve been put off by his poetically affected sadboy schtick I’ve gleaned through glimpses on social media. I admit that reading this piece was a thrilling validation of the perceptions I may have unfairly formed about Vuong’s work — that it’s posturing, painfully self-aggrandizing, desperate for depth and, above all, frequently nonsensical (in service of the above).
A piece in the London Review of Books by Tom Crewe, whose novel The New Life ranked among my top reads of 2024, underpins the Vuong Substack takedown, which appropriately notes that negative review from institutional outlets are increasingly unusual, as most review platforms function as hype machines and will at worst snub a bad book with a lukewarm endorsement or no review at all. Crewe’s send-up lends some credibility to hot takes trashing the behemoth of a new Vuong book and holds the door for minor culture critics to pile on.
While it’s safe to say that Vuong doesn’t care what I think about his work, I might regret writing this, because you never know who knows who who knows who who knows Vuong or has some stake in his success. To cover my own ass, I’ll add that I’ve sold his books plenty, that I have no vendetta against Vuong and that I’m open to revising my opinions of him and his work. This is not a hit piece. I’m dunking on him as an example and scoring off his name because he is so big.
This speaks to the delicacy of the negative attention machine. I’m no bully, but I’m petty and judgy. I have thoughts. I started Fslur in part to pursue a personal vendetta against systems of heteropatriarchy. I’d love to say that I’m above throwing stones for clicks, but here I am. Vuong feels like a fair target. I can’t punch up much higher, unless I went for a Oprah, whose endorsement of Vuong’s books juiced their reception.
I came across another takedown a few weeks back targeting a writer and translator with whom I am just barely personally connected. This was more shocking, because I respect this person’s work, even having gone so far as to purchase (although admittedly not yet actually read) some of their books. We have to take everything with a grain of salt in the confabulous internet age, but it’s amazing how effectively a few words can pop the bubbles we form in our brain.
This was a fascinating read, deeply-researched, with Reddit receipts and clear, compelling conclusions, plus no small amount of personal spite. I didn’t relish it like the Vuong piece, maybe because it didn’t confirm my existing opinions. It did make me think hard about what motivates someone to write such a thorough read of another person, who is, at the end of the day, just another person. Honestly, I envied the subject. I started to imagine the hit pieces to be written on me. I almost started writing my own.
But negativity can’t carry the day. These pieces work because they are right. Even if opinion plays a part, there’s a clear case to make about Vuong’s tortured, at times meaningless, prose. Spite for the sake of spite can lead to its own performative overreach.
One more takedown to mention — this did not target a specific person, but was framed as something like ‘the types of Substackers I hate.’ There’s something there. I too get annoyed with the humble braggarts, the endless newbies introducing themselves, the men who speak LinkedIn founder dialects I’m terrified of. But the piece goes too far, inventing types of Substackers which aren’t really types, making me think versions of, hmm, that would be annoying if that were actually a person I’d encountered on Substack, but it’s not, so it isn’t. This gives away the game. You aren’t advancing a thoughtful argument or a critical take. You just want engagement, and you’re tapping negativity to farm it. And that sucks.
Having said that, there’s another popular author with a new book out recently whose success I deeply resent and envy. These stories are half-baked and this writing is deeply mid. These books are replete with lines that made me shake my head and wonder how this made it to print. These plots are contrived, serving a single concept, a boardroom pitch twist for the suits to slobber over, but with so little to offer the reader that the finales feel disrespectful, like my time has been wasted here and for what? Some of the ideas seem like they could work with more careful execution, and that almost makes it worse, because instead they’ve been squandered, and yet somehow these books sell well and are critically lauded. And don’t even get me started on the author’s whole online presence and marketing scheme.
I can’t name names. I shouldn’t. I won’t. But if I enter the hit piece business, I know where to start. Meanwhile, if you want to put out a hit on me, don’t hold back, and don’t miss.
Thanks for reading! Do you have thoughts? Do you know someone else who might? Please pass me around, and don’t hesitate to hit me up with comments, questions and fresh ideas. Catch you next time!
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FSLUR READING REC
Killer on the Road by Stephen Graham Jones
A perfect novel if there ever was one. So well-plotted, well-written, gripping, tense, scary and smart. A wonderful cast of characters, but don’t get too attached, because the body count is insane. It’s giving Mad Max Fury Road on the Wyoming interstate. It’s about a highway serial killer who eats parts of people and then steals their faces. There’s something Fslur there, right? Masks, code switching, true natures revealed. Don’t read with an academic cap on, though. This is a romp meant to be romped through, a gift from a writer in total control of the page who has long since moved on from flexing his muscles and is just having fun. It’s such a joy to be along for the ride. And packaged in this wild double-feature with The Babysitter Lives, the beautiful print copies seem bound to be collector’s items when Stephen Graham Jones achieves the King cult status he’s destined for.
What a feast. I am gagged!