books

The other night, I stayed up way too late reading Jonathan Franzen’s The Discomfort Zone, a book I devoured and savored at once. Devoured: I wanted to stuff myself silly. Savored: I wanted to take small bites to make it last. I loved each small flavor and the way they worked together to create something much, much more filling. When I finally closed the book, it was after 2 AM. And I spent the rest of the mostly sleepless night mired in something close to despair. Much as Franzen’s writing inspires me, it also stirs up a whiney anguish and hopelessness: The guy can write circles around me, what’s the use? Why do I bother writing at all when there are voices that are infinitely more articulate and infuriatingly more precise than my own? His writing is inspiring. But what it sometimes inspires is resignation. I love Jonathan Franzen’s work.