thus spake the axe

Or, death to the thought daughter

If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? I feel like this is one of those old little sayings that I have actually gotten into many a heated discussion about over the years. My answer has stayed the same, drunk or sober: of course it fucking does. We do not deny the roar of a bear or babbling of a creek without a human around to validate its existence. Why is the center of the question about the validation of one human, any human of the sound a tree makes when it hits the ground? 

Recently, I feel like I’ve been inundated with think pieces about being a “thought daughter” or how being literary online is the last bastion of free thought this deep into the age of the internet. I do think that more people need to touch grass and read and do anything other than doom scroll, but I think what all of these think pieces assume at their core is that most people yearn for something new, something fresh, something that will fully take them away from their phones and give them a sense of divine purpose. 

This, I can assure you, is not the case. More of these girls obsessed with Joan Didion (correctly so) and Sylvia Plath are nothing more than literary clout chasers. They want the aesthetic bookshelves, they want to show off just how much of the last amount of “it” books they can afford to own outright, they want to prove that they love books and whatever the most popular aesthetic is at the moment more than you ever will. 

Extremely hot take from a girl who’s been obsessively reading for as long as she can remember: I have not read Sylvia Plath, and at this point I refuse to. I crave more women writers in the world just as badly as the next person, but I have never been that into depression core. I know she is considered important, I know that she has written some pretty ingenious things (I’ve seen the sad one-liners on tumblr and twitter), but I cannot get on board with the blind obsession with her, simply because a bunch of aesthetic instagrams and tiktokers say I should be. 

And I get being into self-destructive tendencies – I have a mostly full pack of Marlboro’s staring at me from my desk. Hunter S. Thompson and Lana Del Rey were huge influences on young me.  I have quite the amount of stories from my twenties about all the times I got into not fully safe situations and made it out alive to write this little blog post about the new, annoying attempt at an entire modern literati class. Which is truly what all of this sneering infighting about classics and what people should be doing with their time comes down to: there are people who want to be part of a scene that has not existed in some time. And truthfully, it can never exist the same way again. 

We live in a time – and that time has dictated that we have access to any and all information that we could possibly want as soon as we want it. There is a significant part of me that still very much believes in the romantic version of this reality – that people are inherently just as curious and obsessive as I am about things and seek to do their own research in order to satisfy the thirst of curiosity. The internet serves as a beautiful place where a person can go to find inspiration and learn all the things that they want to. And sometimes this is my experience. I’ll be lucky enough to have entire days where I can see nothing but this part of the internet. 

I don’t think I need to go on unnecessarily about what the internet has truly become – the easiest place to be a consumer and get stuck in a depression hole of loneliness. And instead of doing anything constructive about, most of us just sit and doom scroll our lives away as a defense mechanism. I 

The art of the american short story does not exist outside of academically trained writers. I think that there is an extraordinary amount of evidence that anyone can be an author and publish what it is they want to (and that perhaps not everyone should). Truthfully, most of the most decent writing in america stays hidden in notebooks tucked into purses and living on computers. The barrier to creating a decent, healthy amount of actual writers writing about americans is the admittance rate of people into MFAs it seems. The more archaic binds of classism no longer constrict us, but they play a prevalent role in gatekeeping the new generation of american authors. 

We can feel the reality of fascism breathing down our necks on a daily basis, and most creators who talk about books and writing in any capacity seem so obsessed with being the most well read, aesthetically perfect person you will ever run into. Do you not see the part you play? Do you think that any author who questioned the reality they lived in would see your pathetic attempts to be the best, brightest new thing as anything other than conforming? Fitzgerald might like you, but many of the authors that populate the classic american writing landscape in the twentieth century would find the entire practice distasteful in my opinion. 

And for the record, I’m not touching the romance genre in the slightest. And truly only because as much as I’m willing to handle the smoke for my (correct) opinion, I’m not arguing about books people find enjoyable. I think that there needs to be a well balanced diet seen in one’s library for certain, but this piece is not about how romance has ruined the modern day popular reading landscape. 

So where does that leave us? I think there are truly important things to be found in classic literature, and that people should read it for fun. One of my favorite books is east of eden but I recommend it to so few people because it is a long read and you have to be willing to fall feet first into the mythology of california and also have been traumatized by christianity as a child. I also think that more modern authors need to be given the opportunity to really blossom. 

How does this happen? Stop listening to all the aesthetic girlies on tiktok. All they want is a deal from someone that will give them free books for life so they can post their aesthetically pleasing bookshelves and not think too hard about what it is that they are actually consuming and participating in. You do not need to participate in micro trends or only read the most popular books in order to live a valid, fulfilling life. 

All of this is not to say that I want to begrudge people their escapism. I’m an author who is actively writing two fantasy books (yes, its insane, yes I’m only focusing on one more than the other, and its going very slow) and reads almost anything she can get her hands on. I think people should have their escapist time. But for the love of god, be interested in where things come from. Seek out some history to the thing you’re reading. 

When I saw all those people freaking out about the girl who posted a list of books to read in order to understand R.F. Kuang’s new book, I thought it was a huge overreaction. Do you actually need to read an impressive list of classics, both ancient and modern, to actually get the book? Probably not, but if you are not familiar with the epic of Gilgamesh, the works of Homer, and Shakespeare, my darling, you do not have a clue as to where all western literature comes from. Please do not act as though english class was a waste of time because you didn’t read anything you considered interesting enough when you were a child. 

More often than not, I feel like I’m bearing witness to people trying too hard to fit a mold that exists to please an algorithm. Are you actually connecting to Joan Didion? Do you think her spirit does anything other than sit on a cliff overlooking the pacific while the santa ana’s blow? Be for real. Seek the reality that makes you feel for the love of god. You can have your pretty stack of classics, but acting like only reading those types of books only tells me that you want nothing more than to be told what to think and how to feel. I got into Didion because a girl I had a crush on that would go to a coffee spot I loved in college was reading slouching towards bethlehem. I read the awakening because it was five dollars at the second hand bookshop. I read east of eden because it is one of my aunts favorites. I see so many creators only find inspiration in other people on the internet. Who inspires you in your real life? I find that the people that I love are the constant, unyielding inspiration in my life. They are the reasons I look into books and music and art that I wouldn’t get into on my own. 

I wish we could eliminate the idea of the thought daughter on the internet. She plagues my every turn on substack and in so many book spaces on the internet so much so that I (for the most part) actively avoid that type of content  as often as I can. I do not wish to be a thought daughter with perfect hair, strictly indie playlists, and the perfect bag for every season. Show me more mess! Prove to me that you actually like reading – what books are dog eared because you fell asleep with them on the couch? How many paperbacks are waterlogged? Where do you actually write in the margins – and not the perfectly highlighted, annotated versions of a book. Where are the ink stains from writing a thought about a passage in a book that is actively falling apart? Show me your favorite bag that is falling apart from constant use – where have you patched it back up? 

Every form of reading is valid, blah, blah, blah. What I have massive beef with is the ways in which the conversation around the girlies who read revolves squarely around who has a perfectly curated feed AND library. Most of us do NOT live in new york (respectfully) or LA (a little less respectfully) and do not want to. These are aesthetics pushed by those that want so badly to live in a Donna Tartt (all respect to my queen) novel and simply never will. Read philosophy that interests you. Seek out modern fiction that is different from what you usually read. Pick up that well worn book in a second hand shop that you’ve heard a lot about. Actually check out a book from the library the librarian suggested. Dare to read outside your favorite trope.  It might actually become your new favorite thing. 

As a person who was obsessed with dark academia as an aesthetic when it first gained traction on tumblr a thousand lifetimes ago, but this rising of some academic unit wrapped up in tweed and bows feels inherently more sinister. No longer are these people worried about the ethics of sacrificing one’s friend to an ancient hedonistic ritual. How many unpronounceable authors can you point to on your shelf that all have the same penguin house stamp of approval? Why haven’t you memorized the poems of Plath and also become obsessed with Rooney? It’s overwhelming how much people want you to have the exact same taste that aligns perfectly with whatever is going around at the moment. 

I, too, see the figs on the tree and worry and wonder about which will be the most filling while all of my options fall to the ground dead. There are none of us that escape the great moments in literature. But not branching out to discover what it is that we actually enjoy in order to appease what is popular at the time is what I think is ruining the current landscape. Trees will fall in forests you won’t even know exist until it’s too late for you to visit them. You don’t need a shared fake aesthetic to validate you, so release us all from its confines.