The Nervous Breakdown acknowledges that we’ve all been talking about The New Yorker‘s 20-Under-40 list for quite a while now–but they (and we) are powerless to stop. And powerless to resist comparisons like this:
The thing is: being a writer can kinda feel like never leaving high school. We all form “cliques” for our own survival, and the cliques exist in a kind of hierarchy model. The New Yorker clique could be said to be on the top of the clique pyramid. Those kids have the designer clothes and the cool cars. We indie kids have our own cachet too. We’re the ones up on the newest music, with our ears to the ground and our thrift store black clothes. We may be a little more prone to depression than those in the New Yorker clique, and our drugs are cheaper, but our parties are still fun.
But we want a little more from our high-school analogies. If The New Yorker is the cool clique, and Dzanc Books (who produced an alternate list) are black-clad outsiders, who are the rah-rah yearbookers? Who are the attention-seeking theater kids? And who, god forbid, are the dorks? We need answers! Or, failing that, more lists.
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