This was a dilemma for our young sad disillusioned tragically hip hero until he stumbled upon a very large novel by David Foster Wallace.
He had the proper attitude from J.D. Salinger and now he'd found his voice.
It was a brilliant realization to borrow the self-involved sentences, footnotes, irony, and cutesy self-indulgent style of the most overhyped trendy-hip young writer in America at the time. The idea of the book formed in our hero's head; THE book, what would become after its publication the revered centerpiece of the McSweeney's religion. (One should speak of it in hushed terms.)
Things looked bright for David! He was gathering around him the most self-centered trust fund NEW YORKER writers around, whose pretentious narcissistic scribblings would become the foundation of the gift he was soon to offer the world. . . .
(To be continued.)