Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Dear Jonathan Franzen,


I’m trying really hard to like your latest novel, Freedom, but I’m having a difficult time. I admit this is the first of your work that I’ve attempted, although I am familiar with The Corrections, Oprah’s and your brouhaha, your various recognitions, and your ten rules for writing. You are a formidable presence on the American literary scene.

Wikipedia calls your work “sprawling,” and I agree. It’s 576 pages in paperback, which translates to a lot more on my Kindle®. I’m not afraid of length; in fact, I’ve read Stieg Larsson and Richard Russo – both no slouches when it comes to word count – on my little machine without batting a critical eye or chasing a wandering mind.

There’s an old adage in fiction that says, “Don’t tell me; show me.” And this is quite possibly where Freedom’s problem lies for me. I don’t mind knowing every thing about every character through every decade of their lives, especially when I lived through the same decades you write about and can relate. But every wart, every hiccup, every stepping on a sidewalk’s crack eventually became tiring and tedious when I was “told” about it rather than saw it develop for myself.


Sincerely,
Anne