I Have Never Read Jia Tolentino

I have never read anything by Jia Tolentino, at least not that I’m aware of. I don’t know what she writes about, or what her style is. I’ve heard some people talk about her and from those brief conversations I’ve gathered enough data to come to a pretty solid conclusion: Jia Tolentino sucks ass.

I don’t mean to be controversial, just to state the facts. She has (AFAIK) never written anything worth reading and most likely never will. Her best contribution to the world is (probably) as some mediocre trollbait and I don’t care enough about her to look her up — but I do care enough to write this essay. My main reason for carrying out this unwarranted attack on a person I know nothing about will hopefully become clear by the end, but I can pretend to have any motivation I want, really. I want to rile people up and get them upset for no reason. I secretly have read her and that’s why I’m invested. I’m just trying to churn out more essays, no matter how garbage they are. I’m sure that you will draw your own conclusions regardless of what I say, and that’s fine, but one thing that I need you to accept by the end is that Jia Tolentino sucks ass.

I have two main pieces of evidence for this, although I only really need one. The first is the kind of people who respect her — Brooklyn socialites, avid readers of n+1, mediocre personal narrative writers who consider their twitter accounts to be a part of their business. People who started talking about their “personal brand” ironically 12 years ago, and now can’t stop. People who talk about how they could never survive the corporate rat race while living a life full of unfruitful attempts at self-promotion and spinning wheels. People who brag about things their therapists tell them. People who also know what “Sweetgreen” is. People who will instinctively cringe and recoil if you call them by their true name: hipsters.

Hipsters love Tolentino. Hipsters would fellate Tolentino if she had a dick. Hipsters look at Tolentino the same way that nerds look at Nikola Tesla, the same way that gay men look at Beyonce, the same way that 13 year old boys look at Pewdiepie. In the eyes of the New York literary scene, she is the golden child. Seriously, go to any coffee shop that charges more than six bucks for a small anything, and you’ll hear someone singing Tolentino’s praises. “Did you read…in The Atlantic…so good.” That article was so good. Tolentino’s tweet last night was so good. Listen to these people awkwardly attempt to compliment her for long enough and they will reveal to you why they’ve had no luck as writers themselves; they’re not so good at explaining what about her is so good.

But Tolentino, evidently is. At least, I’m willing to take her critics’ word for that, and everyone who criticizes her makes sure to mention that she has a talent for both writing and self-promotion. Her critics, too, are hipsters. Nobody rips on Tolentino from the back booth of a Waffle House. There is no whispered opprobrium against her at the coffee tables of literary seminars. This, I think, is even more damning. It’s one thing to be the subject of so much midwit fawning, quite another to excite neither interest nor dismissal from anyone except college-educated consumers. This self-absorbed community gives itself the impression that it sits at the head of American culture, but really it sits at around the liver —that is, The New Yorker is a filter for bad memes. For Tolentino to be a literary influence there and only there is not a compliment to her cultural value as a writer.

My second piece of evidence is the one that I think could stand alone but carries a close connection to the first. Return to that boutique café, to the eager sycophants, and this time listen closer. “She’s beautiful, and talented, and funny. Her twitter feed is a riot. I feel like all her interviews are so engaging. Can you imagine having a career like that? Incredible that a Jezebel writer made it all the way to the big time. And she’s still so young! She’s very engaging and fun. I’d like to do drugs with her.” etc. See how long it takes them to mention a specific article (a long time), or how much time they spend discussing her actual writing (almost none). The worst thing about Tolentino’s writing is that none of her fans like it.

Don’t mistake me, I don’t mean they don’t like her writing, only that her writing is not the reason they like her. A devoted Tolentinite will give only cursory attention to her actual written work, much preferring to focus on (and take interest in) her public appearances, or career trajectory, or biography. In other words, she is not a beloved writer, but a beloved performer, or entertainer — a celebrity. Just as Donald Trump’s appearance in Home Alone 2 does not merit describing him primarily as an actor, Tolentino’s appearance in the pages of The New Yorker is not justification for calling her foremost a writer. She is most well known for her public persona, for her celebrity, and that title should come first in any description of her.

One meme in particular seems to accompany all criticism of Tolentino, and it is an accusation of jealousy. “You just wish you could have it all like she does. Tell us more about how Not Mad you are that Jia’s life rocks and yours doesn’t.” This is thanks to the fact mentioned above, that all of her critics are as middlebrow as she. This is also what primarily motivated me to write this post, because I am perfectly positioned to explode this meme. I may be tired of hearing her name; I am certainly not envious of her position. I have no desire to be employed as a writer by The Atlantic or The New Yorker, I do not particularly wish to be published, and I loathe the idea of having celebrity. The things about Tolentino’s life that appeal to so many of her fans are precisely what make her life unattractive to me. In fact, the mere thought of being associated with the kinds of people who like Tolentino — drab, timid, uncreative barflies hovering anxiously around a decaying legacy media network in the sheltered cosmopolitan bubble of the northeast megalopolis — turns me off of the idea completely.

Tolentino’s complete lack of appeal to anyone outside her niche, such as myself, is part of what has shielded her from criticism thus far. The only people aware of her enough to attack her have also been the sort who would be consumed by jealousy regardless. I have only passing contact with her, just barely enough to write this essay. She is so completely unremarkable as a writer that, had I not been subjected to multiple overheard conversations regarding her career, I would not have known enough about her to say whether I disliked her or not — and as you can see, it takes precious little knowledge to say that I dislike her. But I hope that the next time I overhear someone dissecting her public persona as if she were a Caroline Calloway or Marilyn Monroe, they don’t drag out that tired old saw about how all of her haters are just “jealous”. We’re not jealous, we just don’t even know she exists.