For reasons known only to David Remnick and his kind, the New Yorker first fiction issue — a double issue — features precisely 3 stories by new authors.
Three.
It also features a chap with a self-depricating, funny piece: look for this David Sedaris fellow. He might go far. Another guy, Edmund White, reminisces about women. His memories go back a ways — even before his first novel was published, 22 years ago.
Thank goodness the New Yorker has stepped out into the vast wasteland of American letters and managed to find three whole publishable new authors, including one from, of all places, Iowa! How brave that they went to print with a first fiction issue, despite emaciated pickings, filling in the gaps where they had to with more established writers.
I love the New Yorker. I really do. But right now, I feel kind of sorry for the people over there.
Three.
I agree. Looks like someone at the New Yorker really isn’t doing a lot of reading these days. If they were, it wouldn’t be so hard to find a few worthy, unheard-of writers.