Notice how the notion is now about “lived experience” & the implied “memoir” like facility of the novel & not the notion that a great american novel will be “experimental” or “revolutionary” in any formal manner engaging with the canon. Nobody cares about literature as literature anymore— they care about “privileging specific points of view.” Maybe actually the next great american novel can only be written by someone who worked for Anthropic— Pynchon worked for Raytheon— maybe “point of view” matters less than holistic knowledge of the actual material america that we exist within on a formal level— not from a “standpoint” as content within it, but like, “economically” from where the planning is done. The reason so many great 20th century authors worked in advertising— advertising was how America ruled the world. The real horror to them would be actually not an MFA guy or gal, but a TECH BRO writing the great american novel. Or even— gasp— a finance bro! Maybe the stereotypical “victim of the system” has less understanding of it than a “class traitor” — & is more likely to produce marketable schlock & commodotize their “authorial integrity”— maybe great literature is more likely to come from a “downwardly mobile aristocrat” than from a “real victim of the system man.” No no no. That’s heresy now. Unless your abuela was taken by ICE, you can never write the great american novel.
The next great American novel is going to be written by someone the literary world would never take seriously, and that’s exactly why it will be a masterpiece. Nobody with a MFA from a fancy school, a book deal, an agent, a trust fund can write this era of America. It’s not possible. All they can do is stand outside and describe it with pretty words. It’ll come from somebody who lived the last 20 years of this country from inside its throat. They won’t have to describe anything because they’ve been breathing it, eating it, surviving it, and begging it for mercy. That’s the ONLY next great American novel worth reading. If it’s you, don’t stop.