Back in the late aughts, as I entertained the writing life after a failed stint as a baseball player, I came across the fantastically titled Reader of Depressing Books, a blog manned by the then-unknown Tao Lin. I don’t remember how I found the blog, but I was quickly hooked, as I’d encountered a knowledgeable literary eccentric, which was the new role I wanted for myself now that I was no longer a jock. In the early day of Reader of Depressing Books, Lin’s posts consisted mostly of reading lists, links to his published short stories, and random observations on his diet and his craft; it didn’t seem like much, but the commentary, delivered in Lin’s trademark disaffected style, elevated the blog beyond the sum of its parts. Anyone who was around in those early days of alt-lit frequented the blog daily, as it became the hub for budding writers of a specifically alienated sensibility. Lin wasn’t quite the voice of a generation yet, but he was certainly on his way.
