There are so many Brooklyn novelists. Like if you’re a novelist, living in New York City, you live in Brooklyn. Or the Upper East Side. And if it’s the latter, chances are you’ve won the Pulitzer already.

I’m not knocking it like that assclown Jonathan Lethem, who said that it’s sickening. I place him in the area of middling to lower end novelists, much like Paul Auster, who tend to think their works will be regarded as miracles in the future.

Anyway, I think it’s great that our borough is home to so many writers. And I’m a writer. I mean, that’s why I live here. If I wanted to be alone and do my own thing, I’d move to Eastern Oregon. But the creative energy is important. The tension between people competing and sharing ideas breeds bigger and better ones.

The fact is: Brooklyn is this century’s Paris. You know how a hundred years ago Paris was the intellectual incubator of modernism? Well ditto Brooklyn for post postmodernism (now if only we had a better name for it – hopefully history will do us well by that score).

So to all those fledgling writers who are doing their thing, keep it up. In a couple of years we’ll have to move.