I Liked this Mini-Review of Some Book I Won't Say

Yet another story collection from the current crop of young writers who seem to be taking their literary cues from short, formless indie rock songs rather than hunkering down to learn the real business of plot, pacing and structure. And it shows. Basically, these stories go absolutely nowhere. Calling them "magic realism" just because they are strange and kinda daft is to totally overlook the fact that the roots of magic realism (ala Gabriel Garcia Marquez, say, or Bruno Schulz) go deep into the history, geography, social mores, religion, etc. of a community -- whereas here, the magic is texture only, it never really goes beneath the surface. Perhaps that particular quality is supposed to be indicative of the shallow uncertainty of our era -- but I still say it's the writer's job to tell us a story, which [ . . .] seems too lazy or hesitant or immature or solipsistic to do here.

I wonder how many writers are saying, "I wonder if he's talking about my book!"