This is not a novel in the traditional sense. It’s a box of scraps, a paper trail, a record of someone trying very hard to sound like a writer before figuring out how to just be one. Through letters, bad poems, unfinished stories, receipts, notes, and moments of accidental honesty, Hank drifts through cities, arguments, music, love, anger, and observation. He imitates, overreaches, gets it wrong, and keeps going anyway. It’s funny, uneven, sharp in places, embarrassing in others, and quietly human throughout. Less a coming-of-age story than a coming-into-voice one, told without pretending the process was neat.
