Artists wishing to capture their era face a dilemma. Let too much time pass and run the risk of subject matter losing relevance, especially in today’s hyper-competitive attention economy. Cash in too early, both figuratively and literally, and lose the benefit of hindsight, getting too mired in the trends of the time. I once read that the best World War I literature was published some time after the war ended, that its afflicted generation needed some time to process the tragedy.

Ty Rossberg ought to try being a serial killer. He’d at least be more loved than what he is in Stuart Ross’ The Hotel Egypt: a straight white male writer during the dawn of the Trump era. While his girlfriend Jenny Marks’ new essay collection is the hottest book of the year, he is relegated to playing the once prestigious, now subordinate, role as sole breadwinner (as a management consultant). Her semi-truthful account of her abortion captivates audiences, elevating her to the “literary equivalent of the Rolling Stones, or at least the National,” as Ty snidely remarks to himself while attending her reading in Chicago.