The underpaid office worker bildungsroman hits too close to home for me. It probably strikes the majority of my age demographic. Any book burnished by The New Yorker’s indelible house style has space in my heart. Whatever the case, I went into Uncanny Valley thinking it was a book for me, and as I read each page they proved that assumption, 200 times over:

I was perhaps still afflicted by the shortsightedness of someone whose skill set was neither unique nor in high demand. A sense of my own disposability had been ingrained since working in the publishing industry, and quitting without a plan was unfathomable. Every month since graduation was accounted for on my resume. Sabbaticals, for anyone other than a college professor, were a novel concept, and one I could not trust.

When it moved away from the intensely relatable and started branching wide in what felt like an attempt to carve out a cultural moment writ large, it lost the unique voice in favor of demotivational poster clichés:

Nobody was guaranteed any future, I knew. But for those who seemed to be emerging from the wreckage victorious--namely, those of us who had secured a place in an industry that had steamrolled its way to relevance—the meritocracy narrative was a cover for lack of structural analysis. It smoothed things out. It was flattering, and exculpatory, and painful for some people to part with.

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