Modern Love Revisited

When I discovered The New York Times' Modern Love column last year, I thought I had found a reliable source of leisure for the evenings. But the past few columns have been quite disappointing. They only word I  can think of to describe them is self-indulgent. And hyper-existential. All of us trying to  figure out the purpose of our lives so what makes your navel so special that others would like to gaze at it to? At the risk of sounding racist, I think Modern Love is quintessentially American. When the Americans find something that works, they try to nail the formula for it and commodify it. Hence, the profusion of Master of Fine Art writing programmes. Maybe there are some great authors who came out of writing programmes, but I haven't heard of any. I have heard Modern Love has become so popular that it has become mandatory for some college students to have a Modern Love essay ready for submission before they finish college. The past few Modern Love pieces seemed quite formulaic--like they were the work of someone who sees writing as a craft more than an art or a calling (at the risk of sounding self-righteous). The work of people who want to write, not those who need to write.