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GENERATION WHY

GENERATION WHY

GENERATION WHY

GENERATION WHY

“The worst thing ever committed to keyboard.”

You

★

Three chrome canisters forming a Y

“Either this is the greatest thing ever written, or it’s the best.”

Us

★★★★★

Forthcoming. Eventually. Probably.

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THE OVERVIEW

Generation Why is a satirical novel and script project written by Jack Goodson. It centers on a mentally ill teenager named Neon. The story follows Neon, a misanthropic 16-year-old born on September 11, 2001, who keeps a year-long diary detailing his descent into madness, weekly parties, and various therapy sessions in London. Written in a laconic and satirical style, it uses aphorisms, pop-culture references, and academic allusions to explore themes of modern youth culture, mental illness, and generational alienation.

I wrote this in a mental hospital.

THE OVERVIEW

Generation Why is a satirical novel and script project written by Jack Goodson. It centers on a mentally ill teenager named Neon. The story follows Neon, a misanthropic 16-year-old born on September 11, 2001, who keeps a year-long diary detailing his descent into madness, weekly parties, and various therapy sessions in London. Written in a laconic and satirical style, it uses aphorisms, pop-culture references, and academic allusions to explore themes of modern youth culture, mental illness, and generational alienation.

Two years, in my early twenties, with roughly twenty thousand pills and not much else to do. What came out was a year-long diary belonging to a boy called Neon, who was born on the 11th of September 2001 and has been taking it personally ever since.

A novel, 2007–2009. In adaptation, 2026–

The Birth — Nein Eweven

The Birth — Nein Eweven

11th September 2001

Boom. We’re born. Our body sprouts legs and our ears wiggle to the sound of screams and our nose crinkles at the sights and our eyes tiddly wink and blink at the smells and our tactile handsy-pansyness detects the permanently accepted, interminably injected, antiseptic character of this maternity ward we call home. Bright lights from the birth canals set the tone for the coming years and the coming years. Baby-blue nurses in tight scrubs and tighter coo-coos and caw-caws at our weaning ickle face. Healthy babes pop out left, right, and centre according to their parental’s political dispositions. None of us are premature, we’re always perfectly timed, perfectly refined, perfectly wined and dined with the mushrush of hospital food. Lack of bacteria amongst us sparks celebrations in the sheets in the hope that we’re not just a fluke; but, alas, we can never be replaced, replicated, reduxed: we’re the last of our cohort, the final influx, the cut-offs. Welcome to the last propagation of why.

Boom. We’re born. Our body sprouts legs and our ears wiggle to the sound of screams and our nose crinkles at the sights and our eyes tiddly wink and blink at the smells and our tactile handsy-pansyness detects the permanently accepted, interminably injected, antiseptic character of this maternity ward we call home. Bright lights from the birth canals set the tone for the coming years and the coming years. Baby-blue nurses in tight scrubs and tighter coo-coos and caw-caws at our weaning ickle face. Healthy babes pop out left, right, and centre according to their parental’s political dispositions. None of us are premature, we’re always perfectly timed, perfectly refined, perfectly wined and dined with the mushrush of hospital food. Lack of bacteria amongst us sparks celebrations in the sheets in the hope that we’re not just a fluke; but, alas, we can never be replaced, replicated, reduxed: we’re the last of our cohort, the final influx, the cut-offs. Welcome to the last propagation of why.

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Chapter one of fifty-two.