convenience store woman is a quick read that exemplifies the spirit of its message in both the spirit and the letter of the text. it's an ostensibly readable page-turner about a life of mediocrity and how one might wilfully choose that path. it's a message that strikes home for me, especially as i tally up the choices available to me as an unemployed college graduate in the midst of an economic slump brought about by the pandemic, and its commentary on society and its conformist ideals hits even truer as someone who always had filled the role of 'weird kid who reads too much books.'

yet, the thing about mediocrity is that it's very hard to write about without said writing also falling short of the mark of grand. whatever ambition has been filled here has been killed; whatever scheme for greatness is tossed thoughtlessly aside. it's an introspective novel, sometimes relatable, but it's more an anecdote from a friend rather than an actual narrative. the narrative isn't even a flat line, it's a singular dot. this can be further contextualised as metacommentary for conformism, of course, but it still leaves a bad taste on my mouth after i realised that there's nothing much to be dredged up in here. simply put, it's nothing that i haven't seen or heard or even thought about before. originality isn't always a requirement for great literature, i know, but there isn't even any other aspect—stylistic or character-wise or anything else—that makes up for this profound lack. this book isn't even really a critique, since it flees from one structure of conformity to another, uplifting the role of 'cog in capitalist machine' over 'normal married woman', so i don't really see how it can be called groundbreaking in any way, shape, or form.

in the end, it is what it is: a paean for mediocrity, nothing more and nothing less.