His newsletter is out.
He spends more time reminding everyone that he lives in Paris than talking about whatever collection of pretentious drivel he's shitting out.
It's also full of egotistical, self-congratulatory bullshit.
Jack equates himself with Phoebe Waller-Bridge and the unnamed artist of some Parisian painting he apparently found in his apartment in France. Did he mention that he lives in France already? Well, several hundred more times per day won't hurt.
He talks about his barely-written novel as though it's some mythic future work of genius and it comes off like he's trying desperately to write the kind of New Yorker profile you'd see focused on elusive authors and legendary actors. Only, y'know, he's writing it about himself and hasn't actually produced anything of merit ever. To try to capture that tone, he's ditched the puns in favour of just a bunch of muddled metaphors, because he's a literary professional now (in his mind, at least).
He talks about his novel being released as an absolute certainty. I'm all for optimism, but there's a fine line between that and entitlement, and Jack's several hundred miles over it (in Paris, didn't you know?).
He refuses to even share a basic premise or genre, but given how self-absorbed he is, it'll undoubtedly be some faux-literary wankfest about a directionless graduate "finding himself" in Paris while making bad puns.
Inspiring confidence, he mentions that he doesn't even know who the protagonist/s should be. Always a good start.