A friend wrote, in passing, an image of writerly success: an agent, a slot in The New Yorker, a six figure contract from FSG.
I hear this a lot. And because these things seem almost impossible to attain, I hear more and more dreams of splendid parties. People – thoughtful people – have somehow convinced themselves that social events are the very center of literary life today, even if those other things seem out of reach.
But let’s get serious. Suppose you’re a tech writer. Does a “a head hunter, a guest column in a magazine, and a salaried job” seem the essence of bliss? With or without the party?
Discussing our recent ban on the phrase “electronic literature,” a correspondent asked, “what would we call it instead?”
How about: the way we write now.
Or, simply, writing.