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| writing for us At many times in my life I have never said, "I am a writer." But at other times in my life I have claimed to write. "I write what I call vignettes," I say, describing the ultra-mini shortstories I used to write on the backs of postcards and most often send to friends. At some previous incarnation of a personal website, I posted those. Most often they went into the Canada Post ether never to return. I imagine some friends still have them. I have other friends who also claim to write, some to the point of having a completed novel. Most write for themselves, sharing little. None have ever shared their writing with me, none besides the truly published that I know. Some write blogs, some only write in pencil and pen. I wonder, from all the 20 years of people I have know, have none written for, or have created, a website like Masochuticon. With so many, relatively, bloggers getting book deals, I wonder how many of those bloggers were writers before they were bloggers. So many on the web have not blogs, but websites with their writing. Why do we give book deals to blogs that are well read? Why not give book deals to writing websites that are well read? Are they not all that well read, perhaps? See also, FTrain, a site I read for some time when I was able to read more than one paragraph without clicking somewhere else. There was also another site I used to read back those days but I cannot remember. Anybody remember the comparitive (in popularity) site from the early blog days? It makes me think about style. When I read Paul Ford's site I see his prose being placed nicely in a magazine that would sit in the hanging magazine stand I sell at the store, the one made of leather looped over dark stained hardwood. It would sit next to a high back leather chair with a antiqued silver reading lamp, a task lamp, as we call them. That magazine would be read by those who not only enjoy reading but also enjoy the fact that they do read, and like to talk about the fact that they read. These people dismiss Oprah and the best selling shelf at Indigo and the mass amounts of SpecFic novels I have on my shelves. But they would appreciate that I have read Vonnegut or Palahniuk but not Gaiman or Eddings. OK, maybe not any of them. And the paper of those magazines is nice paper, really tangible paper that feels good on fingers. But many of the people I know who write, write for the genre of writer that fits into the "new and exciting" section of a bookstore or self-published book fairs where disheveled authors with last year's haircuts smile shyly until on the stage reading from their book about punk rock girlfriends and fail dotcom jobs. Yeah that is where my friends belong. So, when guys? May 13 06 |
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