At least we hope it’s late winter. Yesterday it was snowing again.
Yes, I know. Three snows. In Georgia.
We had fun with it the first two times but now we’re done. Bring on the flowering pears and the dogwoods, pretty please.
But in the meantime, Mother Jones has an interesting screed about the Death of Literary Journals.
Well, interesting to a miniscule segment of the population, in which I happen to be counted.
I’ve decided to decide it’s a good thing–the litmags dying, the publishing industry dying, the recording industry dying. When it’s finally all torn down, something is bound to flower to fill the need for some cultural cohesiveness. I don’t know what, but something will emerge surely.
Have you checked out therumpus.net? I just ran across it a day or two ago. Looks pretty interesting, though I haven’t delved deeply yet. It’s not fiction, but it has some stuff that looks worthwhile, some recognizable names writing for it, etc.
The numbers cited in the essay fascinated me, though they didn’t lead me to draw exactly the conclusions he did. From 500 stories a year to 15000? 820+ Creative Writing Programs? The mind reels.
We might as well be medieval monks discussing how many angels can dance on the heads of pins, though. Just. Not. Really. Relevant. (The debate, not us).
Speak for yourself. I am entirely irrelevent. Or was that irreverent…
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