Moments of perfection dot the hours of everything else.
Hope everyone is enjoying the long weekend.
For writers can’t retire, nor can they be fired: As we hear constantly from those who think there should be no arts grants, writers don’t have real jobs. That’s true, in a way: They have no employers. Or rather their employers are their readers: which imposes on them a truly Kafkaesque burden of responsibility and even guilt, for how can you tell whether you’re coming up to the standards of people you don’t even know? Publishing a book is like stuffing a note into a bottle and hurling it into the sea. Some bottles drown, some come safe to land, where the notes are read and then possibly cherished, or else misinterpreted, or else understood all too well by those who hate the message. You never know who your readers might be.But the whole thing (only two pages) is worth a read, if you are so inclined. I actually think this article dovetails well with thoughts on The Book Thief. And in general, with our ongoing discussion of why stories matter, and as an extension of that, why stories have power.