Once upon a time, writing was an Introvert’s sport.
Imagine the life. You sit at home surrounded by nothing but books and Nova VHS tapes and coffee, and you don’t talk to a single person for two days straight because you are writing. It’s just you and your thoughts conversing and arguing a story out onto paper. Ah, sweet blissful Paradise.
Fast-forward to the present, a disturbing time zone in which we’ve managed to ignore every goddamn warning from George Orwell and Ray Bradbury.
Today if you are a writer, you do some writing on your next book—between phone calls with several publicists; writing up a sales blurb that’s supposed to sell your soul; talking about your personal life to Tom, Dick, and Henrietta; contacting the local newspaper; setting up book-signing engagements during which you’ll have to “mingle;” and then writing a blog about it all—or, worse, about NOTHING at…
View original post 342 more words