I spent the weekend shopping and cleaning out the closet. Remarkably, both of these activities were fun.
The Guardian book blog asks whether writers really need a room of their own: "Real writers need frustration. They need embarrassment. They need cold, uncomfortable rooms, miles from a mobile signal. There should be an infestation of at least one parasite, a backlog of warnings from the Student Loans Company and just enough coffee for what Don DeLillo calls "an occasional revelation"." Student loans, check, but honestly I can write just about anywhere, especially with earphones. I am very good at blocking out Le World Around Me.
The ever stylish and genius Peter Straub has an essay at the Millions, "What About Genre, What About Horror?": "Maybe you should lock yourself up in your heart long enough to work out your actual relationship to matters like shame, loss, envy, panic, brutality, greed, insecurity, loneliness, failure, whatever you find particularly unpleasant. Because that, dimwit, is where you live, especially if you really hate the whole idea of familiarity with such crappy, low-rent feeling states."
Some interesting posts from Peter Miller from SXSWi at Jacket Copy, including: "Publishers are 'only innovative when they're desperate'": "Waiting my turn to talk to the critic, I overheard other gems: “Publishers are square-dancing on a sinking ship.” Jason Scott is generous with those kinds of assessments and they didn't let up even after I told him of my role in the industry. "Book people," he said, "are slow, only innovative when they are desperate."