Publishing has gone democratic, and masses of writers gamble on themselves, hoping they’ll hit a readership vein and mine financial profits, not to mention fame and glory. Some go it alone, others circle the wagons and form support groups, read each other’s blogs, offer tips. Some achieve at least one of the things they hoped for. Others don’t.
Like them, I heard the siren call. ‘Dyanne Asimow,’ it said. ‘Time to take the power into your own hands.’
Here’s what Eugenides should have added by way of closing: the so-called writer has to wear all sorts of hats: writer, reader, editor, negotiator, businessman, self-promoter, etc. And only the first of these hats should never be worn outside one’s private necropolis. The next two have the odd responsibility of communing — patiently, cautiously, and courageously — with the dead self. The rest must find of way of coming to terms with life among the living.
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