As of late, we've seen a lot of hoo-ha and fol-de-rol about "legacy" publishing and self-publishing. You know what? Hell with 'em. Stop listening. Stop paying attention. Stop shining lights in dark corners. Let the cults tend to their leaders. Let the Jonestowns grow more insular and paranoid and leave them to their invective.
Writers -- and, frankly, other creatives -- should realize they're part of the 99%. And they should act on that realization. Why? Because unless you're Stephen King, a big-time screenwriter, or Snooki, then the one-percent -- corporations in particular -- doesn't give trash-truck full of donkey crap about you. How do you rebel against marginalization?
Self-published authors don't like to be dissed by the traditionally-published and the reverse remains true. Nobody's got a lock on the truth. Nobody's got their thumb on the pulse of the future (despite how much they love to trumpet their own oracular insight). The sky isn't falling -- the ground is merely shifting beneath our feet.
Remembering is good, though. Celebration isn't, but that's up to us not to turn this into some kind of crass holiday. Point being, I wasn't going to write anything. And yet, here I am, barking into the void. You want to know what I remember about 9/11? Here's what I remember.
Do we as a nation even really know what's in this goddamn debt ceiling plan? We're just learning that the EPA is going to get elbowed in the throat. Given that I just moved from a town that had epic levels of arsenic in the water, I'm not excited by the notion that not only will such levels be reasonable but nobody will be looking.
Google+ grows on me like a fungus. Like a scaly patch of ringworm, I can't stop itching it. I don't really know why. I think in part I'm scratching to peel away layers, to dig beneath the rashy skin and find the potential buried beneath -- because, at this point, I'm growing convinced that some real potential is there.