I was pointed to this great post by Literary Agent Janet Reid. (If you’re a writer and you don’t follow her, get on over there!) Austin Kleon wrote this a few months ago, but it’s absolutely brilliant and applies to all kinds of artistic endeavours. And, probably, life in general. Check out How To Steal Like an Artist (And 9 Other Things Nobody Told Me).
Speaking of Janet Reid, she also entered the “No response means no” debate in regards to query letters. (For non-writers, sending a query letter to an agent is the first step in the traditional publishing route in the US.) Earlier in the week, both Jill Corcoran and Rachelle Gardner explained why they don’t have the time to send rejection letters in response to every query they receive. Janet countered with: No, you’re wrong, and here’s why.
Meanwhile, the esteemed Tamara Paulin says: That’s it, I’m self-publishing! Click through and read her post to find out why.
Finally, it would be remiss of me not to mention the one event that has taken up the most time, space and emotional energy in the blogosphere this week. Obviously I’m referring to the 10 year anniversary of 9/11. Browse the web and you’ll find hundreds, thousands, of posts. I’d like to share two with you:
Chuck Wendig’s Nine-Eleven hit me right where I live, and brought tears to my eyes with his call to arms.
Speaker7’s A Day of Reflection Brought to You By… does a great job of finding a spark of ironic humour amongst the tragedy, and brought a smile to my face.
I’m not an American. I don’t live in America. Ten years ago, before social media was so all-pervasive, I barely knew anyone in America. But I remember September 11, 2001.
Here in Australia, it was night when the attacks happened. I didn’t know about them until the early hours of the following morning. My husband’s mother phoned and woke us up. “Turn on the TV,” she said. We did. And we stared in shock and horror at the footage on the screen. My husband looked at me and said, “My cousin works at the World Trade Centre.”
Time stood still. I remember staring at the TV. I remember tears on my face. I remember goosebumps on my arms, my neck, my head. I remember waiting for the phone to ring. And then I was running late for work. I struggled to cover tear-stained eyes with mascara. I struggled to remember why it was important that my uniform was ironed. I struggled to walk out of the house and leave my husband sitting in front of the TV.
I managed a department store. It was a quiet day. The staff huddled in groups but barely spoke. The customers were quiet; furtive. A few innocent shoppers came into the store. “It’s quiet in here today.” “Didn’t you hear…” And they left with their purchases in hand and their innocence in tatters.
When I got home, my husband was still sitting in front of the TV, tears slowly rolling down his cheeks. I don’t think he’d moved all day. I went and sat next to him. We stared at the screen for a while. Then he said, “My cousin wasn’t at work. It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t okay. It really wasn’t.