Roundup

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Posted on August 30, 2007
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Darby Dixon reflects upon this business of fiction writing. No, you won’t completely understand it. But write every day. Do something every day. Keep some kind of hanging sword over the work, a sense of fun and enjoyment that will make up for the horrible resistance to stop. Don’t stop.
Slipping behind the Atlantic paywall onto the Powell’s platter: B.R. Myers on Pollan, which makes one wonder whether someone should write A Critic’s Manifesto and put an end to this damn Fisking.
It may be a false correlation between two separate events, but let’s consider the whole Reading is Dead question. In Scotland, we have a very fine showing of participants at the Edinburgh International Book Festival. In the States, Borders reports a quarterly loss, despite a rise in sales generated by Harry Potter 7. (It should be noted that Barnes and Noble that showed a profit.) So what do all of these things say? Are we simply seeing bad management? Do the EIFF participants end up moving a sizable number of books? Andrew Carnegie was a Scotsman. Should we resuscitate his ghost and put him in charge of Borders? I will need more coffee before any reasonable associations kick in. So never mind me. I’ll save useful analysis for later.
Perhaps they should simply sell books at the post office.
RIP Hilly Kristal. First Tony Wilson, now Kristal. Are there any peppy music organizers to fill the void?
Various multimedia files from the “Comics Are Not Literature” panel at ComicCon are now up.
Mark is interviewed by Eight Diagrams.
Great Moments in Literary Baseball. (via Books, Inq.)
Are libraries free? Well, there are certainly limits.
Another litblogger makes it into print; Kevin Holtsberry reviews Gerald Russello for the Washington Times.
A lengthy paper on Google Book Search. (via Matthew Tiffany)
Adam Kirsch takes a Shelley bio to task. (via Jacket Copy)
Musicians are having a hard time in New Orleans. (via James Tata)
Ben Kunkel on Bolano.
This week in Dammit Janet: Maslin botches a review for a book ostensibly (ghost)written by Johnny Cash’s wife. “This book does not include Ms. Cash’s side of the correspondence. Nor does it need to: Mr. Cash’s impassioned dialogue is conducted as much with himself as it is with her.” Ya think?
An excerpt from Denis Johnson’s Tree of Smoke. (via The Millions)

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