At a travel industry event in Miami Beach last night a young man asked me what I did.
“I’m a writer,” I told him.
“I hope I don't offend you,” he said, “but as a millennial I would call you an influencer.”
I laughed, thinking of my book sales. I told him that I not only don’t influence people, I have no desire to. I don’t care if people visit the places I write about; my sole intention is to capture their spirit – as I experienced it – in a way that both educates and entertains. My love is for words not – though I didn’t say this (l’esprit de l’escalier) – propaganda. “It’s all about the writing,” I said.
“Which we would call ‘content,’” he said.
The term ‘content,’ it occurred to me later, has turned the word ‘prose’ into the opposite of prosaic.
Used to be, when I sat down to write, the biggest question was: “How do I begin?” Now it’s: “Do I procrastinate on Twitter, Facebook, or Instagram?”
A former colleague writes that he has become a “gentleman writer” – the literary equivalent of a “gentleman farmer.” Because of what publishing has become these days, he joins a growing population.
While reading about her far-flung experiences with simians, Leila came to the part where a monkey on Gibraltar reached into her bag and ran off with her husband’s ashes. An alarmed silence came over the room. Then she read the next sentence: “He would have loved it.”
Writers are drawn to social media for reasons other than self-promotion. A world of prompt, supportive responses is irresistible to people who deal with editors.
The rejection began: “This is an admirably well-written piece…” making me feel like the slow sixth-grader who gets a pat on the head for exceeding expectations.