In an interview over at the Findings blog, Clay Shirky responds to the question “How is publishing changing?”:

Publishing is not evolving. Publishing is going away. Because the word “publishing” means a cadre of professionals who are taking on the incredible difficulty and complexity and expense of making something public. That’s not a job anymore. That’s a button. There’s a button that says “publish,” and when you press it, it’s done.

In ye olden times of 1997, it was difficult and expensive to make things public, and it was easy and cheap to keep things private. Privacy was the default setting. We had a class of people called publishers because it took special professional skill to make words and images visible to the public. Now it doesn’t take professional skills. It doesn’t take any skills. It takes a WordPress install.


These texts from Hillary are really funny (and the guy who started it just had a face-to-face with Madame Secretary):


Electric Literature’s Recommended Reading project needs a little Kickstarter love:

Great authors inspire us. But what about the stories that inspire them? Recommended Reading, the latest project from Electric Literature, will publish one story every week, each chosen by a great author or editor. In this age of distraction, we’ll uncover writing that’s worth slowing down and spending some time with. And in doing so, we’ll help give great writers, literary magazines, and independent presses the recognition (and readership) they deserve.


Over at The Hairpin, Diana Spechler recalls her brief experiment as an amateur nude model:

Once naked, because I was not, in fact, Gwyneth Paltrow (or Kate Winslett, or Helen Hunt), I was only brave enough to lie stomach-down on the couch, the front of my body hidden, my feet hooked over the arm rest, my cheek resting on my folded hands. At first, no one was sure how to act. Jesse picked a scab on his arm. Peter, who had stood to give me the run of the couch, stayed standing. We weren’t used to one of us being undressed, or to acknowledging that I was different from them. My heart thumped against the couch cushion.

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