At a Douglas Adams book talk I attended near the end of the last century,
someone asked the author what advice he had for writers. Adams’s first bit of
advice was this:
In a recent article
[http://iasc-culture.org/THR/THR_article_2015_Summer_Jacobs.php] for The
Hedgehog Review, Alan Jacobs reflects on a strange experience. Years ago at
Calvin College’s Festival of
“And who // really cares about such special days, they / are not what we live
for.” James Tate [http://www.theguardian.com/books/2015/jul/20/james-tate] was
an American poet and winner of
Modernist poets had typewriters and smoke-filled coffee shops. Their
observations, however quotidian, sparkled on the page. Their schools and
movements existed in relative secrecy. Myths surrounded them.
Nowadays, coffee shops are smoke-free, and
I grew up with the Southern California freeways. Coming back from a long trip
and leaving the placeless airport, the freeways were always the first part of
home I encountered. They are dirty