10 January 2014

The Internet Is Not A Person

I found myself build­ing an argu­ment today against the Internet, only I didn’t think it was the Internet at the time. I was address­ing a per­son who is a com­pos­ite of a lot of beliefs and atti­tudes based on stuff I have read on the inter­net. It was stress­ful to do, and half my argu­ment was “you’re full of con­tra­dic­tions about this stuff. Make up your mind!” It wasn’t until I had a snack break that I real­ized just what dum­b­ass thing I’d wasted the last half hour on.

Without faces and voices to go with all the text, the words out there some­times blur together for me, espe­cially involv­ing peo­ple I fol­low on social net­works who have some sim­i­lar opin­ions on some sub­jects, but not all. Eventually, all their beliefs become con­flated and I find myself want­ing to quib­ble, because for what­ever dumb rea­son, I want log­i­cal con­sis­tency in others.

You can’t argue with the inter­net because as much as we joke about it, there really isn’t a hive mind. You can’t con­verse with the inter­net either, unless you like drink­ing from a fire­hose that threat­ens to kill you if you’re a woman. The inter­net is peo­ple, not per­sons, and I think some­times it’s use­ful to remind our­selves of this. And as Tommy Lee Jones once said, “per­sons are smart; peo­ple are stu­pid.” Any expec­ta­tion that every­body together will speak with one voice is unre­al­is­tic, and if you think they are all in agree­ment on some­thing, you’re prob­a­bly mistaken.

Don’t argue with peo­ple is a new rule for me going for­ward. Argue and dis­cuss with spe­cific per­sons. This is a sub­set of the over-​​rule “all gen­er­al­iza­tions are terrible.”

09 January 2014

The Flutter of Hummingbird Wings

Because we’re down to only one car for the time being, I drove Sarah to her mid­wife visit on Wednesday. I didn’t think it would be any­thing spe­cial this time; she’s only at twelve weeks, and there had been no men­tion of it. She gave me that wife stare when I said I would wait in the wait­ing room, so into the exam­i­na­tion room I went.

The mid­wife entered the room a few min­utes later car­ry­ing a tri­corder. I mean, I’m sure it wasn’t actu­ally a tri­corder, but it had a lit­tle sen­sor attached to a box.

Let’s hear that baby’s heart beat,” she said. Sarah and I exchanged glances of surprise.

Okay,” we said.

The mid­wife lifted Sarah’s shirt and smeared on some gel. Then she began to search my wife’s stom­ach, prob­ing. The box squawked and squealed; each noise it made was like being jolted with elec­tric­ity. She hmmed and ahh­mmed. A few min­utes went by with noth­ing that sounded like a heart beat.

I hope it’s in there,” I said.

Sometimes its hard if the uterus is slanted, and the baby isn’t very big,” the mid­wife said.

And then the sound.

Have you ever heard a hummingbird’s wings against a win­dowscreen? Or per­haps a moth? At first, it sounded like that. Then the sound grew stronger. dub­dub­dub­dub­dub­dub. It was a tiny, frag­ile sound, but also strong, persistent.

It sounds healthy,” the mid­wife said. And then the sound went away. But this feel­ing remained that even now, I’m strug­gling to describe.

Has some­one ever praised you for some­thing, and I mean truly, truly praised you for some­thing, spo­ken with pas­sion about the great­ness within you? No–me nei­ther, really, but have you ever felt a mix­ture of pride and embar­rass­ment at a com­pli­ment? My face felt hot. My heart strug­gled to keep time with my child’s. And I felt the great­est mix­ture of awe and pride I have ever felt. Deep, abid­ing, pro­found pride. For a moment, I was absolutely con­sumed by a sin­gle emo­tion. The world fell away and it was Sarah, the emo­tion, and the sound.

It was one of the purest moments of my life. For that moment, I lived only in that place, with­out a thought for any­thing out­side those beige walls.

I cried a lit­tle, yes, but more out of shock than any­thing else. It has been so long since I have felt any­thing that new. That for­eign, that plain bloody strange.

The sen­sa­tion faded a lit­tle, but I couldn’t shake this grin that must have been plas­tered on my face.

Prior to the sound, the baby was hypo­thet­i­cal, really; the only real change in my life thus far has been liv­ing with a slightly achy, nau­se­ated Sarah whose boobs have become 25% more mag­nif­i­cent. It sim­ply didn’t feel truly real until that moment.

I’m doing a piss poor job of explain­ing it, I know. But I had to record this here. I know I have more moments like this, but this one was my first, and I want to remem­ber it for as long as I can. I hope I’ve given those who don’t have chil­dren some taste of the sen­sa­tions, and per­haps reminded those who do what that moment was like for them.

I say I want to remem­ber it, but there’s just no way in hell I can ever for­get it.

07 January 2014

Read My Latest Story: In the Dying Light, We Saw a Shape

My lat­est sci­ence fic­tion story “In The Dying Light, We Saw a Shape” is avail­able today to read on Lightspeed Magazine. Here’s an amuse bouche to get you interested:

She struck up a con­ver­sa­tion in the usual way, ask­ing how he had become involved in “all this,” with a sweep­ing ges­ture to include the other con­tactees, ripe with unwashed, road-​​weary bod­ies, the dying space whale smelling strangely of gun­pow­der, and the ephemeral indus­try that sprang into life around new land­ing sites. T-​​shirt hawk­ers and knick­knack ven­dors shouted ever-​​lower prices while local news media inter­viewed the odd­est look­ing con­tactees they could pry away from the whale’s hulk­ing pres­ence. Diminutive and ancient Hispanic women strolled through it all with the seren­ity of Buddha, sell­ing home­made bur­ri­tos and tamales cocooned in alu­minum foil out of large cool­ers on creak­ing, plas­tic wheels. On the fringes, half-​​hidden in the corn, well-​​bribed deputies and sher­iffs stood watch, eyes nar­row, lips pursed, ready for signs of trou­ble, any rea­son to shut it all down. With state bud­gets being in such sorry states and the fed­eral gov­ern­ment headed into its eighth year of com­plete dead­lock, they took what they could, saw indus­try and com­merce for what it was. But by God, wasn’t it all just too damned weird?

Behind the Scenes, or: A Year in the Life of a Story

lightspeed_44_january_2014I’ve been strug­gling with some vari­a­tion of a story like this for about a decade. At first, the whales were fly­ing saucers, and the first ver­sion of this story involved a wid­ower and the ghost of his wife. I didn’t have the skill to tell it well. I don’t know what hap­pened to that draft, but I’m thank­ful that I never did any­thing with it. But the idea of a first con­tact story in which any­one could par­tic­i­pate stuck with me all this time.

Last spring, after read­ing yet another space whale story, I real­ized that I had Things to Say about space whales and space explo­ration and how we as the pub­lic feel about it. And because I am obsessed with the idea of whale­fall and the ecosys­tems that spring up around it, this story of “space whales” was sud­denly born — in con­cept any­way. I strug­gled for weeks to for­mu­late an actual story from the images I wanted to utilize.

The very first draft of the story is actu­ally of the first night that my pro­tag­o­nists meet, a very decom­pressed telling, and involved a dan­ger­ous ex mix­ing up things. It spent a lot of unnec­es­sary time explor­ing the tax­onomies of the dif­fer­ent con­ver­sa­tion­al­ists and how they inter­acted with the whales. Once I had fin­ished it, I real­ized that again I’d missed the mark in what I wanted to do. I wanted to explore the idea fur­ther along. So an early draft of what became the final story was writ­ten, which was in part an attempt to tell a story with a greater scope than I would usu­ally attempt in so few words.

The story went through two more exten­sive drafts after that. One from my ini­tial first reader cri­tiques from the fan­tas­tic First Readers Brigade (thank you once more, all of you), and then a sec­ond based on the ini­tial com­ments from the Young Gunns Science Fiction Workshop that I attended in June. From the very help­ful com­ments of the atten­dees and instruc­tors, I was able to come up with a much tighter end­ing than before and it finally came together in a piece that I am really proud of. I hope that you enjoy it!

The Part Where I Implore You to Support Lightspeed

Lightspeed Magazine is a prod­uct of immense accom­plish­ment and a group effort by a num­ber of vol­un­teers and staff. I couldn’t be prouder to be fea­tured again along­side authors like Ken Liu and Maureen McHugh, just to name a cou­ple of recent authors.

For those of you who don’t know, Lightspeed Magazine is a monthly mag­a­zine that pub­lishes both sci­ence fic­tion and fan­tasy sto­ries, all for free online. If you pre­fer to read on your Kindle, you can pur­chase a sub­scrip­tion via Kindle Periodicals or buy the ebooks as sin­gle down­loads. Otherwise, you have a wide range of options for pur­chas­ing issues of the mag­a­zine via the Lightspeed web­site. Here’s a link to the January issue. You can find pur­chase links to major retail­ers there, as well as sub­scrip­tion options.

If you read and like my story, I encour­age you to con­sider a sub­scrip­tion to Lightspeed. If that’s not an option for you, then please tell you friends that there is great qual­ity sci­ence fic­tion online. I would like to see Lightspeed con­tinue to grow and become an even big­ger force for great new fic­tion in the years to come.

And if you don’t like my story, browse around. There’s a lot of great mate­r­ial there by writ­ers that hum­ble me with each new pub­li­ca­tion. It’s worth check­ing out.

Full dis­clo­sure: I helped build the web­site for Lightspeed Magazine and con­tinue to pro­vide tech­ni­cal sup­port for the site’s soft­ware. I have no input in the edi­to­r­ial process.

03 January 2014

The Year Ahead

I’m com­mit­ting to writ­ing 250 words per day this year. Sometimes, the eas­i­est thing to do will be to write a blog post, so you can expect this blog to be updated more fre­quently. And if you believe that, I have a bridge I’d like to sell you.

Again I’m forced to admit that social media has killed my blog­ging desires because I can just share any old thing and get imme­di­ate responses, com­ments, fav­i­likes, liko­rites, what-​​have-​​you. And online atten­tion is basi­cally heroin injected straight into my webbed toes.

However, one of my other New Years res­o­lu­tions is to spend less time on social media and more time read­ing and gen­er­ally liv­ing my life pre-​​Facebook-​​style. That com­bined with an unre­lent­ing drive to write every. sin­gle. day. means oh, look, blog posts mat­ter again. So here I am.

My res­o­lu­tions are pretty much the stan­dard things you expect form a per­son inter­ested in writ­ing. Read more. Write more. Play less video games. Treat my friends bet­ter. Lose weight through a com­bi­na­tion of diet and exer­cise. I looked up the root of the word “res­o­lu­tion” in Latin and it roughly trans­lates to “thing that nobody, includ­ing your­self, believes you will actu­ally stick to in two months.” The truth is, almost every sin­gle one of my res­o­lu­tions boils down to: “take more con­trol. Develop some willpower. Stick to your goals and be dri­ven by lazi­ness and sloth less.”

I don’t know. Maybe I expect too much pro­duc­tiv­ity from myself. In the com­ing year, I hope to fin­ish one graphic novel script, one novel, one novella, and four short sto­ries. Is that unrea­son­able? Perhaps it is if I spend all day play­ing Path of Exile. Which I absolutely didn’t do today (yes, I did).

Okay, so I’m over my word count now; let’s get into some upcom­ing things you should know about.

  1. I have a story com­ing out in Lightspeed Magazine on Tuesday. I’ll do up a grand big post about it when it comes out, along with the author inter­view. I’m very proud of this story. The suc­cess I have with it is directly owed to the Young Gunns Workshop here at Kansas University, run by writer Chris McKitterick.
  2. I have another story com­ing out some time this year in Asimov’s which marks my very first appear­ance in their hal­lowed pages. Again, I’ll let you know when that’s out.
  3. Oh, also: Sarah and I are hav­ing a baby this sum­mer, if all goes well. She’s 11 weeks preg­nant cur­rently. So we’ve got that going for us.

Still think I can get all that writ­ing done this year after #3?

Nah, me nei­ther. But it’ll be fun to try.

12 November 2013

What is Science Fabulism?

Magical real­ism, if you’re unfa­mil­iar with the term, is a genre of fic­tion that uses mag­i­cal ele­ments in oth­er­wise mun­dane sto­ries. In some of my lat­est work, I’ve been exper­i­ment­ing with adding tra­di­tion­ally sci­ence fic­tional ele­ments to sto­ries set in oth­er­wise mun­dane set­tings. For instance, the focus is on the fam­ily pol­i­tics and work­ing class trou­bles of pro­tag­o­nist Mel in “Work, With Occasional Molemen,” but it casu­ally accepts the exis­tence of giant ants, saucers, and mole­men. I very much want the sto­ries I tell in the Stranger Creek set­ting to fit into the same genre of fiction.

I wasn’t sure what to call this type of fic­tion. I played around with a cou­ple of bad port­man­teaus around “mag­i­cal real­ism” and “sci­ence fic­tion.” I put the ques­tion to Nick Mamatas and he gave me a solid name for it imme­di­ately: sci­ence fab­u­lism.

I’m hav­ing trou­ble think­ing of many exam­ples of sci­ence fab­u­lism, though. It takes a lot of arro­gance to try and pro­claim your­self as writ­ing in your own genre of fic­tion, and I’m not say­ing that. I’m cer­tain many oth­ers have com­bined toys in this fash­ion before and prob­a­bly are work­ing it today. Can you think of sto­ries, movies, and nov­els that do this? I’d love to read more of them. Or per­haps sci­ence fab­u­lism is still just sci­ence fic­tion, and not a wor­thy term, or a needed one? What do you think?

P.S.: Speaking of the guy, Nick Mamatas just became a dad! To cel­e­brate, why don’t you pick up a copy of LOVE IS THE LAW? It’s get­ting fan­tas­tic reviews.

01 November 2013


The Thin Wall Challenge

How would you react if you lived next door to a cou­ple that has a lot of sex which you can hear through really thin walls? I know I’d prob­a­bly react with extreme annoyance.

This YouTuber instead has reacted by turn­ing it into a YouTube game show for him­self. He attempts to com­plete chal­lenges before they finish.

Everything about this is hilar­i­ous. I hope that faced with sim­i­larly frus­trat­ing cir­cum­stances, I could be this clever.

So, come for the premise, stay for the hilar­i­ous Batman jokes.

PS: Yes, I’m pretty sure it’s a con­trived sce­nario and not real. It would be kind of creepy otherwise.

31 October 2013

The Power of Routine

If there is some­thing I don’t need to do, that I don’t have an exter­nal moti­vat­ing fac­tor around, I’m find­ing that sim­ply doing that thing rou­tinely is a good way to get myself doing it almost auto­mat­i­cally. Writing is one of those things, sadly. The money it gen­er­ates isn’t a drop in the bucket com­pared to other activ­i­ties, and it’s hard to rate “artis­tic sat­is­fac­tion” high on the hier­ar­chy of needs most of the time. Basically, unless I get extremely excited about a project, moti­vat­ing myself to write can be dif­fi­cult when there’s a lot of other things going on.

As a per­son who gen­er­ally dis­likes for­mal struc­ture in his life, it’s taken me a very long time to come around to the power of rou­tine in get­ting things done. Part of the joy of work­ing for your­self is not hav­ing a weirdly rigid sched­ule. Schedules are for wage slaves, man, not us self-​​employed, right? Nah, if any­thing I think self-​​built rou­tines are now even more impor­tant to me than ever before.

On the cre­ative front, weekly write group meet­ings with other local writ­ers have dri­ven home the value of doing some­thing on a set sched­ule. And back­ing that task up is a lit­tle peer pres­sure, which works as a good exter­nal moti­vat­ing fac­tor when my own inter­nal moti­va­tion is lacking.

Thanks, Lane Robbins, for invit­ing me to those. Even though I missed last night because of my sinus headache.

On that point, rou­tine can be a lit­tle brit­tle, though, at least for me. One failed sched­ule item and I find it much harder to get back into the rou­tine. Which, para­dox­i­cally, acts as rein­force­ment when I have a good unbro­ken streak going. I’m going to write group next week, no mat­ter how I feel, because while I broke my chain, I know that if I break it more than once in a row, i’m in seri­ous dan­ger of los­ing the habit. And this habit has me writ­ing 10 pages of comic script a month at a min­i­mum, so I know it’s work­ing well.

Nothing beats doing what you truly love, but even that moti­va­tion can be lack­ing some­times. A rou­tine can get you through a lack of moti­va­tion. You may feel like you’re just going through the motions at first, but you warm up to it over time. So how about you? Have you used rou­tine to build habits for your­self that you wanted?

30 October 2013

My Dark Obsession: Comedy Panel Shows

This close to Halloween, I fig­ure the only way to get your atten­tion with a head­line is to make it spooky. This is really a blog post about com­edy panel shows and how much I want to have their babies.

am obsessed with them, but not darkly, and I have been ever since we vis­ited London and, bat­tling jet­lag, dis­cov­ered a QI marathon on the “telly.” QI is a British panel show in which come­di­ans (mostly) attempt to answer quiz ques­tions posed by British trea­sure Stephen Fry. Mostly, peo­ple make jokes and try to avoid the obvi­ous wrong answers which result in neg­a­tive points. Fry is joined in every episode by his side­kick, Alan Davies. Two episodes into this show, we were hooked. I remem­ber dis­cov­er­ing QI as warmly as I do vis­it­ing the Tower of London. So I’ve been hooked on com­edy panel shows since that first taste.

I’ve always adored stand-​​up com­edy, and I love trivia and games. My dad loved Carlin (and, oddly, Gallagher), so we watched a lot of stand-​​up spe­cials as a kid. And I’m a nerd, so of COURSE I love trivia. Comedy panel shows like QI, Nevermind the Buzzcocks, or 8 out of 10 Cats are tailor-​​made to be my ver­sion of tele­vi­sion crack. Only they’re much harder to get than crack.

These shows are not pop­u­lar in the United States and as far as I know almost never air here as imports and rarely as locally made vari­ants. The clos­est thing we’ve ever had was Whose Line Is It Anyway? which was a British import I believe, and really not a panel show–improv is its own beast. Because of this, to get my fix, I’ve been forced to illic­itly down­load the UK shows. I mean, allegedly down­load them.

Now, I can get some of my fixes with­out vio­lat­ing byzan­tine inter­na­tional copy­right laws. Thanks to Comedy Central, I’ve been able to wit­ness an American take on the com­edy panel show that actu­ally works quite well–it’s called @Midnight, and it’s hosted by Chris Hardwick. I’ve never been a Hardwick/​Nerdist fan, but he’s rapidly grow­ing on me, six episodes in.

The show has had some great come­di­ans on already, such as Kumail Nanjiani, Patton Oswalt, Nikki Glaser, to name a few. It’s your stan­dard “the points really don’t mat­ter, this for­mat is entirely an excuse to get come­di­ans to make up jokes on the spot” type of show. As you might expect, due per­haps in part to its time slot of mid­night, the jokes are raunchier than any British com­edy panel show, or per­haps the lan­guage is just coarser. There are plenty of innu­endo sex­ual humor jokes on a show like QI. But American come­di­ans don’t really do innu­endo as far as I can tell. They’re more straight­for­ward with their raunch. Luckily, I can appre­ci­ate both sides of the sex­ual humor divide.

If you’re not watch­ing @Midnight and you like stand-​​up comics, I rec­om­mend you give it a try. It helps if you’re a Twitter/​internet meme addict, because the entire for­mat of the show is pretty Internet-​​centric, with a lot of rounds based on hash­tag humor and the like. I think it’s fun­nier than the Daily Show, and the Kumail episode (the first one) was the hard­est I have laughed at American comics since Kumail’s spe­cial, Beta Male.

29 October 2013

The Winding of the Seasons

I awoke in the night to the sounds of thun­der, of rain on the dry and brit­tle leaves of the trees that ring our home. I some­times think that Spring and Fall are mis-​​named, at least when it comes to the speed of their approach. Spring is slow and grad­ual. Fall strikes like a viper. One day, it was almost 90. The next, freez­ing tem­per­a­tures in the morn­ing and the trees were show­er­ing us with their dis­carded leaves.

Perhaps the tran­si­tions are not so bru­tal as they seem. It’s not an absolute truth that spring is grad­ual and fall is abrupt. Perhaps it’s just my per­cep­tions, which are shaped by my moods and activ­i­ties at the var­i­ous times of years.

I’m never ready for fall. As much as I dis­like the Kansas sum­mer heat, fall means the with­er­ing plants, the hiber­na­tion of life. I’m always eager for spring, as the long win­ter releases its icy grip on the soil and new growth springs up. For me, see­ing fresh green growth after a brown, dreary win­ter, is more pow­er­ful than any anti­de­pres­sant or mind-​​altering drug.

It’s no won­der to me that our ances­tors had reli­gions cen­tered so heav­ily on the turn­ing of the sea­sons, the sun and the moon. Just as early man was aston­ished each time the sun rose to end the night, I am pro­foundly affected by the break of win­ter by spring’s first ten­ta­tive shoots and leaves. I under­stand the sci­ence of the sea­sons, but that makes them no less pro­found, no less deeply spir­i­tual to wit­ness, when I can take a moment to appre­ci­ate the small but sig­nif­i­cant signs of the pas­sage of time.

28 October 2013

Who Killed the Blog?

This is a response to Gord Sellar’s entry, “Ominous, Or, How Blogs Die.”  In the spirit of the dis­cus­sion, I felt that I should write my response here rather than on Facebook or in the com­ments sec­tion. It might even put the stu­pid track­back func­tion to work for once with some­thing other than obnox­ious spam.

There’s no ques­tion in my mind that Facebook and Twitter killed the blog. Anecdotally, it was the adop­tion of these ser­vices in my own life that led to the fal­low nature of mein own blo­gens, and the slow decline in par­tic­u­lar of LiveJournal was has­tened by the adop­tion of Twitter by every­one I fol­lowed there. I sus­pect at this point, LiveJournal is com­posed of Nick Mamatas and 500,000 Russians–which coin­ci­den­tally is either the title of the story of how Nick goes out in a blaze of glory, or a really good Pussy Riot cover band name. Ooh, or the answer to a Jeopardy ques­tion: “These peo­ple still believe in com­mu­nism.” (Kidding, com­mu­nists. Kidding).

For the LiveJournal crowd, which made up a sur­pris­ing chunk of my blog read­ing, blogs were never about the form itself; they were about the proto-​​social net­work of LJ. They were used in locked form to com­mu­ni­cate with a small social clique as often as they were in unlocked form. Being on someone’s friends-​​locked posts was a kind of club mem­ber­ship. Kind of a pri­vate social net­work in a way.

It makes sense that Facebook and Twitter killed the blog because blogs were a poor sub­sti­tute for a real social net­work, and once those entered the pic­ture in a refined state, the blog was doomed as a wide­spread method of com­mu­ni­ca­tion. Yes, even for writer types. Especially for them, who as pro­fes­sion­als, jeal­ously guard their writ­ing time. Much like my uncle the steak­house cook–the last thing he wanted to do on the week­end was cook steaks for the family.

So I feel like the cul­prit has been caught red-​​handed, wear­ing a creepy Mark Zuckerberg mask and wield­ing a knife carved from fail­whale bone. What I can’t decide is whether I am both­ered by the death of blogs. Would I con­vict the murderer?

To a cer­tain degree, it’s much eas­ier to absorb what peo­ple have to say on Twitter and Facebook. Forced to write more suc­cinct entries, peo­ple con­dense their thoughts and it osten­si­bly saves the time of the reader. And if there is a car­di­nal sin in writ­ing, it’s gotta be wast­ing the time of the reader, right? And Forgive Me Gord, For I Have Sinned. I may very well be sin­ning right now.

By the way, you should write a confessional/​advice col­umn blog and it should be titled Forgive Me Gord, For I Have Sinned. Get on that Gord. Literally dozens of peo­ple might read the tweeted/​facebooked sub­ject lines and URL-​​shortened links before shrug­ging and click­ing “favorite” or “like.”

But it’s also much eas­ier to get lost in the crowd. Those sites make it too easy to fol­low each and every per­son on a whim, and so you end up hav­ing to cre­ate nets inside the net to fil­ter out the cream, and even then, you can dip in, dip out, miss­ing impor­tant things. And with Facebook, you have to do bat­tle with what Facebook thinks you want to see, and it’s become increas­ingly hard to see it all. The Algorithm makes so many silent, invis­i­ble deci­sions for you; all in an effort to fig­ure out new, inven­tive ways to mon­e­tize your eye­balls, no doubt. Thanks to the Algorithm, I have missed peo­ple giv­ing birth and get­ting mar­ried! Talk about awk­ward con­ver­sa­tions at din­ner. “And whose kid is that in the car­rier? …what, yours?”

And dis­course, man. Was there ever really any dis­course? One of the worst things about blog­ging for me was that I would pour thoughts into a post and then I might get one com­ment, maybe two if I were lucky. At least with Facebook and Twitter peo­ple who are too busy to say any­thing can click “like” or “favorite.” Those but­tons are a vast improve­ment over crick­ets chirp­ing. But they’re a huge decline in qual­ity com­men­tary, in debate, con­ver­sa­tion too. Official inter­net cur­rency pegs the con­ver­sion rate at 100 likes to a com­ments, 100 favorites to a re-​​tweet.

Times are a’changing, as some folk singer once said. As a writer (of sorts), I feel reg­u­lar guilt at my inabil­ity to keep up my blog­ging. But really, couldn’t every­thing I’ve said here been con­densed into a 140 char­ac­ter tweet?

Social media killed the blog. It kind of sucks, but social media is a bet­ter tool for how many peo­ple nar­rowly blogged at friends anyway.

Well, there are fewer point­less jokes. I’ll give the form that. Death by fir­ing squad for the blog then!