This weekend has been a vivid reminder of why I'm not usually an early adopter ( Read more... )

I was really nervous about the final run of the week, which jumps from eight minutes at a time to twenty consecutive minutes. I was a wreck after the eight minutes, so I thought twenty would more or less kill me ( Read more... )

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I was recently interviewed by Finn Harvor on the current state of the book/publishing industry. I hope I made at least a little bit of sense.

-- stop answering his cellphone in restaurants
- ride in the backseat of a taxi

After six years of work, I finally finished the final draft of my short story "Mark Jarvis, Prophet". It's only ten pages long, but it's finally fucking finished. It only took, what, twenty or thirty drafts?

And yes, it's about a guy who has a tumour in his bum that predicts the future when he farts. It makes sense when you read it, I promise.

I'm not sure I care anymore.

Q: Where do you find a tortoise with no legs?

A: Exactly where you left it.

David Foster Wallace, novelist, essayist, and author of short fiction, was found dead on Friday night, an apparent suicide. Not everything I've said about him over the years was favourable, but he was a bright point in contemporary letters, and he will be missed. It saddens me that he felt such a drastic measure was necessary.

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