John Updike once wrote that “writers walk through volumes of the unexpressed and like snails leave behind a faint thread excreted out of ourselves.” (“The Blessed Man of Boston”) As an editor, I’m fairly gastropod-like myself. I leave my trail of commentary on a manuscript as evidence of where I’ve been (in fact, I may have an even
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Dearest Author, I've been thinking about worth lately. What's your story worth? At a recent writers conference I taught a workshop on how I saw publishing changing. Modern publishing, the only time in history when we've had separate "markets" for books, has begun to fracture and redistribute. I've shared several times about how The Shack has shifted things. It isn't
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Tillamook ice cream is one of the true pleasures of our moving to Portland. I know I risk outing myself as a closet ice-cream freak, but I don't care. The way they pack so much lactocine goodness into every delicious spoonful is enough to make me want to move here all over again, just to have the pleasure of realizing
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"I am a seven-foot-tall banana for a San Francisco–based fruit delivery company. I ride the train as the banana. I pass out bananas on the streets dressed as the banana. I get an awful lot of hugs as the banana, and more high-fives than anyone really has a right to." "…Sometimes I think that no matter what I write, no
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Alright. I confess. I’m not worried at all about losing the term “Christmas.” I’m also not concerned by Xs in place of Christ. The X is a cross. That reminds me of Christ. Maybe it doesn’t remind others of Christ, but that’s their prerogative. Why should I need anyone’s participation in my decision to be Christ-centered on Christmas? If you’re
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