eloquently and flippantly declared the death of the professional writer:
…something precious may be coming to an end in our lifetimes: the age of the professional writer. For the last three centuries or so, it was possible to make a living, and a name, by writing what the public wanted to read. … In the future, if fewer people are interested in reading and few of those are willing to pay for what they read, all these kinds of writers may go the way of the troubadour and the scribe. It is a nice symbolic irony, then, that this year marks the 300th anniversary of the greatest professional writer in English literature. <<READ MORE>>
To add insult to injury, he didn’t even think this revelation deserved to be the topic of its own article. Instead, he used it as a clever frame for a book review. Dang him. Dang him. Why must he kill my dreams and then not even give them the decency of a proper funeral? I’m glad that my struggles have provided him with some “nice symbolic irony.” Nice? That’s such an awful word! Couldn’t he at least drawn a bolder picture with the paint of my blood, sweat and tears? The only consolation is that his flippancy takes away the credibility of his statement. However, I imagine his book review can be trusted, since his writing is so nice.
