按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
reate a new example of that art…form。 Every now and then someone tries mounting a blank…verse production either on Broadway or off it。 They inevitably fail。
Poetry is not a lost art。 Poetry is better than ever。 Of course you've got the usual gang of idiots （as the Mad magazine staff writers used to call themselves） hiding in the thickets； folks who have gotten pretension and genius all confused； but there are also many brilliant practitioners of the art out there。 Check the literary magazines at your local bookstore； if you don't believe me。 For every six crappy poems you read； you'll actually find one or two good ones。 And that； believe me； is a very acceptable ratio of trash to treasure。
The short story is also not a lost art； but I would argue it is a good deal closer than poetry to the lip of the drop into extinction's pit。 When I sold my first short story in the delightfully antique year of 1968； I was already bemoaning the steady attrition of markets： the pulps were gone； the digests were going； the weeklies （such as The Saturday Evening Post） were dying。 In the years since； I have seen the markets for short stories continue to shrink。 God bless the little magazines； where young writers can still publish their stories for contributors' copies； and God bless the editors who still read the contents of their slush piles （especially in the wake of 2001's anthrax scare）； and God bless the publishers who still greenlight the occasional anthology of original stories； but God won't have to spend His whole day…or even His coffee break…blessing those people。 Ten or fifteen minutes would do the trick。 Their number is small； and every year there are one or two fewer。 Story magazine； a lodestar for young writers （including myself； although I never actually published there）； is now gone。 Amazing Stories is gone； despite repeated efforts to revive it。 Interesting science…fiction magazines such as Vertex are gone； and； of course； the horror mags like Creepy and Eerie。 Those wonderful periodicals are long gone。 Every now and then someone will try to revive one of these magazines； as I write this； Weird Tales is staggering through such a revival。 Mostly； they fail。 It's like those plays in blank verse； the ones that open and then close in what seems to be no more than the wink of an eye。 When it's gone； you can't bring it back。 What's lost has a way of staying lost。
I've continued to write short stories over the years； partly because the ideas still e from time to time…beautifully pressed ideas that cry out for three thousand words； maybe nine thousand； fifteen thousand at the very most…and partly because it's the way I affirm； at least to myself； the fact that I haven't sold out； no matter what the more unkind critics may think。 Short stories are still piecework； the equivalent of those one…of…a…kind items you can buy in an artisan's shop。 If； that is； you are willing to be patient and wait while it's made by hand in the back room。
But there's no reason for stories to be marketed by the same old just…like…Father…did…it methods； simply because the stories themselves are created that way； nor is there any reason to assume （as so many stodgies in the critical press seem to have done） that the way in which a piece of fiction is sold must in some way contaminate or cheapen the product itself。
I'm speaking here of 'Riding the Bullet；' which has surely been my oddest experience of selling my wares in the marketplace； and a story which illustrates the main points I'm trying to make： that what's lost cannot be easily retrieved； that once things go past a certain point； extinction is probably inevitable； but that a fresh perspective on one aspect of creative writing…the mercial aspect…can sometimes refresh the whole。
'Bullet' was posed after On Writing； and while I was still recuperating from an accident which left me in a state of nearly constant physical misery。 Writing took me away from the worst of that pain； it was （and continues to be） the best pain…killer in my limited arsenal。 The story I wanted to tell was simplicity itself； little more than a campfire ghost…story； really。 It was The Hitchhiker Who Got Picked Up By A Dead Man。
While I was writing away at my story in the unreal world of my imagination； a dot… bubble was growing in the equally unreal world of e…merce。 One aspect of this was the so…called electronic book； which； according to some； would spell the end of books as we'd always known them； objects of glue and binding； pages you turned by hand （and which sometimes fell out； if the glue was weak or the binding old）。 In early 2000； there was great interest in an essay by Arthur C。 Clarke； which had been published only in cyberspace。
It was extremely short； though （like kissing your sister is what I thought when I first read it）。 My story； when it was done； was quite long。 Susan Moldow； my editor at Scribner （as an X…Files fan； I call her Agent Moldow 。 。 。 you work it out）； called one day prompted by Ralph Vicinanza and asked if I had anything I'd like to try in the electronic marketplace。 I sent her 'Bullet；' and the three of us…Susan； Scribner； and I…made a little bit of publishing history。 Several hundred thousand people downloaded the story； and I ended up making an embarrassing amount of money。 （Except that's a fucking lie； I wasn't embarrassed a bit。） Even the audio rights went for over a hundred thousand dollars； a ically huge price。
Am I bragging here？ Boasting my narrow whiteboy ass off？ In a way I am。 But I'm also here to tell you that 'Riding the Bullet' made me absolutely crazy。 Usually； if I'm in one of those fancy…schamncy airport lounges； I'm ignored by the rest of the clientele； they're busy babbling into phones or making deals at the bar。 Which is fine with me。 Every now and then one of them will drop by and ask me to sign a cocktail napkin for the wife。 The wife； these handsomely suited； briefcase…toting fellows usually want me to know； has read all my books。 They； on the other hand； have read none。 They want me to know that； too。 Just too busy。 Read The Seven Habits of Highly Successful People； read Who Moved My Cheese？； read The Prayer of Jabez； and that's pretty much it。 Gotta hurry； gotta rush…rush； I got a heart attack due in about four years； and I want to be sure that I'm there to meet it with my 401（k） all in order when it shows up。
After 'Bullet' was published as an e…book （cover； Scribner colophon； and all）； that changed。 I was mobbed in the airport lounges。 I was even mobbed in the Boston Amtrak lounge。 I was buttonholed on the street。 For a little while there； I was turning down the chance to appear on a giddy three talk…shows a day （I was holding out for Springer； but Jerry never called）。 I even got on the cover of Time； and The New York Times pontificated at some length over the perceived success of 'Riding the Bullet' and the perceived failure of its cyber…successor； The Plant。 Dear God； I was on the front page of The Wall Street Journal。 I had inadvertently bee a mogul。
And what was driving me crazy？ What made it all seem so pointless？ Why； that nobody cared about the story。 Hell； nobody even asked about the story； and do you know what？ It's a pret