"I think this is the best time ever for an author," Rinzler says. "The balance of power has shifted from the gatekeepers to the artists."
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I wouldn't dream of stripping my clothes off in public. So why in God's name would I let my as-yet-unfinished novel, Sister Mysteries, dance naked in public?
Ronda is sitting in the Alcázar gardens, getting dizzy on orange blossoms and Moorish tiles. Everywhere she turns, there are squares and diamonds and fiendishly complex six-sided stars.
Ronda drifts off again. She imagines resting somewhere narrow. Her thighs are white and cold and spread wide. There is something like a vacuum cleaner. There is something like a basin or a pail.
Ronda knows for certain when she got pregnant. And she knows exactly where she was. Provincetown. It was in May, the weekend of the 13th and 14th.
With both Ben Jr. and Jack, Ronda more or less felt OK. Mild nausea always used to hit late in the afternoon, right about teatime.
We may be the last generation to festoon our offices with paper, sewn and glued up into one-pound data packets called books.
Having a significant Internet presence is essential for getting published even by established publishers like Random House or Harper Collins.
Here's the central paradox: there's more opportunity for all to publish, but more than ever, only the mega-sellers profit at all. It's like a rapidly expanding casino with a shrinking winner's circle.
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