For someone like yours truly, who is actively trying to get sentences published on paper in the real world (Believe it or not, my written work is not solely in the "hey, what's Lindsay Lohan doing today?" genre), the death of print media is a double-edged sword (See, that's called "imagery;" very literary).
On the one hand, I have to watch a field I am deeply interested in shrivel and wither like an eighty-year stop motion movie of my penis (That one's called a "simile").
On the other hand, the low standards of decency on the web allow me to project the image of my withered penis into the minds of thousands of readers, whereas in the pre-web days such a wonderful bond would not, yea,
have been forged.
But come on, print media: though your long reign may be approaching its end, letâs die with some dignity shall we? The specific embarrassing death throes Iâm referring to are the increasingly frequent misattributions of the title âmemoirâ or âtrue storyâ to straight up Fiction. Or, as we call it at our weekly writer's meetings, âLies.â
You probably remember James Freyâs A Million Little Pieces
being unmasked as fraud, especially because that particular unmasking made Oprah look like a tool, which is always fun.