Other people have things of interest to say, and I have less than zero desire to leave the house in this monsoon. Maybe I’ll start writing again when the rainy season is up.

Lindsay wittily dissects Judith Thurman’s oddly vituperative review of the Amelia Earhart biography:

I’m noticing a degree of absurdity creeping in to her deliciously catty, un-official “Takedowns Of Famous Heroines” series.

My friend Rosie wrote a great piece for the Foundation titled “In Search of the Auden Martini”:

I don’t want to lump Auden in with the cocktail consumers I’ve seen belly up to bars at innumerable happy hours, lean their elbows on the polished wood or marble or zinc, and, with an air of sophisticated authority, order an extra-dry vodka martini with extra olives. I want to pry away their drinks and replace them with real martinis—made with gin and considerably more than a rumor of vermouth, and garnished, if garnished they must be, with clean, curly twists of lemon peel. It’s much the way I feel when, riding the subway some evenings, I catch sight of someone reading Atlas Shrugged, and want to tear the book from his or her hands and replace it with Paradise Lost or The Prelude.

My friend Will (with whom I just reconnected after many years away from “Camden”–and he can probably attest to some of the shenanigans in my essay) has started a compelling blog where he muses on negotiating life and love as a transman:

It makes me feel like I am a boy in sheep’s clothing, as if I am trying to pull a fast one on someone I hope to date, or the world at large – as if I am a fraud, or poseur in my transgender life now. I assert my identity as a transguy because I believe that I am where I am supposed to be – trans meaning “to span the distance” between the genders. I don’t believe it’s a polarized view of man versus woman, and not even an oversimplified line between the two. I think all of us pick and choose what fits for us as individuals, and that generalizations are then made from seeing patterns and loose consistencies in how society defines masculinity versus femininity. But they are not prescriptions for the only acceptable ways to present ourselves.

Dear friend and muse Maud wrote a post called When Is a Book Not a Book? (A topic on my mind these days, what with the thesis and all.)

Will literary magazines continue to spring up online? Will control of publishing, as William Gibson implies, shift dramatically? As the reading experience changes, what will happen to stories themselves? Could hyperlinks and interactive maps and theme songs and video games undermine or even destroy the fictional narrative as we know it?

Edited to add: Didn’t see this until this morning! The awesome Justine Larbalestier, whose book Liar comes out in the US in just a few short weeks, posted a recording of the beginning of the book.

Go read [edit: and listen to] these things while I sit here getting later and later for work.

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