lilcoffeeghost
it is not time that matters, but you yourself
sam, 27, writer, hermit, professional fuck-up
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In this insular yet influential milieu — where the measure of success has nothing to do with book deals or best-seller lists but is quite simply many people posting a link preceded by a sentiment along the lines of You have to read this — the personal essay is king. Online, any number of women essayists have found, if not fame, at least a fervent following of the sort that would be hard to imagine happening elsewhere. Among even the noblest publishers, essay collections are generally as popular as a kid with head lice at a slumber party, thanks to the oft-repeated mantra that essay collections don’t sell. Never mind Joan Didion, Anne Lamott, Alice Walker, Nora Ephron, Annie Dillard, Meghan Daum, Sloane Crosley, Zadie Smith and Sarah Vowell, among many others — and I haven’t even mentioned all the men essayists — whose collections definitely sell in spite of the fact that they aren’t supposed to. (I also wonder about the maddening chicken-and-egg situation of those essay collections not made available for sale because, well, they “don’t sell.”)
Cheryl Strayed, a magnificent essayist herself, considers whether this is the golden age for “women essayists.”
For a sampling of those remarkable exemplars she mentions, see Zadie Smith on the cult of self-actualization, Anne Lamott on how perfectionism kills creativity, Joan Didion on grief, and Annie Dillard on presence over productivity.
Also see Dillard on what makes a great essay.
(via explore-blog)
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