sk.everythingseventual-第2部分

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g；　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　pretty　good　story；　if　I　do　say　so　myself。　Simple　but　fun。　Gets　the　job　done。　If　it　got　you　to　turn　off　the　TV；　as　far　as　I'm　concerned；　it　（or　any　of　the　stories　in　the　collection　which　follows）　is　a　total　success。
　　But　in　the　wake　of　'Bullet；'　all　the　guys　in　ties　wanted　to　know　was；　'How's　it　doing？　How's　it　selling？'　How　to　tell　them　I　didn't　give　a　flying　fuck　how　it　was　doing　in　the　marketplace；　that　what　I　cared　about　was　how　it　was　doing　in　the　reader's　heart？　Was　it　succeeding　there？　Failing？　Getting　through　to　the　nerve…endings？　Causing　that　little　frisson　which　is　the　spooky　story's　raison　d'être？　I　gradually　realized　that　I　was　seeing　another　example　of　creative　ebb；　another　step　by　another　art　on　the　road　that　may　indeed　end　in　extinction。　There　is　something　weirdly　decadent　about　appearing　on　the　cover　of　a　major　magazine　simply　because　you　used　an　alternate　route　into　the　marketplace。　There　is　something　weirder　about　realizing　that　all　those　readers　might　have　been　a　lot　more　interested　in　the　novelty　of　the　electronic　package　than　they　were　in　what　was　inside　the　package。　Do　I　want　to　know　how　many　of　the　readers　who　downloaded　'Riding　the　Bullet'　actually　read　'Riding　the　Bullet'？　I　do　not。　I　think　I　might　be　extremely　disappointed。
　　E…publishing　may　or　may　not　be　the　wave　of　the　future；　about　that　I　care　not　a　fiddler's　fart；　believe　me。　For　me；　going　that　route　was　simply　another　way　of　trying　to　keep　myself　fully　involved　in　the　process　of　writing　stories。　And　then　getting　them　to　as　many　people　as　possible。
　　This　book　will　probably　end　up　on　the　best…seller　lists　for　awhile；　I've　been　very　lucky　that　way。　But　if　you　see　it　there；　you　might　ask　yourself　how　many　other　books　of　short　stories　end　up　on　the　bestseller　lists　in　the　course　of　any　given　year；　and　how　long　publishers　can　be　expected　to　publish　books　of　a　type　that　doesn't　interest　readers　very　much。　Yet　for　me；　there　are　few　pleasures　so　excellent　as　sitting　in　my　favorite　chair　on　a　cold　night　with　a　hot　cup　of　tea；　listenin