If I had to guess I would say The Simpsons, with Seinfeld perhaps in second place.
That may seem odd, given the age of both shows, but I think it has to do with their arriving at the right time--their being around, and indeed at their peak, just before television viewership began to fragment, but after the dawn of the Internet, while going on to have a good long life through the earlier years of the Web's development by way of fond memories sustained by intensive reruns.
By contrast shows like Bewitched, MASH and even Cheers (the last episode of which aired in early 1993) were already receding into the past by that point--all as later shows such as The Office arrived in that more thoroughly web-connected but pop culturally fragmented world. (Some 76 million people watched the finale of Seinfeld, over a quarter of the country. By contrast about 5.7 million people watched the last episode of The Office--not quite 2 percent of the country's population at the time.) And of course later, non-network, prestige TV, with its streaming and cable outlets, its tendency to short runs, and toward idiosyncrasy and pretension rather than broad appeal and certainly the kind of light entertainment appeal that makes a show easy to watch over and over and over again, has been even less promising that way. The result is that if some of the content of these shows has proven memeworthy, none of them compare with those giants of '90s pop culture for plain and simple ubiquity.
Friday, April 19, 2024
Why is "The End of Science Fiction" Such a Tough Idea for People to Grasp?
There are many reasons for that. After all, what fan of something wants to hear that the thing they enjoy is in some kind of terminal decline? And certainly those whose living is in some way tied up with the health of a genre (like writers and editors) have no desire to hear such a claim either--indeed, the attitude of far too many of these a boosterism as intolerant as it is self-satisfied and vulgar. Indeed, those dubious about such talk can and do quite easily claim that it is a matter of someone simply not liking the "new stuff."
Yet there is also what it takes to even evaluate such an argument. One would have to think about what the term "genre" means, and how a genre develops--of genres as bodies of work united by shared themes and elements and techniques, by the familiarity of the creators and consumers of work in that genre with particular "classics" that serve as touchstones for them, by the tradition and discourse and community that all of this produces. They would have to be able to think about how a genre is not a constant thing over time, and how particular works and artists fit into that constancy and inconstancy. They would also have to be able to think about the difference between what is merely new, and what is original in a genre. And as all this implies, to get any use from the concepts discussed here they would have to know a good deal of the facts of the genre's history--the works that appeared over time, what was innovative at a certain point and what was not, how people reacted to it, and so forth.
In short, they would have to set aside the view of genre as a mere "commercial category," and simplistic, individualistic images of how artists work, and instead think theoretically, historically, systematically within a broad and deep knowledge of their genre.
The ability to think theoretically, historically, systematically, is not exactly something many people get from even an exceptionally advanced education--as the "elite" constantly demonstrates. Much of this is just too subtle for them, while only those who have been old, longtime, fans of exceptional alertness, and those who deliberately sought out such knowledge, are likely to amass the kind of knowledge of a genre that lets them weigh a genre's history according to such a standard. They are fewer still. The more open-minded may confess that such discussion is a bit above their heads--but the more common, conventional, attitude is to simply dismiss the argument as not worth the consideration they are incapable of offering it even if they could.
On the Strange Afterlife of the Superhero Comic
Writing about the last I argued that by the 1980s the genre had passed into its third and last generation, where its boundaries are established, its potentials already largely exploited, its canon pretty well completed, whatever contribution it was going to make to the larger culture not just issued but assimilated, and continued activity in it apt to treat the form as an "inside joke . . . treasured family story . . . or a set of exercises in which to display virtuosity." (Consider, for instance, how well-known it has all been for so long, how the list of heroes we would consider really "A-list" has not seen any additions for a long time, how the work that was really interesting in the form tended to be metafictional and subversive--as with Alan Moore's contributions, or Warren Ellis' Planetary, while even at its lightest a good deal of other Wildstorm material squarely fell into the "treasured family story" category, and how in the years since there just has not seemed to be anywhere for the genre to go in their original medium.)
All these decades later it does not seem unreasonable to say (and I did say) that we are past the genre's third generation--that life has passed into what Barnes called "afterlife," with the genre's course pretty much run, even if it has not departed, continuing less as living than "undead." But I think it has appeared to be less undead than it really is, even beyond the fact that few people think in the kinds of terms in which Barnes discussed such things. For explanation of this strange state of things one can look to the way the superhero movie boom emerged in that third generation, making superhero comics look more relevant (and popular) than they have really been--even though this was mainly a matter of superhero stories conveniently fitting in with particular demands of the studios (namely brand name, easily digestable sci-fi spectacle for the big screen). However, related to this fixation has been the lack of new, living, growing genres--genres which, by capturing attention, would allow attention to the undead to fade away, the undead holding the ground for lack of challenge by the living.
"You Can't Win an Argument With an Idiot"
I'm not sure who said this one first, but it's certainly true--you can't win an argument with an idiot.
After all, what makes a personal reveal themselves as an idiot in the course of argument? They show themselves such through an incapacity to distinguish between fact and opinion--and especially their own opinions and the facts, because of other lacks, like the slightest ability to reason, leaving them incapable of judging among claims and the arguments for them, something they have little inclination to try and do anyway. Because, after all, their attention spans are exceedingly limited, what attention span they do have they are unwilling to deploy because they are incapable of respect for, or even civility toward, other people, and they think all this is just fine--they think nothing needs to be longer than a six-paragraph blog post--as they "know what they know," and nothing anyone else has to say matters.
Alas, some of us find ourselves surrounded by nothing but idiots, with some of them people we are forced to deal with because they have the power in some situation.
Could it be that the world mostly consists of idiots?
Perhaps. But it also seems to me that the cultural moment, the political moment, we are in is all but designed to encourage idiocy. A society that, while denigrating intelligence and learning, worships mean and stupid self-assertiveness, and finds endless excuses for the worst sort of behavior, cannot be otherwise. It is also the case that, contrary to the stupid faith of the conformist that the world is a meritocracy idiots pursue position and power very successfully, the more in as, being idiots, they see in power not responsibility but only sources of satisfaction to themselves. And because, as David Graeber observed, power, especially when sanctified by "authority," makes people who were not necessarily idiots before into idiots.
Perhaps the best we can do is to choose those occasions when we do argue with care, avoiding argument whenever we can.
That most certainly includes not getting sucked into arguments with online strangers who may actually be bots.
After all, what makes a personal reveal themselves as an idiot in the course of argument? They show themselves such through an incapacity to distinguish between fact and opinion--and especially their own opinions and the facts, because of other lacks, like the slightest ability to reason, leaving them incapable of judging among claims and the arguments for them, something they have little inclination to try and do anyway. Because, after all, their attention spans are exceedingly limited, what attention span they do have they are unwilling to deploy because they are incapable of respect for, or even civility toward, other people, and they think all this is just fine--they think nothing needs to be longer than a six-paragraph blog post--as they "know what they know," and nothing anyone else has to say matters.
Alas, some of us find ourselves surrounded by nothing but idiots, with some of them people we are forced to deal with because they have the power in some situation.
Could it be that the world mostly consists of idiots?
Perhaps. But it also seems to me that the cultural moment, the political moment, we are in is all but designed to encourage idiocy. A society that, while denigrating intelligence and learning, worships mean and stupid self-assertiveness, and finds endless excuses for the worst sort of behavior, cannot be otherwise. It is also the case that, contrary to the stupid faith of the conformist that the world is a meritocracy idiots pursue position and power very successfully, the more in as, being idiots, they see in power not responsibility but only sources of satisfaction to themselves. And because, as David Graeber observed, power, especially when sanctified by "authority," makes people who were not necessarily idiots before into idiots.
Perhaps the best we can do is to choose those occasions when we do argue with care, avoiding argument whenever we can.
That most certainly includes not getting sucked into arguments with online strangers who may actually be bots.
Revisiting the Question of a Film Version of The Honourable Schoolboy
Back then I concluded that the odds of a feature film sequel were not great--because the material, much more than any other Smiley novel, would require a fairly big budget for faithful conveyance of the story's content, a bigger one than the first film's success justified, while I suspected that given the film's content it would not play in China, a thing which back then was increasingly important in film backers' calculations. (Alfredson's Tinker notably relocated an important piece of the story's action from Hong Kong to Istanbul for this reason--but anything like that with Honourable is simply not feasible.)
Today, more than a dozen years after the film's release, one would think that anyone taking on this part of the Smiley saga would be thinking "reboot" rather than a sequel, perhaps attempting to do Tinker over again before getting on with Honourable--while as if that were not trouble enough, there is the post-pandemic reality of the film business. The big blockbusters are less sure-fire than they used to be--but at the same time the serious dramas have only gone on getting riskier. Indeed, as Bryan Wizemann said in an interview a couple of years ago, every filmmaker he knew started "trying to figure out how to break [their scripts] into 10 longer pieces because that seemed to be what was getting made" as drama largely shifted over from theatrical release to streaming--while the big studios, belatedly realizing that the profits to be made in this area were not boundless, have been cutting back sharply on for-streaming content, to the point of being ready to bury films that they already made (with Netflix just adding to the list of such canceled projects a Halle Berry science fiction movie).
The possibility that a proper Smiley vs. Karla saga will find a home on streaming in the circumstances thus looks no greater than its being realized on the big screen these days barring some extraordinary spike of interest in it that seems to me very unlikely--what we watch less and less likely to have any relation to what we read, precisely because so few do.
The Cinematic Book Adaptation in an Era in Which People Don't Read
Back in 2022 Where the Crawdads Sing brought in $90 million domestically, and a little over half that internationally--which in the end actually allowed it to be one of the year's more profitable films. (If no billion-dollar blockbuster, it also did not have a billion-dollar blockbuster budget.) Still, one might have imagined it being a bigger hit given howpopular the book was, even with the critics less than enthusiastic about the movie. And I have wondered since (especially after the weak response to another film based on a hugely successful book, Killers of the Flower Moon), whether this is not in its way suggestive of the trend of things with regard to publishing--fewer people reading, with a reflection of that how even bestsellers not moving so many copies as before and meaning less even to the people who do read them, such that fewer of them will come out for the movie. Even just in this century movies based on the works of J.K. Rowling, Dan Brown, Stephanie Meyer, Suzanne Collins and E.L. James made for some of its biggest cinematic hits--but from here on out success on that scale is probably going to be an increasing longshot for any book not already established as a multimedia franchise, one likely so established that way that their origin in a book is practically irrelevant to their pop cultural cachet, even when the franchise-runners spend a great deal of time reminding everyone about it (as they do with James Bond).
"Why Don't More Students Get Engineering Degrees?" Again
Recently writing about the reality of American higher education I have found myself debunking the myth of a labor market awash in holders of "useless" degrees amid a shortage of trained STEM workers. The reality is that more Americans are going for STEM degrees, and especially the engineering training for which STEM can seem a euphemism, as the production of humanities graduates collapses--while those recently graduated STEM degree holders, even amid the tight labor market officially prevailing, face significant risk of underemployment and a rapid decline on whatever wage premium their degrees afford them as their skills, in their employers' eyes at least, obsolesce.
Still, it does seem worth admitting that the percentage of students who go for arts degrees of various kinds is high--higher than many observers of the scene would like, thinking it better that they go for engineering degrees, quantitative business degrees, and the like instead. The plain and simple answer is that, apart from the hopes of many that they will be the one to beat the odds to become a superstar (far more widespread, I think, than is usually admitted), and in many cases thinking that if they have to "fall back" there is always teaching (certainly I have made my case that this keeps English departments in low-cost adjunct labor), there is the matter of their loving what they do. Contrary to those who ceaselessly rant and rave about young people's choices (in either ignorance or bad faith) few will get an engineering degree if they do not expect it to pay and pay well soon (indeed, pay better than the publicity may be making them think it does). However, where art is concerned more are willing to take their chances.
Still, it does seem worth admitting that the percentage of students who go for arts degrees of various kinds is high--higher than many observers of the scene would like, thinking it better that they go for engineering degrees, quantitative business degrees, and the like instead. The plain and simple answer is that, apart from the hopes of many that they will be the one to beat the odds to become a superstar (far more widespread, I think, than is usually admitted), and in many cases thinking that if they have to "fall back" there is always teaching (certainly I have made my case that this keeps English departments in low-cost adjunct labor), there is the matter of their loving what they do. Contrary to those who ceaselessly rant and rave about young people's choices (in either ignorance or bad faith) few will get an engineering degree if they do not expect it to pay and pay well soon (indeed, pay better than the publicity may be making them think it does). However, where art is concerned more are willing to take their chances.
"Why Don't More Students Get Engineering Degrees?"
I have always felt that in the discussion of American deindustrialization the talk of education has been a red herring. America did not deindustrialize because American college students picked "soft majors." (Indeed, it is worth noting that between 1975 and the late '10s the number of engineering graduates in the U.S. tripled, with the last part of that period seeing a particular surge among American-born students.) Rather the issue was that the end of the post-war boom, the stiffening of international competition, the falling profitability of manufacturing, the opportunities opened up by deregulation, led investors to favor financial maneuvers, real estates, offshoring, over domestic production--and they have never looked back since.
Still, it does seem worth admitting that American youth may be less inclined than their foreign counterparts to this particular major. However, it seems to me that this is traceable to the paths they are encouraged to follow in their own self-interest.
Consider the stereotypical intelligent, ambitious young person who heeds the advice of their elders. Conventionally they are going for careers in medicine or law. If they want to bet on making really big money they are directed toward finance. If their inclinations are technical they are directed toward computing. If they simply do not know what to do with themselves they are directed toward generic business degrees. Meanwhile even the strident chant of STEM, STEM, STEM factors into this--by obscuring the fact that what the STEM-mongers really want is not more astrophysicists or theoretical mathematicians or professors of biology but engineers providing American industry with a larger pool of skilled labor by instead making them think that "basic" science degree-holders have more opportunity than is really the case (all as lots of college departments confuse things further by getting themselves reclassed as STEM to get a crack at the money held out for those participating in the campaign).
The young responded accordingly, going where they were told the rewards were--and their elders responded with their usual stupid outrage, in line with the prevailing view that while it is fair and right that business follow their self-interest as they understand it best it is somehow unfair and wrong, mean and shabby, that workers do the same, as though they should instead think only of "public service" when picking their majors.
Were engineering to be perceived as being as rewarding in terms of pay and prestige as medicine and law and finance one would see still more young people heading into it than is already the case. However, the reality is quite different--even before one considers the underappreciated facts about STEM major underemployment and how quickly the wage premium on a STEM degree fades even for those who do get jobs in their line soon after graduation, soon leaving the worker doing no better even if they had not departed for a job they could have done without such a degree.
Still, it does seem worth admitting that American youth may be less inclined than their foreign counterparts to this particular major. However, it seems to me that this is traceable to the paths they are encouraged to follow in their own self-interest.
Consider the stereotypical intelligent, ambitious young person who heeds the advice of their elders. Conventionally they are going for careers in medicine or law. If they want to bet on making really big money they are directed toward finance. If their inclinations are technical they are directed toward computing. If they simply do not know what to do with themselves they are directed toward generic business degrees. Meanwhile even the strident chant of STEM, STEM, STEM factors into this--by obscuring the fact that what the STEM-mongers really want is not more astrophysicists or theoretical mathematicians or professors of biology but engineers providing American industry with a larger pool of skilled labor by instead making them think that "basic" science degree-holders have more opportunity than is really the case (all as lots of college departments confuse things further by getting themselves reclassed as STEM to get a crack at the money held out for those participating in the campaign).
The young responded accordingly, going where they were told the rewards were--and their elders responded with their usual stupid outrage, in line with the prevailing view that while it is fair and right that business follow their self-interest as they understand it best it is somehow unfair and wrong, mean and shabby, that workers do the same, as though they should instead think only of "public service" when picking their majors.
Were engineering to be perceived as being as rewarding in terms of pay and prestige as medicine and law and finance one would see still more young people heading into it than is already the case. However, the reality is quite different--even before one considers the underappreciated facts about STEM major underemployment and how quickly the wage premium on a STEM degree fades even for those who do get jobs in their line soon after graduation, soon leaving the worker doing no better even if they had not departed for a job they could have done without such a degree.
Who Ends Up Teaching Composition at Our Colleges?
It is a truism that, as Harold Coyle once quipped, "necessary and important but unpleasant duties" are, within large organizations, customarily "given to the most junior" member, with this "passed off as being part of [their] development," when "in fact it is nothing more than passing off a dirty chore to someone else."*
Certainly this has applied to college teaching, with the "necessary and important but unpleasant" duty so passed commonly including the teaching of first-year, general-education courses (because few want to deal with inexperienced students often resentfully satisfying general-education requirements they see as merely an obstacle to getting the credits they really need to get so that they can get the job they are after), especially insofar as they are particularly tedious or laborious (for instance, because the subject matter is dry and the burden of grading heavy).
English composition famously fits that profile--with the result that in universities with graduate programs the job is handed off to graduate "teaching assistants" (unlikely to get to do any assisting, or apprenticing, before they are put in charge of a classroom), while everywhere it falls disproportionately to adjuncts.
What this means, of course, is that instruction in composition, already afflicted with problems ranging from the gap between quite logical college requirements and the actual preparation K-12 instruction provides; and some badly flawed thinking about just how instructors could go about providing what corrective one or two 15-week courses plausibly can (like the Karate Kid nonsense I have discussed in the past); one sees those people teaching the course drawn from either the least-prepared and experienced of the potential instructors, and more generally those who are most overworked and distracted. This, too, takes its toll on the quality of the result.
* The remark is to be found in his novel Sword Point.
Certainly this has applied to college teaching, with the "necessary and important but unpleasant" duty so passed commonly including the teaching of first-year, general-education courses (because few want to deal with inexperienced students often resentfully satisfying general-education requirements they see as merely an obstacle to getting the credits they really need to get so that they can get the job they are after), especially insofar as they are particularly tedious or laborious (for instance, because the subject matter is dry and the burden of grading heavy).
English composition famously fits that profile--with the result that in universities with graduate programs the job is handed off to graduate "teaching assistants" (unlikely to get to do any assisting, or apprenticing, before they are put in charge of a classroom), while everywhere it falls disproportionately to adjuncts.
* The remark is to be found in his novel Sword Point.
Secrets of the English Department: The Dream of Authorship and the Supply of Adjunct Labor
It is no secret that colleges rely heavily on the labor of adjunct professors, some more heavily and exploitatively than others.
Back when I did some research into the topic I found that, for example, adjuncts in areas like business or engineering were often working professionals in those fields who had elected to teach a course, and were probably motivated by factors other than the monetary compensation--but English departments generally employ full-time part-timers who really do rely on this for the whole of their income.
Of course, one may wonder why people with advanced degrees are so often prepared to endure such conditions. One reason, not the only one, but I think an important one, is that many of those who do so see their teaching as just a "day job," teaching as others may drive cabs or wait tables as they pursue a writing career, in part because if there are many disincentives, like minimum wage-level compensation, and the lack of benefits and on the job protections, they have more control over their time. When they do not have to be in the classroom, when they do not have to do office hours (and many have no office hours obligation), they can be elsewhere. That does not mean they are not working full time. The rule of thumb is three hours outside class for every hour inside class--preparing lectures, grading papers, keeping records, answering student e-mails, etc., especially given the kinds of classes adjuncts in English tend to get. (One finds, for instance, that the burden of teaching grading-heavy first-year composition courses falls disproportionately on them--as against, for instance, the literature classes usually monopolized by the more senior staff.) Still, if they do the work (and my experience is that, contrary to the claims of those political hacks who so love to demonize teachers, they do tend to be conscientious about it), they do not have to do it in a particular place, under the eye of a boss, and have some flexibility in organizing their time, more than they would in just about any other white collar job likely to be available to them. That measure of freedom is not only hard to give up when one has it, for anyone, but offers at least a hope of getting more writing done than would otherwise be the case.
Alas, as anyone even slightly alert to the realities of publishing knows, very few "aspiring" writers from any walk of life ever score the book deal, let alone get to the point where their work income lets them quit the day job. They are in fact so few that holders of graduate degrees in English who do not land permanent positions in their field, and have not yet made the decision to head elsewhere, are plentiful enough to keep English departments in a plentiful supply of adjunct labor, with those who gave up and decided to make a living some other way (as they lament the crushing of their dreams and the loss of their youth) replaced by newly minted graduates with the same aspirations.
Or at least, that was the case until these past few years. After all, fewer people have been getting English degrees, implying a reduction in the stream of such labor--while at the same time fewer young people have been going to college for any reason. One can picture a situation where there is less demand for those more advanced English classes making it harder for more permanent and senior staff to avoid teaching sections of composition, for example, as the decline in college attendance generally means fewer students and sections so that there is less call for adjuncts to teach them. Meanwhile there may well be fewer underemployed English graduates looking to pay the bills this way--because, along with the humanities-bashing STEM propaganda and the greater caution about picking majors that so much reduce the pursuit of English degrees, the shift of our culture away from the written word has progressed to a point at which far fewer young people read and write and thus dream of being authors than before, and thus looking for day jobs they think will be conducive to their writing.
If anyone has any knowledge relevant to any of this, you are of course quite free to share it in the comment thread below.
Back when I did some research into the topic I found that, for example, adjuncts in areas like business or engineering were often working professionals in those fields who had elected to teach a course, and were probably motivated by factors other than the monetary compensation--but English departments generally employ full-time part-timers who really do rely on this for the whole of their income.
Of course, one may wonder why people with advanced degrees are so often prepared to endure such conditions. One reason, not the only one, but I think an important one, is that many of those who do so see their teaching as just a "day job," teaching as others may drive cabs or wait tables as they pursue a writing career, in part because if there are many disincentives, like minimum wage-level compensation, and the lack of benefits and on the job protections, they have more control over their time. When they do not have to be in the classroom, when they do not have to do office hours (and many have no office hours obligation), they can be elsewhere. That does not mean they are not working full time. The rule of thumb is three hours outside class for every hour inside class--preparing lectures, grading papers, keeping records, answering student e-mails, etc., especially given the kinds of classes adjuncts in English tend to get. (One finds, for instance, that the burden of teaching grading-heavy first-year composition courses falls disproportionately on them--as against, for instance, the literature classes usually monopolized by the more senior staff.) Still, if they do the work (and my experience is that, contrary to the claims of those political hacks who so love to demonize teachers, they do tend to be conscientious about it), they do not have to do it in a particular place, under the eye of a boss, and have some flexibility in organizing their time, more than they would in just about any other white collar job likely to be available to them. That measure of freedom is not only hard to give up when one has it, for anyone, but offers at least a hope of getting more writing done than would otherwise be the case.
Or at least, that was the case until these past few years. After all, fewer people have been getting English degrees, implying a reduction in the stream of such labor--while at the same time fewer young people have been going to college for any reason. One can picture a situation where there is less demand for those more advanced English classes making it harder for more permanent and senior staff to avoid teaching sections of composition, for example, as the decline in college attendance generally means fewer students and sections so that there is less call for adjuncts to teach them. Meanwhile there may well be fewer underemployed English graduates looking to pay the bills this way--because, along with the humanities-bashing STEM propaganda and the greater caution about picking majors that so much reduce the pursuit of English degrees, the shift of our culture away from the written word has progressed to a point at which far fewer young people read and write and thus dream of being authors than before, and thus looking for day jobs they think will be conducive to their writing.
If anyone has any knowledge relevant to any of this, you are of course quite free to share it in the comment thread below.
Teaching as a Day Job
Not long ago I remarked my suspicion that one of the factors that has kept English departments supplied with low-cost adjunct labor has been the number of holders of advanced degrees in English whose real goal is to write literature someday, not teach it--and teach English as other would-be writers wait tables to make a living, as a "day job."*
It is understandable that many should take that course in their lives--the hope at least existing of making some money while enjoying some control over their time. Still, it is a far from ideal arrangement, in ways that go even beyond the unattractions of teaching on an adjunct basis. The fact that as adjuncts they are likely to draw the least attractively scheduled courses--the early morning courses, the late courses--and may find themselves forced to spend many hours shuttling among multiple, widely dispersed, campuses to string together enough payments for enough courses to cover the bills permitting even the most meager existence--will diminish the actual control over their working time that they hoped for.
One can add to this that introversion is far from unknown among writers, and the front of a classroom is not a comfortable place for an introvert--especially the kind of classes that they are likely to draw, full of first-year students uninterested in the subject, who have that much less willingness or ability to hold up their end of a class discussion, who will constantly subject their instructors to difficult situations as they press them for a better grade, or even attempt to brazen their way through the course.
There is also the subject matter of their course itself--with its associated duties. Spending all day promulgating "one size fits all" rules to practitioners of an activity where One Size Never Fits All ("Never use passive voice!") and nit-picking other people's writing (as they grade paper after paper), seems all too likely to stifle rather than nurture a writer's creativity.
Alas, problematic as it all is, so are all the other choices available to writers constrained to work a Day Job.
* I would like to be clear here that this does not make them bad teachers any more than being aspiring writers makes those who wait tables bad waiters.
It is understandable that many should take that course in their lives--the hope at least existing of making some money while enjoying some control over their time. Still, it is a far from ideal arrangement, in ways that go even beyond the unattractions of teaching on an adjunct basis. The fact that as adjuncts they are likely to draw the least attractively scheduled courses--the early morning courses, the late courses--and may find themselves forced to spend many hours shuttling among multiple, widely dispersed, campuses to string together enough payments for enough courses to cover the bills permitting even the most meager existence--will diminish the actual control over their working time that they hoped for.
One can add to this that introversion is far from unknown among writers, and the front of a classroom is not a comfortable place for an introvert--especially the kind of classes that they are likely to draw, full of first-year students uninterested in the subject, who have that much less willingness or ability to hold up their end of a class discussion, who will constantly subject their instructors to difficult situations as they press them for a better grade, or even attempt to brazen their way through the course.
There is also the subject matter of their course itself--with its associated duties. Spending all day promulgating "one size fits all" rules to practitioners of an activity where One Size Never Fits All ("Never use passive voice!") and nit-picking other people's writing (as they grade paper after paper), seems all too likely to stifle rather than nurture a writer's creativity.
Alas, problematic as it all is, so are all the other choices available to writers constrained to work a Day Job.
* I would like to be clear here that this does not make them bad teachers any more than being aspiring writers makes those who wait tables bad waiters.
Self-Publishing vs. Traditional Publishing in 2024
Recently I discussed the odds facing the would-be self-published author in 2024. A writer's odds in the marketplace have never been good--and a self-published writer's odds were always worse than that. However, as I recently argued it seems to me that the return on effort in the area of self-published books has likely fallen in the years since the practice exploded, because of the way the e-book has been confined to a very limited part of the market, and because of how the Internet's evolution has made the forms of low-cost publicity it afforded less effective.
Does that make it time to turn one's thoughts back toward traditional publishing? Alas, I see no evidence that traditional publishing has become any more open than it was before. If anything the opposite has likely happened amid its own hard times, as people are not just reading fewer self-published books or e-books, but probably reading fewer books of any and all kinds (as the collapse of mass market paperback sales suggests). The result is that the chances of anyone whose only alternative to self-publishing is the slush pile are probably as grim as ever they were--leaving those looking for publication faced not with a "choice," but a dilemma.
Does that make it time to turn one's thoughts back toward traditional publishing? Alas, I see no evidence that traditional publishing has become any more open than it was before. If anything the opposite has likely happened amid its own hard times, as people are not just reading fewer self-published books or e-books, but probably reading fewer books of any and all kinds (as the collapse of mass market paperback sales suggests). The result is that the chances of anyone whose only alternative to self-publishing is the slush pile are probably as grim as ever they were--leaving those looking for publication faced not with a "choice," but a dilemma.
Promoting Books Online: Fiction vs. Nonfiction
I have heard it remarked that there is no "general" nonfiction market anymore, and certainly my experience of the (generally loathsome) content of the bestseller lists would seem to attest to this. We have sales in a few narrow lines--self-help books of the "success" and health varieties, and gossip of various kinds ("true crime," memoir, biography, arguably also political rant), both typically connected with the name of a celebrity, and not much else, the public's tastes very narrow indeed (and it seems to me, reflective of sad delusion).
The result is that the potential audience for any one nonfiction work is unlikely to be very large outside of a very small number of categories--while, again, those who actually get much book-reading are probably online less than most. Still, it is arguably easier for those of slight promotional means to get sales for a work of nonfiction than for a work of fiction through an online presence for the simple reason that a reader doing an informational search may, in spite of the ever-more perverse functioning of search engines, find their way to such a work should it contain the information they are looking for (especially if those promoting the book take some pains to make it "findable"). Thus commended to their attention they may peruse it, and possibly take an interest, and maybe even buy it.
There is no equivalent way for someone to happen upon a work of fiction--one reason why so much store is set here by the authors already having "Names" for themselves, a thing which matters infinitely more to the Dauriats of Park Avenue than the actual content of the books, and online as offline success so consistently goes to "the bigger battalion" rather than the worthier one.
The result is that the potential audience for any one nonfiction work is unlikely to be very large outside of a very small number of categories--while, again, those who actually get much book-reading are probably online less than most. Still, it is arguably easier for those of slight promotional means to get sales for a work of nonfiction than for a work of fiction through an online presence for the simple reason that a reader doing an informational search may, in spite of the ever-more perverse functioning of search engines, find their way to such a work should it contain the information they are looking for (especially if those promoting the book take some pains to make it "findable"). Thus commended to their attention they may peruse it, and possibly take an interest, and maybe even buy it.
There is no equivalent way for someone to happen upon a work of fiction--one reason why so much store is set here by the authors already having "Names" for themselves, a thing which matters infinitely more to the Dauriats of Park Avenue than the actual content of the books, and online as offline success so consistently goes to "the bigger battalion" rather than the worthier one.
Just How Much Sense Does it Really Make to Promote Books Online?
The post's titular question may seem counterintuitive given that today it is taken for granted that anyone who wants to sell anything has to have an online presence--and one might add, that the first truly great online retail success specifically began as a book-seller.
However, it also seems to me that there is an inverse relationship between the time people spend being online, and the time they spend reading books. This is not only a matter of people's disposable time being finite so that time spent on one thing is time not spent on the other thing, but the effect that actually staring into a screen as one copes with the ever-more aggravating experience of navigating the vile post-apocalyptic wasteland that the search engine optimization, cookie pop-ups, adblock blockers, autoplay videos, paywalls, clickbaiters, bots and other assorted Torments of the Damned has made of it (and in a different way, also its increasing transition from being text-based to audiovisually based, as vloggers replace bloggers, etc.) has on our reading faculties. Even those of us who have retained the reading habit, and even the capacity to cope with difficult reading material (and I think it necessary to admit that many have not), are likely to find that we do not get much long-form reading done on those days when we are online much.
Equally we may find ourselves surprised by how much reading we can do on those days when we steer clear of the Web.
The result is that if we are selling books those who actually read the most books are the ones least likely to be online at a given time--and those who are most likely to be online people who do no such reading. That does not in and of itself make online book promotion a complete waste of time--but it does suggest that the return on promotional effort will be that much lower, when already it would seem to be very low to begin with and steadily falling as the Internet becomes ever more of a ruin, with all this implies for those who are endeavoring to promote a book with very little outlay of resources, and very little help from legacy media, like the self-published authors I suspect to be those far and away the group most likely to interest themselves in the topic.
However, it also seems to me that there is an inverse relationship between the time people spend being online, and the time they spend reading books. This is not only a matter of people's disposable time being finite so that time spent on one thing is time not spent on the other thing, but the effect that actually staring into a screen as one copes with the ever-more aggravating experience of navigating the vile post-apocalyptic wasteland that the search engine optimization, cookie pop-ups, adblock blockers, autoplay videos, paywalls, clickbaiters, bots and other assorted Torments of the Damned has made of it (and in a different way, also its increasing transition from being text-based to audiovisually based, as vloggers replace bloggers, etc.) has on our reading faculties. Even those of us who have retained the reading habit, and even the capacity to cope with difficult reading material (and I think it necessary to admit that many have not), are likely to find that we do not get much long-form reading done on those days when we are online much.
Equally we may find ourselves surprised by how much reading we can do on those days when we steer clear of the Web.
The result is that if we are selling books those who actually read the most books are the ones least likely to be online at a given time--and those who are most likely to be online people who do no such reading. That does not in and of itself make online book promotion a complete waste of time--but it does suggest that the return on promotional effort will be that much lower, when already it would seem to be very low to begin with and steadily falling as the Internet becomes ever more of a ruin, with all this implies for those who are endeavoring to promote a book with very little outlay of resources, and very little help from legacy media, like the self-published authors I suspect to be those far and away the group most likely to interest themselves in the topic.
Punishment for Professors
In his book The Goose-Step Upton Sinclair discussed among a great many of the other evils of American higher education in his time the surveillance of professors on and off the job by forces not only inside but outside their institutions. The surveillance, if attentive to anything unseemly in said professors' private lives (like the slightest whiff of a male professor's involvement with a woman not his wife), was mainly political in nature--and misstep followed by retribution.
Said retribution was not always official. As Sinclair notes, the professor who fell afoul of the administration might find pay rises and promotions withheld (with all that means given the lousiness of the pay to begin with). They might find their room assignments constantly changed. And, to quote Sinclair, the professor might find themselves "teach[ing] large classes of freshmen, over and over again the same weary routine," perhaps "for the rest of [their] life."
Those aware of the conditions under which adjunct instructors work will, of course, note that what the full-time faculty got as punishment--the lack of pay rises and promotions, the instability of assignments, the duty of teaching those grinding first-year classes--is the adjunct's lot as a matter of course, in the absence of even the thought that they had transgressed.
Consider that.
Said retribution was not always official. As Sinclair notes, the professor who fell afoul of the administration might find pay rises and promotions withheld (with all that means given the lousiness of the pay to begin with). They might find their room assignments constantly changed. And, to quote Sinclair, the professor might find themselves "teach[ing] large classes of freshmen, over and over again the same weary routine," perhaps "for the rest of [their] life."
Those aware of the conditions under which adjunct instructors work will, of course, note that what the full-time faculty got as punishment--the lack of pay rises and promotions, the instability of assignments, the duty of teaching those grinding first-year classes--is the adjunct's lot as a matter of course, in the absence of even the thought that they had transgressed.
Consider that.
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