Little Old New York
Wellington Leg: A few months ago the New York Times moved the publishing capital of the universe from New York to Seattle. This may be one of those time zone situations in which NYT staff writers are sent on the road. Seattle is famously treacherous territory for visitors. The sun may pop through the perpetual overcast just as a salmon flies across the reporter’s field of vision. With cell phone in hand the cub reporter can reach New York faster than Birkenstocks rot in the mist. “You have to see this place…oh my God I see a volcano!”
Only a New York newspaper can move capitals around. Seattle papers worry more about their carbon footprint than east coast papers. They worry about giant squids off the coast, octopi in Elliot Bay, Seahawk draft choices. A Seattle headline might read: GIANT SQUID ENDANGERED. A New York headline might read: DEPUTY MAYOR INDICTED IN SQUID SCANDAL.
Publishing is headquartered in New York. Literary agents gather there. There is only one metric that matters when searching for the capital of the publishing universe: the relative size of the slush pile. Seattle has no slush pile. Unwanted manuscripts are recycled creating habitats on the continent’s edge. Trees that might have become unwanted manuscripts are spared only to fall on power lines during fall and winter. I think you need electricity to be the publishing capital but that’s just me.
In Little Old New York the slush pile stands tall. Decades of common practice permit the pile to grow on radiators, to sprawl across cramped offices and fill tiny apartments. The slush pile frightens interns who come to the publishing capital to seek fame and fortune. Entire basement spaces molder with the decay of forgotten prose until a building inspector scandal is reported by the Post. Every dozen years or so a slush pile submission is published to enormous fanfare akin to celebrating democracy with tanks in the street. “We do read these,” someone will say.
That’s capital talk. You can send out an army of reporters from the Big Apple to ooh and ahh over the developments in the provinces ( they wear clothing! they brush their teeth!) but you’re not moving the publishing capital until the Slush Pile swallows the Chrysler Building and giant squid frolic in the potholes on Second Avenue. Talk to me then.
Tags: Giant Squid, Publishing, Slush Pile
May 26th, 2008 at 5:09 pm
Would you settle for a half-dozen cuttlefish in the fountain in Central Park?
May 27th, 2008 at 8:58 am
Cuttlefish don’t fly, do they? That’s crucial.