Oh-So-Clever Title

My annual year-end post usually opens with a bit of self-deprecating humor about how my annual year-end post usually opens. Maybe I try to place this moment of personal reflection in the appropriate context by acknowledging the insignificance of my writing life against the vast scale of horrors in the world, as well as my continued gratitude for all that cushions me from the bulk of these horrors. But I avoid bringing down the mood too much, because I'm writing this to provide a smidge of delight and human connection to my readers.

The introductory spiel tends to go on and on. There's always a link back to the previous year's annual year-end post. Usually that leads into commentary (increasingly self-deprecating, decreasingly humorous) about the similarity of these annual year-end posts and the circumstances they describe. This part also calls back to the recurring bit about previously made statements that now appear ironic and/or hubristic.

Eventually it's necessary to address the ostensible topic of the post by summarizing the year's writing accomplishments. Links to writing updates from throughout the year allow both me and my readers to recollect that in fact words were written and progress was made. The progress must be referred to as "slow" in a resigned but cheerful manner. Any intentions that were stated but not followed through on also get a positive spin, for instance by renewing those intentions for January.

At this point in the post, I occasionally offer some philosophical musings about writing lessons learned, or re-learned, in the course of the year. But more often, having already produced enough paragraphs for a minimum viable post, I move on to the closing.

The closing includes at least two of the following words: wish, hope, bright, joy, forward, better, future. The sentiment is always a bit sappy, but it's genuine.

Good Stuff Out There:

→ At The Walrus, Tajja Isen reports on the publishing industry's gambling problem: "Sales track—or simply track, in industry parlance—is an invisible force shaping contemporary literature. Much depends on that number. On the basis of track, published authors struggle to keep going; those just starting out fear their careers will be severed at the root. Track shapes how an agent pitches a book and how editors assess whether to buy it. Track restricts reader choice by dictating which books are served up as the next big thing (and the next, and the next) and by kneecapping writers deemed insufficiently commercial. The primacy of track, in other words, is a barometer for the health of literary culture. Right now, when the industry is especially skittish, the obsession with finding the next blockbuster hit privileges the survival of the few at the expense of the many."