Blog: Benjamin Rosenbaum
One of the most surprising things, for me, about becoming a working writer, has been the discovery of how social a profession it is.
Back in adolescence, dreaming about someday Publishing Great Things, I imagined a solitary struggle. The writer forges Art in the fire of her own consciousness, then releases it fully formed upon the world.
Nera waited for Malka in the big outer living room of 534a.tower5.loverslump.frankfurt.de -- Jörg's place. It had been six months since Nera was last here. Four months ago, she'd forced herself to stop watching and commenting.
You're on the 236th-level Kaiserstrasse moving sidewalk when you see her.
You're leaning on the railing, waiting to ask Derya about a job, watching the glittering stream of mites that arc over half the sky -- flying up to rewind their nanosprings in the stratospheric sunlight, flying down to make Frankfurt run. You never get tired of watching them.
There was a moment, sometime near the end of the last century, when it rather suddenly became clear that Apache's web server was going to cement its position as the dominant webserver -- what the Web ran on.
Well, my original plan was to write next about my ambivalence towards capitalism, and how I ended up writing this series of blog posts, and whether the (implicitly modernist) short story of character, as a form, is still the correct vehicle for engaging a general audience in speculation about the future. And then I thought I'd write about open source.