Is Anti-Globalization Inevitably Fascist? Thoughts on Brexit.

Probably the wisest thing I heard today was from a BBC Newshour man-on-the-street respondent.

“I won’t be sad to see the back end of the capitalist European Union. But I’m sorry it had to be on such right-wing terms.”

I’m paraphrasing from memory, but that just about sums up the duality of Brexit. On the one hand, the motives behind it are real, not sentimental. Globalization has been almost uniformly terrible for the working and even middle classes of the developed world. Disentangling global systems, including not just the EU but trade agreements such as NAFTA and the rapidly-approaching Trans-Pacific Partnership, is at least theoretically a way to regain national control of things like wages and working standards.

It also, of course, robs everyone, working and middle classes included, of the real benefits of global trade flows, which increase the total sum of global wealth by spurring innovation, specialization, and efficiency. There’s a reason globalization has been accompanied by a broad and real reduction in global poverty.

But that argument simply doesn’t have much sway for those who supported the Brexit, or for their counterparts in other countries. Check out a map of Brexit results and you’ll see a very clear division between London, which has benefited hugely from globalization and broke hard for Remain, and the rest of England – the U.K. equivalent of American ‘flyover country,’ where workers have been hurt worst by free trade.

And that’s the rub – globalization may not be a zero-sum game, but those who have benefited the most from it have been grossly negligent in managing its negative impacts. And now those chickens are coming home to roost, globally.

But, back to that initial quote. There is an undeniable legitimacy to those who oppose the EU and free trade. But those legitimate beefs have been channeled into hatred-shaped containers lined with reactionary sentiment. Those praising the Brexit referendum as a “victory for democracy” on the international airwaves today were almost uniformly representatives of groups with, to put it politely, reputations for racist and fascistic rhetoric. Marine le Pen of the Front Nationale has been perhaps the most rapid and vocal to applaud the Brexit, along with other damn-near-literal Nazis like Geert Wilders and the BNP’s Nick Griffin.

Also pro-Brexit has been Alternative for Germany, which, despite its best efforts to exclude them, has at the very least been widely praised by its country’s far right. An Alternative spokesperson on the BBC today argued that it was unfair to characterize wanting to control one’s own immigration and trade policies as “nationalist.” In the current environment, that’s a distinction without a difference. I don’t even think there’s a word for a pro-nation state mindset that doesn’t come part-and-parcel with a disdain not just for immigration, but for immigrants, and, seemingly automatically, for gay and nonwhite people, to boot.

Which brings us, inevitably, to Donald Trump, who also loudly praised the Brexit result, and whose own protectionist nationalism is more than spiced with race-baiting, personality cultism, and a fondness for authoritarian violence. I’m of the opinion that Trump doesn’t have much of a chance in the U.S., because the contingent of nationalists is smaller, and shrinking (like Trump’s constituency, pro-Brexit voters skewed much older than Remainers).

Is there a way to separate anti-globalization from fascism? The far-left anti-WTO protests of the late nineties failed to ignite a mass movement, arguably because they didn’t connect with the cultural sensibilities of those with the most directly at stake. And now, even the most anti-fascist of the anti-globalization groups can’t quite keep their nose clean. American Libertarians in the Rand Paul mold have come the closest, I’d argue, but their domestic policies are abysmal.

I’d say for right now, things look pretty hopeless. There is no third way.

But there is a potential bright side to Brexit – two, in fact. I hold out hope that, first, Brexit becomes a global wake-up call for political elites, a finally really concrete consequence of the decades-long failure to reckon with the consequences of economic liberalization. And second, I hope that by sharply foreshadowing the consequences of isolationism – we are going to start hearing a lot about British job losses and economic chaos – it sobers up just enough people to slow down similar forces elsewhere.

That might be wishful thinking. Trump and the Front National are clearly feeling emboldened right now. But one of the most revealing bits of tape to surface today was that of a British voter whose entire family apparently instantly regretted their Leave votes.

Britain probably won’t get a do-over. It would be as destructive as, say, trying to deny Donald Trump the Republican nomination (parallels within parallels, eh?). But the rest of the world can, perhaps, look at that regret, at the far-reaching, already-catastrophic effects of isolationism, and maybe, just maybe, think twice.

Open Access and Ivory Rot

Recently, Phil Cohen, a sociologist studying families, highlighted a statement by the American Sociological Association more or less defending the current academic publishing model against open access, in part because it generates revenue for disciplinary organizations like theirs. As Phil points out (and I’m definitely putting words in his mouth here), that’s utter crazytalk, because it prioritizes internal disciplinary stuff over the mission of spreading knowledge.

That argument – economics vs. mission – is an important one. But I wanted to make a semi-related point based on my (now three years in the past, thankfully!) time in academia. Which is that I don’t think all the logical advocacy for a new system is going to make as much of a dent as it should, because so many academics are invested in another aspect of the current journal system:

They will never say it, but many academics like the fact that nobody can see their work.

 (Note: What I’m about to write is based on my experience in the social sciences. If it resonates further, fine, but I’m not extending the claims).

I’ll cite just three quick experiences to support that assessment, though there are more.  The first came in my third or fourth year of grad school. At Iowa, we had a weekly department seminar where grad students and faculty shared rough drafts of their works in progress, to an audience of other grads and profs.

I’d later find out that even this was a remarkably open setup – many academic departments don’t have any formal collaboration or sharing process at all. But it occurred to me that encouraging undergrads to attend the seminar might help open their eyes to some of the bigger stakes of the field, particularly since many of them picked Communications as a kind of vanilla default, unaware that it was actually a big and robust intellectual tradition. I made a suggestion publicly that we should do things like put up flyers around the department, and encourage students in our classes to attend the seminar.

This was met with a wave of withering scorn and venom that it still pains me to recall to this day, with long email rants about how undergrads weren’t prepared to process what we were doing, would ruin the atmosphere of the seminar, etc. Very condescending stuff. It was hard for me to understand why grad students at an elite program – who I should remind you are adult professional teachers – would not want to draw out their students, push them, and learn from them. But there was clearly a sense that sharing our work outside of a very select circle was extremely intimidating to many.

And this isn’t just a mindset shared by graduate students. Several years later, I was tangentially involved in organizing a conference. A suggestion had been made (this time, not by me) that the proceedings should be recorded and provided online for those who couldn’t make it to the event.

Cue a stream of invective almost identical in tone to my earlier encounter. This time, there was a slightly more valid point being made – that publicizing the proceedings of a conference violated a safe zone of intellectual exploration. But in retrospect, even that seems like a silly, fearful objection – a lot of professional conferences are made public, some VERY public, and there is at once a sense of exploration and a sense of responsibility for what is said. And people who are willing to speak their minds still do.

For me, both of these cases felt like a group of professionals rising up in resistance to what is their basic social function – to create and spread knowledge. My most generous interpretation is that academics tend to think that the ‘final’ form of their knowledge – a journal article – is the extent of their responsibility to that calling.

The less generous interpretation is that many academics don’t actually want anyone to see their work, in progress or complete, at all, because they have no confidence in its inherent worth.

One final example helps illustrate why this feeling may actually be perfectly rational. At a conference on globalization, I was lucky enough to hear an unimpressive little man, an assistant professor at an unspectacular but perfectly respectable school, outline his so-far-successful strategy for career success.

“You just take something someone else has written, and you find a problem with it. And you write a paper about that. Or you take someone else’s big idea, and you break it down into a dozen little parts, and you publish a paper on each one.”

I was gutpunched. At that point I was a postdoc, and I’d published I think three big papers, each one an attempt to tackle a large question head-on, dive deep, and come up with not just something new and significant to say, but a complex array of related things to say. I had spent upwards of a year on each one, and I had, according to a guy who outranked me, been wasting my time. It was maybe one of the most stomach-churning exchanges I ever had as an academic.

Of course, there’s something to be said for the approach he describes, not just as a career path, but intellectually – sometimes problems are small but interesting. But that’s not an approach for a 25 or even 15 page, densely-cited and heavily peer-reviewed journal article. That’s something that needs to be public, part of an ongoing dialogue, part of the path towards something bigger.

But (and I know this has been said before) the structure of journals and academic careers discourage that public, collaborative approach. Journals themselves are so little read even by academics that nothing resembling a dialogue emerges from them. And guys like my unimpressive interlocutor are happy for that, because in that setting the content of their work matters not a tiny bit. All that matters is that they can write it into their C.V.

The whole thing is a giant waste of some genuinely gifted minds.

So, open access journals wouldn’t just be a financial boon for university libraries, and they wouldn’t just give the public more access to the work they are, after all, paying for. They would change the tenor of academic work by making it available – and thus accountable – to an indefinite but large audience.

While there are many vocal academics pushing for open access, there is pretty clearly a silent majority doing nothing to make them happen. And when I think about that, I think about all the people I’ve met over the years who are very happy to have a “PhD” next to their name, without ever having to show their work to anyone beyond a roomful of conference attendees and a half-dozen editors.

And it’s not these people’s fault, per se. They’ve been born and bred into that insularity. In fact, they’re victims here, because really successful academics don’t tend to fall into their camp – people who really love their work, and therefore truly excel at it, also tend to look for opportunities to spread their ideas around, get them dirty, mix it up.

Open access journals would make doing that more normal, and bit by bit, less frightening. Would work be misconstrued and misused by the media? Almost certainly. And then academics would have to engage with that misuse, publicly defend themselves, help people understand.

I know – the horror.

I’m being snarky, but of course I do understand that this fear is real, and justified. I now write a huge amount, for a large national publication, and making mistakes in that context is gut-wrenching, terrifying, tear-jerking. But the fact is that everyone makes mistakes, and honest mistakes rarely end careers. It’s part of the social contract when you’re part of an ongoing dialogue – you’re allowed to get things wrong. But that’s not how academics think now, or are trained to think by their context. Because there is no dialogue, everything has to be final and perfect and right before anybody sees it, and so there is no dialogue.

And round and round forever.

Place in Knowledge, Knowledge in Place

“There was no personal or world problem whose solution did not exist in some hexagon.”

-Borges, “The Library of Babylon”

The 19th century was defined by transportation innovation – the locomotive, the automobile, the airplane. Of course, most of those innovations didn’t reach their full potential until the 20th century, and communication technology, in the form of the telegraph, itself had profound effects on things like the U.S. Civil War and westward expansion. But in the 20th century, as much as people loved their cars and planes, it was information – an overwhelming flood of information, from radio to television to cable to satellites to the Internet – that truly and fundamentally transformed the world.

Now, we’re entering a new century – one that I’ve argued will be largely defined by the confluence of information and transportation. Vehicles with smart telemetry connected to global wireless data networks – a category that already includes not just cars, but trains, planes, and buses – are going to be ubiquitous in a matter of a decade.

But figuring out why this matters, and more importantly, what it will feel like, is a tall order. Vehicles will be where they’re expected and needed, increasingly without active human intervention. By extension, that means both people and things will increasingly be where they are needed, or where they want to be, without applying the level of physical effort, or even the level of conscious will, that we now have to exert simply to move.

Now, if you were to explain that scenario to, say, a leading futurist in the early 1990s, their likely response might be some variation of “so what?” That’s because the dominant intellectual paradigm of that time – just as the Internet was emerging – held that information would eliminate the relevance of space. That we would live wherever we wanted, and still have access to the whole breadth of human experience. That we would consume fewer physical goods, and spend more time in virtual worlds.

That, clearly, has not happened.

I say this from a place of real experience. I live in Florida, where the cost of living is low and the quality of life is, by most measures, high. I work, primarily, for an organization based in New York City. I consume media from around the world, and order anything I could possibly want online.

You could say I have the best of all possible worlds – and yet I’m planning on moving to New York fairly soon. Given the absolute explosion in urban real estate over the last 20 years, I’m obviously far from alone in believing that “being there” is crucial to living richly.

To understand why space still matters – maybe more than ever – it’s worth turning to a strange story by the Argentinian fabulist Jorge Luis Borges. The story, titled “The Library of Babel,” is on the one hand the sort of gnomic, mind-bending fantasy that I spend time obsessing about over on my other blog, Blown Horizonz. It is also an amazing metaphor for the intersection of information and transportation.

The premise of the story is simple, though bizarre. In the world described by the story’s narrator, all of human existence takes place within an infinite library, extending in all directions, its books containing every possible scrap of human knowledge.

The hangup is that, unfortunately, the library is entirely random – not just the arrangement of the books, but the arrangement of the letters within the books. The library contains every possible configuration of the 25 symbols of basic written Roman script.

When the infinite nature of the library is discovered, there is a brief period of elation, fueled by a sense that all knowledge is simply there for the taking – a direct mirror of the most optimistic takes on the Internet (even though Borges was writing in the 1950s). Borges also predicted the inevitable fallout of this revelation of total knowledge: the inquisitors who journey the halls of the library seeking answers are soon enough reduced to shells of their former selves, their hope and optimism extinguished after years of wading through randomness, discovering little or nothing of use.

Of course, it’s trite by now to say that the internet is a cesspool of bad information, and to reiterate it would be missing Borges’ point. There is a much more specific failure of the mythical Library of Babel that make it such a mind-bending vision, such an acute tragedy – and such a touchstone for the promise of intelligent transportation.

The library is a failure not of knowledge, but of organization, which Borges depicts as a failure of location. None of the books are where they should be – they are randomly scattered, and so might as well not exist. Even in a society that is understandably book-centric, this keeps any community from forming around bodies of knowledge. The only communities that grow from Borges’ totally disorganized knowledge are nihilistic doomsday cults.

The greatest imaginable library lacks the relatedness and context that give information its value (hence the title’s allusion to Biblical incomprehension). To really know something also means to know who else knows it, and to know what you can accomplish with your knowledge. Without human communities organized around and acting on knowledge, the librarians soon resort to suicide. (That also basically sums up my reasons for leaving academia, but that’s a topic for another time.)

Even in a world of total information, location remains vital. Knowledge is everywhere, as omnipresent as water or air. But it is the people who interpret that information that actually give it meaning, who embody it through what they do with it, with each other.

And that “doing with” is often anchored in the physical, in building, in gathering, in making, in nourishing. McLuhan wrote of media as “the extensions of man,” but they are obviously only one of man’s extensions, and at least on the surface a fairly ephemeral class. The more obviously substantive extensions of man are machines – trains, boats, threshers, grinders.

But if knowledge floating in space is maddening, physical power undirected by knowledge is equally pointless. By giving the library to machines, we are also give machines to the library – giving physical form to the abstract encoding of our own accumulated wisdom. And after that uploading (and/or offloading) our consciousness, the possibilities are limitless.

Why Transportation Will Be the Technology Revolution of the 21st Century

Okay, I’m simplifiying – biotech will be huge, too – but I just came back from the Hyperloop Pod Competition Design Weekend in College Station. And what I saw and heard there leaves me more convinced than ever that I made the right choice when, a little over a year ago, I decided I wanted to really focus on writing and thinking about transportation.

The event convinced me beyond a shadow of a doubt of one crucial thing:

Transportation is clearly what excites today’s nerds.

And by nerds, I mean the passionate and selfless, those who do things out of love and fascination more than ambition. This weekend’s event – the first ever public gathering of an underground network of Hyperloop buffs that has blossomed over the last two years – had a truly electric energy. It drew 120 teams of college students from 20 countries, including Malaysia, Pakistan, Japan, South Africa, and the Netherlands.

Some of those teams payed their own way directly, while others, perhaps even more impressive, angled their way into corporate sponsorships. They put in a lot of blood, sweat, and tears – and when the 23 advancing to the next round were announced, the crowd and teams reacted as if they’d won Oscars. (And that was before Elon Musk showed up).

This, in short, was a project that triggered emotions in people – wonder, excitement, even love.

By contrast, the Internet as an object of emotional attachment and fascination is over. It’s all about commerce now – getting rich, not transforming the world. (With the possible exception of Bitcoin, which is just as much of a passion project – though it’s also about getting rich).

Transportation fascinates nerds because it’s where the action will be.

It’s where the action will be because:

The Horizon for Physical Technology Has Shifted.

I am not an engineer, but it’s clear that many, many new possibilities have opened up over the last century, creating conditions for a fundamental change in how transportation works. The underlying desires are not new – to move people and things quickly, cheaply, and safely. To eliminate the distances that separate us.

But we’re ready to take a leap forward, as big as the leap that the train and automobile were in the long 19th century.

The new technological horizon is being opened up by four basic shifts:

  • Information: We’re not leaving the internet behind, at all – we’re giving it a body. It’s called the Internet of Moving Things. The proliferation of wireless communication standards for a variety of applications allows the tracking and sharing of mobility data – fleet location, scheduling data, vehicle repair states, and passenger needs. We can put vehicles and their payloads in exactly the right place, at exactly the right time, vastly increasing system efficiency.
  • Automation: Artificial intelligences are not just learning to drive cars, but to pick routes and manage fleets. Transportation of physical goods will become as human-light as information packet-switching is now. Dispatchers will be the telephone operators of the 21st Century.
  • Electrification: Batteries are still the biggest obstacle to most electrified transportation solutions, and the changes will be slower than in other areas. But the fundamentally superior efficiency of electric motors will kill internal combustion for many, and probably most, applications. This is not about politics anymore – it’s about physics.
  • Levitation: Yes, I said it. Trains are our most efficient form of transportation because they have the least relative contact with the ground. Mag-lev trains are – as one of the leaders of Hyperloop Tech so elegantly put it to me over the weekend – and intermediary technology between trains and what’s next. Though levitation is energy-hungry, there is now hard data [http://www.popsci.com/hyped-up-startups-race-hyperloop-life] showing that eliminating friction can more than make up for the cost. Possibly even without a Hyperloop tube.

There are other factors, of course, that don’t fit neatly into the above categories – advanced materials being one – and, I’d guess, some other big things I haven’t thought of.

But what it all adds up to is simple. We have within our reach a variety of transportation solutions that will be more efficient and faster than what we have now. Some will fit into the infrastructure we currently have, but the best of them, including not just the Hyperloop but Skytran and ET3, will require at least some infrastructure construction and reconsideration of how our cities are laid out.

That means they won’t become large-scale quickly without major, and likely public, involvement. And, unfortunately, it seems unlikely that they’ll come fast enough to have a short-term impact on climate change, a problem I’ll leave for another post. But they are coming, and they are where the best talent and a lot of resources will be concentrated, soon, and for decades to come.

How to Give Your Brain An Edge – and a Point.

For the past week or so, I’ve been experiencing something very rare for me – ennui. Directionlessness. Lassitude. Call it what you will. This is so unusual that I almost immediately became fascinated by the phenomenon, and began to deconstruct what was going on (a mental habit that basically explains why it’s such a rare feeling in the first place).

The end of the holidays are definitely part of it. I also just finished a major personal project (a rough draft of a screenplay), so I’m slightly postpartum. And, if I’m being totally honest, I’m at the four and a half year mark of being in Tampa Bay, and the relative lack of intellectual stimulation is starting to wear on me. (Sorry, Tampa).

But the real fundamental cause is much deeper. Two and a half years ago, I set out on a crazy-ass quest to remake my career, to get off the sinking (or at least rat-infested) ship of academia, and figure out an alternate way of being. About five months ago, I finally truly arrived at that goal: I’m making my living as a writer. I have steady work that I genuinely enjoy. I am, arguably, more secure now than I was as an academic, because I’ve learned to live by my wits.

Obviously, that’s a great thing. But it also means that the main activity of my last two years – not so much doing work, but figuring out how to do work, and moreover, how to get work – has been taken off the table. The last four or five months, if I’m being honest, have been pretty blissfully lazy (by my standards – it’s all relative), as I’ve enjoyed the simple pleasure of having, in whatever small sense, arrived at my destination.

But this feeling of directionlessness was my signal – now that I’ve arrived, and taken a bit of a rest, it’s time to build something in this new land. Part of the goal is to look for more challenging work in the world of words – editorial, most likely. But that’s not going to be enough to keep me alive and attentive for the next six months, or however long I have to spend searching.

So, it’s time to come up with some weapons against complacency (otherwise I’ll just be playing video games for the next six months). This post is, mostly, an announcement that this blog is going to be an important part of that. For the last couple of years, it has been a random repository of occasional thoughts about academia and my career transition. From here on out, it’s going to be the platform for a much more ambitious project.

That project is, in an extremely awkward nutshell, an examination of the deep implications of information technology and electrification for transportation. We have passed through a century almost entirely centered on innovation in communication – even the automobile was invented in the 19th century. There was a sense, especially in the 1990s, that all of this communication technology would render distance, the body, location, and geography useless appendages of history.

But that has proven to be, at best, half-prescient. I’m one of the lucky ones – I work, from home, for employers wide, but mostly far. That would have been much more difficult 20 years ago. But the larger trends show that that’s not common – for many people, place matters more than ever. Cities are swelling around the world, as people seek opportunity. Inequality is still place-inflected. Then of course there’s the environment – a huge part of how we, practically speaking, will fight carbon emissions is through efficiency, in transportation as much as in lighting and everything else.

These questions are the subtext of my work at Fortune, but I haven’t made much effort to really sketch out the intellectual framework. And that’s what I want this blog to become – a sketchpad, a place to put thoughts. A blog. And, hopefully, a place where I can start conversations.

Oh, and to the title – the way to give your brain both an edge and a point, obviously, is through conscious, directed reading. I’m always trying to balance my rigorous intellectual side with my creative space-cadet side, but really, I’ve just been doing a disproportionate amount of reading for pleasure lately. I cut that streak by getting Freidrich Kittler’s Gramaphone Film Typewriter yesterday. It’s the kind of book I haven’t made the time to read over the last couple of years, to my detriment.

Here’s to turning all of that around, and deep-sixing the ennui forever.

 

 

Working at Amazon Sounds Exactly Like Grad School. Is There Anything Wrong With That?

In reading Friday’s New York Times piece on Amazon’s workplace environment, some elements seemed Orwellian and grim – particularly, the use of numbers to track performance metrics with exceptional granularity.

But other parts of life at Amazon seem almost warmly familiar. The company’s culture apparently “stokes employees’ willingness to erode work-life boundaries,” and encourages employees to be vocally critical of one another, and even of themselves. They work on weekends, late nights, and holidays. For some, the pressure leads to quick burnout and departure, while other employees were actively pushed out when management didn’t see them performing.

I found myself reading it and nodding my head.

Because that’s exactly what a high-level PhD program is like.

Amazon employees apparently experience “anxiety-provoking sessions called business reviews,” in which they’re expected, every week, to defend their performance. “Explanations like ‘we’re not totally sure’ or ‘I’ll get back to you’ are not acceptable,” reports the Times.

But is it as unacceptable as telling your seminar professor that you don’t have a well-informed take on the evolution of Marx’s definition of labor power between the Grundrisse and Das Kapital? Is a harsh review as anxiety-provoking as a dismissive snort or a condescending “Okay, let’s hear if someone can help you out . . . “?

I had always, frankly, assumed that life in a large, successful corporation was at least as much of a boiler room as a graduate program. That employees were expected to sacrifice themselves for a larger mission, keep their eye on the ball, constantly interrogate what they were doing, innovate and implement, use their brains and sleep under their desks. When I read the Amazon story, it frankly struck me as a trumped-up non-story, with employee “anxiety” now somewhere in the same ballpark as child labor.

NBC called the report ‘scathing,’ Geekwire described it as ‘brutal’. I’m not sure whether that’s how a lot of people saw it, or just how media wanted to spin it. But clearly, at least a good number of folks are glad to get huffy about an innovative company holding its employees to extremely high standards, and leaving behind those who can’t keep up.

It makes me think I’m just not on the same page as a lot of Americans. Okay, maybe my ambition isn’t to sell 10% more chenille curtains this quarter – but aren’t we supposed to be hard workers, with big dreams and big ambitions? That means sacrifice, that means grind, that means maybe facing your own inadequacies and taking some risks every once in a while.

And at least the people at Amazon are getting paid well to do it – those of us going to the mat for philosophy or social science or literature are lucky if we don’t go into debt for the privilege of frying our nervous systems and having our self-esteem pummeled on a weekly basis for years on end.

So, my initial temptation is to say – if you can’t take the heat, why would you even try to work at Amazon?

But then I’m reminded of a much different aspect of my experience in the doctoral meat-grinder. I am a person who’s extremely privileged in a lot of ways, from my stable family background to my white male heteronormativity. There were several significant and very powerful scrums during my time in grad school that, more or less, amounted to some students pushing back against the culture of insanely high standards and overwork.

At the time, my first response was similar – suck it up, buttercup. This shit is hard because it’s hard. You can’t read Lacan just once and hope to get anything out of it.

But as those discussions and fights continued, I started to see the other side. Regardless of identity, some students weren’t as prepared as I was. That was around when I realized that not everyone was reading Kierkegaard in high school. Not everyone got to study Nietzsche with that philosophy professor from Waking Life.

On top of that, not everyone was willing or able to sacrifice themselves at the altar of the Word the way I was. Some people had families, some people had actual relationships (as opposed to whatever the hell it was I was doing with women back then).

And the thing is, I didn’t have these advantages because I was exceptional – at least not primarily. I had these advantages thanks mostly to circumstance. I had parents who kept lots of books around. I went to a pretty decent, college-oriented public high school, where the German teacher led a philosophy club. I had a support system that made it easier to handle the pressure.

There are some relatively simple arguments for making these demanding structures open to people who might not immediately click with them.  Our society hinders a lot of people in a lot of ways, and we would all benefit from trying to compensate for that. I think anything like affirmative action turns potentially poisonous once you transition from an undergraduate learning environment to a performance-oriented professional environment, whether a PhD program or a corporation. But there are and should be programs to recognize and support, for instance, talented minority scholars – thinks like incentive fellowships. Evidence shows pretty strongly that Silicon Valley has yet to come up with a successful model to do anything similar. But greater support and recruitment has nothing to do with lowering standards. Lowering standards is not a way of being ‘supportive’ – it’s just a way of lowering standards.

But the episodes of discontent during my grad program opened my eyes to a more tricky concept – that you may actually need people who aren’t a perfect fit. Sure, you need the high achievers, maybe you even need a plurality of them. But a community made up of people like me would have been absolutely hateful. That seems maybe to be what’s going on at Amazon – the peak performers don’t have much use for anyone with more complex lives and backgrounds than theirs.Which might ultimately weaken a company that’s trying to serve all of America.

But then again, I clearly have no idea what America is like.

Google’s Alphabet Dance and the Inversion of Capitalism

A quick note: I’ll be blogging here more, now that I’ve got some time and headspace after my weird adventure. Hopefully, this’ll become a place not just for contemplating and chronicling post-academic life, but for speculative extensions of the writing I do elsewhere.

I’ve been thinking about something for a while, and yesterday’s announcement about Google’s restructuring helped me focus it a bit. Gizmodo gets the basics right – that Alphabet is about putting innovative and world-changing products like driverless cars, connected homes, and whatever the next iteration of Google Glass is. The revenue-driving stuff – basically, search and associated advertising – will become a segment of a more obviously diverse company.

But that doesn’t change the fact that little of that speculative stuff tends to make money. And certainly, not compared to advertising. This strikes me as part of a larger, long-term trend that I still need to contextualize historically, but that I’m not sure anyone has really identified. That is, there are motives much more complex (though not necessarily more subtle) than profit driving a lot of the activity at certain future-oriented technology companies, including not just Google, but also Elon Musk’s enterprises.

These organizations spend a lot of money, well, not making money. It’s tempting to be cynical – that a company like Google is being simply strategic when it experiments with driverless cars, wearable computers and the like. They might be just, a) experimenting to see if something hits. Google Glass, in theory, could have been the next Android. Who knows. And Tesla certainly seems on track to make money.

But way more interesting, on the cynicism front, is the idea that this is some kind of ‘techwashing’ – that the profile of Google is being consciously cultivated by these experiments, which can be thought of as, more or less, a marketing expense. Certainly, search dominance is about mindshare. We all think Google when we think search. And how much of that is due to the constant headlines generated by Google’s more experimental work?

But finally, I think the most interesting interpretation of all is one that moves beyond cynicism. Certainly, Elon Musk seems unquestionably to be a manically creative guy with huge dreams and ambitions for reshaping the world. And I’ve recently been writing about some companies with similarly public-spirited, not terribly profit-driven projects – bike shares, and, coming up soon, carpooling.

In all of this (and here I’m being really, really general) we’re seeing at least a little bit of takeover of what in a different time would have been public government projects. And these aren’t nonprofit companies, or even, by and large, Benefit Corporations with explicitly social goals.

Depending on your perspective, these are companies making really, really long bets – or they’re just experimenting and innovating for its own sake, because their principals think it’s cool.

I’m not sure to what extent it’s novel for a revenue stream as powerful as Google’s, or a fortune as huge as Elon Musk’s, to become a platform for fierce experimentation and innovation. Old-school titans of industry (aka robber barons) often sunk their profits into public works – libraries, universities. At least intuitively, I don’t think it was as common for them to use their leverage to continue developing new and highly speculative technology.

The only really clear example I can think of is Howard Hughes. I’m sure there are others, but it’s illustrative that Hughes is the one that pops into my head – and he’s well known for being nuts. By the standards of a previous era, when resources were more scarce, the kinds of risks being taken by an average startup (and its funders) would have been (rightly or wrongly) considered foolhardy.

There’s another aspect to this, which is investment. Investors, partly because they’re having a harder and harder time getting good returns, are increasingly willing to throw money at people with big ideas, whether those ideas are best judged as innovative, half-baked, or outright crazy. And after that, they’re willing to keep throwing money at people with big ideas that get a little bit of traction, but haven’t turned a profit (yet).

It’s a weird, pervasive, but probably productive mindset. We have individuals willing and even eager to take big risks. And we’ve got people who want to be part of that, the same way producers used to pay a high price of admission to be part of the movie business. And I’m beginning to suspect that, on some level, nobody is really all that focused on profits. Profits are somehow less important than creativity.

Maybe we’re living in a world of convenient (and even productive) fiction – we have ‘stocks’, we have ‘earnings reports,’ we have ‘projections.’ But what if that’s all some kind of fig leaf, and Amazon is basically just one big crowdfunding project?

 

Cat-Astrophe Now . . . Almost.

The Amazing True Story of the Most Dramatic Cat Rescue in the History of Madison, Wisconsin.

This post is mainly to give the full version of this story to a bunch of friends who watched it unfold in bits and pieces on Facebook – though it’s a ripping yarn for everyone else, too. If you’re a cat owner, or even if not, prepare to be scared, and finally (spoiler alert, in case you missed the title) relieved.

This is a very long post. But hang in there – it’s worth it.

 Prologue

I am not a longtime cat owner. I’ve had my cat, Steve, for about a year and a half, and hadn’t had any pets for more than a decade before that. In fact, I only have him because my awesome girlfriend wanted cats, and one ended up living with each of us.

Steve Resting

Steve behind the scenes while I write – before his greatest adventure.

 

But Steve is great. He’s a goofball, insatiably curious, and adventurous as hell. I’m a pretty adventurous (read: foolhardy) dude myself, which is why, when I lost my lease unexpectedly, I decided to go on a road trip for a couple of weeks, visiting friends and celebrating the freedom afforded by my newly (marginally) successful freelance writing career. And I figured I would take Steve with me. I mean, what the heck, he’s Adventure Cat.

What you’re about to read is the story of how that great idea turned into a five-day nightmare, and, very nearly, Steve’s slow, horrific end.

Adventure Cat Moving Boldly Into the Future

Adventure Cat Moving Boldly Into the Future

I got a preview of the challenges presented by travelling with Adventure Cat when, while visiting my friend Sangeet in Ohio, Steve adventured right out onto a balcony, then jumped down onto a small overhang about ten feet off the ground. He couldn’t jump back up, and didn’t have quite the nerve to jump down, so he sat there and moaned until I went to Ace and bought a $130 ladder to get up there and get him (As you’ll see, some of this is about money, along with many many other things).

So far so good.

Steve contemplating the glorious vistas of Columbus, Ohio.

Steve contemplating the glorious vistas of Columbus, Ohio.

After Sangeet’s place, I stopped by Chicago briefly to visit my friend Love (that’s his real first name – he was raised by some cabal of Swedish hippies), then headed on to Madison for two days with Craig, who works at Wisconsin Public Radio. There was some negotiation of the logistics of the visit, because Craig and his fiancée have a cat of their own, Bonnie. I felt a little anxious about imposing on my hosts, but everything seemed like it would be fine. To be on the really safe side, we left Steve on the porch overnight, in his big car kennel, covered in a heavy blanket.

He absolutely did not appreciate this one bit, meowing angrily most of the night.

Monday

So the next day, we transferred him to the basement, where he could be inside, but still separated from Bonnie. It’s a weird little space – the house is about 150 years old, and there are all sorts of nooks and crannies down there. So we kept an ear out for a while, but he seemed to prefer the basement to the crate, and we headed out on a tour of Madison.

Madison is fantastic (if you haven’t heard) and we enjoyed a great day, full of beer and food and books. This is like a city built entirely out of the leftover sets from Portlandia sketches, real or imagined: There’s the feminist bookstore (which unlike the one in Portlandia, is actually an awesome bookstore); there’s a tree covered in yarn; there’s the elaborate and insanely convenient bike share system. Not only did we see a controversial piece of anti-police protest art hanging in the public library, we also saw a left-wing realty office with a #blacklivesmatter poster in the window.

I would move here in a heartbeat, if I hadn’t already lived through six Midwestern winters.

When we got home, we went to check on Steve, but he didn’t come running to meet us – which is strange. I pretty much instantly knew something was wrong. When I called for him, I heard his voice from a crawlspace that extended from the basement at ceiling height. Then I noticed a stack of paint cans in a corner that had been knocked over – he’d jumped into the crawlspace.

Goddamn Adventure Cat.

You've heard of a murder van?  This is a murder hole. And yes, I assure you there's a hole there, just big enough for a cat.

You’ve heard of a murder van? This is a murder hole. And yes, I assure you there’s a hole there – just big enough for a cat.

Craig and Liz, reasonably enough, figured that Steve was just a little freaked out by being in a new space, and was hunkering down in a dark corner just to feel secure.

Still, I was worried, mostly because I knew Steve. Steve was not a hider, or a hunkerer. He is, to use the refined language of our hip hop forebears, never skurred. And he was being really talkative, not shy – we exchanged meows in the borderline insane way cats and cat owners do.  And weirdly, while Steve’s voice was definitely coming from the crawlspace, it seemed much further away than that it should have – distant and echoey.

Either way, there wasn’t much to do, and he didn’t sound like he was in pain or panicked. Before long, we went to bed, even though I was still feeling uneasy.

Tuesday

Still no sign of Steve. I started to feel some guilt – clearly, if he was hiding for this long, he was more freaked out than I’d figured by being dragged around the country. I checked in and talked to him throughout the day as I worked on an article, and kept shining a flashlight into the dark crawlspace to see if I could spot him. I even went down to the drugstore and bought a hand mirror, which I taped to a broom handle in hopes I could get a better look back in the depths of the space. It didn’t do much good.

Wednesday

Day two of Steve hiding out. I started to get even more worried. I got in my car and was on my way to rent an inspection camera and some lights, hoping to be able to see further down into the depths of the crawlspace. But Craig called me, as I was literally in the car on the way to go totally CSI, to tell me that he had talked to several cat owners who traveled with their cats. According to them, sometimes cats just need a day or two to settle down. We should just leave him be, and he’d come out in his own time.

Once again, I set aside what I was pretty sure I knew about my cat – that he wasn’t very likely to be hiding from anything – and turned back around, ready to keep waiting. Steve was still calling out from the crawlspace.

I sat in the basement and read aloud about train derailments.

I sat in the basement and read aloud about train derailments.

I did call animal control and talk to them. Nothing they could do unless they could see the animal, they told me.

Thursday

Day 3 – the day I made the mistake of going on the internet and googling “How long can cats survive without water.” I was now positive he was trapped somehow. I woke up nervous that I might not hear from him again. What I read on various message boards set me off – if we were in day 3, we were close to the end. He could already be suffering liver and kidney damage, and could be dead soon.

The strange thing was, when he meowed – and he meowed all day – he still didn’t sound like he was in pain, panicking, or otherwise deeply distressed. He mostly sounded . . . annoyed.

Even weirder was that even though he was meowing like the dickens about every three hours, we couldn’t tell where the hell the sound was coming from. The space under the floorboards was only about a foot deep, and the area of the crawlspace was maybe twenty feet by ten feet – it ran under just a small kitchen and bathroom. But Steve sounded like he was impossibly far away – sometimes almost like he was outside of the house. This weird sound made it harder for us to guess where he was, which made it harder to point our lights and cameras in the right direction, which meant we had no idea how to free him.

By now, Craig and Liz were plenty worried, too. We started exchanging theories about what had happened to him. Maybe he was wedged behind something, maybe he had pushed his way between the walls and couldn’t back out.

That afternoon, I rented a Flir thermal camera from Home Depot – heat-sensing, like the Predator.  I thought maybe I’d see a cat-shaped hot spot as soon as I pointed it at the floor – but unfortunately, it turns out thermal doesn’t really go through walls any more than it goes through mud.

I also finally rented the fiber-optic camera I’d set out to get on Tuesday, and started shoving it down vents and cracks.

Rental fiber-optic camera.

Rented fiber-optic camera.

By now, I was nearing panic. I got the name of a carpenter from the Animal Control office, and we started seriously talking about how to dig up the bathroom floor, above where we thought we were hearing Steve meow.

But then, sensibly enough, Craig and Liz got in touch with their landlord to let her know what was going on. She, again sensibly enough, didn’t want anyone tearing up the floor of her house if it could be helped, especially since it was an older and strangely built house. There was no way she’d approve the guy recommended by Animal Control to work on the house – especially not that night, which was what I’d been hoping. It seemed everything would have to wait until the next morning, when she would, hopefully, be able to get the handyman who had worked on the house for years.

All very sensible. Except that 8pm that night was when the 3 day mark passed for Steve. I was convinced that if we couldn’t get him out that night, he was definitely dead. So at around 9, while Craig and Liz were out of the house, I sat down in the basement, as close to where I thought he was as I could get, and I apologized to him.

I’m sorry I got you into this mess, buddy, I said. And I’m going to miss you. Then I cried for quite a while. I don’t know if I had at that point come to terms with his death – that would take a lot longer. But I had at least accepted it.

But then the damnedest thing happened.

Friday

In the morning, after I had said goodbye to him, Steve was talking again. Still not in pain. Still hard to pinpoint, but still not panicked. Still sounding strong.

Maybe, somehow, the internet had lied to me. He was still alive. And, it seemed, okay.

And then the landlord, Jane, let us know that she and her contractor, Tom, were on their way over. Tom had been working on the place for nearly two decades, since before Jane owned it. Tom heard Steve, but he was just as puzzled about where he was as the rest of us. But he understood the mysteries of drywall and paneling.

And so, with little ceremony, we started taking the house apart.

hole in cabinet

The hole cut in the bottom of the kitchen cabinet, which gave us a few extra holes into the underfloor.

Holes in foundation masonry

Holes knocked into the masonry around the edge of the house. This masonry, amazingly, is load-bearing – we pulled out sections that were mostly already loose..

Craig, wedged behind a bathtub, where we thought for a bit Steve might have gotten stuck.

Craig, wedged behind a bathtub, where we thought for a bit Steve might have gotten stuck.

We knocked holes in the masonry foundation to access the crawlspace from the back. We cut a giant square out of the bottom of a kitchen cabinet, then drilled through to the crawlspace from above. We took the panel off the back of the tub, to make sure Steve wasn’t somehow stuck inside the tub. We took a panel off a wall, then drilled through the board separating the wall from the crawlspace.

In each case, we used the fiber optic camera to scan every possible direction for a sign of the cat. We got into every nook and cranny.

Then things started to get weird. Craig went to Best Buy and picked up a Parrot, a wheeled drone with a camera. The drone could only really move on flat surfaces, so we wedged boards as deep as we could into the crawlspace, and sent the drone in.

But for all that, we couldn’t find Steve. Not a sign. I spotted some dried poop with the fiber optic camera, but that was it.

We kept hearing his voice, on and off, and it still sounded both like it was coming from the crawlspace, and like it was far away.

Soon, everyone was exhausted. We’d done everything we could do. Craig and Liz had a 5k the next day, and decided to get a hotel room.

I was pretty confounded. I’d already mourned my cat’s death, and there he was, still very much alive – if, maybe, existing in some sort of strange extraspatial limbo. It made me think of the book House of Leaves, one part of which is the story of a family who discover their house opens up into a space that shouldn’t exist. Steve, it seemed, had fallen down a hallway into nothingness.

If he’d stayed alive this long, though, I was beginning to think we would find him. He did have a pretty badass, determined team on his side. I talked to him more that night, but I didn’t cry.

Saturday

Craig won his 5k. He got a little wooden medal.

Then everyone convened at the house again – Tom, Jane, Craig, Liz, and I. We were all tired, a little wired. But everyone kept going. I can’t say how grateful I still am for everyone’s energy. It’ll always be an amazing memory for me.

The thing that kept confounding us, no matter how many angles we approached from, was one pile of bricks in the center of the crawlspace. We couldn’t get any true sense of whether it might be more than a pile of bricks.

Then Craig had his second big win of the day. He used some extra-strong Gorilla tape to attach his iPhone to a long strip of 1 by 2. Then he used Apple TV to connect it to the upstairs monitor as he stuck it back into the crawlspace below. The fiber optic camera just couldn’t go quite that far.

And that was when it happened.

We all stood upstairs, yelling down to help guide Craig’s camera over the top of the pile of bricks, through a gap of just a few inches between its edge and the floor above. And then we saw –

There was an opening. There was some kind of hole, or pit, opening down from the top of that pile of bricks.

And then, as Tom, Jane, Liz and I stood watching the feed upstairs, a pair of curious green eyes flashed up from that hole. Then they turned away and disappeared.

 

Mother

FUCKER.

 

We all screamed, cursed, jumped, and swore. We’d found him.

My knees buckled and my stomach flipped. He was still there – and he was still moving.

Me a few moments after we located Steve.

Me, a few moments after we located Steve.

Extraction

Of course, just finding him felt like a victory – but we still had to get him out. As we considered that, we also spent a few moments considering just what the hell we were looking at.

Tom was confident it was a cistern – a deep tank that had been used to collect rainwater for the workers who lived here back in the 1850s. The kitchen and bath had been added on out back without completely filling or adequately covering the cistern.

So Steve, being a natural born idiot, had been exploring the crawlspace, and jumped into the dark open hole.

Our second horrific hole of the morning.

Our second horrific hole.

This also explained why Steve had sounded so weird. Not only was he genuinely a lot farther away than we thought – he was in a space shaped more or less like a bell. As he moved around the bottom of the cistern, the sound bounced in wildly different directions around the house.

We figured out that the cistern was roughly centered under a bathroom vanity, so that got ripped out. We used the fiber optic camera to find the edges of the cistern once a few holes had been drilled, then Tom did the amazingly persistent work of cutting a larger hole through – no joke – six inches of floor, made of several layers of plywood.

Then we had a hole big enough to see into. I got down on my belly and stuck my head down, and was amazed to see Steve looking more or less unscathed. We did a little catching up. Then, unbelievably, he started trying to jump out.

Five days underground, and he somehow still had the strength to make a four-foot vertical leap. What a beast. (No dice, though, of course – the walls of the cistern neck were concrete.)

But we still had a serious problem – the cistern was at least six, maybe more like eight feet deep, and we only had a tiny hole to access it. We were going to need help getting Steve out. Now that we could see him, we could call Animal Control – who, I have to be blunt, were not very helpful. The agent came over, surveyed the situation, and then left us a selection of nets and traps and basically told us to figure it out on our own.

But we’d come this far, so we weren’t going to be stopped by a lackadaisical public servant. One of the nets actually did prove crucial – a rig that opened and closed with a pull, which we’d need to get the net down into the small hole. We put an open can of food in it, lowered it, opened it, and hoped Steve would get the hint to crawl in.

He was both smarter and dumber than that. He sniffed the food and, somehow, didn’t seem that interested. I tried a few times just to net him, but there wasn’t enough leverage through the tiny hole. But then Steve took the initiative, and started trying to climb the pole.

Mind you, this was an aluminum pole, so he wasn’t likely to get very far. But then I had my own brainstorm, and just started slowly pulling the net up – and Steve latched onto the fabric netting itself. I wasn’t sure he would make it. We panted and stretched and levered . . .

And then he was out. I took one look at him, and thought – this son of a bitch is totally fine. I was glad to see him, of course. But I realized he would never really appreciate what he had put me through. Which is, you know, cats in a nutshell.

Steve at the hotel hours after his rescue.

Steve at the hotel hours after his rescue, envisioning bigger, deeper wells.

I immediately put him in his carrier and whisked him to the vet, where an exam and bloodwork showed that he was completely fine. Our best theory was that there must have been water, and maybe some bugs, down in that cistern.

From there, we went to a hotel room, where I had to fervently pray that there wasn’t a well under one of the beds.

Two weeks later, Steve is still, by all signs, completely fine. We’re still looking for a permanent place to stay in St. Pete, but we’ve continued to find that people are eager to help out.

I doubt he’s learned a damn thing.

Steve Asleep on my luggage, today.

Steve Asleep on my luggage, today.

Plugs

I want to give a few shout outs and plugs.

First and foremost, to Tom Potter and Jane Pawasarat. Tom is an amazing contractor who has worked in central Madison for decades. He’s an amazing problem solver, and we couldn’t have done it without him. He’s like the A-Team – if you need him, you can find him.

Jane is, I’m positive, an incredible landlord and community member. I can’t imagine what I would have done if I had had to watch my house getting torn up. She didn’t just tolerate it – she was on Steve’s team the whole time.

Equally first and foremost are Craig and Liz, who were incredibly supportive and managed, somehow, to make me feel more or less okay about the immense disruption I’d caused to their lives. They chipped in both emotionally and materially – Craig’s techy gearheadedness was, after all, what ultimately cracked the case.

The eastern office of the Madison Emergency Veterinary Clinic did bloodwork on Steve after we pulled him out, and were able to confirm that, by whatever freak circumstance, he was totally fine. The only slight damage was that his claws were worn down by trying to jump and claw his way up a concrete frickin’ wall. But even they weren’t actually injured.

(I also can’t help taking this opportunity to contrast these vets’ great work with that of Blue Pearl Clinic in Tampa. Madison Emergency gave me an on-call exam and slate of blood tests for $200 on a Saturday night. A year ago, Blue Pearl bilked me out of $480 for a heart exam Steve didn’t even need. Never take an animal there.)

We also had some advice from Troy Bakken, a Madison carpenter and cabinetworker who was very helpful.

A to Z Rent All in Madison rented us the camera.

Madison’s Roman Candle Pizza gave us a great discount when I told them the pies were for a pet rescue in progress.

And the web and technology gurus at ThinkTank in St. Pete have basically made my long series of questionable lifestyle choices possible.

 

And Finally, The Ask

Yeah, there’s a bit of an ask here. I hope you’ve enjoyed the story long enough to stick around for it.

Here’s the deal: I’m a freelance writer. I’m relatively new to the game, but I love it – it’s what I’m meant to do. And I’m doing fairly well.

But it’s hard to write when you’re trying to rescue your cat from a well. Steve’s misadventure cost me about a week of work, on top of the direct expenses of renting various kinds of equipment, a couple of unexpected hotel nights, the vet, etc. All in all, the cost was substantial.

What I’m asking is this. If you need, or know anyone who might need, writing services, consider me. Maybe you need a grant written, or a press release. Maybe you need help telling a story just as crazy as this one, or just a few blog posts. Having a little more work coming my way would make it easier for me to cover the financial gap Steve opened up (and then jumped down).

My rates are reasonable. You can find out more at davidzmorris.com.

 

Thanks, and I hope you enjoyed it.

-David

Do you want to get a story on Fortune? Because this is how you get a story on Fortune.

Because that’s how you . . .

I’ve been meaning to write something for a while on the topic of how PR people should approach journalists. It’s something I’ve had a lot of thoughts about since I started writing more and more, and getting unsolicited pitches.

[The other thing I’ve noticed as I’ve started writing more and more is that, when I could be getting paid to write, blogging just isn’t that appealing. Lucky for you, for some reason, this afternoon I’m deliriously exhausted and can’t do any real work. For evidence, just see the title above, and this rambling parenthetical. (see, this is the quality of writing you get for free).]

Anyway, a couple of days ago I got a pitch email so beautiful it nearly brought me to tears. I’m just going to take the risk of copying the actual thing rather than anonymizing it too much:

Trucking writers and editors-
As apps and online platforms continue to wiggle their way into the industry, today we announced that the ScoopMonkey ratings and review engine is now available for users of the Truck It Smart  load board. ScoopMonkey is ratings and reviews written by carriers and brokers, and the integration means easy due diligence for all parties as they seek one another’s services.
Press release here, a fancy blog on it here, and a little bit here about who in the heck we are. Any questions, feel free to contact me at the info down there.
Best,
[PR Dude]

This, if you’re not already aware, goes against almost every convention of how PR professionals are expected to reach out to journalists. BUT IT’S PERFECT. Here’s what it does right.

1) It clearly knows who I am, without being creepy. That greeting – “Trucking writers and editors” – is way better than the fake-friendly “Hi! Just happened to see xyz and thought you might be interested in q ” that is standard issue. It makes it obvious this person knows what I do – but without feeling compelled to pretend they’re my friend.

2) It assumes I know what I’m doing. There’s not a ton of context setting here, just an acknowledgment of a reality in the field of transportation – the rise of apps/gigging. There’s no explanation or extensive background – first, because that’s not the press intros job, and second, because while most journalists are actually rank amateurs at just about everything except putting words on a page (and often that, too), we like to have our egos stroked by having people think we’re actually experts on our beat. Talk to us like we know something!

3) It gets its point across with no bluster or hype. A thing happened. I can probably fill in the context myself.

4) It gives me solid resources for learning moreSorry, your super-short email can’t be all you write. It’s a morsel. Then link me to the meal.

5) It’s about more than the thing that happened. This is the only spot where maybe one more sentence could have been helpful – but it could have also scuttled the entire thing. You see, gig apps are part of some much larger trends in the industry, and across industries, which make the topic worthy of deeper consideration. The email doesn’t actually broaden out to these issues, but that’s kind of okay, because (to repeat myself) it’s about an actual event relevant to the deeper issues.

This is almost certainly the main point. Not all writers, but at least some (myself included) are looking, more or less, for real events that connect to larger and somewhat more abstract issues. The deal described above isn’t exactly earth-shattering, but it’s still a legitimate reason to write about, not just what happened, but why, and what it means.

If your story doesn’t meet that critieria – or if you can’t convince me that it does in three sentences – please, don’t bother getting in touch.

(And for all those reasons, yes, there is now something in my pipeline related to this brief little email.