An NFC chip on the cover of Meyer’s book allows users to access a video interview with Meyer simply by tapping the book with their phone. Although the technology itself is a closer cousin to RFID, in terms of these types of applications, NFC could be described as a much faster, much simpler version of the QR code.
I think it sounds like too much effort. I might have to put my book down.
I am often asked what makes writing experimental, how one knows to classify work as such. In graduate school, now aware that all of my work would be funneled into this category, I accepted the difference and armored myself with a few rules. Experimental writing a) had to be inventive or had to bend or advance or subvert preexisting approaches to writing, b) had to seriously take into account the possibilities of form and/or structure and/or syntax and/or language, and not just content, and c) could not just look different on the page.
Having rules like these seems to take something away from the experiment.
For many years I’d toil in obscurity, one word, one shirt size at a time. I’d sign up for kettle bell classes. I’d send my poems to university literary journals. I’d sprint up and down sand dunes in the dead of night, the “Norton Anthology of English Literature,” Volumes One and Two, strapped to my calves—and during breaks I’d read Coleridge by moonlight. Nothing comes easy in the poetry or body-building worlds.
I’m not exactly sure where he got the idea to mix body building and poetry, but it makes for a fun read.
“Stutzman bought the book in California and read it cover to cover,” the lawsuit said. “Although Stutzman does not buy or read many books, he found Armstrong’s book incredibly compelling and recommended the book to several friends.”
Does this mean that we can all sue every author that ever let me down as a person, even when we loved their books?
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