Once when I was a little boy—maybe I was eight years old, I might have been slightly younger—I made the mistake of telling my barber that I wanted to be a writer. I wonder what possessed me? Youthful inexperience I suppose.
Literary movements spark and evolve, ebb and flow together without ever warning the writer. By the time one knows what is new, all too often that new has already become old. Yet there is a sentiment emerging now, wondering aloud—though still quietly— Personally, I blame the internet.