Woollie lives in a prison of sight.
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First thing: when it comes to open rates on email, the text that appears at the very top of the body of your email is second only to your subject line. And a ton of marketing templates don’t utilize that space. Or they have the same text day in and day out.
Two-thirds of all Gmail opens happen on mobile devices, and half of those are in the default Mail client for iPhone, according to Litmus. When someone views in either of those environments, they’re going to get a preview of about 115 characters, and you need to make those count.
Even though this has been true for years, I would bet that 80% of the marketing emails you get start with a “Is this email not displaying?” link or unchanging header information. Seriously. The former is necessary, but it is clicked maybe .05% of the time. You can improve your open rates by making sure that every subject has a sub-head and that your email template has a spot for it.
Second thing: Nobody will ever do this better than Electric Literature, whose email previews are seen above. Hell, the sub-heads are better than the headlines.
Neil Gaimon’s author touring has reached another level: Arthur touring.
And at the launch party for [Andre Schiffrin’s memoir] — A Political Education — I gave a toast recounting his advice to Valerie and I, via Renata Adler, about how we shouldn’t start a new publishing company.
When it was Andre’s turn, he said, as if glum, “Nobody listens to me.”
Rest in peace, Andre. Pancreatic cancer is an awful death. But I hope, somewhere in its horror, you had a chance to realize — well, hell, a lot of people didn’t listen to you. They’re all trying to do exactly what you did.
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You do not have to choose the bruised peach
or misshapen pepper others pass over.
You don’t have to bury
your grandmother’s keys underneath
her camellia bush as the will states.
You don’t need to write a poem about
your grandfather coughing up his lung
into that plastic tube—the machine’s wheezing
almost masking the kvetching sisters
in their Brooklyn kitchen.
You can let the crows amaze your son
without your translation of their cries.
You can lie so long under this
summer shower your imprint
will be left when you rise.
You can be stupid and simple as a heifer.
Cook plum and apple turnovers in the nude.
Revel in the flight of birds without
dreaming of flight. Remember the taste of
raw dough in your mouth as you edged a pie.
Feel the skin on things vibrate. Attune
yourself. Close your eyes. Hum.
Each beat of the world’s pulse demands
only that you feel it. No thoughts.
Just the single syllable: Yes …
See the homeless woman following
the tunings of a dead composer?
She closes her eyes and sways
with the subways. Follow her down,
inside, where the singing resides.
Happy National Book Awards, everyone.
We recommend you pre-party with a cocktail and The Contenders, a free collection of excerpts from all the nominees.
It’s publishing’s Oscars, people. Get your party shoes on.
I got Think There Aren’t Pedophiles In Your Neighborhood? Maybe You Should Listen to This Mommy Blogger.
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Shawn always claims that The New Yorker does not and cannot, with integrity, try to attend to what a reader might want to read. We publish what we like, and hope that some people might want to read it too. This modest formulation of hauteur finds its best expression in a remark made by a Checker when the magazine finally breaks down and adds a real table of contents — as opposed to the almost microscopically small and cryptic listing that seemed on occasion to fly around and land obscurely in Goings On About Town. The real table of contents arrives shortly after I do, and the new feature has been kept a secret, and when we all get our First Run Copies on a Monday morning, a collective gasp of dismay goes up from the Checking Department. A colleague finally says, “This is just awful! How could we do such a thing.” Being green, I say, “Well, don’t you think it’s a good idea for readers to know what’s in the magazine?” She says, “It’s none of the readers’ business what’s in the magazine.
Major accomplishments: Publishing “High Status Characters,” Brian Raftery’s well-received NOOK Snaps oral history of the The Upright Citizens Brigade. Creating her own cool blog, Slaughterhouse 90210, which is a tasty mash-up of literature and TV, two of her passions.
Maris is major.
It’s true. She’s pretty awesome.
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Leo insulating himself from all people who won’t lie to him about how good he is at basketball seems like a perfectly good use of celebrity
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