Liberal, Libertario, Libertino

Essa semana, no New York Times Review of Books:

As every author knows, writing a book is the easy part these days. It’s when the publication date looms that we have to roll up our sleeves and tackle the real literary labor: rabid self-promotion. For weeks beforehand, we are compelled to bombard every friend, relative and vague acquaintance with creative e-mails and Facebook alerts, polish up our Web sites with suspiciously youthful author photos, and, in an orgy of blogs, tweets and YouTube trailers, attempt to inform an already inundated world of our every reading, signing, review, interview and (well, one can dream!) TV ­appearance.

In this era when most writers are expected to do everything but run the printing presses, self-promotion is so accepted that we hardly give it a second thought. And yet, whenever I have a new book about to come out, I have to shake the unpleasant sensation that there is something unseemly about my own clamor for attention. Peddling my work like a Viagra salesman still feels at odds with the high calling of literature.

Leia a matéria completa: How Writers Build the Brand

Em agosto, meu livro de contos Onde Perdemos Tudo será lançado pela editora Oficina Raquel, e eu já fico com preguiça só de imaginar o trabalho que vou ter promovendo o livro e, pra piorar, os malas que não compram o livro mas se acham no direito de me criticar por tentar vender o meu.

Enfim, minha opinião sobre o assunto: o triste ônus da auto-promoção.