Simon Sellars on pandemic paranoia, self-eradication, and a taxonomy of writers:
Propped inside the plague’s dimensions, Twitter is a sinkhole. Nothing escapes. Under isolation pressure, the mirror is polished and archetypes revealed. Older writers with ailing, vulnerable bodies set fire to their life’s work in the service of staring at death. Younger writers lament their ages (not even 30). ‘We’re too old to break into the industry.’ Do they realise there’s no industry to break? Superstar speculative novelists feel the savage sting of redundancy. Unsure what to write about anymore, they tell us to remember to die.