“Longform is not about length or form, but actually about a mindset. Both the author and the reader come together with one ambition: to weave a story that sucks everybody right in and doesn’t let go until it’s finished. The best longform is bewitching, captivating and deep — regardless of how long it takes you to get to the end. I’ve read pieces just a few hundred words long that feel more like longform than others that ramble into the thousands.”— Bobbie Johnson, editor of MATTER
"For more than 24 hours last September, a Coast Guard helicopter and speedboat pursued drug traffickers and their contraband across the Caribbean Sea. Finally they caught up with the improbable vessel, the latest innovation in the decades-old drug war. It was a submarine."
"Kobo has today announced a deal with the American Booksellers Association that will see its devices sold through independent bookstores across the US. Not only that, it will offer a revenue share deal on ebook sales."
Very interesting — and a glimpse of how tough it can be to get it ‘right’ when it comes to visuals.
"OK, Neil Armstrong is dead. Clearly, that’s a page-one story for most of you. Here’s one thing I do not want to see on page one tomorrow: Arguably the most famous picture taken in the history of mankind."
It took three years for the political comedy The Thick of It to start production again. But each episode took less than four days to film. The cast and crew explain how the show is filmed three times faster than others.
"Unfortunately, many in the east London tech hub these days unwind before ever winding up in the first place. Indeed, some new-breed “entrepreneurs” appear to have had something approaching a work bypass."
“When you have an episode of crippling self-doubt, picture each doubt as a single sheet of paper. Then crunch all of them together and throw them into the toilet of your mind. Now angrily kick-flush that toilet with your foot.”—
Great answer to a Quora question asking: “How can I overcome my envy of people who are my age but are far more successful than I am?”
“The only thing I know” — and this was uttered in a very loud pub in Cricklewood — “is that a real Londoner would never, ever, ever eat at one of those bloody Angus bloody Steakhouses in the West End. That’s how you tell,” the man said, steadying himself with a hand on the bar. “That’s how you tell.”—