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decentralization in who gets to make art, and like each of the technological shifts in cultural production, it\'s good for some artists and bad for others. The important question is: will it let more people participate in cultural production? Will it further decentralize decision-making for artists? 
 
And for SF writers and fans, the further question is, \"Will it be any good to our chosen medium?\" Like I said, science fiction is the only literature people care enough about to steal on the Internet. It\'s the only literature that regularly shows up, scanned and run through optical character recognition software and lovingly hand-edited on darknet newsgroups, Russian websites, IRC channels and elsewhere (yes, there\'s also a brisk trade in comics and technical books, but I\'m talking about prose fiction here -- though this is clearly a sign of hope for our friends in tech publishing and funnybooks). 
 
Some writers are using the Internet\'s affinity for SF to great effect. I\'ve released every one of my novels under Creative Commons licenses that encourage fans to share them freely and widely -- even, in some cases, to remix them and to make new editions of them for use in the developing world. My first novel, Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom, is in its sixth printing from Tor, and has been downloaded more than 650,000 times from my website, and an untold number of times from others\' websites. 
 
I\'ve discovered what many authors have also discovered: releasing electronic texts of books drives sales of the print editions. An SF writer\'s biggest problem is obscurity, not piracy. Of all the people who chose not to spend their discretionary time and cash on our works today, the great bulk of them did so because they didn\'t know they existed, not because someone handed them a free e-book version. 
 
But what kind of artist thrives on the Internet? Those who can establish a personal relationship with their readers -- something science fiction has been doing for as long as pros have been hanging out in the con suite instead of the green room. These conversational artists come from all fields, and they combine the best aspects of charisma and virtuosity with charm -- the ability to conduct their online selves as part of a friendly salon that establishes a non-substitutable relationship with their audiences. You might find a film, a game, and a book to be equally useful diversions on a slow afternoon, but if the novel\'s author is a pal of yours, that\'s the one you\'ll pick. It\'s a competitive advantage that can\'t be beat. 
 
See Neil Gaiman\'s blog, where he manages the trick of carrying on a conversation with millions. Or Charlie Stross\'s Usenet posts. Scalzi\'s blogs. J. Michael Straczynski\'s presence on Usenet -- while in production on Babylon 5, no less -- breeding an army of rabid fans ready to fax-bomb recalcitrant TV execs into submission and syndication. See also the MySpace bands selling a million units of their CDs by adding each buyer to their \"friends lists.\" Watch Eric Flint manage the Baen Bar, and Warren Ellis\'s good-natured growling on his sites, lists, and so forth. 
 
Not all artists have in them to conduct an online salon with their audiences. Not all Vaudevillians had it in them to transition to radio. Technology giveth and technology taketh away. SF writers are supposed to be soaked in the future, ready to come to grips with it. The future is conversational: when there\'s more good stuff that you know about that\'s one click away or closer than you will ever click on, it\'s not enough to know that some book is good. The least substitutable good in the Internet era is the personal relationship. 
 
Conversation, not content, is king. If you were stranded on a desert island and you opted to bring your records instead of your friends, we\'d call you a sociopath. Science fiction writers who can insert themselves into their readers\' conversations will be set for life.  
 
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