My Gettysburg ora­tion: A vision for jour­nal­ism that can long endure:

But let’s be hon­est: Most of the con­tent we pub­lish isn’t sto­ries. It’s news. It’s facts. It’s infor­ma­tion. Let’s respect the pure, tra­di­tional story – the nar­ra­tive string of para­graphs – by reserv­ing that form for real sto­ries that have story ele­ments such as plot, char­ac­ter, set­ting and theme.

This whole speech is phenomenal.

As the online editor, I s…

As the online edi­tor, I some­times feel like my job is to make some­thing beau­ti­ful, just to hack it apart for kin­dling. Here’s the way I (mostly) think about it instead: any link to a frag­ment of LQ is a bread­crumb that can bring you back to the whole. Every mag­a­zine wants to lead you back to the moth­er­ship, but when you finally pick up an issue of Lapham’s Quarterly, what you have isn’t the end of your own cura­tion and the begin­ning of our vision. It’s the start of a new read­ing in a closed-off sphere that also resem­bles the web you came from: a rab­bit hole of thought that you’ll gladly fall into.

Michelle Legro — History and Its Contents.

We need to rein­vent the arti­cle. Sean Blanda illus­trates that it’s time to rethink not just the arti­cle but how infor­ma­tion is pub­lished on the web. I agree. My favorite nar­ra­tives are those that answer long, wind­ing ques­tions by telling a story. They are more akin to a short book than a news story. This recent New Yorker piece is 50 pages and over 20,000 words when I drop it in to Pages.app. I loved that arti­cle, but default­ing to the same men­tal model and design pre­sen­ta­tion for a few hun­dred word piece about NFL draft trades is ludicrous.