poor man's bread

"Sensationalism," he said, as his mustache stroked his bottom lip. "Sensationalism, is what we strive for. It's how we sell ideas, it's how we make money." The twinkle in his eye was not sarcasm as I had hoped, but a reflection of what he saw every day: Dollar signs.

Unimpressed, I looked at him drolly. "Sensationalism," I began. "Is poor man's bread. Easy to make, easy to give, easy to take, easy to digest. Creating sensationalism isn't art, it isn't even a trade. There's no real talent or technique needed. There's something to be said for someone who can capture even the most mundane moment in words. How we interact with each other, the little nuances we notice but can't properly articulate. Henry James was the master of this. I think real talent lies, not in piquing people's interest, giving them fast food, but in piquing their intellect, giving them something to chew on, think about."

My words hit his dazzled dollar sign wall. I could tell he was listening, but not really. His eye was on the prize, and to him, the dollar was almighty. As to where our paths would lead, I would hope to very different destinations. I would never want to recognize myself in that place.