books

Birthday

So I turned thirty-four today, which I think I wish I found more unbelievable than I actually do.

When I turned thirty, it just happened to be while I was at a conference for my job, and some co-workers asked me if I felt any different. “Well,” I remember saying, “I don’t feel twenty anymore.” And that’s pretty much how it goes: I don’t feel impossibly older than I did twenty-four hours, or even a year, ago, and god knows I don’t feel particularly grown up. But I also don’t feel particularly young. Maybe it’s the bad back, the recently banged-up knee, or maybe it’s just the natural way of these things. I feel like I’m in my thirties.

When I was in Boston earlier this month, I noted that, as I stood surrounded by crowds of twenty-somethings in Harvard Square, I had no desire to be among them. I felt no great nostalgia for my college days, I said, just the onset of a crotchety annoyance. That’s not entirely accurate. I’m occasionally nostalgic for my college days, just as I’m nostalgic sometimes for my childhood, teen years, or my early twenties. But that’s a far cry from wanting to hang out with these college students, or even wanting to relive those nostalgic years. Back and knee notwithstanding, I don’t really want to be in my twenties anymore. And lord knows, I’d be in no rush to relive adolescence.

I think that’s a healthy attitude, right? I mean, my life’s not perfect and not yet everything I wished it would be, but I’d rather be moving forward than looking backward.

Anyway, it was a really nice birthday, just a quiet Saturday at the old homestead. The weather was beautiful, although too cold to really do much of anything outside, but I spent the day happily watching some television and reading some Kaleidotrope slush. (Discovering that rarest of rare things: a story I want to accept.) Then this evening, I had a nice dinner out with my parents and some very lovely presents afterward — including the first two volumes of Absolute Sandman and a new leather jacket. (I managed to wear my previous one into the ground; I’ll have to be gentler with this one.) My sister called to wish me a happy birthday, and I’ll see her next week when she and her husband visit, and overall I had a really nice day.

Hopefully our dog, who as it happens shares my birthday, can say the same thing. Although I think he’d argue he got much less cake.

Sunny, chilly, day-offy Friday

I took the day off from work today and managed not to do a whole lot with it, beyond a little reading (Kaleidotrope slush, Steve Martin’s biography), a little television watching (this week’s touching, if not hilarious, Community), and a little faxing (some confirmation forms for my residency at the Banff Centre in September).

That last one took a little longer than anticipated, as I first thought to mail them, then ran into confusion and resistance at the post office — I FedEx stuff internationally regularly from the office; I’ve never needed a commercial invoice unless there’s something of value and weight enclosed, and certainly never for two sheets of paper. But whatever — and then went to the local Kinko’s to fax it instead. I don’t think it would be the end of the world if I faxed it from work on Monday, or even it arrived near the end of next week in the mail, but they did say “within two weeks.” So anyway.

Of course, the fax number just rang and rang, and when I tried calling the Registrar’s Office directly, I just got a recording. The two-hour time difference might have been working against me, as I was likely calling on their lunch hour. But I finally got through, and the woman at the other end confirmed the fax number, then told me she’d switch it off then on, and I should try again. And that seemed to work. I sent an e-mail following up, and now everything should be confirmed and paid for.

I think now with this, and buying my plane tickets earlier in the week, there’s no denying that I’m actually doing this quite possibly crazy thing. I still have to book my hotel stay in Calgary, but I am looking forward to it — to the week of writing, to the inspiring scenery of Banff itself, and to the chance to meet Heather in person. She’s the one who recommended the residency in the first place, and honestly no slouch as a writer herself.

And she sent me this for my birthday! The first of the books won’t arrive until early summer, unfortunately, but they look like an interesting enough mix that it will be worth the wait. Seriously very cool and thoughtful, and a nice way to ease into the fact that tomorrow — in just a few short minutes from now, actually — I will be thirty-four years old.

As little as I did with it, the day off helped with that, too.

Not so rainy Tuesday

Today was pretty much exactly like yesterday, except for the cold and the rain. Although, rumor has it, we can expect more of that — and possibly even snow — tomorrow and the rest of the week.

I did forget my train ticket this morning, one of the main drawbacks of using it as a bookmark rather than keeping it someplace like in my wallet. I’ve been reading Kathleen Ann Goonan’s Mississippi Blues and, I have to admit, not really enjoying it. I remember Queen City Jazz, to which this is a direct sequel, but maybe not too well. And what I am remembering suggests, the problems I’m having now, were some of the same problems I had with the first book, just amplified or underlined by that series of slight disconnect.

Anyway, I decided to give the book a break, if not give up on it altogether, and I left it at home. I didn’t realize until I was on the train, though, that I’d also left my monthly ticket with it. So I bought another on the train, and then a return peak ticket when I got to Penn Station.

Which is about the extent of excitement for my day.

Back from Boston

Oh, the day that I’ve had.

It started with the first truly nice weather we had all the time I was in Boston, yesterday’s quite pleasant evening excluded. The sun-dappled river made a lovely, if perhaps at times a bit too sun-dappled and bright, view from our exhibit booth. I spent the day selling books, more or less the same as I’d done the days before, and then started cleaning up a little before three o’clock.

Clean-up went well. We’ve started bringing only a display copy or two of most of our books — and offering free international shipping in exchange for not being able to take the copy with you. It saves us considerably on shipping, and on sending books back that might just get pulped. Today, our last day at the conference, I was selling everything left on the table, display copy or not, so in the end I definitely had fewer boxes going back (some to Kentucky, some to New York) than were delivered. Which is almost always a good thing. Our shipping carrier showed up early, while I was still boxing everything up, and then the hotel staff they sent to collect the boxes — two of the same who’d been really helpful on Wednesday night finding our books — started hovering. But I got everything boxed up and ready to go by about 3:30, and a quick cab ride later had me at the airport.

Where I proceeded to wait around for several hours. You can follow the whole sorry story on Twitter (albeit in reverse), about the ground delays and the confused announcements and the fellow passengers with whom I first sympathized and then grew to see as impatient jerks. It was a long day. I think I slept on the plane — I must have slept on the plane — but I still feel pretty tired. And, woe is me, there’s no episode of Kojak here to console me.

I did, however, learn just this morning that I was accepted for a self-directed writing residency at the Banff Centre in Alberta this fall. Heather‘s talked about it so much, I just couldn’t let her have all the fun there. But seriously, I’m looking forward to it. There’s still a lot of planning to do for it, come September, and the last thing I want to do right this minute is look at an another airline itinerary, but the Centre seems like a really great place to develop my writing, enjoy the “powerful mountain setting,” and be inspired. I’m excited and really pleased to have the opportunity. Plus, you know, getting to meet Heather before that apocalypse she keeps reading about for her graduate classes actually happens. That should be nice.

Right now, I foresee sleep in my near future. It’s Daylight Savings Time this weekend, which is an abomination upon the earth. (Except in fall when it’s a quite pleasant extra hour of sleep.) So all the more reason to turn in a little early, I suppose.

All in all, I think it was a successful conference. I won’t know until at least Monday, when I add up the tally, just how many books we sold — and some people will take our catalog or order online; we offer the discount for thirty days after a conference, too. But I think we sold more than a few, and I think my boss met with a few key authors for some good projects going forward. I didn’t get to see much of Boston, or even much of Cambridge — and both ways my flights were delayed — but I’m glad I went.

To thine own self-publishing be true

I spent a good portion of my lunch hour reading about Amanda Hocking’s self-publishing success story. It’s an interesting story, although I doubt it represents the seismic shift in the publishing world that many of the commenters would like to think. I tend to agree with the commenter who argued that Hocking’s success comes down primarily to genre (the very popular and — arguably — less discriminating young adult paranormal romance), cover design (clean, simple, and likely cheaply produced without looking too cheap), and price point (extremely low). That she appears to sell considerably better in the Kindle store (where there’s an ostensibly limitless electronic print run and lower prices) is perhaps telling.

Hocking’s writing, from the little I’ve glanced at it, seems passable enough — unrefined and of the sort I think I’ve rejected often from Kaleidotrope, often confusing physical description with character development and so forth. But she doesn’t seem like a terrible writer, and in interviews does seem to suggest she understands the need for an editor.

If anything, what her story calls into question is the need for a publisher. It’s early days yet, but if you can reach this level of success outside the mainstream presses, why wouldn’t you? I cringe at the idea of more self-edited (or unedited) fiction clogging the market — and I think success stories like Hocking’s will grow rarer as that market gets more crowded — but more books that traditional publishers are perhaps scared to take a risk on? More variety in the marketplace? I think that can only be a good thing.

In the past, what a traditional publisher had to offer you was professional editing; professional production, layout, and bookbinding; and detailed, in-depth marketing. I think the first of those is always going to be a necessity — and not just because I’m an editor. If a book published through Amazon.com is indistinguishable in (physical) quality from its competition — and I’ve never bought one, so I don’t know if it is — then I think the second of those two is going to be moot. And finally, if, as Hocking seems to have demonstrated, you can reach a wide audience without traditional marketing behind your books, with just Amazon’s visibility behind you…well, traditional publishing probably should be wary.

I think the questions are: will self-publishing authors still pay for substantial editing, proofing, and revision? Will Amazon continue to pay such substantial royalties to authors as more of them follow Hocking’s route? Will as many readers continue to pay as the market gets more crowded, low price point or not? And are the products being produced by Amazon (hard copy and e-book) high-quality enough that they don’t just look vanity press cheapies?

Me, I have no idea. Frankly, I don’t think anybody has any idea exactly how e-books — much less what they mean for self-publishing and individual sales — will change the publishing market. Yet everybody has a theory.

It seems like e-books have been on the cusp of changing everything as we know it for quite a while now.