sarah eve kelly

Coming to you this Friday morning with a lot of absolutely brilliant thoughts on publishing. Sat down to write; didn’t have a drink. Sat down to write; noticed that Brother John had chosen a pair of trousers that were about nine times too small for him (this was funny). Changed John’s pants; sat down to write. Gaby the Cat starts yelling. Fed Gaby - she didn’t want food. Noticed the litter box: ick. Cleaned out the litter box. She is still mewling but I choose to ignore it for the moment.

Man: other living things. Now, to business.

One of the great things about coming from a broken home - well, my broken home - is that you get to examine both parents’ book collections on their own. If they were still married, who knows: the books might be piled willy-nilly and you might not know whose was whose. Both my parents have remarried, but for whatever reason neither of my stepparents has any real interest in reading, nor in collecting books. So my parents’ collections stand alone.

This much I remember from my childhood. D.H. Lawrence. Alice Munro. Salman Rushdie. Marcel Proust. John Fowles. Margaret Laurence (big one). Anne Tyler. Anne Michaels. Margaret Atwood. A few Annes; a few Margarets. Not unlike the characters in my own historical novels.

The bookcases are wooden now, but that’s because my parents are bona fide middle class now. Back in the day, when they were shabby genteel, the books sat on two-by-fours held up by cinderblocks; they were artfully arranged in artfully concealed cardboard boxes. They piled up everywhere. Both my parents love books. I think that’s probably what kept them married for the entire twelve minutes they were married.

This was my first impression of reading. Books piled upon books. And it was about a lot more than reading - in fact, I don’t know if reading qua reading was the single most important feature of them. It was the way they made a room look. For as long as I can remember I’ve wanted a house with built-in bookcases, wall after wall filled with books. Is this because I’m an avid reader? Of course, but. It’s also because I love the look and smell of books. It’s the only aesthetic taste I’ve ever really developed. Soft furniture and hardwood floors and books.

My parents worshiped books; so, in turn, did I. It was my first real motivator for becoming a writer. This is deep-tissue stuff; it goes all the way back. I wanted to make more of what filled those rooms.

Whither iPad, world?

[Big fat NB: I am not Cnut trying to hold back the waves. I am not a reactionary about technology. Ebooks are here; digital publishing is here. I’m not going to sit in my basement with a stick and flint and cry about moveable type. That’s not what this is about.]

The first thing I saw in the iPad demonstration was an image of one of the bookshelves I so covet. An image on a nine-inch screen. You choose the book you want with your finger. God knows how many books this thing can hold. I was attracted to it at first because I find now that I’m attracted to shiny things on spec: I have a laptop; I have a netbook; I have an iPod Touch. I love them all, each in different ways. They give and give and ask very little of me.

But I have two observations about the iPad. The first is in the form of a friend’s tweet: ‘I’m holding out for the Mini iPad.’ Basically: I’m happy with my Touch. I don’t really know what an iPad offers that I can’t get from my Touch. I’m probably woefully ignorant. The second is this: I’m sorry, dudes, but it looks like a Speak n’ Spell. What’s the point in an almost-life-sized QWERTY keyboard if there’s no way to type?

The bigger question is this. There’s no denying that ebooks are the Way of the Future, even if the Future is going to take a long time to get here. I decided I wanted to be a writer in, what, 1984. Long time ago. Finally I put all my ducks in a row; finally I pull my shit together and have something to offer, and two things happen: the bottom falls out of the market, and there are iPads. This means it’s harder than it’s ever been to sell a book; there’s more competition than there’s ever been; and it’s very possible that when I do make my bones and publish for the first time, it’s gonna be read on an iPad. Not filling up shelves held up by cinderblocks.

This might sound like whining, but it’s a small-scale big deal for me: if my first real desire to write came from existing in those rooms full of books, what do I do with a future where there are no more rooms full of books?

Well, first I take a deep breath. Books aren’t going anywhere yet. In my lifetime, my dream of walls of bookcases and hardwood floors and soft furniture is entirely within reach (if I ever get a job). If it all goes digital after I die, well, I’ll be dead.

Second, I realise this wonderful thing: it doesn’t stop me wanting to write; it doesn’t actually stop me wanting to be read. There is, for example, no bound paper version of this blog, which I have loved and given to and returned to for (holy shit) eight years now. And yet here I am. You can’t be a reactionary about technology and rely on it as much as I do.

Third, and the revelation stops here: I don’t want an iPad. I just don’t. I never wanted a Kindle and I don’t want this. This is a relief: one less thing to covet. We could all do with coveting just a bit less. I don’t want a Mazarati and I don’t want an iPad. All is right with the universe.

I thought I could fold this into some other thoughts I’m having - mostly about advances - but there’s no comfortable segue, this has gone on long enough, and I have index cards to scribble on (almost typed ’struggle on’, which is more apt). So more on that later. Happy weekend, all; shabbat shalom.

Till next time, &c &c.

Related posts:

1. so who’re your influences (redux)
2. tagged
3. free-floating