I never thought I'd see this day: I'm abandoning physical books for an e-reader.
Before I explain why, I have to talk a bit about my previous internal digital battle: to mp3 or not? When the original iPod came out, I was dead set against it. I had my collection of hundreds of cds with their beautiful booklets full of art, photos, and lyrics. And the low sound quality of mp3s just wouldn't suffice. I can only describe the sounds on a nice pair of headphones as "harsh."
So, for a while I happily toted my portable cd player and a small holder of cds in my backpack. Then, I decided to upgrade to a portable unit that could play mp3 cds. Just as an option, of course. No way would I turn my back on cds!
Eventually, I decided to put some of my favorite albums on a mp3 cd just to have more variety available on my travels. It was during the process of ripping and burning (why must mp3 parlance have to be so violent?) that I realized that you can use different bit rates, and with decent settings, mp3s actually sounds as good as cds. (256 kbps vbr is my current setting of choice.)
That solved the sound problem, but no way in hell was I giving up my cd fetish. The look, the feel, the smell. How could I give it up? Funny thing is, after I started ripping all the cds I bought, they stayed on the shelf after the initial rip.
With much of my mp3 resistance melted away, the iPod and the gigs of music it could carry was inevitable. The new way was here. I shed a tear for my beloved cds and moved on.
Fast forward to now. There was no way in hell I was giving up my beloved books. The look, the feel, the smell. (Heard this one before?) And as a writer, there was an even stronger fetish: I want one of these with my name on the shelves one day. Why would I participate in the group murder that e-Readers represent?
While a piece of plastic will never truly replace a book, e-Readers have come a long way. They may not be as good as a real book, but they are an acceptable way to read (I grudgingly admit after playing around with Nooks and Kindles and iPads with a somewhat open mind.) And the real deal maker for me is the end of bookshelves.
I can hear the collective gasp from my fellow readers and writers. We need our bookshelves! We want to turn every room of our homes into libraries! I understand completely. My office is crammed with books, as well as board games. The living room is full of cds and dvds. There is a great comfort in hoarding the things we love, building a warm nest around ourselves.
But take a step back. I know it's hard to do. But what do you really care about? It's those beautiful words, and whether they're on a piece of paper you can fondle or a digital screen shouldn't really matter. Get rid of the confines of space, and it's possible to have even more of those words literally at your finger tips.
The elephant in the room is the effect the e-reader will have on bookstores and writers. The former is a cause for sadness, but I see the latter as an opportunity.
For bookstores, when every book is bought digitally, only the big boys that control the digital world will survive. All those great indie bookstores will slowly fade away. While that's unfortunate, I have to sheepishly admit that I buy almost all my books from Amazon anyway, so when all those cool bookstores go out of business, it's not like I'll have more blood on my hands.
For writers, however, I think a great opportunity is coming. Look at what mp3s did to the music industry. There are more opportunities for musicians now than ever before. Self publishing of music is possible, and cool indie online music stores have cropped up. I see something similar coming for writers. I have purchased pdfs directly from writer's sites, and when the reading public has less of an aversion to the digital screen, options will increase. All those indie minds out there will band together and find a way to create cool virtual indie bookstores.
You may wholeheartedly disagree with my assessment, but regardless of what any of us feel, we can't stop change. Demand will dictate supply, and those that adapt can have an exciting place in this brave new world.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Hiding Behind Fiction
My previous post was about my first public reading. I initially thought that I'd blog about the experience soon after, but in reality, I had far too much to process to talk about it until now.
The reason I've always been drawn to fiction is because you can talk about your feelings and experiences through a layer of abstraction. This provides an opportunity to give a fresh look at well-worn themes. It also allows the author to hide behind the story.
Writing a non-fiction piece, and then reading it in public, is a different kind of monster. I can't say that it's something I wanted to do. It was more of a compulsion. The difficulty of the task is shown in the fact that the piece I wrote is in second-person. While this is a powerful stylistic choice, I'd be lying if I claim that was the only reason I employed it.
When I stood before a crowd at art2art a couple weeks ago, I felt nothing. I was simply a conduit for the words on the page before me. I had written a short intro and placed it, in bold, at the top of the first sheet.
"Tonight, I’ll be reading an abbreviated version of a narrative non-fiction piece called 'Rewind.'"
I stumbled a bit on that simple sentence, but after that the words simply flowed from me.
"You realize one day that you don’t have memories, you have flashbacks."
As I launched into reminisces of my father's alcoholism, the protective wall I had built so long ago disappeared. For seven minutes, I was opening myself to the world.
"Then he begins to sharpen his hunting knife at the kitchen table. His eyes are red. He never looks up. He runs the whetstone against the blade too many times. It has to be razor sharp."
As I finished, my only concern was the feedback I'd get. The enormity of sharing my darkest places wouldn't really hit me until later. The audience applauded, but it was a kindness I expected. I waited to hear from people as we took a break between sets. I feared no one would say anything, that my inability to write had finally been exposed.
"She gives you a pair of work gloves, and tells you to pull out the bottom slat with a hammer. You work at it, and as you finally pull it away, an ocean of empty vodka bottles pour out, like hitting the jackpot on a slot machine."
I received encouraging words from the other artists in the front row, but this I also expected. I milled about for a bit, and no one else approached me. The dark voices I've grown to hate started to whisper in my head. I went to the restroom to be alone.
On the way back to the reading room, a woman approached me and thanked me for sharing the story. An older man asked me if I was a professional writer. When I answered no, he told me to keep at it. Others gave similar earnest feedback. For the first time in memory, I felt good about writing, instead of just viewing my compulsion as some form of self torture.
"You pour the bottle into the mop sink and fill it with water. You feel exhilarated by your daring. But you also feel very afraid."
After the event finished, a group went to a nearby bar, including my wife, Cathy, and one of the organizers (and our friend), Sue. The bar was full for a Celtics game and very loud. There were many of us grouped around a table, most of them strangers to me. I couldn't hear well. I found myself wishing that Cathy and Sue and I could be somewhere else having a quiet conversation.
I felt the darkness return. I grew uncomfortable that these people, these strangers, now knew about my childhood. I became sullen.
"The man who built thick ropes of muscle by driving a truck for hours a day, who won beer money by arm wrestling in bars, is gone. This man still has the same pot belly, but he slouches and his arms and legs have wasted away. You realize that you’re stronger than him now."
I realized the next day that I wouldn't be able to blog until I had time to process the experience. An inner struggle I'd fought all my life was waging its latest battle. Is it better to share your dark places or hide them?
"There is no final scene with a graveside speech, no coming to terms, no achieving inner peace. You simply grow to understand that everyone is human, with weaknesses and fears. Willing to try almost anything to escape from them.
You realize that had things been a little different, you could have turned out the same way. That if you’re not careful, you still might."
It took weeks, but I have my answer now. I want to write. I have many stories to tell.
But they will be fictional stories that I can hide behind. I'll show the world my dark places, but only through a filter.
It's the only way to end the war inside my head.
The reason I've always been drawn to fiction is because you can talk about your feelings and experiences through a layer of abstraction. This provides an opportunity to give a fresh look at well-worn themes. It also allows the author to hide behind the story.
Writing a non-fiction piece, and then reading it in public, is a different kind of monster. I can't say that it's something I wanted to do. It was more of a compulsion. The difficulty of the task is shown in the fact that the piece I wrote is in second-person. While this is a powerful stylistic choice, I'd be lying if I claim that was the only reason I employed it.
When I stood before a crowd at art2art a couple weeks ago, I felt nothing. I was simply a conduit for the words on the page before me. I had written a short intro and placed it, in bold, at the top of the first sheet.
"Tonight, I’ll be reading an abbreviated version of a narrative non-fiction piece called 'Rewind.'"
I stumbled a bit on that simple sentence, but after that the words simply flowed from me.
"You realize one day that you don’t have memories, you have flashbacks."
As I launched into reminisces of my father's alcoholism, the protective wall I had built so long ago disappeared. For seven minutes, I was opening myself to the world.
"Then he begins to sharpen his hunting knife at the kitchen table. His eyes are red. He never looks up. He runs the whetstone against the blade too many times. It has to be razor sharp."
As I finished, my only concern was the feedback I'd get. The enormity of sharing my darkest places wouldn't really hit me until later. The audience applauded, but it was a kindness I expected. I waited to hear from people as we took a break between sets. I feared no one would say anything, that my inability to write had finally been exposed.
"She gives you a pair of work gloves, and tells you to pull out the bottom slat with a hammer. You work at it, and as you finally pull it away, an ocean of empty vodka bottles pour out, like hitting the jackpot on a slot machine."
I received encouraging words from the other artists in the front row, but this I also expected. I milled about for a bit, and no one else approached me. The dark voices I've grown to hate started to whisper in my head. I went to the restroom to be alone.
On the way back to the reading room, a woman approached me and thanked me for sharing the story. An older man asked me if I was a professional writer. When I answered no, he told me to keep at it. Others gave similar earnest feedback. For the first time in memory, I felt good about writing, instead of just viewing my compulsion as some form of self torture.
"You pour the bottle into the mop sink and fill it with water. You feel exhilarated by your daring. But you also feel very afraid."
After the event finished, a group went to a nearby bar, including my wife, Cathy, and one of the organizers (and our friend), Sue. The bar was full for a Celtics game and very loud. There were many of us grouped around a table, most of them strangers to me. I couldn't hear well. I found myself wishing that Cathy and Sue and I could be somewhere else having a quiet conversation.
I felt the darkness return. I grew uncomfortable that these people, these strangers, now knew about my childhood. I became sullen.
"The man who built thick ropes of muscle by driving a truck for hours a day, who won beer money by arm wrestling in bars, is gone. This man still has the same pot belly, but he slouches and his arms and legs have wasted away. You realize that you’re stronger than him now."
I realized the next day that I wouldn't be able to blog until I had time to process the experience. An inner struggle I'd fought all my life was waging its latest battle. Is it better to share your dark places or hide them?
"There is no final scene with a graveside speech, no coming to terms, no achieving inner peace. You simply grow to understand that everyone is human, with weaknesses and fears. Willing to try almost anything to escape from them.
You realize that had things been a little different, you could have turned out the same way. That if you’re not careful, you still might."
It took weeks, but I have my answer now. I want to write. I have many stories to tell.
But they will be fictional stories that I can hide behind. I'll show the world my dark places, but only through a filter.
It's the only way to end the war inside my head.
Posts
