Size matters?

The publishing industry has been all a-twitter about this technology thing for many months now, and today's email from Publishing Perspectives brings up an interesting, albeit unsurprising, point: devices don't care about page numbers. They care about layout, format, type size, but page numbers are obsolete.

Instead, publishers will start thinking in units of time.

Bizarre, isn't it? Read Catcher in the Rye in under four hours! An Eliot poem in seven minutes! A Poe short story in half an hour!

Why this won't work: People read at very different speeds. And we read different books at different speeds; I will fly through a chick-lit novel, but savour the words of Daphne Du Maurier. Finding a 'time' that is universal will be a challenge.

Why this can work: As said in the article, "What if instead of choosing another 47-minute episode of Mad Men from iTunes, that reluctant reader buys a book, knowing she can finish five more chapters before going to bed?"

As mentioned before on this blog, many readers I know choose a book on its length. They won't touch anything over 1.5" thick. Perhaps this could be a more egalitarian way of book-shopping, where the blurb and word-of-mouth mean more than the size.

Had the jacket copy of Freedom stated "This book will take you the better part of a month to digest" I probably would have run a mile. And so much for the 80,000-word novel minimum word count. Perhaps this means the rediscovery of the novella and the rebirth of the short story collection.

So what's better? Small chunks of stories? Diving head-first into a chunky novel without anyone telling you how quickly to finish? Or do readers just want a good story that is well-told?

Same subject, different slant

I'm a member of a great website for women writers, She Writes. Today, one of the agents wrote an excellent blog post on the art of the memoir. It includes an actual query letter (check the presumption at the end of the second paragraph) and an intelligent response.

The story is heartbreaking: incest, abuse, breakdowns, drugs, poverty, addiction. Hoiser handles this well: "Life isn't fair, and thanks to Oprah we all know it." Her response is spot-on - writing for catharsis is one thing, and writing for readers another.

I've had many people approach me throughout the years and tell me they've started their memoirs. A few have even given me their manuscripts to read. It's awful to say this to them, but people don't care. Unless you're famous or notorious, no one cares.

The un-famous people who've been published all have a slant that works, that makes their story palatable and interesting for readers. That's why James Frey's fictionalized 'memoir' A Million Little Pieces was such a scandal, but that's also why it was a bestseller. He found an angle and exploited it. Some might call that lying, others might call it genius (he's got a three-book deal with HarperCollins worth seven figures). That's also how books mentioned in the post - The Glass Castle, Angela's Ashes, Precious, Running with Scissors - became bestsellers. The stories resonated with readers, but so did the lessons.

An interesting life doesn't necessarily translate into a fascinating book. And writers must always, always think of their readers.

She's indecisive/She can't decide/She keeps on looking/From left to right. - Justin Bieber, "Eenie Meenie"

So Justin Bieber's memoir is coming out in October. He's 16.

For the uninitiated, Bieber is a Canadian pop singer with shaggy hair and a very high voice. He's rather adorable, with catchy pop songs (I'm a sucker for a good pop song) and street cred thanks to his mentor, Usher. And, as one can tell from the lyrics above, his depth is well beyond his years. But a memoir at 16?

The fabulous literary agent Nathan Bransford tweeted yesterday: Justin Bieber is publishing a memoir. HE'S 16. How would your memoir have read at age 16?

The responses were quirky, lovely, and charming:

@KitchPantrySci Kansas winters.California summers.My life was a John Denver song.

@thmafi ate a few crayons and realized granny smith apple is not a flavor.

@clairehennessy Writing. Angst. Reading. Angst. School. Angst. Nerd camp. Angst. Fannish nerdiness. Angst.

A way to numb the shock, perhaps, of a memoir from a child whose voice still hasn't changed. But, as my mother commented on my Facebook page yesterday*, "At least they're reading something." That's why I won't slag off little Justin and his 16-year-old take on life, literary-style.

First of all, the kid is huge. He commands legions of police to keep the peace in airports and hotels around the world. He's got 4m Twitter followers. He's probably lived more in his 16 years than many of us in our 30s.

Second, it's these huge books that keep publishers flush. That means that peons like me can maybe get a shot at publication. Publishers would go bust if they only sold literary fiction, or poetry, or books of short stories. It's great when one of these is a runaway hit, but a book like Bieber's is a sure thing.

My life at 16, in 140 characters: Writing, acting, studying, singing, driving, nerding, wishing I were elsewhere, dreaming, making mix tapes, wondering where life will go.

Yours?

*Yes, Mom's on Facebook, more often than I am.

Knjigarna - grooviest translation of 'bookshop'

Above, a view from Loch en Eillan, in Aviemore. Inspiration with mud. Like when you try and say 'knjigarna' - it's a muddy word.

Last night's Literary Salon featured Moira Forsyth, a Scottish writer who works as a commissioning editor for a small Highland press called Sandstone. It was interesting hearing the perspective of a publisher (with a vested interest in making money) who is also an author. She was kind enough to talk with us about the writing side of things, but what was perhaps more interesting was the publishing business model, and why this business is so layered and complex, especially for smaller presses.

The big realization for me was that Amazon takes 60% for every book it sells. If you think about how heavily discounted Amazon books are, and subtract 60%, it's no wonder publishers are searching frantically for other ways to make money. Big chains such as Waterstones here in the UK take 45-50%, and independent bookshops take far less. Yet another solid reason to continue supporting your local, independent bookshop, especially for books from small presses.

(Side note: check the imprints of the books in the front of the store at a chain bookshop. Not a small press in sight. 3-for-2, 'bestsellers' - paid for by the publisher. As are many of the blurbs you read on the back or front cover.)

Moira then segued into the financial side of things: You pay Amazon their 60%; you also pay the cover designer, the typesetter, the printer, the copyeditor, the editor, and if there's any left over, the author. It's no wonder small presses sell out to the big boys. And it reiterated the respect I have for smaller presses around the world, those which manage to survive because they are incredibly picky with the books they choose and because the books they choose are adored by readers. (Look at what a certain bespectacled boy wizard did for Bloomsbury.)

Go forth, readers, and keep that local shop in business. My all-time faves: Anagram in Prague; Vale Novak in Ljubljana; Tattered Cover in Denver; Get Lost and City Lights in San Francisco; Watermark in Wichita; Powell's and Queen Anne Books in Seattle. Any to add?

The best-designed product since 1471*

Fine. I get it. The Kindle is cool. Wireless, PDF-reading, books, yada yada. They are sexy little machines that are perfect for people like me who usually carry around a book or two, and take a stack away on holiday. I'll consider the Apple e-reader device once it's out there. But that won't stop me investing in books.

With the December closure of our local Borders, I've become dependent on Amazon again. (Waterstones is the other option, the same Waterstones that wouldn't hire me for Christmastime help in 2008 because 'your experience does not match our requirements'; no, I'm not yet over it.) That fresh scent of glue and ink, the feel of feathery pages, the echo of boxes of literary treasures, stacked upon each other in the glorious warehouse of words is one of the most beautiful sensations possible. I love the feel of books, the energy surrounding them, the enticing blurbs on the outside which hint at the inside, even the tiny little author photographs. The book will always be the most portable and reliable form of entertainment.

When I worked for MoodLogic a decade ago, people were reluctant to give up their CDs and albums for .mp3 technology. Tradeshow panels were filled with people on both sides of the e-fence, some welcoming the dawn of digital music and others mourning the death of the rock star and the record label. Then the iPod came along. I was an avid CD collecter; at its height, my collection included over 3000 CDs that I lovingly alphabetized, each with its matching index card and entry in an Excel file. Now they're all on an external hard drive that is smaller than, well, a paperback book. I used to sit for hours analyzing liner notes and lyrics; it's rather sad that I don't miss the liner notes at all.

But CDs never really held the same magic as a book. Perhaps it's due to my parents' musical formats; we had boxes of reel-to-reel tapes, 8-tracks, and cassettes. The format never really bothered me as long as I could hear the music. But books were always books. They always held a world between two thick covers, and that world would be the same even if I had changed.

Much as I love Amazon, it's out of necessity rather than choice. The closest independent bookshop to my house is a 40-minute drive away. We do have a wonderful secondhand shop housed in a converted church with a huge peat fire in the middle, but it lacks the new releases and the variety of an independent shop. The world is a better place with indie bookshops, like Shakespeare & Co. in Paris, where I took the above photograph in the autumn of 2007.

I get it. Digitization of books is here to stay. Apple will undoubtedly release a super-sexy, sleek, beautiful product of e-loveliness. And I'll probably get it and love it. But it will never replace the look, feel, and smell of the best-designed product. Since 1471.

Deceit? Or clever writing?

What if you found out that a book you loved was somewhat deceptive? The White Horse, The Yellow Dragon was given a prestigious Czech literary award, and its 19-year-old female author, a member of the Vietnamese community, was praised by readers and lit-types around the world. And, indeed, the international Vietnamese expat community. The book deals with racism and is a commentary on Czech, and Western, society.

But she doesn't exist. She's a male Czech author, Jan Cempirek. He hired two Vietnamese girls to pose as the author; he only communicated with journalists and publishers via email. He turned down invitations to meet politiHe didn't break any rules, really, but he's embarrassed the publisher and confused members of the Czech-Vietnamese community.

Perhaps Cempirek was afraid to publish a book that was critical of Czech society. Or perhaps he knew that this sort of lie would make international news in the book world, resulting in translations and book sales. It's a manipulative, and perhaps brave, way to write. I'm reminded of the James Frey fiasco, and the recent exposure of Belle du Jour's identity. Do you expect honesty from your authors? Are the words enough?

In our own little worlds, we're all gods

I'm not sure if this is news anywhere else other than Britain, but the press are having fun with author Julie Myerson and her new book, The Lost Child, about her teenage son's cannabis use and how it has affected her family. Her son, who is now 20, has told the press that while he read a draft of it, he does not agree with much of what the book contains; he says "What she has done has taken the very worst years of my life and cleverly blended it into a work of art, and that to me is obscene". (Here's the father's side of the story, if you're inclined.) Initially scheduled to come out in May, Bloomsbury has decided to bring the book out early. Myerson appeared on a BBC news show the other morning and, after much dithering about the content and whether it was necessary to publicize a very private experience, said "people shouldn't judge until they read the book." Fair enough, and rock on, sister. Content aside, you've engineered a PR campaign sure to put you at the top of the nonfiction bestseller list. And likely ruined your relationship with your child forever.

At one point in an interview, Jake Myerson says of his mother: "She's a writer and like a lot of writers she is wrapped up in her own world - even if the worlds they are creating aren't quite true, they become true to them anyway, and I wasn't prepared to let her world colour mine any more." An impressive observation for a teenager, and it haunts me as a writer who might breed one day. Writers are wrapped up in our own worlds, where we play god, we get to control everything. The book I'm working on now deals with power, aggression and the negative impact of this on the psyche, and I do have to psychologically remove myself from being inside the story before dealing with the real world. This imbalance, teetering between the dreamworld I'm desperately trying to put into words and the smack of daily life, is difficult to sustain. I can see how it might ooze into family life if a writer isn't meticulous in his/her ability to switch off. (Though we can't ever switch off, really; the story is always in the background, humming, like a refrigerator, closed for now but you know what's inside and can't help planning meals, wondering if you're out of milk, etc.)

In other booky news, two literary agents hosted “QueryFail” on Twitter. Numerous editors and agents took part to expose some of the more ridiculous letters they have received, and the site JacketFlap put together a list of delights. Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the number of people out there trying to write books, then I read lists such as this and am thankful that I'm a few steps ahead of the masses.

"Aah but the literary world was not always so whorish, swinish and unrepentant." - Erica Heller

Joe the Plumber got a book deal.

I hadn't heard of him either, until the final few weeks of the recent US election. Apparently, Joe was supposed to represent the American 'everyman', and was referenced far too frequently in the final presidential debate. And this man's 'autobiography' will be glued together by an anonymous ghostwriter who will pull his hair out trying to make Joe's story seem exceptional. Readable. Sellable.

Sarah Palin got a $7m advance for a literary glimpse into her mind. I was aghast when I read this in a trade email on Monday, but it's not surprising in a world where soccer players, topless models and three Spice Girls have book deals for their 'fiction', and don't get me started on the 'memoirs' by 25-year-olds. Erica Heller, daughter of Joseph of Catch-22 fame, wrote in yesterday's Huffington Post: And now, onto that illustrious stage of authors, along with Kurt Vonnegut, James Jones and the rest of the best of the best, strut authoress and author, Palin and Mr. Plumber, with their books certain to be ghosted by some unsung schnooks, manuscripts that will be comprised of little more than bragging, lying and recycling some very stale air... Not all of us are plucked from obscurity and wrapped in Valentino or held up as a poster-child for the working man. Some people have to actually work at it and at times, there is even talent, skill, and a magical, indefinable creative spark magnificently ignited in the process.

My initial reaction: Go, girl! Stick it to the publishing industry! Stand up for all the little guys slogging it out each day, waiting for that magic 'yes' to come. Then I came across a piece by Jean Hannah Edelstein that gave an interesting counterargument. She claims that by 'writing' books, both Palin and the Plumber are endorsing the two things that liberals cherish the most: freedom of expression and reading. By writing these books, Palin and Wurzelbacher are living the American dream: in America, you can write whatever you want. Even if it is rubbish!

She goes on to say that 25% of Americans didn't read a book in 2006, and makes the connection that most illiterate American cities are located in 'red states'; perhaps they're not reading because most of the books are written by and marketed to left-leaning liberals. I don't necessarily agree with this deduction, but the idea has merit. Forgive the Carrie Bradshaw-ness of this post, but is reading an elitist, leftist institution? As Edelstein writes, do we incorrectly place the publishing industry as gatekeepers of high culture?

Is reading anything fine, or must we always read books which better us as people and thinkers? Do we judge others by what's on their bookshelf? Can we afford this pretention when publishing companies depend on the sales of Jordan's latest book to keep them afloat?

fictitious expectations

I haven't read James Frey's A Million Little Pieces. I've read the back of it a million little times but haven't yet been convinced. His new book, Bright Shiny Morning, is apparently 'fiction' and has received reasonable acclaim. The Guardian's podcast interview of Frey came on my iPod today and I hadn't heard it before. I found myself shouting at the interview (while walking home in a blizzard - I'm sure the locals think I'm cuckoo) because of Frey's pompous attitude and lazy answers, not to mention his use of the word 'gnarly' (which he then, cumbersomely, attempted to explain to the interviewer). (No one over the age of 25 should actually use the word 'gnarly', especially in an interview with the Guardian.) Frey still feels he did nothing wrong by fictionalizing his story and selling it as memoir, which then spent weeks on the nonfiction bestseller list (i.e. more cash for Frey). He claims that every memoir on our shelves has been somewhat fabricated. That he just got caught. That he started off wanting to write fiction, and even insinuates that getting his fiction published was his reason for writing the 'memoir'. He also wants to be considered in the company of Mailer, Hemingway and Wolfe, and considers his new book an attempt at that elusive Great American Novel.

The interviewer asked about Frey's use of Los Angeles as a character in his new book. Frey refuses to say whether the details in his book which seem factual are indeed so; he makes a joke about the reader's right to Google every 'fact'. His point is an interesting one: do readers actually suspend all disbelief when they pick up a novel? Or, as he seems to think, should readers accept fiction as fiction and not expect things to be accurate? Would a reader get annoyed if Hollywood Boulevard was a street in Pacific Palisades or Orange County was north of the city?

My questions here are twofold. First, is it expected to fictionalize memoir? Memoir is, after all, an individual perspective. Everyone's memories are tainted by time, events are often combined to create drama or comedy, scenes are selected or deleted to fit our personal evolution. Memoirs, or indeed memories, might not be as interesting without stretching the truth.

Second, if real places are mentioned in fiction, do readers expect facts? My current novel is set in Lisbon and Chicago, and I've spent days researching street names, historical timelines, geography, weather, everything. I feel I owe it to my readers to provide an authentic experience, even through the medium of fiction. How much leeway do you allow your authors? More crudely, where is the line between fiction and bullshit?

Thought for the day

Is ghostwriting the new writing?