Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Proof (that it exists)
I am holding in my hand (makes typing difficult) an actual copy of One Too Many Blows To The Head. Our print proofs are in. It is very exciting to see it as an actual book. Now, one more time through with the fine toothed comb and we're off to the presses for real. Hooray!
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Back to work
After a nearly four week break I am back at work on the new novel. I started reading through what I've done so far last night and I was shocked to find I actually like it. I wasn't slacking in my down time. It was final revisions on One Too Many Blows To The Head, some new short work, articles for the Noir City Sentinel, the day job was a real grind – 3 weekends! – and a new story plus outline for a new contest thing that I think I will enter. Why not?
Anyway, back to it. I think I have settled on a title: The Devil Doesn't Want Me. It is a great line I heard in a Story Corps podcast. If you don't know story corps they are a documentary project run by NPR who go around and collect stories from ordinary Americans. It is fascinating to hear. I love regular people. This line was said as his own introduction by a 90 year-old man talking about his love with his wife of over 60 years. He said in a thick New York Jewish accent, "My name is (whatever it was) and I'm nearly ninety. Only reason I'm here is 'cause the devil doesn't want me." I heard that and synapses in my brain fired like a first kiss. Much better than my temp title of 17 Years. Bo-ring!
Anyway, I was thinking of doing a thing on the blog of putting up lines of mine that I actually like but it sounded too self-congratulatory . But I do like this one: "The air in the bar was stale. Equal parts nicotine and sweat. If bad breath had an address this was it."
I am easily entertained.
Anyway, back to it. I think I have settled on a title: The Devil Doesn't Want Me. It is a great line I heard in a Story Corps podcast. If you don't know story corps they are a documentary project run by NPR who go around and collect stories from ordinary Americans. It is fascinating to hear. I love regular people. This line was said as his own introduction by a 90 year-old man talking about his love with his wife of over 60 years. He said in a thick New York Jewish accent, "My name is (whatever it was) and I'm nearly ninety. Only reason I'm here is 'cause the devil doesn't want me." I heard that and synapses in my brain fired like a first kiss. Much better than my temp title of 17 Years. Bo-ring!
Anyway, I was thinking of doing a thing on the blog of putting up lines of mine that I actually like but it sounded too self-congratulatory . But I do like this one: "The air in the bar was stale. Equal parts nicotine and sweat. If bad breath had an address this was it."
I am easily entertained.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
3rd place winner! Jimmy Callaway
We gave him 1000 words, he only needed 220. What I really loved about this story was the rich backstory told in so few words. It makes the reader put together a few clues which is really engaging. Enjoy meeting Uncle Sal.
Uncle Sal
by Jimmy Callaway
I whistled loud and sharp through the gap where my front two teeth used to be. Down the block, Morty turned around, waved, and trotted up to meet me.
“Hey-hey, Sal, howzit goin’?” Morty said. His big buck teeth stuck out of his mouth like snow shovels, and his lips made dry smacking sounds as he talked.
“Not too good,” I said.
“Yeah? That’s too bad,” he said, “The kids sick or somethin’?”
“Kids’re fine.”
“How’s the wife? How’s she, uh, doin’?” Morty kept his eyes locked on my shirt collar, no higher than that.
“Marie’s fine,” I said.
“Oh, that’s good. Good, good, good.”
“It’s my sister,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. She’s knocked up.”
Morty swallowed. “Oh, yeah, huh? Well, huh. How about that?”
“Yeah,” I said, “How about that.” A little whistle escaped through the gap in my teeth.
Morty chuckled a little and said, “Hey, Sally, that whistle’a yours, I’ll tell ya. I mean, I heard ya all the way down the block, man.” He chuckled again. “Where’d you learn to whistle like that, Sally?”
I smiled. “Marie’s brother taught me.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I said, “It was an early wedding gift.”
Morty frowned. He said, “Wedding gif—” and then I cracked him one right in the fucking mouth.
Now Morty can whistle real good, too.
BIO: Jimmy Callaway lives and works in San Diego, CA. Please visit attentionchildren.blogspot.com for more shenanigans. Thanks as usual to Cameron Ashley and Josh Converse.
Uncle Sal
by Jimmy Callaway
I whistled loud and sharp through the gap where my front two teeth used to be. Down the block, Morty turned around, waved, and trotted up to meet me.
“Hey-hey, Sal, howzit goin’?” Morty said. His big buck teeth stuck out of his mouth like snow shovels, and his lips made dry smacking sounds as he talked.
“Not too good,” I said.
“Yeah? That’s too bad,” he said, “The kids sick or somethin’?”
“Kids’re fine.”
“How’s the wife? How’s she, uh, doin’?” Morty kept his eyes locked on my shirt collar, no higher than that.
“Marie’s fine,” I said.
“Oh, that’s good. Good, good, good.”
“It’s my sister,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. She’s knocked up.”
Morty swallowed. “Oh, yeah, huh? Well, huh. How about that?”
“Yeah,” I said, “How about that.” A little whistle escaped through the gap in my teeth.
Morty chuckled a little and said, “Hey, Sally, that whistle’a yours, I’ll tell ya. I mean, I heard ya all the way down the block, man.” He chuckled again. “Where’d you learn to whistle like that, Sally?”
I smiled. “Marie’s brother taught me.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I said, “It was an early wedding gift.”
Morty frowned. He said, “Wedding gif—” and then I cracked him one right in the fucking mouth.
Now Morty can whistle real good, too.
BIO: Jimmy Callaway lives and works in San Diego, CA. Please visit attentionchildren.blogspot.com for more shenanigans. Thanks as usual to Cameron Ashley and Josh Converse.
Friday, October 16, 2009
2nd place winner! J.F. Juzwik
She had me at the title. What follows is pretty good too. Two sad suckers, not the best tough guy gangster types around – my kind of people. Enjoy what J.F. does with the fist portion of the challenge. It caught me off guard and was the only interpretation of its kind in the contest. Well done!
Eric
------------
Dim Tim and Jukebox Johnny - By J. F. Juzwik
Oh yeah. This day's gone straight to hell. Got to figure out how a simple 'go and get' went so sour.
Let me introduce myself. Name's Jukebox Johnny. Folks call me 'Jukebox' since these feet don't go near a joint unless there's a box of tunes in it. And 'Johnny'? Well, that's my name. My partner? He goes by 'Dim Tim'. Before you get your nose out of joint, that ain't a put-down, like I'm saying he's a dummy. He is a dummy, but he follows orders good, and he's got a punch like those rods the dicks use when they're raiding Mr. G's game parlors. It don't hurt his feelings, since noone knows better than Tim what a low watt he is.
Let me tell you about Mr. G. He's the man--really, and Tim and I work for him. See, Mr. G don't like to get his hands dirty, so when somebody needs a lesson taught or a remind made, that's where we come in. There's one other thing about Mr. G. He has a different sense of humor and has to get the last laugh. How? Cross him, and he'll have your lips removed and put in a jar. I heard he keeps the jars somewhere in his office. I've never seen them, but my sources are good.
Back to figuring out how this day ended up so fucked. The job was simple enough. Mr. G hired a floater to pick up his cash. Now, a floater don't belong to one crew; he just does for whoever. Trouble with this one, Artsy Arty, he hadn't done much for anyone to build a rep, so he was kind of taken on cold--see?
Why 'Artsy' Arty? No matter what the job, if some beatnick lumped up some clay or dripped paint on a bedsheet and set it up on a corner, Arty'd stop and scope it out. Shows, they call them, but it's nothing but crap--really. But Arty couldn't pass them up, so, he's 'Artsy' Arty. And 'Arty'? Probably just his name.
So, he decided to get Mr. G's cash, but not do the deliver part. Word went around that this mo was going to skip with Mr. G's green, so all the crews did a hands off. Until he could connect with some ijit who didn't have the sense God gave him not to help somebody who'd cross Mr. G, he figured he'd just stash the bills in a locker.
We were sent to get the cash. Tim and me were having a cup of joe at the diner on Fifth, and, out of the storage place, comes Arty, balls of steel, like he's taking a stroll down the lane. We came upon him and damn, if there wasn't a shitload of that fuckin' hippie crap all out on the sidewalk. There was also a boatload of people, so Arty blends. I went in one end and Tim in the other, thinking we'll meet up with Arty in the middle.
To be straight, it was tough to focus because the junk was all hands. Yep, I said hands. Pictures of hands, sculptures of hands, snapshots of hands--nothing but hands. That tic in my left eye started to come back, when I saw Tim grab Arty and move him to the street. Just then, this punk pushed his way by, jumped in a cab and yelled for the driver to get him to the airport fast. Sorta wish I had a plane to catch about now...
Where was I? Oh yeah. We took Arty someplace quiet. Couldn't figure him because he should've been pissin' his pants, but he kept laughing. Laughing when Tim nabbed him, all the way to the warehouse, and while standing on a chair with a rope around his neck. Tim and I both had frisked him good, but no key, and he wouldn't spill. Went right from the storage place to the hand show to the chair. So, what did he do with the locker key?
I guess I got kinda excited because I jiggled the chair too hard and his feet slipped off and, well..., bad news for Arty. But, worse news for Tim and me--no Mr. G's money.
So, now, we sit, Tim and I, in Mr. G's office. Trying to figure out what to say so we can save our skin--well, not our skin, exactly. I touched my lips with my fingers so I'd remember them later, when I heard Tim laugh. Now, I have as much a sense of humor as the next fella, but what the fuck was so funny?
I admit, there are times when I wish I wasn't so much of a sophisticate as I am, and was just a short stack like Tim. Maybe then, I wouldn't be shaking in my fucking shoes. He told me he remembered how he found Arty, all over a sculpture of a hand--like, feeling it up. Sorry, I didn't get the joke, until Tim corrected himself. Arty wasn't making his move on a hand. It was a fist. Okay then. What the fuck...?
Arty was feeling up a..., a fist? Fuck me until a week from Tuesday. That's what he did with the motherfucking key. He put it in the fist. All we had to do now was go to the corner, slide the key outa the fist, and get the money. I stood up, and was gonna say we needed to go before Mr. G. came, when Tim stated laughing harder. Said he didn't understand people; like that chump who almost knocked me down. How he grabbed the fist, threw money down, and jumped in that cab. I sat back down.
Since I hadn't actually seen it, Tim made my day with one last gem.
"You know," he said, "on that statue of the fist, the middle finger was up."
I didn't say anything, but somehow I'd already known.
END
Bio: J. F. Juzwik's crime fiction novel and stories can be found at DiskUsPublishing, Crooked and A Twist of Noir. Her thriller will soon be appearing in Mythica Publishing's anthology, Maybe Tomorrow. Information on all her projects, and her blog, can be found on her website at jfjuzwik.webs.com
Eric
------------
Dim Tim and Jukebox Johnny - By J. F. Juzwik
Oh yeah. This day's gone straight to hell. Got to figure out how a simple 'go and get' went so sour.
Let me introduce myself. Name's Jukebox Johnny. Folks call me 'Jukebox' since these feet don't go near a joint unless there's a box of tunes in it. And 'Johnny'? Well, that's my name. My partner? He goes by 'Dim Tim'. Before you get your nose out of joint, that ain't a put-down, like I'm saying he's a dummy. He is a dummy, but he follows orders good, and he's got a punch like those rods the dicks use when they're raiding Mr. G's game parlors. It don't hurt his feelings, since noone knows better than Tim what a low watt he is.
Let me tell you about Mr. G. He's the man--really, and Tim and I work for him. See, Mr. G don't like to get his hands dirty, so when somebody needs a lesson taught or a remind made, that's where we come in. There's one other thing about Mr. G. He has a different sense of humor and has to get the last laugh. How? Cross him, and he'll have your lips removed and put in a jar. I heard he keeps the jars somewhere in his office. I've never seen them, but my sources are good.
Back to figuring out how this day ended up so fucked. The job was simple enough. Mr. G hired a floater to pick up his cash. Now, a floater don't belong to one crew; he just does for whoever. Trouble with this one, Artsy Arty, he hadn't done much for anyone to build a rep, so he was kind of taken on cold--see?
Why 'Artsy' Arty? No matter what the job, if some beatnick lumped up some clay or dripped paint on a bedsheet and set it up on a corner, Arty'd stop and scope it out. Shows, they call them, but it's nothing but crap--really. But Arty couldn't pass them up, so, he's 'Artsy' Arty. And 'Arty'? Probably just his name.
So, he decided to get Mr. G's cash, but not do the deliver part. Word went around that this mo was going to skip with Mr. G's green, so all the crews did a hands off. Until he could connect with some ijit who didn't have the sense God gave him not to help somebody who'd cross Mr. G, he figured he'd just stash the bills in a locker.
We were sent to get the cash. Tim and me were having a cup of joe at the diner on Fifth, and, out of the storage place, comes Arty, balls of steel, like he's taking a stroll down the lane. We came upon him and damn, if there wasn't a shitload of that fuckin' hippie crap all out on the sidewalk. There was also a boatload of people, so Arty blends. I went in one end and Tim in the other, thinking we'll meet up with Arty in the middle.
To be straight, it was tough to focus because the junk was all hands. Yep, I said hands. Pictures of hands, sculptures of hands, snapshots of hands--nothing but hands. That tic in my left eye started to come back, when I saw Tim grab Arty and move him to the street. Just then, this punk pushed his way by, jumped in a cab and yelled for the driver to get him to the airport fast. Sorta wish I had a plane to catch about now...
Where was I? Oh yeah. We took Arty someplace quiet. Couldn't figure him because he should've been pissin' his pants, but he kept laughing. Laughing when Tim nabbed him, all the way to the warehouse, and while standing on a chair with a rope around his neck. Tim and I both had frisked him good, but no key, and he wouldn't spill. Went right from the storage place to the hand show to the chair. So, what did he do with the locker key?
I guess I got kinda excited because I jiggled the chair too hard and his feet slipped off and, well..., bad news for Arty. But, worse news for Tim and me--no Mr. G's money.
So, now, we sit, Tim and I, in Mr. G's office. Trying to figure out what to say so we can save our skin--well, not our skin, exactly. I touched my lips with my fingers so I'd remember them later, when I heard Tim laugh. Now, I have as much a sense of humor as the next fella, but what the fuck was so funny?
I admit, there are times when I wish I wasn't so much of a sophisticate as I am, and was just a short stack like Tim. Maybe then, I wouldn't be shaking in my fucking shoes. He told me he remembered how he found Arty, all over a sculpture of a hand--like, feeling it up. Sorry, I didn't get the joke, until Tim corrected himself. Arty wasn't making his move on a hand. It was a fist. Okay then. What the fuck...?
Arty was feeling up a..., a fist? Fuck me until a week from Tuesday. That's what he did with the motherfucking key. He put it in the fist. All we had to do now was go to the corner, slide the key outa the fist, and get the money. I stood up, and was gonna say we needed to go before Mr. G. came, when Tim stated laughing harder. Said he didn't understand people; like that chump who almost knocked me down. How he grabbed the fist, threw money down, and jumped in that cab. I sat back down.
Since I hadn't actually seen it, Tim made my day with one last gem.
"You know," he said, "on that statue of the fist, the middle finger was up."
I didn't say anything, but somehow I'd already known.
END
Bio: J. F. Juzwik's crime fiction novel and stories can be found at DiskUsPublishing, Crooked and A Twist of Noir. Her thriller will soon be appearing in Mythica Publishing's anthology, Maybe Tomorrow. Information on all her projects, and her blog, can be found on her website at jfjuzwik.webs.com
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
We have winners!
Congratulations to Robert Crisman for taking the top prize in our little contest here with his story A Prescription For Nerves. You can find the story at A Twist Of Noir. He is now the proud owner of FIVE signed books including One Too Many Blows To The Head (y'know, once we have actual books) JB Kohl's debut novel The Deputy's Widow, Norm Brown's Carpet Ride, Christine Husom's Buried in Wolf Lake and Deborah J. Ledford's Staccato.
We got so many great submissions it was hard to choose but in the end the judges chose three very different stories that, taken together, I think make a nice little trio of the different interpretations of the 'Fist' theme.
Check this spot tomorrow for Winner of 2ND place - J.F. Juzwik's Dim Tim & Jukebox Johnny. J.F. is the winner of signed copies of One Too Many Blows To The Head and The Deputy's Widow.
Then come back for Jimmy Callaway's Uncle Sal. Jimmy wins his very own signed copy of One Too Many Blows To The Head.
Congratulations to the two of them for rounding out our top three.
And since this is a promotion after all, the latest update is that the book is at the printer! We are expecting our print proof Monday and then it is off to the races.
My first signing/launch party is November 14th at 5:30 pm at the Mystery Bookstore in Los Angeles. Come on down and say hi, get a book signed, punch me in the mouth. Y'know, whatever.
Monday, October 12, 2009
A little something while we wait for books to be printed. It's so close! If you're not already a Facebook friend, look us up!
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Submissions are closed!
From where I'm sitting it is after midnight and that means submissions are closed for our little FIST contest. Thank you so much to all who entered. It has been a pleasure to read your stories as they came in. Now they go to our panel of mystery judges and the top 3 winners will be announced here and a A Twist of Noir on Oct. 15th which may well exactly correspond to our release date now.
One minor switch in the prize package. Christine Husom has sent us not her first book, Murder In Winnebago County, but a hot off the press version of her brand spankin' new sequel Buried In Wolf Lake. You'll be the first on your block to read this one. Then you'll just have to go back and see where it all started.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Another writing spot
I guess I guilted Keith Rawson into giving in and taking a shot of his writing space. This sooooo fits. Writing at night? But of course he does. A laptop? You can't pin him down! And books to be read right nearby. Naturally. Writing, blogging, reviewing - Rawson does it all. In the dark, too.
Okay, folks. Guilt works. Let's put the pressure on your favorite writers to show us theirs!
Okay, folks. Guilt works. Let's put the pressure on your favorite writers to show us theirs!
Where the magic happens
I only got a few responses from my call for other writers to show me the space where they write but I thought I would share those kind enough to share with me. I am struck my how modest each space is. From such humble settings such flights of fancy occur. I'd still love to see more. Any writers out there send me a snap of your writing space. I did think that perhaps one reason why not very many people shared is that it is a very intimate space. I might as well ask you to send a picture of you in your underwear (which I won't say no to by the way. Call it curiosity) If anyone is too shy I'd love to hear that too. Or maybe your desk is just really messy. Yeah, well, join the club.
In contest news - the deadline for submissions is Wednesday! We've gotten some great stories. Amazing riffs on the fist idea. Brutal crimes, quiet menace, a ghost story, one story where I had to go back and re-read it to find the fist it was woven in so subtly (but well). I am inspired by you all and flattered that people took the time at my paltry request to create something new out of thin air. After Wednesday the stories will go off to our secret panel of judges. All I can tell you is that they are coming at them from the perspective of an average reader. We wanted the unvarnished reaction without the baggage that we, as crime writers, bring. I am so curious to see if they react to the same stories I did. Of course I reserve the right to overrule any decision they make:)
And finally, I just about five minutes ago got through the final chapter of One Too Many Blows To The Head's final edits. Super huge thanks to Deborah Ledford (author of Staccato one of our prize books!) for doing a pass and fixing many of my totally obvious (and yet overlooked) mistakes as well as playing grammar police which I need. I really need a whole swat team. As much as I liked the book before this gives it a real polish and makes me embarrassed that anyone read it before this stage. We won't make our Oct 1st date but soon. SOON!
On to the pictures:
From San Diego comes Jimmy Callaway's roll top desk. An antique? Hand-me-down? Found on the street with a sign that said "free"? This is obviously a multi-purpose space. Love the pink beer cozy and Jesus candle. And who still has that many cassette tapes? Much respect for a turntable though. My office has one too. I rue the day I need to find replacement needles.
From all the way Down Under comes Cameron Ashley's desk which doubles as an *a-hem* "entertainment" center apparently. You can tell he's a writer though because of the pen. Despite the distractions he manages to crank out some mighty fine crime fiction.
Finally is J.F. Juzwik's desk. Only knowing Joyce online she seems a contradiction. Sweet and friendly in her correspondence she turns dark and nasty in her fiction. And apparently likes toys. It is a Bionicle. I only know this because she identified it for me. This is a woman with secrets....
In contest news - the deadline for submissions is Wednesday! We've gotten some great stories. Amazing riffs on the fist idea. Brutal crimes, quiet menace, a ghost story, one story where I had to go back and re-read it to find the fist it was woven in so subtly (but well). I am inspired by you all and flattered that people took the time at my paltry request to create something new out of thin air. After Wednesday the stories will go off to our secret panel of judges. All I can tell you is that they are coming at them from the perspective of an average reader. We wanted the unvarnished reaction without the baggage that we, as crime writers, bring. I am so curious to see if they react to the same stories I did. Of course I reserve the right to overrule any decision they make:)
And finally, I just about five minutes ago got through the final chapter of One Too Many Blows To The Head's final edits. Super huge thanks to Deborah Ledford (author of Staccato one of our prize books!) for doing a pass and fixing many of my totally obvious (and yet overlooked) mistakes as well as playing grammar police which I need. I really need a whole swat team. As much as I liked the book before this gives it a real polish and makes me embarrassed that anyone read it before this stage. We won't make our Oct 1st date but soon. SOON!
On to the pictures:
From San Diego comes Jimmy Callaway's roll top desk. An antique? Hand-me-down? Found on the street with a sign that said "free"? This is obviously a multi-purpose space. Love the pink beer cozy and Jesus candle. And who still has that many cassette tapes? Much respect for a turntable though. My office has one too. I rue the day I need to find replacement needles.
From all the way Down Under comes Cameron Ashley's desk which doubles as an *a-hem* "entertainment" center apparently. You can tell he's a writer though because of the pen. Despite the distractions he manages to crank out some mighty fine crime fiction.
Finally is J.F. Juzwik's desk. Only knowing Joyce online she seems a contradiction. Sweet and friendly in her correspondence she turns dark and nasty in her fiction. And apparently likes toys. It is a Bionicle. I only know this because she identified it for me. This is a woman with secrets....
Thursday, September 24, 2009
I hate hardcovers (and I don't care who knows it)
The following is a re-post from my monthly day on the Second Wind Publishing blog. There are some great musings on writing and other topics there from all the Second Wind authors so browse around a little bit while you're there. Enjoy!
--------------
Giving the Hardcover a Hard time
by Eric Beetner
What is the appeal of the hardcover novel? I just don’t get it. On the eve of having my name on a book out in the world I am glad to not have it be a hardcover. I want people to read it and therefore I want people to afford it.
Let’s run down the pros and cons: Hardcovers probably last longer if you don’t care for your books all that well. Last time I visited my Father’s house, though, he still has paperbacks on his shelf that predate me so I guess they’re doing okay.
Um...I’m out of pros on the hardback.
Cons: They’re expensive. They’re heavy. They have those annoying dust jackets on them that do nothing at all about dust and just get in the way, fall off, get torn (much easier than a soft cover book) and increase the printing costs. Did I mention they’re expensive? You can’t put it in your pocket. They weigh down a carry-on for the plane.
Wait - one more pro for hardcovers: they are much better for squishing bugs.
I am partial to trade paperbacks which are a little larger and don’t usually pass the pocket test depending on what pants you’re wearing, but the pros on soft covers: Smaller and therefore easier to tote around, stash away and you can fit more on a bookshelf saving the yearly purge of books that results in a Sophie’s Choice scenario of what to keep and what to give away. (never throw books away!) To me they feel more intimate. They aren’t as high falutin’ so I have less of a problem with dog-earing pages or cracking the spine a little. Wear and tear looks good on a paperback like an old pair of jeans.
And they’re cheaper. That’s the big one.
In this economy, and even before, hardcover books are too expensive. You can give me the keepsake, read-em-twice argument until you’re blue in the face but I say $25 is too much for a book. When movies crossed the ten dollar mark there was outrage. We’ve since come to accept ten bucks and more but imagine being charged $25 for a ticket? There would be riots in the streets.
And don’t get me started on children’s books. The vast majority of kids books seem to be hardcover and cost $12, $15, $20! And this is for a book with maybe 30 pages and 200 words. My 3-year-old daughter’s first interaction with a new book is to rip off the dust jacket and say, “I don’t want this.” Underneath? An exact duplicate image. Why do a jacket at all?
Molly has easily over 200 books. She has infinite patience for listening to them and is so excited for the day she can read them herself. Cheaper, more accessible books would mean she could maintain this love of the written word for her whole life. I hate to think of the day when she gets priced out of a love for books.
So given a choice, I will wait for the soft cover. Really I just wish everything would go straight there. I’d buy a lot more books. Would you? Am I nuts? Are there hardcover purists out there still sitting in the drawing room while listening to their turntables and watching their laserdiscs who think this is heresy?
You weigh in. You won’t change my mind though. The hardcover is a dinosaur whose time has past.
--------------
Giving the Hardcover a Hard time
by Eric Beetner
What is the appeal of the hardcover novel? I just don’t get it. On the eve of having my name on a book out in the world I am glad to not have it be a hardcover. I want people to read it and therefore I want people to afford it.
Let’s run down the pros and cons: Hardcovers probably last longer if you don’t care for your books all that well. Last time I visited my Father’s house, though, he still has paperbacks on his shelf that predate me so I guess they’re doing okay.
Um...I’m out of pros on the hardback.
Cons: They’re expensive. They’re heavy. They have those annoying dust jackets on them that do nothing at all about dust and just get in the way, fall off, get torn (much easier than a soft cover book) and increase the printing costs. Did I mention they’re expensive? You can’t put it in your pocket. They weigh down a carry-on for the plane.
Wait - one more pro for hardcovers: they are much better for squishing bugs.
I am partial to trade paperbacks which are a little larger and don’t usually pass the pocket test depending on what pants you’re wearing, but the pros on soft covers: Smaller and therefore easier to tote around, stash away and you can fit more on a bookshelf saving the yearly purge of books that results in a Sophie’s Choice scenario of what to keep and what to give away. (never throw books away!) To me they feel more intimate. They aren’t as high falutin’ so I have less of a problem with dog-earing pages or cracking the spine a little. Wear and tear looks good on a paperback like an old pair of jeans.
And they’re cheaper. That’s the big one.
In this economy, and even before, hardcover books are too expensive. You can give me the keepsake, read-em-twice argument until you’re blue in the face but I say $25 is too much for a book. When movies crossed the ten dollar mark there was outrage. We’ve since come to accept ten bucks and more but imagine being charged $25 for a ticket? There would be riots in the streets.
And don’t get me started on children’s books. The vast majority of kids books seem to be hardcover and cost $12, $15, $20! And this is for a book with maybe 30 pages and 200 words. My 3-year-old daughter’s first interaction with a new book is to rip off the dust jacket and say, “I don’t want this.” Underneath? An exact duplicate image. Why do a jacket at all?
Molly has easily over 200 books. She has infinite patience for listening to them and is so excited for the day she can read them herself. Cheaper, more accessible books would mean she could maintain this love of the written word for her whole life. I hate to think of the day when she gets priced out of a love for books.
So given a choice, I will wait for the soft cover. Really I just wish everything would go straight there. I’d buy a lot more books. Would you? Am I nuts? Are there hardcover purists out there still sitting in the drawing room while listening to their turntables and watching their laserdiscs who think this is heresy?
You weigh in. You won’t change my mind though. The hardcover is a dinosaur whose time has past.
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