The predicate for this web site is the publication of a novel, Hound, by Small Beer Press in the fall. I would not have attempted to establish this forum just now if the suggestion had not been made repeatedly that I needed to create some greater context for that book. Who was I after all, and why should anyone read yet another mystery by an unknown author?
From the monthly archives:
January 2009
Before Newton observed the descent of the apple, the gravity of his realization was well known. However, he was the first to establish this identification in a code that might be applied as principle to the understanding of other mysteries. As a result, the whole field of physics was born, and all of the scientific marvel which followed from it. Might Newton then be entitled to ownership, or at least a share of the ownership to all of our modern uses of gravity?
In my youth, an article appeared called The Tragedy of the Commons by Garrett Hardin. At the time, it was the second most thought provoking thing I had ever read. It prompted one unfinished novel in response at a time when I was overextended with other ambitions and has recently been the seed of a new effort I am well into the midst of and hope to…
Years too late, I am just getting used to the new medium. I have been on the reader end of this shtick since the mid-90’s, but producing a web-site offers an entirely new prospect.
A friend who shall remain Scottish sent me a link in response to the second installment of this series of rants about the business of writing, editing and publishing. As a consequence, I have completely re-written the original drafts of this post and the next. Such feedback and response was not possible in the world of ink and paper, and thus another dawning of light on Marblehead.
I was again humbled by the potential of the internet in making this very post. For a long while I have told a simple story as an example of a moment of realization which now appears to be a false memory, a conflation of several different journeys made over…
On January 12, 2009, the Wikipedia website presented a front page with an 
account of King Arthur. Having a life-long interest in the subject–one of my several unfinished novels is based on the legends—I read it with some interest. The article was noteworthy, but mostly for what it lacked.
Following the article was an extensive field of footnotes and links. This was impressive in size, but not in content. Most of the links were to sources which were in fact drawn from other linked sources. In other words, if I wrote an article based on the sources cited, I too could become a source. This ingrown toenail of research is equivalent to using the same word to define itself.
And though I am not a scholar, only an interested party, I immediately noticed the absence of citations for original scholarly works which might contradict the thrust of…
There is one element, and only one, in the publishing process which cannot be replaced—without which, publishing, per se, would cease to exist. Most people, when asked what that is, will answer quickly, “the author.” But they would be wrong. Most people don’t want to think about how things work. They simply want it to work and they want it now. Any attempt to explain the importance of knowing is met with indignation—as if the reality is a mistake and their wanting is the matter.
Virgil wrote his poetry with a quill. Herodotus wrote his histories in the same manner. Neither had any concept of publishing, and yet we are still reading them.
In publishing, a five hundred year old business, every single element but one has been changed over the last fifty years. From the submission of the manuscript to the selling of the book in the…
I would like to say I stopped aspiring years ago. It can be bad for your health, psychologically as well as physically. It is something one often does in the dark, alone, beneath the covers, or in the shower. But, obviously, its not true. I still do.
Failed aspirations are at least frustrating, and often the hard futility of dreams turned to dust can produce a bitterness which colors your responses to other matters of life and death and spoils the small enjoyments which are cumulatively the better part of a life.
It occurs to me that it was dumb luck that I chose other outlets for my aspirations in addition to my writing. Bookselling has been a joy. And better than that, taking a part in the raising of three kids has been more important to my happiness than anything else I could have imagined on paper.…
Twelve reasons for the death of small and independent book stores:
Ever thankful to those who made the effort before us, with heartfelt apologies to those who are still in the fight and the few who support them–offered upon the closing of Avenue Victor Hugo Bookshop in Boston.
1. Corporate law (and the politicians, lawyers, businessmen and accountants who created it for their own benefit)–a legal fiction with more rights than the individual citizen, which allows the likes of Barnes & Noble and Walmart to write off the losses of a store in Massachusetts against the profit of another in California, while paying taxes in Delaware–for making ‘competition’ a joke and turning the free market down the dark road toward state capitalism.
2. Publishers–marketing their product like so much soap or breakfast cereal, aiming at demographics instead of people, looking for the biggest immediate return instead of considering the future…
Filed Under: Essays, The Death of the Book
Turn! Turn! Turn!…but laid upon its edge, the grindstone becomes a wheel.
As a boy I was fascinated with the Norman Rockwell painting of a family tree, depicting the generations from pirate of the Spanish Main to pirate of Wall Street.
A regular newspaper reader of average interest and intelligence could tell Pinch, the old gray lady’s current keeper, more about how to save his rag than a hundred self-important editorial minions.
My first awareness of what music was, was a cousin sitting on the front porch of my grandparents house in Spartanburg, South Carolina, playing away on an enormous guitar and singing in a voice which was not pretty, but made you listen.
