LJNDawson

Book publishing. And everything else.

How We Talk About Ferguson

Scamp texts me from a lockdown drill that she’s going to “wallow in bed all afternoon” because her anger has exhausted her.

Nothing from Diva – probably too angry to even talk.

With Bernardo, the conversation is sort of interspersed with other things. “Chicken cutlets for dinner.” “They’re blocking the FDR.” A staccato of inter-leaved realities. All important. Some more important than others. We’re on the same page. We don’t need to make sense to anyone else.

With my therapist – I emailed him in a moment of anguish on Monday night. Tuesday morning, I got a response that basically said, “No, you don’t need to come in because of this. What you’re feeling is utterly justified and there is nothing wrong with you.” Is it a mark of privilege when you need some sort of permission or blessing to feel justifiable pain, and let it spill over onto people you love? Or is it a mark of how incredibly screwed up we are?

My project manager comes into the office with his usual greeting: “How you doin’?” “Sad.” “Don’t even get me started, yo.”

Tomorrow we’re supposed to give thanks. Today I’m sort of trying to gather up the pieces of my frame of gratitude, and impose that frame on all this. It’s a better perspective than despair, I suppose.

In the meantime, I’m trying to come up with civil rights/feminist/human rights organizations to donate to. That’s the Christmas present I want Bernardo to give me. Suggestions welcome.

Oh, Dad

My father really loved Bill Cosby. We had a couple of his albums, along with Beyond the Fringe and other records. But Cosby…

My dad fought in the Newark riots. The Cosby Show was sort of mandatory viewing in our house.  Not even mandatory – we looked forward to it.

My heart hurts. Because, as my friend MiAngelo says, where there’s smoke, there’s fire. And I hate it. Because my father expected better. He thought he had better. He fought for more than this.

I’m sort of glad that my dad is beyond where he can care.

But I’m not.

Pinhole Breathing

My new ENT tells me that I have “silent reflux”. This is reflux with no symptoms except…asthma.

Not that the allergy shots were a waste – I have been feeling better. But I’ve plateaued. So the allergist sent me across the hall to the ENT, and he…stuck a camera UP MY NOSE and INTO MY SINUS CAVITY and DOWN MY THROAT.

There is something very wrong about an object going IN a passage where you’re used to things coming OUT. You want to kind of stop and say, “No, see, you’re doing this wrong, let me show you” – but of course in the case of these teeny cameras on strings, it’s not wrong. It just FEELS wrong. (Oh, it feels so very, very wrong.)

At any rate, he was able to see the inflammation. I am to avoid all the things I normally avoid (except coffee – he said I could have a cup of coffee), and take prescription Prilosec before bed. When I told him I’d felt like I was breathing through a pinhole, he said that actually, my larynx was swelling up and pressing against my esophagus and so, indeed, that sensation was in fact accurate.

Tonight Bernardo and Gina are going to Gina’s mom’s house for dinner – I am going to go to the gym and walk on the treadmill because it’s horrid outside, and then come home and have a pasta and knit and pickle my tomatoes and watch Big Bang Theory (which reminds me so much of high school and the nerds I hung out with).

What I’m reading: The Italian Secretary (on paper! Scandal!)

What I’m listening to: Silence. Blissful silence, and the wind, and critters scritching around my gutters.

All Is Safely Gathered In

If there is ever a constant to this life that rivals death and taxes, it’s that laundry will always need to be done.

Even tax-evading vampires need to do laundry.

Looking ahead, laundry is going to be the main chore through the winter. Laundry and sweeping up dog hair. Today we did the last of the fall chores. Cleaned the cars for the winter punishment. Raked the leaves and put them under the shrubs to compost. I closed the garden for the year, harvesting the last of the celosia:

Celosia harvest

And also the remaining green tomatoes, which I will pickle tomorrow:

Tomatoes

I’ve begun using my winter feel-good light in the mornings, setting the alarm a little early. One problem I have as the darkness sets in is a tendency to expect too much of myself. To use the word “should” excessively. This is tough to combat – I was raised a Calvinist, from a long line of Calvinists going back to the 1600s. During the Scottish Revolution, Petheric McCurdy and his two brothers fled the Isle of Bute (which they had basically run since the 1400s) in a rowboat, landing in Northern Ireland. (The tartan I wear at St. Patrick’s Day events is the green version of the Stuart plaid, because the McCurdy’s are part of the Stuart clan – nobody knows the difference anymore, and I get a secret ironic giggle. That said, Petheric and his brothers would fairly well strangle me if they knew I’d converted to Catholicism.)

All of which is to say – if you are of a mind to expect more of yourself than you can reasonably fulfill, winter can be a hard time. Like so many, I dread the darkness. But somehow, as a civilization, we manage to get through it year after year after millennia after year. So the darkness comes – because it must – but it seems we’ve discovered that we don’t have to succumb to it. We can find our pleasures in the ordinary things.

Celosia_vase

Gina’s a Witch!

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My Favorite Lucybun pic

Lucytongue

RIP, Lucy

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Go Home, Amazon. You’re Drunk.

I received, along with every KDP author, Amazon’s email this morning and my immediate response was, “What the everloving f***?”

I’d seen that sort of word salad before – after breaking up with someone. The sort of message that is filled with hurt feelings, false equivalencies, misattributions, and not much else.

It’s an uncharacteristic move by Amazon, who previously seemed to act as if they didn’t care what anyone thought about anything. They’ve never had to explain themselves before. They’ve certainly never pleaded with their customers and suppliers before. Bullied their suppliers, yes. Pleaded with them, not so much.

My second response was, “Why on EARTH would Michael Pietsch care AT ALL about what KDP authors think? The entire point of tradition publishers is NOT to care about what independent authors think.” Then I saw that Amazon had extended its message to readers. That made marginally more sense.

So yes, Amazon has blinked. And I think the reason is that they’ve received a little bit of a reality check. They apparently CAN’T bully all their suppliers. Now Hachette doesn’t represent a ton of Amazon’s (weakening) profits. But Amazon still needs Hachette. They need Hachette not to be an example. Because if one publisher does it, another one will too. And if the Big 5 all do it, the littler ones will too. And if book publishers do it, other suppliers will too.

And Wall Street is watching. Bezos’s leash is a little shorter than it has been.

Why Amazon wrote this note, instead of doing the usual clamming up, will probably always be a mystery. But I kind of prefer Simon Collinson’s theory.

Two Days in a Dream Bookstore

Chris Kubica, founder of NeverEnd Media, editor of “Letters to J. D. Salinger”, and associate producer of the documentary “Salinger”, convened a group of book industry mavens (recruited primarily via a listserv called “Reading 2.0,” which is hosted by Peter Brantley) in New York City on July 29-30, to discuss what he called “building a dream bookstore” – and I was fortunate enough to attend. There were about 20 of us, from a wide variety of positions within the industry: literary agencies, IP lawyers, publishers, librarians, book designers, technologists, and Bob Stein. I was wearing my “I used to be a bookseller” hat, mostly.

This arose, of course, from a commonly-held desire amongst the attendees (and some attended virtually as well) to really probe The Amazon Problem. Amazon is many things. To customers, it’s an ideal store that basically sells everything you could possibly want, and delivers it almost before you know you want it (yesterday on Twitter I was calling this #acciostuff). To developers, it’s a technology company that basically invented what we know as “the cloud”. To publishers, it’s a disintermediator, a disruptor, a strong-armed bully upending business models and shrinking margins. To authors, it’s a benefactor and a cruel mistress.

The problem with The Amazon Problem, however, is that to the customer, there are no problems. The problems are with Amazon’s interactions with the book industry – much of which the customer never sees and doesn’t care about. As we poked and prodded, dreamed and built, we kept coming back to this: Amazon works for customers. It doesn’t just work – it works brilliantly. To build a dream bookstore for a publisher necessarily means friction with the customer (publishers would want higher margins and more restrictions in their favor). To build a dream bookstore for an author necessarily means friction with the customer (authors would like to get paid a living wage for their work, ideally, and have more control over sales). Amazon’s ruthless focus on its customers means (a) they are incredibly loyal because Amazon makes it easy for them to be (b) see (a). That model means that by design Amazon has adversarial relationships with its suppliers.

My dream bookstore would sell browser-based, open, standardized, interoperable, web-enabled ebooks. But right now, customers don’t know they want that. It may be that Amazon is building towards some of these features (without the ISO and W3C standards, of course, because they don’t want a platform that makes it easier for customers to buy their books at other stores). Amazon is a world unto itself. And customers seem to like it that way.

This was an incredibly valuable experience. It taught me several things. One is, Amazon did not get to be so powerful by accident. They are very, very, very smart, and their customer service is unparalleled. All of our industry hand-wringing over the Hachette negotiations is just that – the customer experience (and I say this as an Amazon Prime member) is just not that horribly affected by Amazon’s refusal to sell most of Hachette’s titles. That’s a tough realization, because Hachette is big.

Another thing is that we were 20-odd bookish people in the room (with more watching via webcam). And we couldn’t figure it out. We are insiders – collectively, there must have been hundreds of years of experience in the book business sitting around that table. As with most cases of disruption, it isn’t going to happen from inside.

But the third thing I realized is that Jeff Bezos was “not a book person”. He may love books, but until he founded Amazon, he didn’t work in the industry. Now he actually is in the industry, and has been for 20 years. He’s one of us. If a major disruption is not going to happen from inside, then “inside” includes Amazon – and any major disruption by definition will disrupt Amazon too.

We just don’t know what that is yet.

Of course, there’s always more

In 1967, I was 2 years old. 

My parents lived in Verona, New Jersey – just a couple of miles away from Montclair, where we moved a bit later, and where my youngest daughter spends most of her week at her dad’s house. (Oh, irony. Less than a mile from the house where I spent formative years.)

My father was a Presbyterian minister at Central Presbyterian in Montclair. In 1967, the riots in Newark were going on.

My dad was (and my sister and brother and I are) part Seminole and Blackfoot. His dad and mom grew up passing for pure white. (But also with a weird pride when it became fashionable again.) And Dad’s gut was yanked into the instability in Newark. He wanted to help. Knowing my dad, it wouldn’t surprise me if he felt he had no choice. A hardscrabble, mixed-race kid from Oklahoma City who made it to Harvard Divinity School (where he met my mom), the situation must have been howling at him.

So he went to the traditionally black churches in Newark. And one night he was jacked up against the wall and threatened. Basically, “white people are the problem, why are you here” sort of thing.

Somehow he talked everyone down. Most likely by relating to them – “I grew up hard – my grandmother’s family hated my dad because he was Indian and born in a sod house and of uncertain parentage”. He got out of the church intact. And he blamed no one for the rage. He understood it.

And he kept working. We moved to Southern Delaware, which in the 1970s was plenty racist, I can assure you. I was taught Civil War history by a Byrd from Virginia who insisted on the “states’ rights” line of thinking among a bunch of 10-year-olds – and that was the only Civil War history we received. Everything else I’ve had to learn on my own. But the fact that he dealt corporal punishment exclusively to African American kids was not lost on me. 

Dad had plenty to do there. And he did. He counseled other ministers who had crosses burning on their lawns (oh yes, the Klan was alive and well then). He embraced gay rights long before anyone else ever did – counseling families who were breaking up because the father couldn’t live the lie anymore; counseling women who were lonely because they could not confess their relationships or even desires. He was incensed at prejudice, at bigotry, whenever it reared up.

I miss him a lot, because there’s so much to talk about now

 

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