TANGLED IN YOUR OWN BOOTSTRAPS

by Rob Lopresti

I was recently at an independent bookstore, The Shredded Page, doing a reading for my new book, The Knitting for Zombies Diet. (Available now! The perfect stocking stuffer for Chanukah!) We had a good crowd, and I can say in all modesty that my audience appeared to be having one of the key experiences of their lives.

When I finished, I paused dramatically and gazed out at the breathless crowd. Then I asked if there were any questions.

I was pleased that almost every hand was raised. Well, almost half the hands. One per customer, generally.

I selected a shrewd-eyed older gentleman who had snagged a front row seat. “Who is your publisher?” he asked.

“Good question,” I assured him. “Overrun Press is a new imprint, a small but feisty independent company of whom great things are expected. My editor—”

“Sounds like a fake name to me,” said a large woman in a small red blouse. She was chewing the top of her pen. “Are you sure you didn’t just self-publish?”

“Overrun is real,” I said, a little vexed. “I do not believe in vanity publishing. In fact, if I—”

“The term vanity publishing is an insult,” said a young man leaning against the wall. He was a dead-ringer for Trotsky. “And wildly out of date. The bosses no longer control the means of production. Any author can and should take responsibility for creating their own work and sharing it with the world.”

“Self-publishing is the wave of the future,” agreed a nervous-looking teenager. “All the best zines and graphic novels—”

“Comic books,” snarled a fat man with a white beard who managed to look nothing whatsoever like Santa Claus. “Let’s talk about literature, for pete’s sake. How do you get your books reviewed in literary magazines?”

“Listen,” I said. “I’m actually here to talk about my book, not about the publishing industry. Doesn’t anyone have any questions about Knitting for Zombies?”

A shy-looking woman near the back tentatively raised her hand. “What font is your book in? I don’t recognize it.”

I was getting cranky. “I don’t mean questions about the font, or the paper quality, or the size of the freaking margins. What about the contents? Doesn’t anyone have a thought about my controversial suggestion that high cholesterol caused by an all-brain diet can be controlled through the American Moss stitch—”

“I don’t have time to read that kind of stuff,” said the only man in the room with a suit. “I’m busy writing.”

I saw nods around the room. “How many of you have written a book?”

Almost every hand went up. Well, one per customer. See above.

The timid woman was a stickler for accuracy. “I’m not finished yet. So I haven’t written a book . . . ”

“Never mind. So all of you are here to find out how to get your book published?” More nods. “Do any of you still read?”

More looks of bafflement. One man with Coke-bottle lenses stood up, looking as irritated as I felt. “You people should be ashamed of yourselves! How can you write if you don’t know what’s being published now? And how can you call yourself literate if you don’t read the classics?”

“Quite right,” I said. “I guess this bookstore is lucky to have you for a customer, sir.”

“Uh.” He sat down. “I, um, mostly buy books on Kindle from Amazon.”

“I see. And do you go to the author readings Amazon arranges in your city?”

He frowned. “Do they do that?”

Before I could respond to the sarcasm-challenged man, the non-Santa Claus attacked him. “Don’t tell us to be ashamed, pal You shouldn’t be buying books on Kindle. Why give all your money to Amazon? Use iPad or Nook.”

That got a quarrel going. It seemed almost everyone had a favorite e-format for books, which seemed to be based on the format they thought their future masterpiece would look best in, rather than what they would want to read.

“Pretty pathetic,” said a slim man with a smile. He had sidled up from the side of the room.

“So, what’s your book about?” I asked him.

He held it out for my inspection. Marketing Your Book to the Post-Literate Mob.

“That sounds useful,” I admitted.

“Yours too,” he said. “My aunt is a zombie.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“She’s getting treatment. The doctors can do wonders these days. Hey, you wanna trade books?”

So the evening wasn’t a total loss, although the bookstore might disagree.