Traditionalist

My first manuscript is finally on its way to an actual professional publisher.  I have four more copies to send in this first batch of pubs to try and gauge interest in something as outlandish as a post-apocalyptic western, but I suppose there are stranger things on the market.

In short, here goes nothing.

Given that the full work is about 600 paperback pages, I decided to polish up the first three chapters and send them along, with an explanation that the work is finished should they be interested in receiving the rest.  My hope is that a thinner docket may have a greater chance of actually being read in full, and at worst it costs me a lot less in postage to get it there.

Win-win.

It does strike me as funny that, despite the death of Borders, the rise of the Kindle and my own personal penchant for going electronic, I was adamant with myself about sending a hard copy to each potential publisher.

Despite working in computers and being an Internet geek in my spare time, I still find it more relaxing to read on paper than online, and I suppose I expect the same of most publishers (or at least their intake copy-editors).

It's funny to be a huge supporter of online communication, having made it the lifeblood of my day-to-day connection to both local friends and the world at large, and yet know full well that reading is something I consider best done offline.  Emails and status updates I have no problem with viewing in their native pixelated format, but when it's for-pleasure reading, I want to hold something in my hands.

There's an oft-lauded quality to paper copies that I suspect will one day be the turn-dial radio to our plasma TVs.  Books, in the physical sense, are becoming every bit as treasured, honored and at once as misunderstood as oil paintings and black-and-white films.

In a purely pragmatic sense, there are only a few reasons to prefer paper copy to the ease of the electronic equivalent, and most of them have to do with world-ending events better suited to the fantastic worlds they describe than any genuine discussion of value.

Yet at the same time, they will always be a raw thrill to the scent of old paper and ink, to the feel of holding rough parchment in your hands or hearing the light crinkle of a leather binding.

That's not to suggest that every Harlequin romance or urban fantasy tripe gains some intrinsic artistry simply by living in paper form, simply that the books we love are so often made more lovable by the true expression of time; like the Velveteen rabbit.

But there's another reason why books often beat out e-readers, in my estimation:  the sense of disconnecting. The presence of silence.

When you hold a book, you can disappear into your own little world, casting aside all former ties and obligations in favor of a fictional fantasy that envelopes you.  Many e-readers offer the same, if they are e-readers alone, but in our app-frenzy craze, it's rare to find any electronic device not already coupled with social networking sites, news updates, Flash games and every other modern distraction bombarding our every moment with a fresh reminder of an ever-changing world.

The many pop-ups and push notifications are like little messengers constantly stopping at our door to deliver new news before rushing out again, never pausing to chat or smell the flowers or enjoy the bright, sunny day.  It makes it difficult to simply unplug and enjoy a few brief hours of solace and solitude, surrounded by the denizens of your latest literary adventure.

Even when the device itself doesn't prompt you with endless updates, knowing that such apps are only a finger-swipe away can test the discipline of even the best of us when it comes to setting aside our busy lives.  For as much as I adore the instant and infinite connectedness of the online world, the last place I want to see it is when I'm knee-deep in a thrilling epic about sorcery, love and betrayal.

The point, in my opinion, of for-pleasure reading is escape and discovery, two quests best performed without interruption.  If we can grant ourselves the discipline to craft e-readers that remain, in every sense, purely e-readers, then I see no reason why the world of online literature shouldn't largely supplant at least modern hardbacks as the standard in new literature.

Hard copies will always exist for the unique collector's value and our own inexplicable joy at holding a beloved tome in hand; and because somewhere, in the backs of our minds, we know that one day the zombies will come and threaten the sustainability of our national power grid.

And that is precisely when you need a proper Robert Jordan anthology to fend off the coming apocalypse.