Holy Horror, as some are painfully aware, is priced at $45.Even those of us in publishing have lessons we must learn, and one of them is that writing a trade book involves more than just a “friendly narrator” style and non-technical language.It also involves a subject the public finds engaging (or at least what a literary agent thinks the public will find engaging).Holy Horror throws two apparently disparate topics together: horror films and the Bible.The fans of each don’t hang out in the same bars—the fans of the latter, in some circles, don’t go anywhere near bars!My thinking was that this juxtaposition was odd enough to qualify as trade, but I also knew that you have to work your way up to that kind of readership.That’s why I’m on Goodreads, Twitter, and Facebook (followers and friends welcome!).It’s not like I’ve got tons of spare time, but platforms must be built.
Book publishers face a dilemma: they have to sell books, but as I’ve noted before, they must do so profitably.There are people like yours truly who’ll occasionally pay essentially a dollar a page (or at least a two-page spread) for a book that’s essential to their work.As the capitalists grin, it’s “what the market will bear.” I never thought of myself as a market. To me, knowledge is priceless.The effort that it takes to write a book is truly unimaginable to those who haven’t done it.Obstacles exist almost from the inception.Getting the resources you need, unless your employment comes with a free library pass, involves sacrifice.I still look at other books I must read priced at about $45 and groan—how can I justify the expense?It’s a strange club to which to belong.
My mother asked about Weathering the Psalms: “Is it the kind of book you get money for?”In theory, yes.I’ve yet to see any kind of profit from it since the tax forms you need to file for royalties cost more than the actual checks contain.At least it’s not vanity publishing.And you truly learn what it means to rob Peter to pay Paul.It has nothing to do with gentiles.Publishing is the price you pay for following your curiosity.My books are very different from each other, a fact that comes with an invisible price tag that has little to do with money exchanging hands.Well, maybe it does.And maybe it does have something to do with gentiles.Or maybe it’s an appeal to a higher power.In a capitalist nation we all know what that is; herein lies holy horror.
Like many in the internet age, I have most of my “connections” online.It’s somewhat of a rarity to be invited, for example, to connect on LinkedIn by someone I actually know.I remember the early dissemination of information from that network—it was strictly for people you really did know in real life, because they could help or hurt your career.I took that seriously for a year or two, but it became clear that this was another Facebook with a more professional cast.I’ve been told of authors who try to build their online platform by adding thousands of connections on LinkedIn.The website, however, is not intended as an advertising venue.It has, however, become one.
I’m not denigrating LinkedIn.I’ve found two jobs through it and I’ve had recruiters reach out to me because they found my profile there.For a religionist that can be quite flattering.Academia and society tend to tell you that such a skillset is okay but basically useless.Having others who know the wide diversity of human employment these days can be a sign of hope.Nevertheless, advertising has crept into LinkedIn.I’m not talking about the frequent invitations to go professional on the site, which will only cost a small fee that will suddenly show up on your credit card bill when you least expect it and thought you were in the clear.No, I’m talking about connections contacting you to do gratis work for them.Advertising their book, or their services.Letting others know, they ask, that they can provide this or that service. (Just to be clear, I’m not referring to people who contact me personally because we have an actual connection!)
For those of us working stiffs not in a position to hire anyone—professionally or personally—this is another symbol of how any form of communication becomes commodified.Fully over half of my email is soliciting money in one form or another.Hearing from an actual person with an actual message for me is so rare that I’m stunned to find one in my inbox.Capitalism just doesn’t know when to let go.And it doesn’t have a good read on what little I actually do buy.Underwear (and just using that word will color the tailored ads I receive for weeks) vendors seem to think I’m concerned about the fashion of garments others don’t see.The books Amazon suggests, based on a solid track record, are generally far off from my interests.What hope do those who don’t know me have of selling me their wares through LinkedIn?The dream of connection without cash changing hands nevertheless remains alive.
O great—just what I need right now.I knew lawn care would soon become a necessary avocation after buying a house, but this I did not expect.Over the weekend I found myself pulling up dandelions that were growing out of cracks in the front steps.Since we compost, I laid them out on a slab, figuring when they dried out I could make them into more soil.(From which more dandelions will grow, I know, but still it just feels right.)I came back a day later to find that the dandelions had returned to the vertical position.Zombie dandelions!They apparently couldn’t stay dead.Now, I’ve been writing about demons for the past several months and I’d forgotten about zombies.Well, I did post about resurrection on Easter, but my short-lived digression left me unprepared for this.
Really, the persistence of life is a sign of hope.Perhaps dead zones, such as morality in Washington DC, will someday come back to life.There’s hope for a tree, Job tells us, even if cut down.These dandelions were a message for me.Don’t give up.Prior to religion being hijacked by theology it was a system intended to make life better for people.Human beings were more important than heretical thoughts.You help those who need it, regardless of what they believe.Or don’t believe.That was the point behind resurrection, I suspect—we can rise above all this dirt in which we find ourselves.There’s a nobility to it.Then again, fear trumps hope just about every time.The dandelions are rising and we have no hope of outnumbering them.
The ancients feared the dead coming back.It’s a primal phobia.All those things we buried with tears we hoped would stay the way we left them.Life, as Malcolm says, will find a way.Politicians, it seems, will find a way around it.Call it executive privilege or whatever you will, the end result is the same.The yellow-headed fuzzies will threaten you even when uprooted and left to dry in the sun.Now, our lawn isn’t pretty.Grasses of different varieties contend with weeds I’ve never seen before for scarce resources.I’ve never minded dandelions.They don’t ask much, only they now seem to be demanding the right to come back from the compost.And if we let that happen, all hope is lost.
Uh-oh!I seem to be airborne.All that’s in front of me is concrete.If I don’t do something, my exposed hands will hit first.Tuck, and try not to hit your head.Still, on impact the first thing I do is look around to see if anyone saw that.It’s embarrassing to trip and fall, especially when you’re old enough to be avoiding that sort of thing.I jog before it’s fully light out, however, and the sidewalks can be uneven.Just in case anyone’s watching my Superman impression, I immediately climb to my feet and resume my pace.I’ll be sore tomorrow.As a jogger since high school you’d think I’d have this worked out by now, but you’re never too old to learn, I guess.
The amazing thing to me is just how much you can think in those fleet seconds that you’re actually in the air, about to hit the ground like a sack of old man.That’s exactly what happened, though, from the split second I felt my toe catch in an unseen crack and felt my balance give way.Taking additional steps while trying to straighten back up sometimes works, but my top-heavy head was too far out of sync and my feet were sure to follow.Your memory of such things goes out of body and you watch yourself comically flying, without the grace of a bird, toward an unforgiving substrate.Such is the fate of the early morning runner.I don’t have time to do it during the day.What if someone emails and I don’t answer?They’ll think I’m slacking off.Remote workers!
Despite the occasional spills, I’ve always enjoyed this form of exercise.In the post-Nashotah House days while still in Wisconsin I’d sometimes do nine miles at a time.Whenever I’ve moved to a new place I’ve gotten to know the neighborhood by jogging around.Even if it’s not fully light you can see plenty.(Although the cracks in the sidewalk aren’t always obvious.)I tend to think about these things as life lessons.Parables, if you will.One of the deep-seated human dreams is that of flying.Birds make it look so easy, and fun.A human body feels so heavy when it impacts the ground.I suspect that’s why we find gymnasts so fascinating to watch.As for me, I’m just a middle-aged guy in sweats and wearing glasses.And even as I head home I’m already thinking how remarkable the number of thoughts are in the few seconds while in flight, somewhere over the concrete.
I’m working on embracing the electronic age.No doubt it’s convenient.And fast!Publishing is, and always has been, a slow industry.As connoisseurs of anything know, quality takes time.This brings me to my paean to paper.I generally write these blog posts on a computer.That makes sense since they have to go onto the web and to do so they must be keyboarded.Many of them start, however, on paper.Sketching and free-flowing lines can become ideas, yet to draw on a computer you have to buy specialized (and expensive) equipment and software (which costs even more) to use it.You’ll lose months of you life learning how to use said software.In the end you’ll probably have forgotten, what?I forget.
The other day I ran into an author who wanted maps.In an electronic age the easiest way to get maps is to take them from the web.Google Maps seems innocent enough.Only it’s covered by copyright, and commercial use requires permission.As I went through the whole permissions process I was thinking of tracing paper.Copyright covers the execution of ideas, not the ideas themselves.Coastlines, rivers, and mountains added through the miracle of tracing paper become the copyright of the maker.(Don’t try this by rewriting written words through tracing paper—that doesn’t work.)Tracing paper’s old school.The illustrations in many older books used a similar technique.In A Reassessment of Asherah all the illustrations were ones I drew by hand.You can do that on paper.The only investment is a single sheet and a pencil.A scanner can handle the rest.
Technologists like to espouse that there’s no such thing as a page.Authors, they aver, must learn to write without references to page numbers.Avoid the words “above” and “below” to refer to something discussed elsewhere in the text.This “format neutral language” (for it has to have a fancy name) is intended to ease the reading experience for the ebook.With my Kindle software, however, there are still pages.Don’t we call them webpages?Don’t we bookmark both our place in Kindles and on the web?Why then can’t we have our page numbers?Have you ever tried to make your laptop into a paper airplane when you’re bored?It’s often hard for progressive creatures like ourselves to admit that maybe we have had it right the first time.Maybe reading and paper need each other.A future without paper will be very sterile indeed.
Solipsism, as a philosophy, has its attractions.The idea behind it is that since all we can truly know is our self, the self is the only being that really exists.This outlook is expressed in tragicomic form in Kurt Vonnegut’s Breakfast of Champions.Written in Vonnegut’s characteristic style, there’s confusion and continuity, and almost a mockery of the gullibility of readers.Kilgore Trout, a penurious science fiction writer, wrote a novel where one character was human amid a planet of robots programmed to act like people.Dwayne Hoover comes to believe this is true and acts on it, with several other characters ending up in the hospital.The story ends with the narrator realizing, I think, that he’s the only real human being because he made up this entire novel.
As someone who generally works alone, and whose lifestyle includes early rising and early sleeping, solipsism suggests itself from time to time.Writers tend to spend quite a bit of time in their own heads, either reading or expressing their own thoughts via their craft.Anyone who’s been a victim of a solipsist (and we all have) knows that such a viewpoint is wrong, but it does address one of consciousness’ deepest fears—how do we know what others know or experience?We keep secrets.We hide our weaknesses and insecurities.We show others, most of the time, only what we want them to see.Addressing the individualism of the late sixties and early seventies, Vonnegut takes to task a society that still promotes prejudice and wages war.
Vonnegut experienced war and it’s clear that it haunted him for the remainder of his life.He tried, and often succeeded, in finding some hilarity in life, but it always seems to stop short with a slap of cruelty.I’ve been reading quite a few of Vonnegut’s novels over the past few years.He’s a writer that mixes profundity with frivolousness in such an easy way that it’s beguiling.Breakfast of Champions is, despite being an easy read, a difficult book.Quickly finished with its goofy doodles and swift pace, it leaves you feeling as if you’ve been poisoned with an idea, somehow.Or maybe it’s just me.For this year’s reading challenge I’ve selected two more of Vonnegut’s novels, but I haven’t decided which ones yet.I think about asking others, but then I remember that if he’s right in this one, there’s really nobody else to ask.
The smoke encircled his head like a thief.And not in a saintly way.I was going to have to rethink this.You see, the culture of the early morning commute is one where you stand in line with strangers before dawn.Having grown up a victim of second-hand smoke at home, I can’t stand it now.Should I go wait in the line (which was growing) where the last guy was smoking, or sit in my car?Work anxiety always wins out in such situations, so off I trudged.I discovered, however, that the man in front of me wasn’t smoking after all.He was vaping.What was this chemical stew hanging in the air that had just come from his mouth?
I worry about second-hand vape.How desperate must a person be to smoke a device?You see, my trust in technology goes only so far.People are slowly beginning to understand that electronics don’t solve every problem.Vinyl records are starting to come back, even at Barnes and Noble.Independent bookstores are returning, despite the rise of Kindle.I’m still waiting for it, but film cameras may once again appear.There’s something about the Ding an sich.The tech of the stereo was invented for the analogue record.Yes, the MP3 is faster and cheaper, and you can buy just the song you want with the click of a virtual button, but we still have our favorite LPs around.This isn’t misplaced nostalgia, like those who long for the 1950s.No, this is simply the recognition that faster isn’t always better.Some things were meant to linger.
Vaping is, however, an example of how a bad habit becomes a vice with no point.Initially meant to come to the succor of smokers who couldn’t do it indoors, vaping was also quickly relegated to the outside.Many people, it seems, don’t want to breathe someone else’s smoke.Do you develop artificial cancer from artificial nicotine?Another commuter comes up to the guy in front of me.Like a couple of kids on a 1970s schoolyard, they exchange vape flavors.The first guy doubles up with a coughing fit.Spits off the curb.The second guy says, somewhat anticlimactically, that this one’s strong stuff.I have to wonder what future generations, if there’ll be any, will think of our love affair with devices.The bus pulls in.I’m the only one on the whole thing who clicks on the over seat light.I have a physical book to read.