This month . . . .

The swan song of the obsolete staring the future paradigm in the face.
     I recently finished a first draft of a novel I’ve been working on for quite some time, and have paused to relate a few thoughts. About eight years ago, I published an essay on the death of an independent bookstore — one in which I used to hang out regularly. Not a sob story — that horse had been pulped — just semi-sweet nostalgia. Over the ensuing years, I’ve also interviewed authors on the state of publishing, to get a current perspective from folks currently living on their writing earnings. My questions were predictable: what did they think about the absorption of all the small publishing houses? What did they think about so much of what is determined to be worthy of reading being in the hands of five mega-publishers? As time soldiered on my questions changed, mutated. Because like local micro-breweries, little publishers began popping through the topsoil made from the decay of middle and large houses. They were here to fill in the blanks. To take two or three titles each year from local or regional authors through the maze to the finish line — a pretty volume, some minor sales success, a measure of self-worth.