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The physical book

People do go on about it. The feel of paper in your hands. The particular odor of an old book vs. a new book. The heft of the thing. So on and so forth.

God bless those who feel that way. Somebody has got to keep the tree murder business going. I don’t much feel that way myself, and this comes from someone who worked as a printer and, as a publisher, ordered up piles of paper at a time.

I’m fine if my work exists in the ether. I don’t care if it’s displayed, proudly or otherwise, on someone’s book shelf. The thing to me is that worm of thought, writhing through the reader’s poor brain. Better, to my way of thinking, if it is conveyed in a form like a dream, like a whisper in the ear. Where did it come from? Why is it here? What did I do to deserve this?

For better or worse…

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