NaNoWriMo Update #2: When Lightening Strikes

by
Scott D. Parker

You know you are in some sort of momentum groove thing when you wake up at 5am thinking about your book. That's what happened to me this week. In the past five or so years that I've kept my typical up at 6am/asleep by midnight routine, my bodies internal clock has mostly reset to this rhythm. Regularly, on Saturdays, I'l wake sometime around 6, realize it's Saturday, and then return to sleep. Irritatingly, of course, are those week days when the internal alarm rings at 5:45, or 5:30.

Tuesday, I think it was, the alarm rang at five, and the second thought I had--after looking at my watch and realizing it was, fact, five o'clock in the AM--was "I know what I'm going to write about today when I get to my person writing session." In the dark, with that thought cloning to my brain, I smiled. In all the months of writing struggles I've had, I've never had a thought like that since the days I was writing my first book. It was then that I knew, no matter how this book came out, I'm pretty sure I'm on the right path.

But I still struggled this week. I'm behind on the official 1667-word per day count--I'm writing this Friday night and don't know how many words I'll get down after I'm done with this--but I'm firmly in control of my main goal: create (again) a writing habit. I've been using my Streaks app on my iPod and I've got a nice string of red Xs in a row. Not going to break that, you know.

Some of those red Xs denote days where I churned out over 2,000 words, others, not so much, and it's those days when I always doubt myself. I seem to always have that inner critic that's whispering "Don't bother. It's all crap." Yeah, well, it may be crap, but it's crap I'm going to finish. That spirit of moving forward towards a goal is what I'm really holding on to.

It's a good thing, too, that 5am wake up call. It was like a little lightening strike that sent a current through me, told me I was on to something. The other lightening strike that landed in my house was the kind you don't want to get.

My son's 2nd grade teacher, Michelle Friou, passed away quite suddenly this week. He's in 5th grade now and Ms. Friou is, to date, the best one he's had. What makes the news shocking is that she was younger than my 43 years. Always vibrant Ms. Friou had an infectious smile that literally made you smile as well. She loved, loved teaching and her students were the better for it.

In the fall of his 2nd grade year, when my boy was having a few "conduct issues" at school and Ms. Friou learned that he wasn't bringing home the conduct sheets, she was disappointed, to say the least. She walked him out of the school personally and told my wife. She also told Austin that she wanted him to restore her faith in him. By giving him that second chance, he understood that the world is not only the result of first-and-only chances, but seconds, thirds, fourths, or how ever many it takes to get things right. By the end of that 2nd-grade year, after his grades improved and his conduct became a non-issue (and Ms. Friou was awarded Teacher of the Year by her peers), I knew what I had learned the previous autumn was a fact: Ms. Friou was one-of-a-kind.

She also proved herself important to our family when she wasn't just a teacher. As my wife and I agonized in our decision to remove our boy from one school and put him in another, we called Ms. Friou for her advice. It was a huge decision for us, a turning point in my boy's life. Were we right in moving him? Upon learning that the new school would have a class size of about ten, Ms. Friou summed everything up succinctly: "It's a no brainer." Even though I was leaning towards to move, that ended my worry over the matter. Most of the weight of the decision was lifted from my shoulders. So I was very happy when, last week, my boy and I saw Ms. Friou at the grocery store and she specifically asked him how he liked the new school. And I got to thank her again for her advice. I told my wife that very night how excited Ms. Friou was for our boy in his new school. With the tragic news of Thursday, that last meeting has some personal significance. I am personally happy that I got to thank her one last time and for her to know that she made a difference in our family.

And if that's happened with our family, I know she has touched countless others as well.

Life is so, so precious. Too often, we just take it for granted. I know I[] do. The people in our lives really do matter, even the ones we fight with or love or merely see in passing. Even when the everyday stresses of work, home life, family life, parent life seem overwhelming, I always pause--and more so since Thursday--and remember the basic fact: I'm alive. When bad lightening strikes as it always will, we deal with it and move on, hopefully with a little bit more understanding of the world. And, naturally, when the good lightening strikes, as elusive as it is, always pause to experience it, relish in it, and soak it in.

A Taste for the Macabre

By Russel D McLean

minor updates were made to this article on 20 Nov 2012

This evening I should have been stuffing myself silly. Instead, what I’m doing is digging some groovy painkillers and generally tripping out thanks to a wonky back muscle.

But if I wasn’t doing that I would be in the company of trained Osteopath (and crime writer) Caro Ramsay for the west coast launch of The Killer Cookbook, a fantastic new book that combines two of my favourite things in the world: cookery and crime fiction.

The cookbook finally reveals the recipe for Stuart MacBride’s infamous mushroom soup, alongside Craig Robertson’s Human Blood Pudding, and more tantalising recipes from the likes of Ian Rankin, John Gordon Sinclair, Val McDermid and so, so many more. Oh, and me and Michael Malone have a garlicky face off mid way through the book as we argue over the best recipe involving chicken and increasing cloves of garlic (Of course mine is a traditional peasant dish and therefore very very authentic, being as I look like a peasant).

But what kind of crazy fool, I hear you ask, would create a book of crime writer’s recipes? What possible reason could there be for such a thing to happen?

The answer is that the crazy fool is the aforementioned Caro Ramsay who started on the book as a way to help the brilliant Million for a Morgue Campaign; a fund raising exercise that is very close to my heart. For those who don’t know, Dundee (where I write about) is trying to raise a million quid for a centre for forensic excellence. Why Dundee? Well, Professor Sue Black works here, and she is one of those remarkably smart and dedicated at the forefront of forensic research. She has identified victims in mass graves from war torn countries, she has assisted in some amazing and terrifying investigations and between all that has found time to advise the brilliant Val McDermid on the best ways to add an air of forensic authority to those already terrifying Tony Hill thrillers.

The CAHID (Centre for Anatomy and Human Identification) is at the very heart of the morgue and has done some remarkable things including help identify victims through facial reconstruction and identifying peadophiles through images of their hands grabbed from obscene video  and images.

But what does all this have to do with the Killer Cookbook? Well, every penny from the cookbook when sold direct from the website* is going towards raising this million for the new centre for excellence. Yes, the printers and (more importantly) the contributors don’t get a penny. Everyone involved is doing this for a greater cause. And also because we really want to share these recipes with you. These are the foodstuffs that have either influenced our plots or characters or else have helped us through the sheer hard work involved in crime writing. So I urge you, please, go out and buy a copy. Help contribute to a brilliant cause and widen your taste palate at the same with fiendishly good recipes from some of the most criminal cooks on the face of the planet (and me).

*An earlier version of this post implied that copies sold from booksellers also give 100% of the cost to the cause. This is not true, but I believe a good percentage will still go to the morgue so you will still be helping the campaign - and helping your local bookseller at the same time!

Cashing That Cheque

By Jay Stringer

We’ve just moved into a new flat. For the first time I have an office, a room with a desk (and a beer fridge) for me to sit and write. It set me thinking about work ethics, and what type of full-time writer I would be.

I’m in no real rush to be full time. I think the idea is often a very bad one. Certainly a full time novelist. I have many friends and colleagues who get to tick the ‘full time’ box by diversifying, by writing for the screen, for games, for comics. I think that’s something I’d like to try my hand at someday, because it’s an interesting enough mix to keep both the mind and the paycheck alive.
But I’m in no rush to get there.

Part of it is my writing style and interests. Having a full time job that pays the rent and puts food on the table means that when I sit down to write, I can write what I want. I don’t want to even think about being a full time writer unless I can still have that luxury, that freedom of expression, and it’s only a rare few that get to that point.

The other reason is voice. In my youth I liked being loud and outgoing, as I’ve grown older I’ve quietened down and would rather sit and think than go out and shout. I know all too well that, if I were a full time novelist, I could fall into the trap of becoming a hermit. If you have the luxury to choose what to do with all of your hours, then you become limited by what you would choose. Having a day job means getting out and interacting with people. It means spending large chunks of my time coming across views, opinions and voices that I would not otherwise have done. In short, it gives me stories and characters. I wouldn’t want to lose that.

I’m coming into the industry at a time when it’s harder than ever to be a full time writer. But I think the idea has also been overplayed. To a certain extent it’s a myth, and to look back at many of the great writers and novels of the past is to look at people who found other ways to pay their rent, and at books that were written at midnight after a long shift.

But this past week has still seen me spending way too much time wondering what kind of full time writer I would be. Would I wear a suit, or work clothes of some kind? Would I keep strict office hours and maintain the daily routine of a working-class work ethic? Would I write for six hours? Would I write for two hours then mess around on the internet?

I’d like to think I’d have the work ethic. In fact, I’d like to think that the discipline and time-management I’ve shown in writing in between full time jobs would extrapolate out into a prolific and dependable output if I was full time.

But it also leads me to a rant.

I’ve been debating the ethical issues of writing a lot this year with friends and fellow writers. I’m known to get on my high horse from time to time. I’ve already made it clear on DSD that I’ve had major problems with some of the decisions that comic book companies have taken this year, and with writers and artists who’ve taken that work. And I’m not here today to go back over that wound, but I needed to mention it to give an example, to give some context to a much wider issue.
One defence that I often hear for writers taking on ‘bad’ projects is “I have a mortgage to pay,” or “I have a family to feed.”

Well, you know what, don’t we all.

With all respect to the fact that we’re in a very bad job market, there are still options.  If you need to pay your bills, go find a job that does it. Go flip a burger. Work in a call centre. None of us have a given right to be money-earning writers, and just because you’ve done it in the past doesn’t mean you should always do it.

There are many jobs that we might not like but that will put food on the table without us having to screw over another writer or work for a bad project. And I’m sure people might point to the obvious here. “Who defines ‘good’ or ‘bad’ jobs?” Well that’s pretty easy. The writers who use “bills to pay” as an excuse are already defining it for us. They know the job smells funny, that’s why they’re using that line.

To say that you have to take one of these projects, ‘because you have bills,’ is to say that you choose to take the project, because any of the other jobs in the world don’t match 100% of your chosen criteria. It’s also incredibly patronising and insulting to all of the other people.

This ties into a second bug-bear. This is a recent one, so I’m putting this out there fully expecting that I may have crossed this line myself in an interview, and that people should feel free to point out in the comment section if I have. It’s the thing of writers being asked “why become a writer?” One of the most common answers –usually well meant as a self-depreciating joke- is “It’s the only thing I was any good at.” Or similar variations, like “I suck at everything else,” or “it’s the only thing I know how to do.”

Huh?

I tell you, that doctor who helped you out last time you were sick, it’s a real good thing that they sucked at everything else and had to be a doctor. I’m real glad that there are so many people who grow up dreaming of flipping burgers, making coffee or putting sandwiches into plastic wrapping so that I can go about my life as a part-time writer. Because if any of them had had to settle for a fall back  option, or learn a new skill, we’d all be in trouble.

The Walls of the Castle from Tom Piccirilli

This is Release Week for Tom Piccirilli’s new book, The Walls of the Castle -- the first title in the new Black Labyrinth imprint.

Recently Mr. Piccirilli was diagnosed with brain cancer after a golf-ball sized tumor was found in his brain. While the tumor has been removed he still has a long way to go. Therefore, Dark Regions will be donating 20% of the hard cover proceeds and 100% of ebook proceeds to help cover Mr. Piccirilli’s treatment and fight against cancer.

Want to know about this awesome new book? Well, here ya go:

In the labyrinthian maze of endless corridors, annexes, and wings of the enormous medical complex known as The Castle prowls a grief-stricken man determined to redeem himself and bring justice for those victims incapable of doing it for themselves.

During the four months that his son lay dying, ex-con Kasteel lost his job, his wife, and nearly his mind.  He became a fixture at the Castle, a phantom prowling the halls in the deep night, a shadow of his former self until he faded from sight and was forgotten altogether.

Now, without any life to return to, he takes it upon himself to become the Castle's guardian.  He lives off the grid hiding among the hundreds of miles of twisting passages, rooms, offices, and underground parking structures.  Despair, confusion, and terror are the natural state and trade of any hospital:  Not only must the patients endure disease and infirmity, but others are victims of physical and sexual abuse from the outside world or from cruel security guards.

The Castle was originally a colonial Dutch settlement: a village that grew into a town which grew into a city and at last became a hospital.  Kasteel has lost his very identity to this place, taking for himself the original Dutch name for "Castle."

Kasteel sleeps in empty operating theaters, sneaks food from the cafeteria, hacks into computers, and is privy to both staff and patient files.  Using his skills as a burglar he tracks down the attackers, the deceivers, and the killers.

In the psychiatric wing's day rooms and gardens long-suffering patient Hedgewick is Kasteel's only friend.  Hedgewick sees his father's ghost and claims to fight in a gladiatorial arena while the hospital guards bet on the winners.  Kasteel and Hedge often meet in the Fool's Tower, a ten-story high steeple once used to quarantine yellow fever victims a century ago, overlooking acres of gardens.  A place where family members go to pray for their loved ones, and the distraught often commit suicide.

But a new name is now whispered in the Castle: Abaddon, the ancient name for the angel of death.  A brain-damaged woman has visions and speaks only to Kasteel.  Abaddon is a killer, a man lost to the Castle like Kasteel himself, wandering the corridors searching out victims.  Even as Abaddon hunts the innocent, Kasteel hunts Abaddon, eager for a final showdown that may at last set him free.

An atmospheric yet action-packed, mature psychological thriller that is part examination into the bonds of family and part treatise on the nature of identity, THE WALLS OF THE CASTLE explores the deepest areas of what makes us who we are.   With a noir sensibility and complexity of character, the novella is a hybrid psychological thriller that's part suspense tale, part family saga, and part literate mystery.


About the Author

Tom Piccirilli is an American novelist and short story writer. He has sold over 150 stories in the mystery, thriller, horror, erotica, and science fiction fields. Piccirilli is a two-time winner of the International Thriller Writers Award for "Best Paperback Original" (2008, 2010). He is a four-time winner of the Bram Stoker Award. He was also a finalist for the 2009 Edgar Allan Poe Award given by the Mystery Writers of America, a final nominee for the Fantasy Award, and he won the first Bram Stoker Award given in the category of "Best Poetry Collection."

Find out more

SKYFALL

Sitting in the theater, as James Bond drove a motorcycle across rooftops in Turkey, I got goosebumps.  Since THE LIVING DAYLIGHTS, I've seen every Bond move in the the theater.  It's one of those traditions I keep, no matter what.

In fact, I really can't rate a Bond movie until I've seen it more than once.  Something about the experience keeps me from being rational.  Hell, I even liked DIE ANOTHER DAY when I saw it in the theater.  I defended it when my friends said it was awful.  "They are trying to build invisible cars," I said.  "That's a realistic gadget."

Um.  Then I watched it again.

So, it is with trepidation that I talk about SKYFALL.  The fact that it's getting good reviews buoys my opinion. 

The fact that I could spot the plotholes from a mile away buoys me.

I feel confident in saying "This is a damn good Bond movie."

It's not the best.  It's not even the best Daniel Craig Bond film.  But it works in melding the grittiness of CASINO ROYALE with the Bond formula.  It works--sort of--as a revenge thriller.

And if there are plot holes, Craig, Judi Dench, and Javier Bardem make up for it.  They pull out all the stops for a great performance.  This movie does a great job of re-setting the deck chairs of the series.

I can't wait to see it again. 

So, yeah, as I sat in the dark theater, I got goosebumps.  Bond movies aren't just movies to me.  They're life experiences...  I can tell you I saw LICENSE TO KILL while on vacation in Florida, my parents worried because it was rated PG-13, and we weren't 13 yet. 

I saw THE WORLD IS NOT ENOUGH 2.5 times in the theater, because after I saw it the first time, my brother wanted to see it.  We went and had to leave because of a fire drill.  Had to go back to watch it the next week.

I saw this one with a friend Sunday morning on the IMAX screen.  And I couldn't stop smiling.

Bond is back.  Check it out*.

**All right, it made millions, odds are this post is redundant because you saw it already.

Why F*ckload of Scotch Tape may be the bastard child of Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia

by Jedidiah Ayres

In the wake of the recent DVD release and film festival screenings of Julian Grant’s underground crime flick F*ckload of Scotch Tape I’ve read a bunch of reviews that more or less fall into two camps – heralding it as a triumph of small-budget/big-vision nastiness with a surprising element of heart, or as just one of the worst, most unpleasant movies the critic has ever seen. The film centers around a hapless thug, a terrible crime and an increasingly bloody scramble for a bag of cash – it’s also a musical, an element that is as divisive with the critics as the unrelenting awfulness in the characters, and the atmosphere of moral rot.

I can’t take any credit or blame for the music, performed by songsmith Kevin Quain, (though I can assure you that film has made a fan of his out of me), but I will shoulder my share of responsibility for the character and plot as it is based upon two of my own short stories ("A Fuckload of Scotch Tape" and "Mahogany & Monogamy").

Among some of the more thoughtful reviews, I’ve come across nuggets of insight about my work that have deserved a moment’s reflection, as well as many off-base and (mostly) inaccurate dismissals of my contribution from the film’s league of detractors (one of my favorite disses it’s received went something like “If you like voice-over and homophobia, you’ll love this film.”)

But honestly, you can send your flowers and mail bombs back in time addressed to the late-great Sam Peckinpah. More than anything else, it’s probably his own nasty, divisive masterpiece/greatest-artistic-failure Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia that can’t escape the damning results of a paternity test.

Fifteen years into my obsession with Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia, I’m still not finished ripping er, drawing inspiration from it, and I’m not the least ashamed to say that I do. Nope, I rip that shit off every chance I get and when I do, it’s the best stuff that I write.

Which is not necessarily to say, Peckinpah would recognize, claim or love his bastard. I won’t presume. Hell, even I have to squint to make out my own familial resemblance to the film at times, (as Julian created plenty of the adapted story himself), but in the wake of reading these many reviews, and squinting myself into farsightedness, it’s the Alfredo Garcia likeness has come into starker relief.

When we first meet Benny (the protagonist imbued with such amazing loser-charisma by Warren Oates), he’s playing piano at a hole in-the-wall Mexican cantina. His back-story isn’t told, but the lines are spaced plenty wide to afford an unobstructed view of the large print betwixt. He’s a gringo who has run out of options back home (apparently even Tijuana lies on the far side of a scorched bridge or two in his rearview), his inamorata appears to be at least a part-time prostitute, he wears a clip-on tie, and sunglasses indoors… at night… in bed.

There’s a significant disconnect between his self-image, and the reality of his nature and capabilities. He seems determined to cast himself as Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, but, it’s the loser Bogart character Fred C. Dobbs from Treasure of the Sierra Madre that gets name-checked by a condescending heavy in the scene where we first meet Benny – tipping Benny, and the audience, off to the fact that Benny’s act isn’t fooling anybody. But Benny is equipped with powerful self-delusion, and lets the slight pass unacknowledged, and that type of willful blindness continues throughout the film.

In fact, the rest of the picture is a non-stop assault on Benny’s masculine ideal, which he grudgingly concedes by attrition, and even though, or perhaps because, he is emasculated at every turn, and by everybody he encounters from Alfredo the deceased lothario and Elita the survivor to Kris Kristofferson the rapist and the gringo mercenaries who insult him openly, Benny carries on with the quest that will cost him his soul.

Indecisive and weak-willed when it counts, insecure, always reserving action for when he’s out of options, he fucks over justice for cowardice, revenge and self-destruction, and passes up love for convenience. Integrity for self-preservation and self-loathing.

And yet… we care for Benny.

I do, don’t you?

During his many opportunities to walk away from the path he’s stumbling down, his desperation and panic are barely contained, and his pain is so evident… He’s so utterly lost - it just breaks that lump of coal I have the good humor to call a heart.

He’s a loser, and helpless, but far from harmless. Once he’s out of options, he’ll play that final card, his capacity for physical violence, and he’ll pound that note hard and with conviction - his final avenue of expression - like the last key left on a piano.

It’s all leading to that eventually, but as long as that titular object can evade him, Benny’s got a chance. Elita knows it, Benny knows it, and we do too – which is why we’re rooting for Alfredo Garcia’s head to remain out of reach – as soon as it’s within his grasp, Benny’s finished. He will destroy himself.

The characters at the center of my short stories have cast themselves as the central figures in a story much larger than they are, and both take severe actions based on twisted instincts and bad information. They are as confused and frustrated about their place in the world, and in their masculinity and sexuality as Benny is. They construct identities and images for themselves that they fail to actualize, and if given half a chance they will fuck things up every time. Benji and Ethan (from "Fuckload of Scotch Tape" and "Mahogany & Monogamy" respectively) are fumbling after the same object, to which they’ve both (as Benny has) attached inappropriate symbolic weight.

Just as Benny has, in Elita, the love of a woman he doesn’t deserve, and whose character he will disparage, in comically un-just outbursts of moral outrage, intended to distract from his own defects, each of my creations has their own loving one, of whom they will make terrible assumptions, and quickly curse - Chuck, the father figure for Benji and Trish the object of desire for Ethan.

Also like Benny, both Benji and Ethan, having pushed away every good thing and human connection by the end of their story will find themselves haunted by their consciences and conversant with them, on some level, through unlikely intermediaries. Benny spends the third act of Peckinpah’s film driving dusty back roads, unloading and explaining his psychosis to a severed head in a canvas sack on the passenger seat, while (especially in the film) Benji’s physical brokenness, the ever-bloodied nose, and the discolored busted arm - bound with a fuckload of scotch tape – which grows more foul and infected mirroring his inward state, while Ethan (in the short story) hears his Greek chorus in the hair metal ballads on the radio and blasting from the strip club’s loudspeakers, and surrenders himself to the fates.

At the end of the stories I hope that you can feel a sorrow for them, though I doubt anyone will argue that they don’t deserve what they get. Ultimately, like Benny, they consistently fail to recognize grace when it’s revealed, and will always abandon salvation-offered for damnation-earned.


***

Jedidiah Ayres is the author of A F*ckload of Shorts and co-editor of the Noir at the Bar anthologies. He keeps the blog Hardboiled Wonderland.

The state of the publishing union

By: Joelle Charbonneau

In the last couple of weeks, there have been some interesting developments in the world of publishing.  I admit, that in the grand scheme of events (Hurricane Sandy, the snow that hit the north east and the presidential election) the publishing news hasn’t been on the front burner. And it still isn’t.  There are bigger issues at the moment.  However, since this is a writer blog, I figured I’d take a look at some of the interesting news to hit the publishing waves. 

First, as our own Steve Weddle chatted about, Amazon has been busy taking reviews for books off their website in an unusual manner.  If you are an author and you have reviewed the book of someone you know – your review could be deleted.  Not all reviews by all authors have been removed.  Just some.  Which is frankly odd.  Either you allow authors to review books or not.  Remove them all or don’t remove any of them.  Personally, I’m not sure how they could identify all the reviewers who are also authors, so I’m on the camp of leave the old reviews up and go from there. 

Do I think all reviews should be honest?  Sure.  Do I, like Steve, think reviews with disclosure of whether you know the person you are reviewing would be more honest.  Yep.  But Amazon has made it known that LOTS of reviews for a book help bump up the visibility of that book and positively affects the book’s ranking.  So, I guess it shouldn’t come as a surprise that some authors and their street teams are using the reviewing tool to help boost the chance of their book being discovered by more people.  I am told that the “LIKE” button and book tags also bump a book’s visibility.  I’m not sure if Amazon plans on dealing with LIKES and tags in the same way they are dealing with reviews, but I think it will be interesting to watch and see.

Another book story has been the disappointing sales for the big titles that have been released this fall by the traditional publishing arm of Amazon.  They bid high and hard for a number of titles, but due to the lack of stores carrying the books, many titles have underperformed.  Perhaps that is the reason for the earnings stories we have been seeing where Barnes and Noble has actually increased their earnings and Amazon’s earning have declined.  Got me. 

Third, if you have been paying attention at all you will have heard about the Random House/Penguin merger.  If it goes through, the big six publishers will become the big 5.  Or maybe the medium 4 and the REALLY big 1.  Regardless of what they will be called, the merger will cause some ripples in the publishing industry.  Imprints could be consolidated.  Some editors and staff may no longer have a home.  Authors could find the editor they love shifted to a different department.  And that’s just the beginning of the internal workings of a merger.  However, I have seen speculation that the consolidation of these two publishers – two publishers with the largest mass market programs – is designed to combat the ever-growing power that is Amazon.  (Funny how that name keeps cropping up in publishing news!)  A publisher with so many books listed on the retailing giant’s website could possibly have more negotiating power.  I have even seen it argued that it would be much harder for the retailing giant to pull buy buttons for so many titles without causing a major disruption to their clients and possibly directing discontent from those clients to themselves.  That argument is made more interesting after the glitch that was seen Thursday night to Friday morning.  A glitch which made the buy buttons for a lot of big 6 titles to disappear.  Maybe it was an honest glitch.  Technology is not always my friend, so I am inclined to give them the benefit of the doubt.  But I do find it interesting that only those 6 publishers were impacted by the technological bug.

Regardless, I find the state of publishing fascinating and would curious to hear your take on the news we’ve been seeing.  What do you think is next for publishing?  What do you think the book world will look like in ten years?  I’ll put the observations in a time capsule and dig it up in 2022 to see if you are right!