The death of books?

via fatbrides

The buzz about ebooks and speculation that they will displace print books in the near future has got me thinking about the outlook for books, bookstores and libraries.

I've read articles and blogposts about a neat, organised future that the ebook revolution will unfurl. I've heard the radio ads which posit that just as the mp3 superseded CDs, the iPad and Kindle will make hard copy books obsolete. The minimalists among you are salivating at the thought and hey, it makes sense. I can personal attest to having damaged (probably irreversibly) my shoulders with years of lugging around stupidly huge novels, just so I could read another chapter or two in my infrequent and short breaks from class, work, etc. And yes, to be honest, if (when I go back to university this year) there are cheap e-versions of textbooks available, I will unashamedly plunder that particular source

I am, however, in total denial that the end is nigh for print books! Books are some much more than just the words on the page. I feel like the books I own are a part of me! It feels kind of materialistic, because the truth is I don't need to keep those books in my bookcase (so bounteous I swear it will give birth to something inky soon) not if the story contained has touched me and the ideas therein have intermingled with my own imagination. And yet, I feel that my books are a physical reflection of my personality, my thoughts and the things I value.

I particularly love old books, found in second hand book stores, which often have Bolognese (or other) sauce and ink stains on random pages. Or books from the library where if you're lucky, you sometimes find the previous borrower's shopping list in the middle. I also loved reading the cramped handwritten notes in the margins of prescribed texts from the university library. The physical story of the book, that tantalising connection with other readers is what I love. Reaching up, grabbing a favourite read from my dilated bookcase and pressing it into the open palms of a dinner guest saying: "This is the one, you HAVE to read it." that's what I'm holding onto.

Print books are romantic and those of us horders (or as I prefer, "collectors") will always want to fill our homes with (read show off) the beautiful and special books that have coloured our lives, don't cha think?

Sex Spells give me hope

A couple of Saturdays ago I wrote 1000 words of my novel. I spent the morning in the library, hidden away in a little corner writing and hoping no-one would notice and/or come and peruse the selection of books that surrounded me, which apparently covered everything you need to know about "sex spells" and "sex astrology".

Okay honestly, how many sex spells can there be in the world? Because let me tell you there are an awful lot of books on the subject!

That annoys me. Why would anyone need to read a book on sex spells? Apart from obviously having exhausted the many other resources available to them in romance novels,  medical centres, high school pamphlets, anecdotal experiences and yahoo answers dot com? But not only that, why are there SO many books on this subject? Who publishes this? How niche can you get??

Well, okay, so it is.

I really wanted to say: "Go me, 45,000 words and counting" but what I guess I've ended up saying is: "If there's a market for rubbish such as the above, there must be a way to get my work published one day", and so I will cling to that thought like a mangy piece of driftwood when the tide comes in and I'm all but totally overwhelmed by the sea of rejection.

Bus Strike!

There's a bus strike in Sydney today, which has left 600 000 commuters stranded! It is very frustrating for a lot of people who depend on public transport to get to work. So I know that what I'm going to say is a bit controversial, but frankly I love a bit of industrial action!

I am one of those people who buses part of the daily journey to work, so I understand the stress of not know how I'd bridge the gap between home and work! But I think they should take action if the Government won't talk to them any more. They are not striking to upset the public; they want to get the attention that they feel their dispute deserves.

It's just so defiant and bold. I think that if enough people are willing to make a stand like, despite the public outcry, it may be worth listening to what they have to say? Unfortunately all you get from the media is "reporting" on the public whining about how inconvenient it is, and how bus drivers are being greedy etc: http://www.smh.com.au/national/bus-drivers-go-on-strike-20091218-l0k7.html

I think we should be championing the little guy socking it to the ‘em. "You don't want to negotiate fair remuneration for the work that we do, that's fine we'll just stop showing up. Eat that!"

Maybe I just love the drama of it all? Maybe it just reminds me of the sweet elation of hearing the word's "teachers strike" in high school? Maybe there's just something about banding together and showing a united front for a single cause?

Can you tell I have a mother who marched in Anti-Apartied and Teachers Union protests? I love a good fight!

An ode to my mother

What is an ode? I'm not entirely sure. I should probably google terms before I throw them around. But I think I'm getting to the point where my head is so full of useless information that I have to set daily quotas of input, lest I explode.

Okay wait, I couldn't handle not knowing, so I googled ode and it turns out  that it's a bit too poetical for what I'm aiming for here. I'm going for more of a memory of my mother that reminds me of her character and innate goodness, which make me muse on how much I admire and love her. But that's far too long for a blog title, and not nearly as fancy as ode.
Okay now I've spent too long banging on about this and I've probably lost all your interest in what is actually a rather beautiful, moving and inspiring story...if I do say so myself.

So I'm going to end it there and start again some other time.

Just say no

I would say I'm a pretty accepting person. I try, as best I can, not to judge. But when it comes to crocs, I can hold my silence no longer.

They may look cute on the itty bitty feet of toddlers, but if you are over the age of five - I have one question... Why?! Look, I'm generally all for quirky, but wearing plastic clogs that resemble cartoon character feet is really pushing the envelope.

Arguments for include: "oh but they're so comfy!" Well so is walking around in your knickers on a hot day, but you don't see many people flaunting it in the streets in their tighty whities, do you? "Comfy" is for the privacy of your own home, nobody needs to see that.

Of course, I have my own fashion faux pas, for example, my schoolgirl-esque leather shoes. I was going through a red, t- bar thing… I don't really want to talk about it. The point is I recognised the error of my ways and moved on.

If you are wearing crocs as you read this,  and you find that you don't really care what some obscure person (and good taste generally) think of your footwear, then good for you. I'm sure you and your crocs will have a wonderful life together.

If after reading this you think; "Wow no-one has ever told me they look that bad, but now that I think about it, they do kinda look like Barney, that lovable purple dinosaur's feet." Then, you're welcome, go forth and croc no more.

Non-creative types

How does creativity transpire in the minds of mere mortals? Is it a thunder of genius that strikes the brain willy-nilly, haphazardly, any time it pleases? Is it a science, the formula to which is only dispensed to the most dedicated of inquirers? Unoriginally I want to say: "I believe it is a combination of the both divine inspiration and hard work."

But wouldn't it be wonderful if someone would set the record straight once and for all and say: "Actually no, creativity is a direct result of a complex and precise chemical makeup in the Medulla oblongata: You've either got it or you don't.

If you've got it, go paint the sky with the colours that spill out from your arteries.

If you don't, just give it up. Put on your mustard tracksuit from the 90s, and prepare for a life of absorbing and filtering experience via your spleen, yawning your day's allotment of breathe away. Don't bother trying anything new, it's all been done before, by other people. Don't you dare even think of reading up on a new area of work or play - you'll only discover that it's a lot harder than you think. And most of all do not talk to people, ask questions or listen to anybody - what's the point; surely no-one has thought thoughts that could have any impact on your perspective. And even if anyone did have challenging ideas to share, you are not capable of processing these in any useful way, as they will be relegated to your spleen to be dried and then incinerated in the crematorium of your desolate soul.”

If only someone would say THAT! Then I wouldn't feel so bad closing the curtains, switching on the TV and shutting out the new things stirring up in me.