First,
an announcement: My novella Angels
Are Lonely on the Earth, which I wrote in 2013, is now available as a Kindle
e-book, and will soon also be available as a paperback. I decided
to go ahead and self-publish this one for a couple of reasons.
One reason is simply that it is a novella, that misfit of fiction forms that is too long to be published as a short story (for example, in a magazine or literary journal) yet not long enough to publish in a (traditional) single volume as a novel. Especially being one written by an unknown author, Angels didn't stand much of a chance at "legitimate" (i.e. big house) publication, and I didn't feel like putting the time and effort into marketing it the way I intend to do with my two novels once they are finally completed. I also want my first novel (not a novella) to be my real literary debut.
Of course, one might wonder: why not just sit on it until after Bluebird is published? To which my answer might well be: That long? Actually, my self-publication of this novella is intended only as the beginning of a larger program of self-publication of a number of my older works, some dating back to the 1990s, as well as of any number of minor works I may write in the future. I do not feel the need to limit myself, in this day and age, to any one avenue of publication.
*
The
publication of Angels has got me thinking about
myself, not merely as a writer, but as a maker of books. Ever since
childhood I have been deeply fascinated by books as objects and have
always either made them or dreamed of making them.
I
am now 46 and, after a lifetime of writing, have yet to have any of
my work traditionally published. I have barely made any attempt
whatsoever to get any of my work published in that way—have not
submitted my short stories to magazines, have never submitted my
poetry to journals, have not had a truly finished novel manuscript to
submit to an agent or publisher.
Even
though my literary obscurity would seem to be the only possible
result of my own inaction—simply the logical consequence of keeping
my work largely hidden (publication of poems and short stories on my
blog being, in reality, not much more public than sharing with family
and friends)—I do harbor, and have long harbored, the desire to get
my work "out there". I just want to do it the right way, by
basing my literary ambitions and reputation on what I consider to be
my best, greatest, and most important work.
I
am a librarian, so I see and am surrounded by books on
a daily basis. As one who has, since childhood, felt himself to be
one of the "book makers", the fact that none of the books
in the world are yet ones of my own creation fills me with a kind of
wistful longing and a deep sense of unfulfillment (if all these other people can make books, why can't I?). Because if there is one
thing I feel I can contribute—that I feel I should contribute—to
the world, it is books. And yes, I am working on it.
But
I have long realized that my contribution need not only take the form
of ambitious literary novels. As a writer, my interests have always
been quite varied, and my ideas so numerous that it has often seemed
fitting that many of them should find their home in some form of
self-publication—especially considering that, as I said above, I
have always been fascinated by books as objects and have always
enjoyed designing and making them myself, in whatever form.
*
And
now the main question of this post: What is, or was, or will be, my
first book?
The
short answer is: It depends what you mean by "book".
My
first book—my very first
book—was one that I made when I was in kindergarten and just
learning how to write (probably late 1976 or possibly early 1977).
This book no longer exists, and my memory of it is vague, but it
consisted of one or more folded sheets of paper, a technique I often
used in childhood for making my own books, and it contained a story about dinosaurs, one of my major interests at the time.
Or
perhaps my first book was The Lazy Scarecrow,
a set of science fiction
stories which I wrote and
illustrated as part of
a creative writing course for
gifted students when I was in fourth grade (begun in the fall of
1980, completed in January 1981). The teacher and a classmate bound
it and created a cloth cover. I still have that book. It is certainly
my oldest surviving
book.
Or
maybe my first book was the first novel I ever wrote, Eastway
Beach. This novel was
handwritten on about 200 pages of a notebook and followed the lives
of high school students in a fictional Florida beach town. I wrote it
in 1990, and then wrote a sequel, Eastway Beach Sharks Come
Back, in 1991. The sequel was a
bit longer, taking up some 300 handwritten notebook pages. These
works no longer exist; I destroyed both manuscripts in 1993.
I
also made a few poetry chapbooks between 1993 and 2000, as well as
(in the late 90s) a number of short stories (and
one novella) printed as
booklets with cover illustrations.
Or
possibly my first book can be considered to be The
Librarian’s Apprentice, which
was, ironically, not even intended to be a book. I wrote the story as
a work of blog fiction in 2008, and my father, who has also written
and published a number of his own books, decided to surprise me for
my birthday that year by publishing it via his imprint. When my
parents presented me with the book version of my blog story, I was not
only surprised by the book itself, but also by how long it looked in
printed form (not a novel,
but long enough to qualify as a novella).
It was as though I had written a book without even meaning to (and not
only that, but gotten it into print without even trying!).
Then
again, perhaps the moment in 2012 when I typed the last sentence of
my first “real” novel (the Eastway Beach books being, not only no
longer extant, but also works of juvenilia) was the moment when I had
at last made a real, honest-to-goodness book.
And
yet… 5 years later, The Bluebird of Happiness
remains a work in progress. So perhaps—hopefully sometime later
this year—when I finally bring my first novel to a state of
satisfactory completion—perhaps that
will be the moment when I can say that I have made a book.
Or
maybe it will be that moment when Bluebird
is actually published—when I can walk into a bookstore and see it
on the shelf—that I will know, beyond any doubt, that I have made
one of the books in the world—I
hope, I like to think, I dream, perhaps even one of the great ones.
*
In
a way, Angels feels
like the first, in the sense that it is the first book I have
intended to publish (and, for that matter, the first one published
that I intended to be a book). But of course, as I have illustrated
above, it is not that simple. Further complicating the picture is the
fact that Angels is a
novella, a form which is not usually considered long enough to
publish as a book unto itself. That may be changing these days thanks
to self-publishing and print-on-demand titles, and of course the very
definition of what constitutes a “book” is undergoing the strain
and stress of technological and cultural change. In the future, will
the word “book” even have anywhere near the same meaning or
importance as it has traditionally?
Who can say?
People
always talk about the death of the book—and the death of literature,
the death of the novel, the death of poetry, and so on. But, as a
librarian and author in the twenty-first century, I can’t help but
feel that such pronouncements on the death of the book are greatly
exaggerated. Much closer to the truth, I think, was the ancient
philosopher who said, “Of making many books there is no end.”
Certainly there will not be as long as I can help it. Making books is
one of the things I am made to do.
 |
| The author at age 5 |
