The Library Thingy

So, we had a thingy at the downtown library at noon–a couple of really nice bigwigs in Christian publishing (one a lawyer and one an agent) and me. We were talking about self-publishing but I stand by my assertion that what we think of as self-publishing and what we think of as “real” publishing are on a collision course because neither is a sustainable model. In a way, it’s kind of like watching two stars circle round each other, knowing the day when they will crash together is fast approaching.

After our talk today, I think I’ve decided that it may be at the agency level where we see a new constellation of publishing activity. Since the agent is already doing some vetting and some editing and riding shotgun on marketing and publicity, plus all the agenty stuff of making deals and tracking down money, it wouldn’t take that much for them to hire on an editor and a designer or two and just do everything in-house.

Anyway, it was fun and interesting. I wish there were some way everyone in publishing in Nashville could run into each other more often. I learn so much from these kinds of things.


Claire DeWitt and the Snarky Brother

I have a couple of long spans today where I’m sitting around waiting on various things, so I got myself Sara Gran’s Claire DeWitt and the City of the Dead from the library. I then made the mistake of deciding I’d read a couple of chapters while my dinner was cooking. I ended up reading the whole book. Just fuck my evening, I’m reading.

It’s terrific. I just can’t say enough good things about it. I think I have kind of an unconscious bias against mysteries because the whole time I was reading it, I kept thinking to myself, “this is really good” as if that were shocking.

Anyway, so the Butcher finally got home and I was telling him all about how DeWitt is like a throwback detective–she does drugs and tries to have visions and everyone hates her and is a little afraid of her and it’s all very mystical in this really gritty way. And I told him that I honestly can’t remember the last time I read a book for grown-ups which featured a female main character in which she doesn’t have sex and she’s not raped (though there is a moment when she refers back very vaguely to a previous sexual assault).

And he said, “Unlike your stuff” and then he laughed and said, “Ooo, burn.” And then he said, “I’m an asshole. Funny, but an asshole.” And we both laughed.

And then I stuffed the book up his nose.



I let the dog out and then went to bed. And then got up, took the dog for a walk, which required two tyings of the same shoe lace, ate breakfast, and wrote this.