I grew up with a bookshelf that spanned most of the wall of my bedroom (the room wasn't very big) filled to brimming with a combination of my dad's classic science fiction and my own growing collection. Having so many fantastic worlds and compelling premises within arm's reach had an undeniable impact on me.
But when I moved out of my parents' house for college, I left that shelf and all its contents behind me. Still, I grew a new literary collection that I lugged with me from apartment to apartment. Frankly, it is a pain in the butt to move a bunch of books. I was tempted, more than once, to throw out or donate some of the older stuff, especially those I had no intention of reading again. But I fought the urge. Now that I own a home, they have permanent resting places across a few different bookshelves.
Obligation came calling last week when my mom let me know that she was cleaning out my childhood room and planned to donate all of my books. Again, temptation reared its ugly head. It would be easy to let her toss them out. There were some wonderful books I would miss, but I could probably buy them again used or on digital as the urges to revisit old favorites arose.
What a shameful thought. Instead of making room for a few more books, I might let Kindle do all the work. For a price, of course. And that price is more than just money.
We're hurtling toward an always connected, all-digital future. One where we'll own nothing, rent everything, and be subject to sometimes strange, often unfair, and nearly always anti-consumer terms of service.
Ponying up the cash for a Kindle e-book (often the same price as a physical book) grants a limited license to access a DRM-locked story. There's no downloading the e-book to whatever device you choose, nor is it easy to lend it to a friend, short of handing them the password to your Amazon account. And if for some reason Amazon deems your account activity to be suspicious (maybe because you lent your password to a friend on the other side of the country to let them read a great e-book), they may lock or even close your account. Such responses are often automated and sometimes cannot be appealed. It's the digital equivalent of a housefire. Your e-books are gone forever.
And while I'm on my soapbox, any internet connected digital service is a risky proposition. Google is famous for capriciously killing well-used and well-liked services. Prevalent media services, like Kindle e-books or digital purchases on Google TV, only exist so long as the revenue generated by the users outweighs the cost to provide the service (and streaming video isn't cheap!). Should that revenue dry up, our digital purchases (which we don't own) might very well evaporate into the ether.
So, I rejected the passing thought of strategically making digital purchases to replace my childhood book collection. I didn't take them all (sorry, Animorphs), but I did box up everything I'd read at least twice or that still crosses my mind all these years later (hello again, Saga of the Seven Suns). A new bookshelf is on the way. Once again, these books will live within arms' reach of where I sleep.
Maybe one day, a copy of Spacewalker will have a place on that same shelf. I'd still like to get traditionally published. I have no illusions about the industry I'm seeking to insert myself into. Traditional publishing, too, is extractive and subject to the same market forces that drive Google to kill its most beloved services. I want physical copies of Spacewalker to live in readers' hands, on shelves, in moving crates, and in attic boxes for as long as the paper lasts. If it's on paper, it will persist beyond bricked devices, deleted accounts, and changes to the terms of service. One path to that is getting published.
All that is to say, I'm querying again.