The Scottish Poetry Library book fair on Saturday was great. I’m encouraged that there’s such a strong tide of independent publishing finally arriving here, and the art-books I saw displayed there were stunning, too.
The talk I gave seemed to be popular, and hopefully left the audience with a sense of possibility and some practical ideas for “What’s next?” if they want to do this themselves.
I tried not to come across as bitter, ’cause that’s really not how I feel these days as an indie publisher, but there is a lot of bad news to deliver when people start asking questions about publishing from a hopeful position, thinking about themselves and their dreams without having considered the market realities in which publishers operate and think.
Meanwhile, these new possibilities make it truly simple to create a book and get it into the world. All the other considerations about marketing, sales, fame, and all that other industry bumpf is for much later. People make a mistake, I believe, when they put that stuff first, because surely all the satisfaction and stamina we need for our writing careers will come from focusing on what we’re doing and who we’re doing it for rather than what we want to get out of doing it.
It struck me today that, in terms of selling books, this event is less like a farmer’s market and more like a petting zoo. At least people wanted to touch, feel, and look at my books a lot — especially a teeny-tiny one the size of a thumbnail I made for the occasion. Everyone loved that, even though it’s just about useless!
Yesterday my partner Craig took me for a drive to a place called Little Sparta. It’s the garden and home of the late poet and sculptor Ian Hamilton Findlay, who filled the grounds around his home with all kinds of stones and paths, all marked out with beautifully carved words and phrases. The weather was overcast, and the walk up to the house along a road through sheep-fields was quite ‘whiffy’, but it was still a lovely day out.
I’m going out for dinner on Tuesday with Craig, then we’re doing something or another on Friday, ’cause it’s — *gasp!* — our anniversary. Now I’ve seen everything.
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