Category: Books

About books

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Books

Spirit Cane

My brother asked me what I wanted to keep of my father’s and I answered without hesitation, his cane. Upon further reflection, I also asked for his books, and I’ll borrow the photos long enough to make digital copies.

I bought Dad the cane years ago when he starting slowing up a bit, at the youthful age of 75 I believe it was. He just needed a little support from time to time, but he hated the canes you get at the doctor’s office. Said they made him look old.

We were out shopping at a store that specializes in hand crafts when I saw an umbrella stand and in it, several walking sticks known as spirit sticks; so called because each is a solid tree branch that is finished smooth, and the face of the spirit in the wood is carved into the rounded knob at the top. We gave it to Dad and he loved it instantly. It stayed with him, always, up until the very end; even then, he would fret about where his cane was.

I love this cane, with its real wood feel, and smooth finish; to look at the pattern in the grain and the bore hole of some insect; the cut off end of a smaller twig that had sprung out from the side of the branch. Most of all, I love it for the wise face of the spirit. And since Dad and I were pretty close to the same height, it’s a nice fit for me if I ever find the need for such…some day when I’m 75. Or so.

Spirit Cane

The books have alternated between being a treat and a puzzle. My dad was very much into mysteries and suspense, so I am now the proud owner of every John le Carré book written, in addition to every Robert Parker book and several by Grisham, Elizabeth George, and so on. Though detective and mystery books are not my favorite, I love a good novel and I’ll have plenty to keep me busy on these increasingly cold evenings. After all, is there anything better than curling up in a warm bed with a good book on a cold evening? Especially at the end of a day of hiking, and an excellent dinner, perhaps shared with another?

Among the books, though, were some surprises. There was one book called The Book of Virtues by Richard Bennett. It’s a odd book that features a different virture, such as courage, discipline, honesty, and so on, each chapter. The author then publishes works that reflect this virtue, ranging anywhere from philosophies of Plato to poetry to the children’s story, The Velveteen Rabbit.

I sampled some of the pages on discipline and courage, the morals of compassion and responsibility and can already tell that I hate it. I mean, I really hate it. Can’t stand it, finding myself almost repulsed by it. I am thus compelled to read it thoroughly and share it with all of you.

I also found Frank McCourt’s Tis among all the whodunits. It’s the memoir of McCourt’s journey from Ireland back to New York, and his experiences re-adapting to his native land. In light of recent news, I particularly liked the following passage from the book:

No, I might be able to confess in the darkness of an ordinary church confession box but I could never do it here in daylight all swollen with the mumps with a screen round the bed and the priest looking at me. I could never tell him how Mrs. Finucane was planning to leave her money for priests to say Masses for her soul and how I stole some of that money. I could never tell him about the sins I committed with the girl in the refugee camp. Even while I think of her I get so excited I have to interfere with myself under the blankets and there I am with one sin on top of another. If I ever confessed to a priest now I’d be excommunicated altogether so my only hope is that I’ll be hit by a truck or something falling from a great height and that will give me a second to say a perfect Act of Contrition before I die and no priest will be necessary.

Sometimes I think I’d be the best Catholic in the world if they’d only do away with priests and let me talk to God there in the bed.

Categories
Books Writing

Free of the toothless sharks

Now that the book deal I had spent four month wrangling over has fallen through, I pulled the about page until I can figure out what it will say.

(Oh, did you miss that particular rant? You’ve got to move quick in the Burningbird world, or you’ll miss the good stuff. You can, however, still catch the link in Bloglines.)

After spending over a year with two publishers that have beat me about the psyche, eating away at my inspiration and enthusiasm like old, toothless sharks desperate for human juices, I don’t know if I want to consider myself a ‘technology writer’. Once I was a technology writer. Now, all I know is that I’m not a Wal-Mart worker.

Unlike the sharks, I’m not starving to death, thanks to contract PHP/MySQL and other work (helped in part by recommendations of a friend made through this weblog). I guess that makes me a member of an endangered species, a Woman in Technology; but it doesn’t make me a Technology Writer.

I could go elsewhere, look for another other publisher. I could also pull my fingernails out one by one, or have a dentist drill my teeth without Novocain.

I’ve talked about quitting the comp book biz before, but in the back of my mind, it was always there. Writing computer books isn’t just part of my income, it’s part of my identity. I feel like I’ve lost part of my identity, but I don’t know if this is a bad thing.

Without worrying about a computer book, there’s more time for walks. More time for pics. More time for my balcony garden, or bookbinding, or other interests. More time to write just for the fun of it. And no worries about offending–or trying to attract–any publisher or technology group, so I am free to write whatever I want.

No more sucking up to the toothless sharks.

Categories
Books Writing

Book publishers suck

I’ve been in negotiations for over four months with a publisher on a book. After the last book deal fell through with negative reprecussions for me, I’ve been more wary when it comes to contracts.

One issue with the new publisher has been about a clause in the contract that the publisher could bill me for royalities paid out if the books are returned.

With my previous books, the publisher holds a percentage of royalities aside for coverage of book returns; or hold royalities for 3-9 months for the same reason. They also keep most of the profits from the book. In exchange, the author isn’t suddenly presented with a bill when they’re expecting a royalty check.

I’ve earned out my royalities and advances on all the books I’ve authored or co-authored but Developing ASP Components, second edition (because Microsoft came out with a new architecture just as we went to print), and the recent Practical RDF (I have hopes I’ll earn out the advance on this one, but slowly). Both of these books have been with O’Reilly Publishing (who has an uncomplicated contract without a lot of ‘gotcha’ clauses about billing the author, may I add).

However, the publisher I’ve been dealing with not only wanted to hold payouts for several months, reserve 25% of the royalities for return, but they also wanted to bill me for any returns beyond that. Paired with very low royality–eight percent–I had to decline. Disappointing, and discouraging, but these things happen.

Now it gets good.

I didn’t hear anything more for about a month or so. Then, out of the blue this last week the publisher came back and said they would strike this clause, in addition to paying half the indexing fee (having me pay all the indexing fee was something else I wasn’t happy about). It wasn’t a great deal, but I’ve spent so much time on this, I said I would agree and asked to see the new contract.

Well today, I heard that the publishing company has decided to keep the clause in after all, but that they “never invoke it, so it doesn’t mean anything”. If a clause in a contract doesn’t mean anything, why keep it in the contract? Do they think me stupid?

Needless to say, that’s the end of my relationship with this publisher.

This is two bad experiences with publishers in a row trying to get a book out, and spending over a year in the process. Frankly, the news today was like getting sucker punched.

Categories
Books Writing

If it’s so bad why do we love it

Michael Blowhard at 2Blowhards provides a detailed discussion about why you wouldn’t want to write a book. Among the reasons given, such as only a few hundred people make a living at it, he says that writing a book just isn’t fun:

Many people imagine that they’d “fullfill themselves” (whatever that means) if they wrote a book; or that they’d get a deep pleasure out of the craft elements of the job. In fact, writing a book is a lot of work, and often work of a very tedious kind. It’s heavy labor, more akin to building a house than puttering in your basement. (And no one builds a house purely for the pleasure of it.)
…
But writing a book isn’t something that can be done in a week or a month. It weighs on you; it’s a bear to wrestle into submission, and it’s followed by the (generally) no-fun publishing process. And then you’ve got to endure the almost inevitable commercial disappointment. Imagine going to all the trouble of building your dream house (by hand, naturally) – and then people ignore it.

I do agree with Michael – book writing isn’t done in a week or a month. And during a deadline, or if you’re having trouble with your subject, it can weigh on you. But he’s focusing exclusively on the darker moments of writing.

Sure there are times when the words feel as if they have to be dragged out of your very soul; but then there are other times when your fingers can’t move fast enough in order to keep up with your thoughts. Sometimes you get a good editor, sometimes you don’t, but when you have a good one, the editing process can be enormously satisfying.

And when you get your first copy of the book, what a feeling of accomplishment. The same feeling you get when someone is kind enough to write you and let you know how much they enjoyed the book, or how much the book helped them.

According to Michael, the only reasons why people would consider writing books are:

  • Some hope to hit the jackpot despite the odds
  • Some have a dream about being an author, or taking part in “literature”
  • Some are obsessed lunatics – ie., they feel they just gotta
  • Some don’t know better (these usually never write a second book)
  • Some have other ambitions, and writing a book is a step along the way
  • A handful are determined to be trade-book authors as a career, and know what the game consists of, and have (or think they have) the tenacity, toughness, talent, luck and energy to succeed

I am guilty. I am an obsessed lunatic.

Seriously, Michael Blowhard has good points: writing books is not an easy thing to do; it takes time, discipline, a certain kind of writing ability, and most people who write don’t make a living at it. As for being part of the literary world, well, for most of us, writing a book might get us a cup of coffee at Starbuck’s, but only at one located in a Barnes & Noble. But still, there are some of us tenacious, tough, determined, hopefully talented people who keep at it. Because in the end, the writing’s the thing. That’s one Michael forgot to include in his list.

Categories
Books Technology Writing

If only

It’s been slow going getting another book deal. The publisher I’m currently talking with about a book on MySQL/PHP wants to include a provision in the contract to bill me if I’m paid royalties on books that eventually get returned from the book stores. Normally, the returns are more than compensated for by new book sales in any given quarter, so this is a non-issue; most publishers don’t ask for this. Nowadays, though – everyone wants a sure thing.

My counter to them is to hold back a percentage of the royalites against return; any of the amount still remaining when the book’s shelf life ends is then sent to me in one lump sum. I don’t like doing this–the royalites we get are so small as it is–but I can’t be looking forward to a royalty check only to get a bill, instead. Hopefully the publisher will accept this counter-proposal.

I need a book, though. More than just the money, I need to get back into working on a book. I’m so eager that I considered, briefly, putting my name into the list of CSS Luminaries that Eric Meyer asked for recently, for work on a new book on CSS. Of course, we all know I’m not a CSS luminary; I’ve spent much of my last few years working the server-side of the development teeter totter. But don’t discount my CSS skills. Rusty they may be, but I’ve been working with CSS as long, or longer than any of the other existing stars in our web design firmament.

For instance, Eric Meyer’s first article on CSS was for the October, 1997 edition of Web Review. I was already writing on CSS, as you can see from a March 28,1997 article from the same publication. Eric stayed with CSS, while I drifted off to other technologies, such as ASP and Java, Linux, and of course, weblogging and RDF.

If only I had stayed with CSS. I think of that now, especially when I’m having a hard time finding a book. If only I had stayed with any one technology – enough to become established as a ‘luminary’ in the field. But like a blackbird, always attracted by some new and shiny thing, I would soon grow bored with technology once mastered, and look for something new and challenging.

However, I have been playing with CSS a bit more recently. I decided to do two new themes for Burningbird – one representing my feminine side, one my masculine.

The Paths: Book of Color theme represents my feminine side– with wide open areas; lack of constraints; a rejection of absolute centering; and the sensuously combined colors of purple and orange, with just a touch of crimson. Notice that the sidebar doesn’t close, either at the top or bottom. Notice, also, the positioning of the content – not completely to the side, but not centered, either. The changing character of this new theme is represented in the backdrop, randomly pulled from my “path” photos.

My new masculine theme is Route 66, and I do think it’s quite nice. The colors are rich, and subtle, and even quite adventurous. It’s also been the most difficult to create because it forces all parts of the page into a centered box, with no open spaces between the components–and this isn’t easy, as many of you know. It is precise, constrained, centered, and very controlled.

Feminine open, and masculine controlled. This doesn’t necessarily reflect common viewpoints of male and female. But I’ve always seen my femininity tied to that part of me which longs for new roads to travel; that burns with a desire to knock down arbitrary and unnecessary walls. It is the practical side of me, but also the passionate–the part of me that tilts at windmills and dragons with equal enthusiasm. My masculinity, though, is that part of me that wants to control and constrain. It is bound with my sense of honor and duty, and desire for finding order in chaos. It’s the side that says to me, “But what about the bills”. My masculine side wants to lead, while my feminine side just wants to do its thing. The only emotion both sides share is a dislike of maudlin sentimentality – the masculine because it’s contrived, the feminine because it’s cheap.

Of course, for others, the reflections of their masculine and feminine sides are as unique as the people. Some may see their feminine side as controlling or ordered, while their masculinity is loose, and unrestrained. Isn’t it funny how the same terms can mean something so completely different to each of us?

“I won’t have eleven children,” she asserted; “I won’t have the eyes of an old woman. She looks at one up and down, up and down, as if one were a horse.”

“We must have a son and we must have a daughter,” said Terence, putting down the letters, “because, let alone the inestimable advantage of being our children, they’d be so well brought up.” They went on to sketch an outline of the ideal education– how their daughter should be required from infancy to gaze at a large square of cardboard painted blue, to suggest thoughts of infinity, for women were grown too practical; and their son–he should be taught to laugh at great men, that is, at distinguished successful men, at men who wore ribands and rose to the tops of their trees. He should in no way resemble (Rachel added) St. John Hirst.

At this Terence professed the greatest admiration for St. John Hirst. Dwelling upon his good qualities he became seriously convinced of them; he had a mind like a torpedo, he declared, aimed at falsehood. Where should we all be without him and his like? Choked in weeds; Christians, bigots,–why, Rachel herself, would be a slave with a fan to sing songs to men when they felt drowsy.

“But you’ll never see it!” he exclaimed; “because with all your virtues you don’t, and you never will, care with every fibre of your being for the pursuit of truth! You’ve no respect for facts, Rachel; you’re essentially feminine.” She did not trouble to deny it, nor did she think good to produce the one unanswerable argument against the merits which Terence admired. St. John Hirst said that she was in love with him; she would never forgive that; but the argument was not one to appeal to a man.

Virginia Woolf’s “The Voyage Out”

I was thinking on this last week when that great storm brewed up on Monday. I could see the clouds when I left the house for my walk, and almost turned back for my camera. It was late, though, and I kept going.

At Powder, after finishing my walk, I could see through the lower layers of mist to this tall cloud, tall, tall, reaching up to the sky as far as the eye could see. I knew then that this storm was going to be something special. I took off in the car to find a place to watch it, but couldn’t find a place to even pull over; not until I turned into the parking lot of a medical center to turn around and found that the back of the lot opened up to a completely clear view of the entire valley. And the storm, that magnificent storm.

I parked not far from a truck also pulled over to watch the storm and several car lengths away from two cars with four young guys. The guys had been skate boarding down the hill next to the medical center; when I pulled in, though, they were all looking at the sky and one of them saw me and started shouting something about the storm, pointing up to the sky.

I walked over to them, as we watched one funnel cloud form and then break apart. And then another. And another. The front of the storm was huge, and the clouds were actually rolled under, as if they had been turned about by forces unseen. One of the guys yelled out, “Let’s get out of here! That’s a tornado that’s forming!” I yelled back, “Why leave? This is incredible!

“You only live once!”, I shouted at him.

“Yeah! Live! That’s what I want to continue doing!”

They piled into their cars and took off, as I stood in the lot looking up at the clouds as the boiled above me, thinking what an odd thing for that young man to say: being afraid of a storm after spending who knows how long riding a skate board down a very dangerous hill. Understandable though: it’s the degree of control. You control what you do on a skateboard; you have control over your life. But a storm – no man or woman controls a storm. They had chosen the masculine path. I had not.

TO BE CONTINUED…