Books are a Load of Crap

 

Publishing a book: Do not Expect Encomia

In case you think my title is a little bit strong: it is taken from a poet that I have long admired, Philip Larkin. Of course, he was being ironical. He worked in libraries for most of his life, and if he disliked books, it must have been a tad irksome.

The publication of my first book gave me an invaluable insight into human personality. Do you think people said, "Wow, you're so talented". Actually, the first person to whom I proudly showed my book, the product of such enormous reflection, snorted that it was a 'stupid colour'. I reckon about ten percent of the remarks I receive are approbatory. The other ninety percent fall into four clear groups, as follows.

 

1. The ungenerous response.

These people examine my book, sometimes very closely; but they never admit to anyone, and certainly not to me, that they have looked at my book; indeed, they never even acknowledge that they know my book exists. Some of them use the information obtained from my book in their job, but again, they do not acknowledge to their peers where they got that knowledge. Some of them, no doubt, wish to save me from anything that might give me cause for vanity. This is kind of them. But this cannot account for all. I wonder that I should not view this practice as theft. It is not just about publishing. It is about others making public acknowledgement that they have consulted your book to support their own work. Into this category I also place those who do not like it when I mention my book, because that is immodest. And I must never, ever, show anyone my book, because that is monstrously egotistical.

 

2. The conceited response.

These people believe that nothing of any real value is found in books, because books are not proper knowledge. Car maintenance, cookery and gardening, are things you can only learn by doing them. You don't learn them by reading books about doing them. It is pointless arguing that there is a difference between architecture and brick laying, and that we are dealing with an intellectually based subject. These people will never, ever look at my book - even if they are commencing the subject as a complete novice. They will establish everything completely for themselves, and from first principles. They are practical people, which probably means floundering about in a quicksand of ignorance, until they eventually somehow manage to claw their way to the opposite bank.

 

3. The insensitive response.

These people believe it is appropriate to greet the culmination of a man's interminable toil with dismissive or flippant remarks. It seems to me that a man is always proud of his wife, though she be ugly. When he introduces his ugly wife to a friend or colleague, he doesn't expect that person to mock his wife's ugliness, and then to claim that, well, this is alright, because these remarks are humorous and not malicious. No husband would draw any distinction between humour and malice, as this is not the point - it is insensitivity, underpinned by disrespect, that is the real issue. With a book, the insensitive response invariably involves references to doors that need propping open, or wobbly tables that need supporting. Before writing my book I simply had no idea just how many wobbly tables there are in the world. It seems that the furniture manufacturers are for some unknown reason keen to keep authors in work.

 

4. The avaricious response.

These people believe the only motivation an author can possibly have for writing a book, is to make millions, and to retire in great comfort. They interrogate me, with dollar signs in their eyes, about my royalties. I find this impertinent. "How much money do you earn?" Yet when I fail to give any clear reassurance about my villa in the South of France, my liveried chauffeur, my private jet, my tiring of caviar, etc., they act like they've uncovered a deception on my part. They then turn the argument around, and suggest that if a book does not make millions, then clearly that book must be of dubious merit. I cannot defend myself with the truth, because this is one of the occasions where expiation means self-incrimination. If I say my motivation for writing a book was not to make money, at least not centrally, then they think I'm just making an excuse for being a failure. Sigmund Freud first made a name for himself when he wrote The Interpretation of Dreams. There were only six hundred copies printed, and after a couple of years, only two hundred were sold. I wonder if people kept on squawking to him, "How much money have you made? How much money have you made? How much money have you made? Only two hundred copies sold? Why, it must be rubbish!" Certainly, I cannot expect the need to stake an intellectual claim to be understood by those wholly without such aspirations. After you have provided for your basic wants, is not the pursuit of worldly wealth a barren satisfaction compared with intellectual achievement?  It's not about money! 

(c) cufwulf

cufwulf@aol.com