Labours of love

I read this today, and remembered the thrill of seeing the first little book I ever had printed.

It was an illustrated story book for a particular friend. I wrote it, obviously, and edited and proofed it, and I paid to have a friend of a friend—who's an illustrator—do the pics.

Finally I had it printed and leather-bound with an embossed cover, all in time for my friend's birthday—a sort of extreme love letter, I suppose.

The thrill of having this thing in my hands was unbelievable, and unexpected. I'd had a chapbook printed in the States by a little publisher who was selling it through his site, but that was printed on a home printer and stapled together and, well, it looked like it.

But this, this was a proper book. And it was glorious. Delightful. Mind-blowing.

True, I didn't finance a print run like the Brontes. But I did take a story and make it into a book. Even if it was just the one. Forget online self-publishing services, I say. Get the thing bound by a human and you'll be much happier.

After that, I made a couple of other books the same way. Most of the thrill came from going right to the edge and standing on the self-made precipice, saying, "this thing is good enough to justify illustrations and binding."

Saying, "I hope you like this" as you give something you made to someone you love.

I've been coauthor on a couple of commercial print books since, but who cares? There's no thrill in that: dispensable publications, written to a brief for an unseen audience. They were the kind of thing you might read, then leave on the shelf to collect dust for years to come.

But a real story, written and produced just for you? That's something. To make that for someone? That is something too.

A little library-induced terror

Today when I tried to put a hold on a library book, like it was 1980, I got a message saying my membership had expired. Perhaps because I hadn't used the library since approximately 1980.

The problem with libraries is the pressure. You borrow a book, you need to take it back. Or renew it, or pay fines. There's no scope for the kind of ponderous reading in which I now specialise. There's no scope for getting tied up with something else—or several something elses—when you're halfway through the borrowed book.

Where's the pleasure in that? I currently have five books on the go—well, four, since I finished one this morning. Each is different and suits a different mood. Only one of them (which I won't name, since I'm sure you can guess it) was compelling enough to demand daily reading.

So why am I returning to the library after all this time? Because the book I wanted costs $50 second-hand. That's it.

Of course, it's not impossible that this renewal of my borrowing privileges might inspire some additional reading. A little something more from David Sedaris, whose back catalogue is too numerous to purchase? Perhaps the latest from Jared Diamond?

Time will tell, friends. While the thought of borrowing, and having books overdue, and paying fines, fills me with an inexplicable terror, goddamn it, I want to read about bunyips.

What can you do?

Possibly the best book I've ever read

I know: enormous call. But I'm making it: Bastard Tongues is the best.

It's a swashbuckling, world-touring, gung-ho tale of one linguist's adventures in researching and understanding Creole languages.

So far he's been to Ghana, Guyana, places in South America and the Caribbean too numerous to mention, (England) and now, Hawaii.

He's also intrigued this little reader as to the nature and grammar of Creolese—and as to the meaning of whatever the hell it is he's about to unearth in Hawaii.

I have some inkling already, having read his later books. But I don't know the details, and this particular  backstory is a fabulous one.

This book is literally unputdownable. I'm not kidding. Buy it, buy it now.

Incidentally, I'm also working up to write to him, as I'm wont to do.