bookpublishing

Today’s post is from guest blogger Vera Marie Badertscher. Thanks Vera for sharing your insightful words at bookpublishing.today.com. If any of my readers are interested in guest blogging, please feel free to leave a comment including the topic of your choice (related to reading, writing, or publishing, please).

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Thanks Jess, for letting me use your space to talk about books that inspire and inform travel. When I started A Traveler’s Library (http://atravelerslibrary.com) to talk about books and travel (and occasionally movies and travel), I pondered how to explain the kind of books I would be talking about.

Travelers and readers seemed to understand immediately. Most devoted travelers, I find, peruse their favorite guidebook and then ask a friend “What should I read for my trip to Spain?” Such inquiries drive long threads of discussion on travel bulletin boards on the Internet.

Bookstores do not stack books in a section called “inspire and inform travel.” Publishing companies do not assign editors to find and publish books under that category, either. Oh sure, you can find travel memoirs about people who built a house in a foreign country or guys who floated down the length of the Amazon filed under travel.

But how about the biography of Mozart that is essential reading for a trip to Salzburg, or Thucydides, who points out places you don’t want to miss on the Peloponnese, or cookbooks filled with anecdotes and photographs that show how people really live?

On my library shelves all these books wind up in the travel category.

Recently a LinkedIn acquaintance introduced me to a veteran travel writer who “gets it.” In the preface to her 1998 book Travel Here and There Anita Zelman describes a bookstore in New York that “organizes the books on the shelves the way I organize my thinking for a trip. I am no longer to be considered crazy, weird, or alone.” The owner of the store explained that his purpose “is to provide customers with a good, purposeful read before and after the trip.”

That’s it. That’s what travel books should be and do.

In case you are wondering, that bookstore still exists, in slightly different form. The Complete Traveller, An Antiquarian Bookstore (www.ctrarebooks.com), sells books in Manhattan. Amazingly, in these times that are so touch on independents, travel book sellers still exist. I listed some at A Traveler’s Library.

Happy travels to you, and happy reading.

Today is the 200th birthday of Edgar Allen Poe, a chillingly effective and legendary writer. In honor of this date, I’m sharing my favorite Poe piece, “The Tell-Tale Heart,” courtesy of Literature.org.

The Tell-Tale Heart
Edgar Allan Poe

TRUE! nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why WILL you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How then am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily, how calmly, I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture — a pale blue eye with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me my blood ran cold, and so by degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye for ever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded — with what caution — with what foresight, with what dissimulation, I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night about midnight I turned the latch of his door and opened it oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern all closed, closed so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly, very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man’s sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this? And then when my head was well in the room I undid the lantern cautiously — oh, so cautiously — cautiously (for the hinges creaked), I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights, every night just at midnight, but I found the eye always closed, and so it was impossible to do the work, for it was not the old man who vexed me but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed , to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers, of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was opening the door little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea, and perhaps he heard me, for he moved on the bed suddenly as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back — but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close fastened through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening , and the old man sprang up in the bed, crying out, “Who’s there?”

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed, listening; just as I have done night after night hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently, I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief — oh, no! It was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself, “It is nothing but the wind in the chimney, it is only a mouse crossing the floor,” or, “It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp.” Yes he has been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions ; but he had found all in vain. ALL IN VAIN, because Death in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel, although he neither saw nor heard, to feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time very patiently without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little — a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it — you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily — until at length a single dim ray like the thread of the spider shot out from the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye.

It was open, wide, wide open, and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness — all a dull blue with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones, but I could see nothing else of the old man’s face or person, for I had directed the ray as if by instinct precisely upon the damned spot.

And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses? now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well too. It was the beating of the old man’s heart. It increased my fury as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder, every instant. The old man’s terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! — do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me — the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man’s hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once — once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence.

I took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly so cunningly, that no human eye — not even his — could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out — no stain of any kind — no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that.

When I had made an end of these labours, it was four o’clock — still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, — for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled, — for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search — search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My MANNER had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat, and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct : I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness — until, at length, I found that the noise was NOT within my ears.

No doubt I now grew VERY pale; but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased — and what could I do? It was A LOW, DULL, QUICK SOUND — MUCH SUCH A SOUND AS A WATCH MAKES WHEN ENVELOPED IN COTTON. I gasped for breath, and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why WOULD they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men, but the noise steadily increased. O God! what COULD I do? I foamed — I raved — I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder — louder — louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly , and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! — no, no? They heard! — they suspected! — they KNEW! — they were making a mockery of my horror! — this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! — and now — again — hark! louder! louder! louder! LOUDER! –

“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! — tear up the planks! — here, here! — it is the beating of his hideous heart!”

First, let me apologize for not blogging in so long. I’ve taken some much-needed time off and am back on track. I’m also curious about what else you’d like to see on this blog. I’m hoping to start some book reviews, but I have to find time to read some books first!

Some recent updates: A book I worked really hard to edit, Massachusetts Troublemakers by Paul Della Valle, is pubbing 1/13 and is available for preorder everywhere. It was such a fun book and a fantastic author with a lot of heart and humor. It was one of the first ones that acknowledged my work and made a great gift to my family, who were very enthusiastic about it, especially because they’re all Massachusetts natives. If you check it out, let me know how you like it!

I was also really pleased to receive some editing work from the company I interned with when I graduated college. They need some freelance editing done on one of the books in their For Beginners series–a series I’m already familiar with from my work with them–and I’m hopeful that if I do well on this first project, I’ll continue to get work from them. Here’s hoping!

Now on to the subject of this blog post. I know a lot of people got books for Christmas, which is great news! What books did you get and which ones are you most excited to read? I only received one, if you can believe it, J.K. Rowling’s The Tales of Beedle the Bard, and it’s one I already had–so I gave it to my mother. I did get a gift card to Barnes and Noble, so I’m thinking about starting the Sookie Stackhouse novels, picking up The Anglo Files, or picking up one of the new Gordon Dahlquist novels and canceling my Amazon order. I really need to get back to reading (and writing!)… soon I’ll have finished watching West Wing and I can get back to it!

Now, don’t go buying these books for me or anything… I actually own a couple and have others on order. But they’re books I want to buy, start reading after Christmas, or put on my “to read” stack next year.

On a related note, I have never been the type of person to read several books at a time. I pick up one, force my way through it if I have to, and then pick up a new one. Now I have quite a few going.

Currently reading:
Deja Dead by Kathy Reichs
…so far I’m enjoying it. The descriptive language is much better than I had anticipated and it’s interesting, but I put it aside because it wasn’t hooking me right away. But I’ll get back to it.
Twilight by Stephanie Meyer
… Ugh. I’m actually really disappointed by this. The dialogue could have been written by a fourth grader. I find myself rolling my eyes a lot and I’m really forcing my way through it now. I doubt I’ll continue reading the series. How did it ever get so popular??
On Beauty by Zadie Smith
…I picked this up from my shelf last night to read while on the treadmill and so far it’s fabulous. Draws you right in and the language is lovely. I love that she’s not afraid to use smart language regardless of the character; that’s what literature is for!

To re-read:
The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters by Gordon Dahlquist
…because it was so damn trippy and awesome. And he’s got a sequel (or 2) coming up.
Going Home by Harriet Evans
…just a great unassuming romantic comedy. I love rereading those.

To read:
The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz
…which I hear is amazing and I already received as a Christmas present.
The Tales of Beedle the Bard by J.K. Rowling
… because I feel like I have to.
Shades of Grey by Jasper Fforde
… I have a feeling this is going to blow Thursday Next out of the water. Though I love that series. Except the last one.
The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters, Vol. 2 by Gordon Dahlquist
… The sequel to a really fabulous, kind of insane but beautiful book.
The Dark Volume by Gordon Dahlquist
… possibly another sequel? It releases soon after the one above… so we’ll see. I feel like he just writes a hell of a lot. And it would be great if there was a love interest in there for somebody during one of the three books.

What’s on your wishlist?

Endpapers are a big topic today. If you don’t know what endpapers are, they’re exactly what they sound like–usually a thicker stock paper that appears usually in hardcover books at the front and back. Often they’re very simple, a solid color or pattern. Sometimes, though, designers get really creative to make them match the cover design or interior design.

Today I was reviewing a football book designed by a packager that has a very simple but gorgeous cover design and a more intricate interior design. Then I saw the endpapers and they were an ugly beige-taupe color with no design at all. After speaking with our publisher here about his lackluster response to the endpapers, I requested a more interesting look–even if it only made them look more textured and less bland.

I don’t feel that endpapers are a big deal. I think plain is fine. But when you have the time and the means, which we do in this case, to make a statement, why not? Obviously, you don’t want to overdo it and make the endpapers look more interesting than the rest of the book! But you do want a consistent design that draws the reader in on every page you possibly can.

Alison Morris has a children’s booksellers blog (called Shelftalker) on the Publishers Weekly site and she discussed endpapers today too. Of course, with children’s books, the endpaper design makes a much bigger statement and can have a much bigger effect. It may even be more worth the time and effort to design them as they are more likely to be noticed by a child who is actively taking in all the information than a typical adult reader of a football book who is much more eager to get to the real meat of the book. She includes some examples of nice-looking endpapers. Now, I defer to her taste when it comes to endpapers in children’s books, because I certainly can’t imagine a book I publish that I’d want endpapers like the ones she shows off. However, she does include a link to another site that has some truly stunning images. Here are a few of my favorites:

Garth Williams - Fairies by David G. Klein

The Wonderland of Knowledge by Nancy Stahl

Misty of Chincoteague by Heidi Shmidt

House of Pomegranates by Heidi Shmidt

Susan’s Neighbors by Lou Brooks

Last one… clearly NOT for a children’s book:

Dutch Treat Club 1940 by Stephen Kroninger

There are many more to drool over here.