Category: Life in General

My life in general, off topic.

Reads of 2016

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I usually finish the year with a blog looking back over the books I’ve read during the last twelve months. Unfortunately, I didn’t blog last week because I was away without Internet access and so this blog is a few days later and, owing to a tight schedule during 2016, liable to be even more pitiful in the number of books read than the last couple of years. Still, I can’t let the year pass completely without mentioning a few titles.

I read a few light novels at the start of 2016 that aren’t worth listing. In May I opened up Sunfail, by Steven Saville, an espionage tale that’s decidedly plot-driven but which I enjoyed. I’ve seen one review calling it slick, and I agree. I also discovered Nigel Williams, my first read of his being R.I.P. I knew I was going to enjoy this the moment I read the opening line of the blurb: ‘Retired bank manager George Pearmain is, apparently, dead.’ This is a nicely humorous, sardonic read.

Joyland and a few of the Gunslinger Graphic novels were a visit by me to a longstanding writer, Stephen King, followed by a Heart-Shaped Box by his son, Joe Hill. The title caught my attention and mostly I enjoyed the book, but not as much as my 2014 read of Horns. To me, a Heart-Shaped Box started out well but didn’t go dark enough. What started out as a promising scare didn’t quite hold its momentum or its thrills, but it still earns a place on my bookshelves.

I started The Enchantment Emporium, by Tanya Huff while on holiday and was immediately captivated and added this writer to my list, purchasing the following two books to add to my to-be-read mountain. The stories are definitely aimed at women but contain enough various elements to hold my interest — a blend of family issues, romance, and magic. The series had me at ‘Dragons’, of course.

Winter Tales is an anthology I had to check out because it features several writers, including me. I found I was more taken with the stories in the beginning of the book and, therefore, exceedingly happy where they placed mine, but like with every anthology, each reader will have their own preferences. I still like a short story and a selection is always a good way to check out new talent.

The Unquiet was my latest read by John Connolly. Unfortunately, I am behind on his books simply because of that mountain awaiting my attention. I readily admit that. I’ve the next two in said pile.

The Wine of Angels was my first foray into the world of Phil Rickman and his character of Merrily Watkins. I liked the concept of a female priest thrown into small village intrigue and investigation and thoroughly enjoyed this book, the characters in the village and the writing. Alas, I didn’t take to Merrily. I will read more of these titles, but it’s a bit like watching an episode of a favourite show where the supporting cast is stronger and more interesting than the lead. I hope this improves as the series continues.

Bleu/Blaque by Belinda McBride is worth mentioning for anyone looking for a m/m romance title. I’m ashamed to say I’ve had this one lingering for far too long, but going on the better late than never concept it’s one I’m happy to recommend. Bleu and Blaque prove to be interesting contrasts and not solely owing to their being vampire and werewolf. They are two characters I would happily revisit.

An American friend has been reading Notes from a Small Island, and The Road to Little Dribbling, by Bill Bryson. Again, the first has been sitting in ‘the pile’ for far too long, so I’ve read one and have just purchased and started the second. My American friend’s take is that it was that, though enjoyable, it was difficult sometimes to decipher between the humour and straightforward complaining, and there were a few moments when I took this point on board. I was surprised by how far Bill Bryson walked, and have to admit his way of touring wouldn’t be my preference having read even a portion of these books. I’m sure I’d want to spend longer in some areas, less in others, and some I wouldn’t want to visit at all, and while ‘wandering at will’ seems enticing, I’d do more research into my intended stops. The books, though, remain a delightful look into the British way of life, particularly for those who don’t know the UK so well… with one word of warning. The politeness and attitudes Bryson encountered in the first book have flagged somewhat. I’ve only just begun the second book and it will be interesting to see if Bryson has also noted any such changes since he first perambulated the UK.

Overall, the year has been pretty disappointing reading-wise so I’m happy to finish with two highlights both picked up for intended Christmas reading. My first is The Martian, by Andy Weir. Having seen the film three times, I was interested in reading the book and would recommend anyone who liked the film to do the same. I’ve seen both have had their usual share of mixed reviews, but I’m amazed how anyone cannot appreciate the research and science-made-interesting portions of the book — the added details of which exceed those in the film — is beyond me. Sure, the ending in both the books but especially the film is far-fetched. It’s FICTION. I’m one of many who does not understand this current inclination to dismiss fiction that is implausible. Many occurrences in life are implausible and fiction can achieve the impossible. I’m quite happy to suspend belief and to be entertained and maybe even learn a little, or, if not, that’s good, too. There is nothing wrong with sheer entertainment. For the writer that I am, it’s interesting to note that I learned Andy Weir first published the book as snippets on the web. To get the total story without waiting, people had to buy the book… and then a publisher took it up, and there’s been a film and one hell of a success story about a man stranded on Mars — the very definition of good fiction. The film… it’s a good adaptation of a book given a Hollywood treatment that’s not at all painful. Mild spoiler: It has a more exciting and implausible ending, but this is only to be expected when they adapt a book to film, as is the trimmed-down science behind the writing.

But my recommendation this year also is my last read. A Man Called Ove by Fredrick Backman breaks the rule of ‘show don’t tell’ yet is an easy read that is thoroughly entertaining, truthful, poignant, funny, moving, uplifting, and sad. It’s painful and beautiful, which is the best type of storytelling.

The Art of Compassion

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We’ve forgotten the art of compassion.

When considering what to write for this week’s blog, the subject of compassion seemed appropriate for this time of year. To begin, I want to transport you to an incident that, to me, remains vibrant.

This took place in 2008. We were off on holiday and making our way to East Anglia. It was a beautiful day in May. The sky was blue; a breeze was blowing into the car’s open windows; the birds were singing. We were relaxed and happy. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say I felt blessed and even the traffic crawling to a stop wasn’t enough to upset my good mood. The hold-up was short-lived… as was my happy feeling.

A small black shape landed on the road in front, exhibiting every sign of happiness, hopping about excitedly and fluttering its wings. Before I could even gasp, the car ahead rolled forward over the bird’s wing, squashing the bones, feathers and flesh into the tarmac, leaving the bird both damaged and trapped.

Put yourself in this bird’s place. You’re going about your day-to-day business and something mashes a limb into the road so that you’re pinned, in pain, and cannot break free. The best you can hope for is another car to roll over you, bringing about a quick death.

I flinched, left feeling helpless and sick at heart. I could do nothing to help this creature. The only way to release it from the tarmac would have been to amputate its wing, something I was not capable of doing, and even then the poor thing was likely to die of shock.

All this because it landed in the wrong place at the wrong time. That could happen to anyone and anything.

The husband patted my arm as though I was six years old, and while I didn’t need the comfort, I didn’t complain.

My reaction, my feelings for another creature, even though its pain and demise had no impact on me or my life, is the very definition of compassion.

The dictionary definition is sympathetic pity and concern for the sufferings or misfortunes of others. Why are we not taught this in schools? Is it something parents no longer discuss? One of my favourite books as a child was The Water Babies because I loved the concepts of Mrsdoasyouwouldbedoneby and Mrsbedonebyasyoudid. Why is all this so absent from the world?

The driver of the car that ran over that bird could not have known the creature was on the road. The driver was not at fault. It was a mere accident. No one was to blame. These facts made what happened no less painful to witness, but here’s the thing. I can’t quote statistics, but it would be eye-opening to know how many drivers would have run over the bird had they known it was under their wheels. I’ve also been witness to other instances where I’ve been directly involved; beeped because we’ve stopped for a rabbit in the road; seen a woman who had to turn her car to stop cars driving over a dog who had run out and been injured (in that incident we and one other driver ended up taking the dog to a vet even though we were no part of the accident). We see road-kill all the time, but when did we decide it’s okay to run over things even if we can avoid them? Indeed, why are there people in this world who would gladly aim the car and shout ‘score’ for a hit? Who is raising these despicable souls?

Of course, I’m not only talking about animals here or creatures on the road. We treat each other the same way. What kind of being does it take knowingly to run over a living creature when they don’t have to? To abuse a dog, a cat, a horse, or anything that breathes? When did society start thinking it doesn’t matter and so many to believe we can all do what we like without considering the impact on our friends, our families, our neighbours, society itself? Or to think it’s acceptable to walk by a woman on the road when she’s pleading for help, a car having hit her, because ‘someone else will call the ambulance’ so there’s no reason to get involved (an actual story a temp apparently once confessed to a colleague in an office I worked in many years ago).

When I was growing up, everyone taught me not to cause harm, to do unto others only as I wanted them to do unto me. That’s not to say be a pushover and accept abuse, but why be the cause? Why are so many so oblivious to the pain of others, and why do so many behave as if it’s perfectly acceptable for behaviour to be so reprehensible that we even have a modern reference to it, that of ‘Troll’?

Compassion: sympathetic pity and concern for the sufferings or misfortunes of others.

Take it on board.

Being Busy, the art of Tinkering, and Screaming

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I came across this post from 2012 and repeat it here now almost word for word as I wrote it then. This year is different. I am writing. Have been doing lots of editing and I’ve more of both ahead of me. I’ve not done anywhere near enough promotion and those ‘life’ annoyances are different, but still very prevalent, maybe more so. Part of me wants to sum up the entire post into a single sentence: I’m a writer and I’m forever busy:

A friend sent me a text last night: “I hope the writing is going well.” I had to reply that I’m not writing. I haven’t been for… well, I’m not sure. Several days, maybe three or four weeks, and it’s annoying me. I’ve found a moment here and there to ‘tinker’ but not to write, although that’s not entirely true either.

I’ve ‘tinkered’ with a bit of story, but not had time to sit down and truly write, so I’ve hardly written a word. On the other hand, I’ve written plenty. Had edits. I’ve written long-overdue emails. I’ve three works out in December so have written blurbs and promo, and typed my book details everywhere I can think of, and written blog posts for places I’m hoping to show up at pontificating about my books or the writing process that created them for anyone who has asked me, or cares to read them. And sometimes just to say hi — to connect with other writers and readers and thank them for their support, understanding, and lovely words and messages.

This is another side of ‘writing’ and I’ve had lots of that to be going on with, but I’ve also spent some time out to attend to daily ‘life’. Much as I’d like to claim otherwise, we all have them, these daily lives, and maybe that’s a good thing to keep a person grounded. I’ve a relative in the hospital, the extension roof sprung a leak, and I’ve done some shopping, some of which I can’t avoid as we head towards Christmas. There’s the Christmas run of presents to attend to, and I have parcels to pack up, post off, or deliver. I have cards to write, and a yearly letter to put together for those I have and haven’t neglected equally — either way, it will be a chance for them to catch up on what is happening at ‘our house’.

I’m — deep breath — busy, but in that, I can’t say this time is all that different from any other time. I’m always busy, because when I’ve ticked off all the things on my current to-do list, there will be another one to attend to, and another one, and another after that. It doesn’t stop. It’s part of writing, living this double life, and sure, sometimes it’s part of any normal life, too, but having all this going on occasionally means I procrastinate and tinker a bit with something trivial because it stops me from screaming aloud, which will only earn me strange looks and speculative whispers. And if there ever should be a time when I’m not busy — as if that’s going to happen — I’ll still be occupied because what writers do when they’re not busy is get busy writing. See how that works?

Still, I’m getting antsy and I’m longing for the moment — and it will arrive this week — when I sit down and begin work on something. It may be something that needs editing — it may be old or new, may require a complete re-write, or may be ticking over quietly in a dormant brain cell for now, but I’ve reached a point where if I don’t write ‘story’ it’s quite possible you’ll hear me screaming.

Tired of Adulting

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As children, we often feel put upon because the adults are the ones who make ‘our’ decisions. This is not helped by the (many) times these restrictions come without an explanation. Children feel victimised, unfairly treated. Other children bullied them, and in worse cases, so do parents and teachers. We hear, or imagine, how great it is to be an adult. Being ‘adult’ represents freedom. Being told, “Well, when you’re an adult, you’ll be able to make your own decisions,” strengthens this.

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Adults are liars. People are born into a world where they are never free. They are born into a world with expectations. That’s not entirely a bad thing — I believe in a certain standard of social and ethical responsibility, but it’s why money can be the root of all evil. Money represents a kind of freedom most of us will never obtain, never appreciate. It’s not so much about what we can buy, or what we can own. Not even about not having to do as we’re told. It’s about not having to do as we’re told, unjustly.

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Children and adults bully children. Adults and children bully adults. Children look at adults and see them as having all the power when most adults will never have the power at all. Adults remain children. It’s just that some are better at hiding it. Some ooze confidence, but in their darkness hours, they are still children. Sometimes we all need a cuddle. We all wish someone else could be the adult for a day. All just keep plodding along, doing the best we can. We learn our parents were ‘winging it’, faking it, ‘putting on a brave face’… and maybe that’s the accurate definition. Maybe in that regard I excel at being ‘adult’. I’m still tired some days. And it is on those days where creativity is many a person’s survival mechanism.

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‘Adults’ everywhere, I hug you.

Images from memepile. If aware of any copyright breaches, please advise.

Beautiful Brugge

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Hi Everyone. I was absent from blogging last week because we were in the beautiful city of Brugge (you may have seen it more commonly spelled as Bruges). We sailed over on a two-night cruise to spend the day for two reasons. One of which was curiosity. We had heard both good and bad reviews of the flagship Britannia and wanted the experience and to make up our own mind.

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The Atrium

Our view is short is that while well conceived overall the ship is seriously let down by a few design flaws, most importantly the lack of a central staircase, which would ease congestion on the lift (even if unable to walk up, many would have used them going down). There were stairs mid-ship, but only for the crew or to be used in an emergency. At least we found points we did like, including a good bottle of wine in the wine bar.

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Wine Bar, Coffee shop, and shops surround the Atrium
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Decided if this were a long cruise this would be my spot in the library.

It shocked me to hear a few less than complimentary remarks when we said we were going. We’ve been three times. On this occasion, we went to do some shopping.

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The famous Belfry (I’ve climbed twice), over 36o steps.

What is Brugge famous for? Most chocolate, beer, and lace. My tip for chocolate is don’t opt for the cheapest as you’ll be eating butter, not cocoa. Of course, there are also cakes.

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Just one of the bright ‘eat me’ displays.

Beer… it’s an acquired taste for some, so it’s one of those flavours that needs experiencing rather than recommendation. Belgium beer is very different from other parts of the world, though can be more refreshing. Lace… I bought my first pieces, both with Halloween/Autumnal themes. I also bought an Autumn Mix bag of chocolates that is too cute to eat… but I’m sure I will manage, though I may save them until the end of the month. But for the writer in me, I love the architecture, which screams story setting and fairy tales.

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Looks like something magical should happen.

For now, life returns to normal with a shiver or two not created by anything I’ve written. There’s a definite nip in the air.

A Writing Process Blog Tour

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Around this time two years ago, I was nominated for a blog tour without my knowing. I can trust my co-writer and editor, Andy Frankham Allen, to not tell me. I guess he counted on me reading his blog… and it appears he was right. This was my entry, which I reproduce here with updated footnotes. Two years. This was TWO YEARS ago. How the time has flown.

Q1 What are you currently working on?

Not as easy to answer as it should be. I’ve recently finished one lot of edits for a steampunk work and had decided to write a third in a published series of romance titles only to realise a need to edit books one and two as I reread them. That turned into a total exercise of shock mixed with the delight of seeing how well I’ve improved in five or six short years. And while I did that, edits for another book arrived. I’ve just returned the first round but don’t expect it will be long before the second arrives (there’s usually two before line edits etc), so I’m sort of jumping about at present. Interruptions and having to hop between works is one thing I never accounted for.

UPDATE: The romances I mention I’m only now finishing up. Personal problems and a necessary move cause a good deal of interruption. Book one has this week been contracted and the trilogy will be on the way.

Q2 How does my work differ from others in my genre?

A genre is a bit of a painful topic for me. I’ve been calling myself a multi-genre writer, but I realise that’s not an easy achievement. Readers will seldom follow a writer through multiple genres — a fact that had never occurred to me. Yes, I know, naïve, but then I’m a reader who will stick with writers I love no matter what they do. I’ll at least give all their works a try, and I read so widely it seems strange to think there are people who read a single genre. I cannot imagine life without reading at least two or three different stories. I always say I write as I read, meaning anything and everything. While this is true, branding is everything these days, so lately I’ve been giving serious consideration to what I do.

I hit on the romance/erotic romance market mostly by accident rather than intent and I tend to call this side of my writing ‘non-traditional’ romance in that I’ve written a large portion of gay or ‘m/m’ titles, also menage, and those in themselves have ranged from contemporary, comedy, horror, science fiction, and fantasy. I want to have a serious try at writing a hetero romance, but I’m sure it will have a paranormal setting, so I say ‘non-traditional’ to explain that I write a range of pairings and sub-genres.

Of my non-romance work… again, it varies, but I realise that many of my stories seem to contain a dark thread. I’ve a short story Bitter and Intoxicating in the anthology Red Velvet and Absinthe (edited by Mitzi Szereto, foreword by Kelley Armstrong) which is a perfect example of this. It’s erotic gothic romance with more than a touch of horror. My one and only short story available at Untreed Reads called The Texture of Winter is impossible to describe. It’s about loss and pain and the end of life, and yet I feel the tale has a bittersweet quality. Both stories are unusual and yet both contain a dark thread. I kind of pride myself in being able to write almost any genre, but I’m currently trying to pin down what I most want to focus on, so I recently re-branded my site and myself as a ‘writer of dark and light fiction’, which at least seems to cover all possibilities. When I get a little ‘breathing space’ I plan to write a novel with that dark side in mind, think ‘outside the box’ to see where it leads me.

UPDATE: I subsequently divided my romance and darker work and have a pen-name for what I now call Dark Fiction.

Q3 Why do I write what I do?

An innate love of books, of stories, of story-telling. Books have been companions throughout my life. They seldom let me down. They’re a way to explore life. To live and experience other lives, to be someone you are not. They’re time machines, both into the past and the future. Stories are for enjoyment and exploration. They can teach or simply hold the reader’s hand through good and bad times. I’d love to make a living at writing, but realistically so few writers do. Many writers write because they simply don’t know how not to. It’s a driving force. I’ve referred to it as akin to breathing.

Q4 How does my writing process work?

I’m not sure. Every project feels different, and the process isn’t always the same. I call myself a pantser — a term in writing circles to mean fly by the seat of. Andy is mostly a plotter. When we co-authored a book together, I found it a little exhausting, and it wasn’t just because we were stepping in at short notice and had limited time. Andy is fast, and he tends to know exactly where he wants to go. I can be fast, but not always, and not when plotting. Writing with someone else requires a certain amount of plotting to be inevitable, but I seldom know where I’m going, so following any kind of pattern felt alien to me. I may start a work based on an opening scene that’s come to me. I may have an idea where I want my characters to end up, but not have a clue how they’re going to get there. On rare occasions I’ll know the end, but nothing or not much leading up to it. I have written things based on nothing more than a title or a handful of words given to me. Characters may come to me without a story, or I’ll connect two random events and realise there’s a plot hiding there. I really cannot explain how my ideas form because it can happen in many ways.

The writing process itself can also differ. I usually write from beginning to end, as if I were reading a story. Occasionally I’ll write random scenes or jump a few scenes ahead and then connect them, sort of in the way they produce a film. The writing can come easily or take forever. It’s a wonderful feeling when it’s flowing; other times… I can only say there’s a good reason writers refer to it as proverbially pulling teeth. When the writing drags, it drags big time, yet I can’t base how good the writing is on how easily the work flows. Sometimes it feels as if a story wrote itself and poured out of me; other times I’ve had to wrench out every word, but in neither case does that tell me a thing about the quality of what I’ve produced until I shelve it for a while and come to the edit. That’s the one thing about my process — I like to shelve work before I do an edit. I may edit a little as I go, I may read over the previous day’s work to get me back into the story and tweak it, but before I do a first major edit, I prefer to let work sit a minimum of two weeks, preferably two to three months or even longer.

Q5 What’s new from you?

I’ve a short story called The Night Train in a magazine, Night to Dawn, and I’ve recently finished The Draco Eye a steampunk work for Space 1889, so that’s likely to be the next available longer work from me. The intrepid crew of Sovereign are heading for Jupiter and find the most fantastical creature yet… which the amazing cover reveals.

Coming next… current edits are on a book tentatively entitled Going Nowhere — a title that will probably end up changed owing to the publisher’s list of titles already in use. This is a gay erotic romance paranormal detective type thing that will be available from Loose id though I don’t have a release date yet. Who said a writer can’t mix things up?

UPDATE: Going Nowhere ended up releasing as Wildest Dreams.

Love of the Written Word

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I’m here to discuss a friend’s point of view — one that hadn’t occurred to me. I’m going to wander a bit because I’m also talking books, but it all translates to love for the written word.

Some people appreciate e-books, some don’t. Some hate the term ‘e-book’ and I take the argument on board. A ‘book’ is a bound set of pages. We might more accurately call the electronic file of a book an e-novel or e-story because I don’t believe the presentation affects the content.

The narrative ‘exists’ the moment the author penned, typed, or dictated the words. When one used typewriters or even quills and ink, the method didn’t make the yarn exist any less. Although by no definition could hand written or typed pages be called ‘books’, I would take them over the existence of nothing. A story exists regardless of presentation.

I’m not against electronic files, but I still love paper; always will. I admit there’s nothing like a physical book one can hold. It’s nostalgic. If a gift, we may recollect when we opened a brightly wrapped package, the second we first saw what was inside, felt a fission of pleasure, and spare a moment’s thought for the person who gifted it.

An electronic file, mostly, lacks the personal touch. An old book even deteriorated… Well, those creases in the spine and cover could have developed over many years of handling and love. I don’t see a scruffy volume as one discarded or ill-used.

Also, for someone like me who spends a great deal of time in front of computer screens, then the printed page is a departure from our world that thrives so heavily on electronics. I find room for both formats simply owing to practicality. I write e-books and would be a total hypocrite to say I loathe them. Far from it. Sure, I would adore the library the Beast gave to Beauty in the Disney film. Push my bed and a chair and desk into the middle. I’ll be fine — but I’ve yet to stumble across any enchanted castles even if I’ve found my Prince Charming.

I love many types of books, from the classics to children’s stories, fantasy and horror, some romances. I can be fussy about my romantic tales more than any genre, but they stand alongside all the other genres I cherish. To call my collection eclectic is an understatement. Unfortunately, I simply don’t have room for all the books I want to own — I will never live long enough to read them all even if I had said library.

My key problem is I’m one of those readers who struggles to part with titles, especially if I enjoyed them. I’ve relatives and friends who don’t understand this. They feel a book read, or a film seen, they’ve finished with. The story told, the reader/viewer knows what will happen, so why read/watch repeatedly?

I comprehend the point but disagree. A much-loved experience can be enjoyed more than once and often one can miss things on a first pass the same way an author can during the creation process. Among my many ‘wants’ is a desire to own an entire library of classics. I’ve an abiding affection for them. I’m amazed when I hear someone say they’ve read none of the literary greats. Black Beauty, Heidi, Pride and Prejudice, Gulliver’s Travels, Oliver Twist… all these and more were my childhood reads. I cannot even remember when they first earned the term ‘classics’ — they were simply books, and they were my first adventures. They took me to different worlds and gave me experiences I would never have had otherwise. I experienced these alongside stories like The Water Babies, What Katy Did, Ballet Shoes, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and never differentiated.

Now they are looked upon as stuffy and dry, the language outdated. I cannot help feeling that people were better educated, more eloquent and literate when such volumes were picked up at a younger age. I was born when almost all parents read to their kids, where they gave me titles intended for older children; if unable to enjoy them right away, I wanted to. That longing made me strive to learn. If I didn’t know a word, my parent handed me a dictionary and told me to look it up, and yes, I took the time to do so.

So these stories remained with me, ingrained, and the electronic format allowed me to revisit some of these classics lost through moves, through lack of space. They are adventures and memories revisited, and I can keep them in virtual reality. Although I still often buy my favourite authors in print, I branched out and discovered others owing to electronic formats. I am grateful, and I would prefer the world where there wasn’t an argument for or against, but where all can live side by side. In an advanced society, life is about individual choice.

I personified my thinking when speaking with a friend. This person is in his seventies and he recently bought an e-reader… and adores it. His reason is simple — he has struggled to read a book for some time. His eyes aren’t quite as they used to be and there may be other factors in his health, but whatever the cause, he can ‘see’ the words better on his reader as opposed to looking at a printed page. He can also increase the font size if need be, or zoom in. This small device made his whole experience come alive again, and where he had as good as given up on books, or took a long time to struggle through a single novel, he’s reading again… devouring titles, and what I saw in his eyes as he told me all this was joy.

So I’m putting this thought out there for those much against. Maybe e-books and e-readers aren’t for everyone, and for some, they never will be, but I think this proves that it’s pointless to criticise the needs of another person and that none of us can know what we may one day need ourselves. Should there be anyone saying they’d rather give up than commit sacrilege and read electronic books, then I can only think ‘nose, spite, and face’. I could never cease reading.

Strangely, I’ve never heard such venomous disagreements over audio titles, which many people enjoy who aren’t blind and don’t have seeing difficulties. The arguments come from fear — a dread that the production of printed books will one day die out altogether. I understand that emotion well. Without print, this would be a poorer world, but one cannot ignore the increase of electronic formats (although sales have dropped back they’re holding their own) — something I knew would take off long before the first e-reader was even conceived. I foresaw a time before such devices existed, where e-readers and titles intended for them sold alongside things like audio were considered as commonplace, and where — for some — they’re a lifeline. Just as someone brought books into my life to enrich it — in my ‘book’ that makes their existence tolerable and even worthwhile.