This is my final blog
post, because I have to hurry up and create a substantial literary
oeuvre in the next two decades (I've decided now that I have some
ideas for it, which was my main reason for moving to a big city three
years ago, and bizarrely, it worked), and more specifically and
immediately, start writing a novel and maybe some short stories right
away after my 40th birthday happens on the final day of
the month.
I actually have already
created several substantial literary oeuvres, including several plays, an
abundance of fan fiction, and several blogs, of which this is my
third. But I gave up on the playwriting career as a rash youth, the
fan fiction isn't especially marketable, and the search engines
haven't brought me fame, either. I'm nevertheless astonished at the
consistency of my traffic, which seems to be primarily generated by
people (usually people: I have a good idea of when it's internet chicanery)
with high-traffic blogs linking to my posts. So thank you, unknown
people who have, here and there, found one of my posts noteworthy.
Although I probably would have kept talking anyway – I mean, my
traffic is negligible as it is – I do prefer to get in front of
more eyeballs, as long, it seems, as I don't have to find the
eyeballs.
I don't foresee a
future where I'll be blogging, although some day, in another
incarnation, I might be forced to have a self-promotional website. In
the meantime I can be found on the interwaves on Another Kind of Distance, my podcast on time travel movies (and sometimes
tangentially related movies we like, and sometimes TV episodes),
co-hosted by David Fiore.
When I started this
blog, it was supposed to be a literary blog, but it so happens that I
can neither read fast enough, nor process what I read and produce
elegant thoughts about it fast enough, for even a monthly post. So
then it became my “everything that crosses my mind” blog. For the
final post – coincidentally, but still – I'm returning to the
topic of literature to muse about the place it holds in our present
culture through the lens of the digital “reading delivery systems”
that I've explored in the past year or so.
But first, some stats.
Disappearance of
Reading?
It only makes sense
that the more options we have for entertainment, the less time we
have to devote to reading. Does that make us a less literate culture?
Clearly not: the basic literacy rate in England and North American has risen to near-universality since the 19th century, which is now looked upon as the golden age of novel-reading. What's kind
of surprising is that reading for entertainment has survived at all,
but the YA boom proved that despite the proliferation of television
choices, ordinary people still want books, as long as the books don't
demand too much time or mental energy and have some kind of direct
archetypal appeal.
Still, reading is
certainly quickly crowded out by other activities as soon as you're
out of school. For myself, I work for 7 or 7.5 hours Monday through
Friday, write for an hour or two, try to fit in a TV episode so that
I know what everybody else is talking about, read articles on the web
for an hour or so – and that leaves me with an hour or two to read
a book, which on weeknights, because I'm tired, most often ends up
being one. One weeknight every week I spend with my boyfriend, or,
since he has a similar schedule, we'd never see each other. We also
try to have a date day on the weekend, although sometimes I spend
part of it seeing my best friend; and one of my days off I have to
devote to serious writing, although that gets messed with, too,
because I also have to do errands on that day, like groceries and
laundry. And since everyone's life is like this, unless you're a
literature professor, retired (and no one of my generation is going
to get to retire until they're 65 at least), a speed reader, or
preferably all three, where is the time to read supposed to come
from?
So there's really no
need to admonish the general public for not finding a lot of time to
read – unless your motivation is to shame all of us into making the
time. But if we're going to make the time, we have to make it for
good books. The only reason to encourage any reading is that
it might lead to good reading. (I realize that I don't
get to define what good reading is, but I do believe that there is
good reading and bad reading.) Since nowadays you can encounter educated people who watch so much TV they can't possibly ever pick
up a book, I presume that once you're educated – at the BA level,
say – you will remain an articulate person and analytical thinker without
ever picking up a book again (although it probably helps to sometimes
read an article).
I remember when, having decided that I would not to the prestigious theatre school that had
suspended me for insubordination (apparently, I wasn't given an
official reason) since I'd run out of money and already had a lot of
student debt anyway, I figured that my BA and an almost-MA were
enough and it was time, at 32, to enter the real world, so I got a
call centre job with a bank. During the training, which took place
over the course of about six weeks, our supervisor not only showed us
a slideshow of his home renos but also gave us such lifestyle advice
as, “I read for 15 minutes every day.” Which struck me, an
ex-English major, as ludicrous – as though reading were like doing
the StairMaster, and not even with dedication, but as a kind of token
gesture. (As you can imagine, my new career didn't work out.)
According to these Pew Research Center survey stats, the median number of books read by
American adults in 2013 was 5. (I'm going by US stats because the
most recent stats for Canada that I could find are from 2007.) For
the college-educated, the median number was 8; by income, the number
climbed higher according to income level and ranged between 3 (for
under $30, 000) and 8 (for $75, 000 and over). I am college-educated
and make well under $30, 000 per year, which makes me quite the
anomaly (which I largely attribute to having set out on a path to become an
English professor and then belatedly changed my mind), and I finished
8 books in the past 12 months. That's very slightly more than what
I've been averaging since I graduated with my MA at the end of 2009, which, from memory, I'd say is about 6.
I don't remember completing more books per year at earlier points in
my life – I remember struggling with my attention span since I was
in my late teens, and spending any extra reading time I had in
university researching and writing essays and fooling around on the
internet – but according to my Goodreads account, I must have: I
found 447 books that I've read, or (for short story, essay, and
poetry collections) partially read, between the ages of 12 and 39, for an average of 16.5 books per year. And that doesn't include
the commercial and genre fiction (Anne Rice, V.C. Andrews, etc.) that
I was still reading until my late teens, or the innumerable book
chapters and academic articles I read as a university student –
sometimes even (I shudder to admit it) for pleasure.
Experimenting with
Formats and Apps: Audible and LibriVox
The Pew Research Center
stats are for print and e-books plus audio books. I also listened to
a lot of audio books this year – about 8 again. So if you
include audio books, that gets my number up to 16, which was the mean
for people in the top household income tier (although someone in the
second-highest income tier skewed the mean up to 18). It hardly seems
fair to do that, though, because the reason I was able to listen to
so many audio books is that I have a job, and bosses, that allow me
to listen to my phone all day at work. This initially led to my
discovery of podcasts, but since I'm picky, I'm only really
interested in half a dozen or so podcasts at a time, so once I'm
caught up with the show's archived episodes, I need more things to
listen to for an average of 35 hours per week. That's what led me to
discover Audible.
Audible, which is the
only for-pay online audiobooks service I can find with a cursory
search, is owned by Amazon, those internet monopolists. I guess you
can also get audiobooks from iTunes, although I just learned that.
Anyway, Audible hooked me in by offering a credit for any book every
month for a monthly fee of around 20 Canadian dollars (it was
slightly below before our present recession, and is now slightly
above). Since online audiobooks are often considerably more expensive
than ebooks (as their physical counterparts are than print books),
this is a good deal, and definitely convenient. In the same search
that uncovered Audible I also found LibriVox, which appears to be the
most widely-used free audiobooks site, with the reading being done by
volunteers.
How you use audiobooks,
if you even have the time to use them, will depend on your
personality. There's shame attached to “reading” in this way,
although apparently science shows that comprehension is not affected
by getting the book through the ear rather than the eye. I guess the
shame stems from the stigma on illiteracy, and also “laziness”:
although it takes as much effort to listen as to read, you can keep
playing an audio book all the way to the end while listening to it
intermittently, whereas you have to read each sentence to get through
a book.
It almost seemed as
though internet-savvy intellectuals were all discovering these
delivery systems at the same time, because soon after I signed up for
the Audible deal I started hearing ads for the service on podcasts like
Partially Examined Life and Best of the Left, which was
a real pisser, because I could have got a discount on my first book
if I'd signed up using a promo code from one of the shows. Or I guess
really it was Audible contacting these podcasters. (Or they applied
to have a sponsor? No idea how it works – my podcast is not Next
Level.) Anyway though, I also noticed the PEL guys talking
about using LibriVox after I'd discovered it on my own.
I decided to use
audiobooks for two main purposes: to familiarize myself with classics
that I know I'm never going to get around to reading, with lets me
feel “cultured” while freeing up time to read books that actually
interest me, and to familiarize myself with massive non-fiction tomes
that I'd find too boring to finish in print. This year (i.e.,
12-month period from birthday to birthday), for example, the most
noteworthy books I obtained through Audible were The Canterbury
Tales, Don Quixote (in Edith Grossman's recent
translation), and Thomas Piketty's Capital in the Twenty-First
Century (which is not one of my 8 audiobooks, since I have 8
hours left). Because it's even easier for your mind (or at least my
mind) to wander when listening than when reading, and because I'm
actually doing tasks while listening, I don't expect to catch more
than the gist of the books. Thanks to the internet, however, I can
then fill in the gaps by with the use of SparkNotes (that's right, I
have no shame – I'm not in university anymore), Wikipedia, and, in
the case of new non-fiction books, in-depth articles.
There are serious flaws
with Audible, however, that prevent its audiobooks from being
adequate substitutes for physical books, whether audio or print, and
I sincerely hope that Amazon and the makers of personal electronic
devices give enough of a shit to improve these books and apps as more
people get their culture this way. First: it's just about impossible
to “rewind” with any accuracy to relisten to an important point,
at least on my puny iPhone, which turns the most infinitesimal nudge
of my big, clumsy index finger into 20 minutes of book. I'm sure it
would be more precise if I were doing it with a cursor on a computer
– but if your device is supposed to be able to support these books,
it should do a better job of it. Second: the audio chapter divisions
do not come with information from the print version. They're simply
labelled “Chapter 1,” “Chapter 2,” and so on – and the
numbers don't even necessarily correspond to the print book's chapter
numbers, because they don't even distinguish between a chapter and a
prologue or foreword. If, therefore, I want to go back to a specific
chapter and listen to it again, because I was especially distracted
during that part, or because Wikipedia assures me that it's an
important one, Audible makes that extremely inconvenient. Considering
that they're pricing these things at top dollar (unlike low-priced
ebooks), it's disappointing to say the least. The Canterbury Tales
audiobook, for example, heftily priced at nearly $30 US (Blackstone
edition), doesn't even tell you what tale you're hearing.
I make a further
distinction between Audible and LibriVox, only being willing to use
LibriVox for certain books. For example: public domain non-fiction
classics, like On Liberty and On the Duty of Civil
Disobedience. Books that I should have read long ago and probably
wouldn't get around to reading for a long time. Ironically, although
it's free to listen to the books, LibriVox users actually enter
chapter information accurately, taking it from the print edition.
There are sometimes sound quality problems, and sometimes you'll get
someone who reads too fast, or has a thick accent that's hard for a
person from your area of the globe to understand. But just as often,
you'll get a reading dramatic and gripping enough to be professional.
(I loved Bob Neufeld's colourful reading of Civil Disobedience.)
Nevertheless, with
however little warrant, I prefer to leave my major works of
literature, which require dramatic talent to read properly, to paid
readers, and therefore to Audible – especially since I don't need
to buy too many books this way, only the ones that I feel a duty but
not much desire to read (or revisit).
The Digital Public
Library: OverDrive
Contrary to popular
belief, readers seem to be extremely slow to adopt new reading
methods. I'm a cutting-edge experimentalist by the conservative
standards of the readers in the Pew survey: I'm almost off print
books altogether. Having moved a lot in my adult life, I've gradually
shed my physical library, which, I reasoned, consisted of books that
I had either already read or was probably never going to read. I have
no sentimental attachment to physical books whatsoever, and I've even
come to almost dread reading them, since I at least have the illusion
that I'm reading ebooks faster and more easily. I've definitely
noticed gradations of stimulation, wherein if I'm tired (which at
this age, working full time, when am I not), my laptop screen is
highly stimulating (I can read on it all night), my phone screen is
fairly stimulating, and a print page is not stimulating at all (I'll
start falling asleep after a few sentences). I can understand bemoaning
the endangerment of book cover art (like record cover art), but
that's a separate issue from how one wants to read; so is the
endangerment of physical spaces for lovers of reading, both
bookstores and libraries.
The only limitation on
my switch to ebooks is what's been converted to that format. Although
almost all new books and editions since the ebook revolution
(2000ish?) come in e-editions now, I have no idea who decides what
from the back catalogue or public domain gets an e-edition, in what
order, or how fast. The major canonical authors are represented, of
course, and the major cult figures, but many omissions remain, so
we're all going to be relying on physical books in libraries for some
time.
However, this year I
also discovered how to take ebooks out of the library, using the
library app OverDrive. (Which, I just googled-learned, has a deal
with Amazon. Of course. Amazon owns my electronic reading
experience.) You have to be a member of the library, and then you
have access to its ebook and digital audiobook collection – which
is pretty desultory, if the Toronto Public Library is anything to go
by. Maybe I can blame it on Rob Ford – although if you do a quick
google on this issue, you'll find that there are apparently untold
difficulties involved, from the practical to the philosophical, with
the acquisition and lending of ebooks by libraries. For now,
borrowing ebooks from libraries can only serve as a supplement to
buying them. My habitual process now is: check TPL's digital
collection through OverDrive; if it's not there, check Kobo (formerly
iBooks, but with Canada's dollar screwed again, I'm relying more on
Kobo); if it's not there, see how much the print edition costs; if
it's too much, check TPL's print collection.
Really, though, the
limitations on ereading aren't so much sending me back to print books
as helping me make decisions about what to read next. But only when I
have a choice: if it's a matter of doing research for something I'm
writing, I will of course avail myself of TPL's print collection.
Very occasionally I still get a craving for a book that's either not
available as an ebook or out of print, but that's in the number of
less than half a dozen per year. (As for ebooks, I probably purchase
around half a dozen in a year.) And if I'm in an airport, I really
want a print book, preferably a somewhat junky one, which is how I
ended up reading Gone Girl, after seeing the movie – and the
print book came in handy when my return flight was delayed and I
ended up stranded in the airport for six hours with no way to charge
my cell phone.
The Future of
Reading?
I was surprised to
learn that I'm such an early adopter of these new ways of reading,
and also surprised at the correlation in the Pew survey between
higher education, on the one hand, and use of non-print books on the
other. It seems counter-intuitive, for example, that the same
percentage of people who have completed some college and college
graduates would have read at least one print book, but far fewer
non-graduates would have read an ebook or used an audiobook. If
audiobooks are for the “lazy” or “illiterate,” why would
their use go up with education level? Does comfort with technology
increase with education level? Are college graduates, like me, trying
to cram extra books into their craniums by reading on portable digital
devices on the fly and listening to audio books on their commute? Are
only the most avid readers apt to get excited about format
innovations, and curious about what they can do to enhance one's
reading life?
I'm not always an early adopter. Although I've been
addicted to the internet for the entirety of this century, I only got
a mobile phone when I moved to Toronto in the summer of 2012, only
got a smartphone when I got a job selling mobile phones in the
spring of 2013, only got a good smartphone that Xmas, and only
started discovering the different options for reading since around
last spring. So although I probably represent the vanguard of the
shift to ebooks, it's also probably the case that despite all of the
alarm over that shift – especially if you've worked in the
book industry, as I did for several years – it's actually happening
very slowly, and only starting to pick up now. Still, in my almost
complete abandonment of print, I'm in a tiny minority: only 5% of
readers in the Pew survey read an ebook without also reading a print
book, and I only avoided that category by my airport purchase.
All in all, my reasons
for preferring ebooks to print books are: they're usually cheaper
(although going up); despite many missing titles, I'm still more
likely to find the title I'm looking for than if I go to even a huge
bookstore in a major city, and don't have to wait for a special
order; if it's a library book, I don't have to pick it up and I can't
forget to return it; I don't have to move them; my whole library
travels with me wherever I go, accessible from my phone; and screens
stimulate me, while the print page puts me to sleep. I hope we'll
always have print books as well, and public spaces for book-lovers
and knowledge-seekers, and physical picture books will always be
important for children who are learning to read, but personally, I'd
be just as happy if I never had to read a print book again.
As to whether we're
going to “stop reading” altogether in the future – there is of
course a certain artificiality in judging how much a person reads in
a year by the number of books they've read. We of course now all read
and write text all day long, with varying levels of literacy, in
order to communicate through social media or our mobile phones. Even
sticking to discursive prose (not recipes or IMDb entries, then), I
read for far more than 15 minutes per day, every day, but a lot of
that reading consists of: short articles, long articles, blog posts,
Wikipedia entries, movie reviews, and on and on, all of it online and
most of it encountered through Facebook shares and Google searches,
although I'll also go straight to certain authors, publications, and
sites. Goodreads, too, artificially divides your units of reading
into books, because its database collects editions of published books
– even though the actual works may be poems, plays, essays, or
short stories, or collections of poems, plays, essays, or short
stories.
Even if there's a
decline in book reading, that may not mean that there's a decline in
reading. A lot of internet reading may be frivolous, but a lot of
book reading is frivolous too, so counting the number of books read
can only give you the roughest measure of a person's annual reading –
if “reading” means “serious reading,” and I'm not sure why
we'd be trying to measure annual reading, or using books as the measure, if
that's not what we were trying to measure. Books – as distinct from
anthologies – do remain central to intellectual culture, with their
sustained arguments, their narrative ambition and complexity, their
inducement (in reader and writer) of reflection. And if internet
reading is one of the things pushing out book reading, as it may well
be, that's something that should be fought. But before waving our
arms around about cultural decay, we should still distinguish a
decline in book reading from a decline in reading (and knowledge, and
thoughtfulness), as well as being aware that all books aren't created
equal.
One definite limitation
on ebooks: lending the book. For example, today I read an eerie time travel
story, "Real Estate," in Rivka Galchen's collection American Innovations, and
I wanted to lend the book to David Fiore so he could read it.
However, I can't just lend him my phone (or tablet if I had one, and some would be pissed to have to lend their ereader). That would be fine if he was
going to read the story right now, but maybe he just wants me to lend
him the book so that he'll remember to read it when he gets around to
it, and that I can't do. I checked and it's available through
OverDrive, but he'd have to download the app – to his Kobo, since
he doesn't like reading on his phone. So I guess it won't be a big
deal once everyone is used to getting ebooks from libraries and
libraries have better ebook collections. Still, recommending that
someone read something, even if they can download it for free, isn't
the same thing as just lending them the damn book. I've bought the
book, I should be able to lend it. It seems that Amazon actually has
a way to do this, although it's like a library loan, which means the
borrower only has a certain window within which to read it, which is
kind of annoying, but at the same time does solve the problem of
friends or exes never returning your book. Which is another thing –
you can't gift an ebook that you own. Unless Amazon has, or
develops, a way to do that, too.