There’s a lot of talk these days about the seismic changes in the publishing business. What’s discussed less are the changes to the social aspect of reading and the increasingly social ways people interact over books. And this social component is even driving the way books are marketed, both by publishers and by authors themselves.
I was walking down the street to my neighbor’s pool the other day when I ran into a gal who lived four doors down, and seeing her, I rushed back home, grabbed my novel, signed it, and scooted back out of the house so I could to present it to her. (A little aside, I love where I live, it’s a great street, anyway…) My neighbor hugged me, congratulated me, and then said it was her turn to select the novel for her book club, and would I consider attending the meeting… Would I? OH YEAH.
Which got me thinking about book clubs in general… So, here’s the dealio, it’s pretty fluid, and I ask for your ideas on the matter, but the general plan is this:
Select my novel for your book club and I might just send you a present (a particularly cool edition of a book, a pair of Jonathan Adler coffee mugs, a box of beautifully crafted soaps—things like that) and I will figure out a way to attend if I can, either in person, or via my Google+ profile. (On Google+ there is Video Hangout option so we can visit anywhere in the world!) Notify me in the comments about your book club and we can sort out the details via email.
How does that sound? What do you think?
Let’s get this started:
Look at that! Somebody else wrote a novel about Hollywood 😉 , and I thought that would make a perfect first giveaway for Beguiling: The Day of the Locust by Nathanael West. I have acquired a mint condition Bantam Books paperback printed in 1953, with an extremely lurid cover (see above). Fabulous! Want it? Well then, you know the dealio.
Title: The Day of the Locust (1939) Author: Nathanael West 1 Around quitting time, Tod Hackett heard a great din on the road outside his office. The groan of leather mingled with the jangle of iron and over all beat the tattoo of a thousand hooves. He hurried to the window. An army of cavalry and foot was passing. It moved like a mob; its lines broken, as though fleeing from some terrible defeat. The dolmans of the hussars, the heavy shakos of the guards, Hanoverian light horse, with their fiat leather caps and flowing red plumes, were all jumbled together in bobbing disorder. Behind the cavalry came the infantry, a wild sea of waving sabretaches, sloped muskets, crossed shoulder belts and swinging cartridge boxes... Tod recognized the scarlet infantry of England with their white shoulder pads, the black infantry of the Duke of Brunswick, the French grenadiers with their enormous white gaiters, the Scotch with bare knees under plaid skirts. While he watched, a little fat man, wearing a cork sun-helmet, polo shirt and knickers, darted around the corner of the building in pursuit of the army. "Stage Nine--you bastards--Stage Nine!" he screamed through a small megaphone.