Kendra Bonnett--Getting Read #3
I wake to a blustery Sunday morning in Maine. One look at
the skylights in my bedroom tells me all I need to know. It’s snowing hard, and
I should just roll over and go back to sleep. But my three cats have other
plans. Each morning they spend the hour between five and six on bedside
vigil—watching for the slightest sign of life on my side of the bed. They catch
my furtive glimpse at the skylight, and that is all the invitation they need.
On cue they sing and mew in harmony. Snow or not, it is time to eat.
I descend the stairs only to get a view—a full, frontal
assault—of the mischief our weather has been up to overnight. Snow is flying in
wispy dervishes; the air is crisp; there is already a good foot of light powder
drifting against the side of my barn; and the radio report calls for the snow
to continue falling all day and late into the evening.
I feed the cats and quickly pad back to the bedroom. I can't
go back to sleep, but I can check email while propped up and surrounded by
pillows and the quilted counterpane my sister hand made.
Every family has its idiosyncrasies. Snow brings out one of
mine. I despise, no I loathe, shoveling. There could be eight inches in the
driveway, and I’d rather plow through it in my Jeep than shovel even a single
flake. My sister and brother feel the same way. You see our father armed us
with snow shovels from an early age. Every hour on the hour he sent us out to
clean our driveways. On the off chance that the snow would suddenly stop and the
sun would come out, he wanted its rays to work their magic on our drive
immediately. “Black asphalt absorbs the sun and heats up,” he’d lecture. “If
we’re prepared, our driveway will be the first in the neighborhood to be
completely cleared of snow.” Yes Daddy.
He was such a perfectionist about snow removal that he
refused ever to hire a plow. He just didn’t like where they pushed the snow. My
sister tells everyone we had to shovel the drive with teaspoons. She
exaggerates, but not by much…they were tablespoons.
So when it snows, I immediately set out to spoil myself.
Yes, it’s a good day to stay inside. Caught up with email, I go down stairs and
start a large fire. Soon it’s crackling cheerfully, inviting me to get a book
and come sit close. I set the teakettle to boiling. This way I can enjoy my
favorite lemon-ginger tea while trying to introduce some humidity into the air.
It’s so dry I get a shock just walking across the living room, and the cats’
fur stands at attention. They spark when they touch noses. As the water heats I
survey my bookshelves looking for the perfect book—I favor classics on snowy
days and mysteries in the heat of summer. While reading the spines, my eye
falls on a shelf of childhood treasures.
I’m lucky to own an early edition of J.M. Barrie’s Peter
Pan, illustrated by Arthur Rackham. It was
my mother’s. I open it and see her name carefully scribed inside. I also have
her copy of Robin Hood as edited
by George Cockburn Harvey and illustrated by Edwin John Prittie and her personal
favorite, Howard Pyle’s Book of Pirates. As a child and even before I could read, I poured over these books
for hours, searching the illustrations for details and day-dreaming about what
might be happening behind a tree or sand dune, wondering if the pirate lived or
died, who ended up with the treasure and if Robin Hood was ever captured.
Sitting next to these treasures are my own special books.
You know the kind; the ones you call friends that you read over and over again
as much for the comfort they gave as for their stories. This formative
experience, after all, marks when our love affair with books, reading and words
began. Here’s a list of my top 10 favorite books:
- Johnny Tremain (1943)
Esther Forbes
- Mr. Revere and I
(1953) Robert Lawson
- Curious George (1941)
H.A. Rey
- Madeline (1939)
Ludwig Bemelmans
- Eloise (1955) Kay
Thompson
- Make Way for Ducklings
(1941) Robert McCloskey
- The Cricket in Times Square (1960) George Selden
- Maple Sugar for Windy Foot (1950) Frances Frost
- Raggedy Ann Stories
(1920s-40s) Johnny Gruelle
- The Oz Books (early 1900s) L. Frank Baum
What’s most interesting about this list to me today is that
with the exception of The Cricket in Times Square, Mr. Revere and I and Eloise, these books were written years, even decades, before I was born. I
find this particularly interesting because I owned every one of these books as
a new edition. They were (and are) classics. Parents can still buy new editions
of most of these books today; furthermore sequels are available that I never
read.
We’re lucky that every one of these books was given a chance
and that they were published at a time when book lovers and extraordinarily
insightful editors ran the publishing houses. They recognized talent, even in
first-time authors, and they gave both the writers and their books a chance to
find their markets. Good books were given the chance to become classics. So
much is different today: Taste, expectations and the pace of change are moving
fast. The large publishers are businesses first and foremost. And the cost of
everything makes patience a lost virtue.
The state of publishing in 2009 makes it hard for new
authors to succeed, but not impossible. This is where the smaller, independent
publishers play an important role. You can get picked up without an agent. You
have a chance to stay in print longer and develop your sales stream. Most
important, you’ll have the opportunity to work with people that love books and
publishing. And if your book takes off, you can always resell it to a major
publisher.
I could go on singing the praises of
independent publishers. But in the interest of time and space, I’m going to
refer you to a list of resources I’ve compiled. It will help you learn more
about independent publishers. As for me, the kettle is whistling…I’m going back
to the fire and my book.
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