It would be remiss of anyone who writes currently to not acknowledge the power of e-publishing. Not so long ago, digital publication seemed like a pipe dream – after all, hosting content on the internet is free for anyone to steal or plagiarize, how should anyone know it’s really yours, or how wouldn’t you just be another ignored, unindexed voice on the deep web? The deep web, is in fact, where my long abandoned teenage poetry project lays at rest, undisturbed by search engines, sleeping in quiet shame. No, I didn’t link you to it, that would defeat the purpose of it being on the deep web. You will never know, unless you knew me then, and then only if you cared so much.
But yes, that was perhaps my first, most ambitious venture into e-publishing. I recall receiving a few emails and instant messages, somehow, from people who were interested in releasing excerpts of my poetry in their books, or perhaps interested in using them for studies. I was fairly adamant on receiving royalties back then, and never heard any response after establishing that. Now, I think I’d just settle for receiving a printed copy to show to my friends. Yet, in retrospect I would not want any immortalization of that body of work.
But e-publishing has definitely been on my mind lately; between the absurd trending of dinosaur erotica, the Eight Hour eBook Challenge, and the ability to monetize blog subscriptions on Kindle, the range of opportunities for a writer to release content online – for money(!), seem endlessly full of potential. There is seemingly no content restriction for ebooks, and the only requirement for selling a subscription to your blog is that it have an RSS feed and update weekly. I am considering selling a subscription to my decade old private LiveJournal as an experiment. It’s not a document I am willing to share with anyone that I know personally, but, like my poetry as of late, I find it interesting to get responses on it from strangers.
That reminds me, I haven’t really talked about my current body of work. I am creating a body of work based upon my extensive romantic-exploratory excesses. It has been met by some resistance from some whom it may chronicle, and great interest by others who may relate to it. Either way, it’s not something I could show to my mother, or most of my friends. It’s my first self-critical autobiographical work (not semi-autobiographcal like much of my prose fiction), and it’s been painful and delightful to write and have critiqued. That is perhaps some of why my attention has been taken away from this blog, in addition to its ongoing identity crisis.
I ponder over the profits reaped from dinosaur erotica and wonder what strange niche of material I could someday learn to churn out. I leave scads of text documents open, with half finished stanzas and paragraphs hoping to stumble into something lucrative. I contemplate how many words I could generate in under eight hours, given time for image editing and formatting for the Kindle. I wonder when I’ll even get a smart phone, much less an e-reader. I wonder if I’d even be able to pay for all the impulse buy fiction I would want to accrue with a Kindle. Then on the bus, I lean into my paper books and become immersed in the sensual experience of pages and ink smells and singular focus — no juggling libraries, no tabbed browsing. I imagine there could be harmony in both.
This is all conjecture, naturally.
Now, to get around to publishing as much as I can, however I can.