On Paperbacks
Someone once said a book is born twice: Once on publication and once as a paperback. (Me — I am the person who said that.)
If you look at my bookshelves, you’ll see thousands of books (I know because I’ve had to pay to move them) and 98% — 99%? — of them are paperbacks.
I very rarely buy hardcovers, mostly because they’re cumbersome and hard to hold open with one hand on the subway commute. But more important: Paperbacks look better. They feel better. They age better. They wear the signs of your readerly ardor like a well-worn pair of jeans.
If you don’t believe me, just look at the gorgeous photos accompanying the New York Times’ recent feature on the 100 Best Books of the 21st Century, which essentially qualify as paperpack porn.
This is all very straightforward as a reader, but it’s actually quite thorny as a writer.
Because, as a writer, you spend an inordinate — even embarrassing! — amount of time exhorting people to buy hardcover books, namely your own. Which: Thank you! And there are a bunch of good reasons to buy hardcovers (I guess), most prominently the notion that you simply can’t wait to read a particular book.
But… if you press me I’ll happily confess that, to me, a book doesn’t really exist until it exists as a paperback, its platonic, divine form. This is the book’s real birthday.
In fact, if I’m really looking forward to reading a book I’ll often wait specifically for the paperback, knowing it will have a place of pride on my shelves forever.
There are lots of weird publishing-industry reasons why hardcovers still exist as a format, and there are occasional murmurings about the ascendance of paperback originals — but for now, the way it works is: hardcover first, paperback later.
In short: Paperbacks — good. Lovable. Huggable. Bendable. Stick-in-your-back-pocket-or-throw-in-your-beach-bag-able.
In related news, The Eden Test, my latest novel, is out today in paperback.
Cheers,
Adam