Today we have S. Reesa Michelle Herberth Moore on talking about her love affair with books and why she went with digital publishing.
I never thought I’d like ebooks. There you go, that’s my confession. I never thought I’d get the same joy from picking up a reader that I did when I held a new paperback, or tried to keep the dustjacket on a hardcover clean. I saw the first readers in Circuit City, and though they looked amazing (and huge— those things had to have weight every bit of 3 pounds), but the idea of eventually converting my 1000+ volume library to another format was so daunting as to seem ridiculous. (We’ll ignore that nobody else would ever consider the idea that if they started buying ebooks, all their books had to migrate in that direction. My issues are well-documented, thanks. 😉
When Michelle and I started publishing, we went with small press publishers as a conscious choice. We knew what we wanted to write, and we knew we’d have a better market for it through a small press. And that meant digital publishing first, if not solely. By that point, my love affair with my Kindle had moved from a casual flirtation to a full-on romance, and we were both excited about getting our stories out there, moving from screen to screen, to be read, and hopefully enjoyed, by as many eyeballs as possible. (We assume most of the eyeballs in question belonged to humans, and were thus seated firmly in eyesockets, but we’ve got no quarrel with any free-range eyeballs that happen to light upon one of our books, either.)
As a reader, I want the story, in whatever format I can access quickest, whenever I have a free moment to read. With the synched options available through a variety of readers, smartphones, tablets, and PCs, digital means never having to say you’re sorry you folded the corner of the page down. As an author, yes, okay, I freaked out big time the first time I walked into my local bookstore and found a copy of our book on the shelves. But the moment our pre-order options went live on retails sites was no less exciting to me, and I still get a self-serving kick out of setting the screens on all the display readers to the covers of our books.
I have a real library in my house, an entire room of floor-to-ceiling books, and I still buy physical media in all sorts of formats. A book is a book to me because of the story inside it, not the weight of the paper in my hands. My insatiable appetite for words is best pleased by reading, and I’m thrilled that I live in a time where I can pick up a 900+ page book, and have it weigh the same as the short story I read yesterday. When your book is weightless, I think it leaves your words to measure themselves out.
Excerpt from The Slipstream Con:
The smell of freshly brewed coffee led Tal down a drowsy path to wakefulness, and he rolled over, slipping an arm around Vanya’s waist and burying his face in her hair.
“You made coffee. You are the most beautiful, amazing woman in the universe.”
She snuffled in her sleep, pushing his hand away as she hid her face in her pillow. “G’way. S’your turn to make it.” She didn’t so much kick him as shove him out of bed with her feet, but he got the message and rolled over to reach for a pair of sleeping pants that he was sure he’d dropped there. Regretfully leaving their warm bed, he staggered towards the door and let himself out, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he went.
The coffee had just finished brewing when he got to the kitchen, and he poured himself a mug, fishing around in the cooler for cream. Coffee in hand, he turned around and stopped cold.
There were two plates set out on the table, and a note between them.
Just turn on the warmer for a few minutes. It should reheat well.—KF
Tal looked, because breakfast was breakfast and the damage was done. Scrambled eggs and pancakes in the shape of hearts. Hearts.
A few short, stomping steps took him from the galley to Frey’s cell. He didn’t expect to find him there. The man had obviously gotten himself out, why would he go back? Frey in the cell, however, wasn’t as unexpected as the bars now painted across the glass wall.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Tal stepped closer, peering between the gray stripes.
Their prisoner-cum-chef had found the bag rescued from the ship, because Tal knew that Vanya didn’t own a pair of shorts in that eye-popping green-and-purple-paisley pattern, and they sure as hell weren’t his. Some sort of soft, clingy fabric fit his ass perfectly where he was curled up on the bunk. Tal gave himself a hard mental shake, forcing his eyes to the keypad.
“Frey!”
To his credit, Frey recovered after an initial start and jerk, rolling over with a sleepy smile. “Morning.”
“Morning my ass. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Kellen sat up, bare feet swinging to the floor as he stretched and yawned. “I know you might have missed the obvious, but I was sleeping,” he said patiently. He scratched his bare chest and stretched again. “Is there a problem with breakfast? Should I have made waffles instead?”
“Waf— No!” Tal could count on one hand the times he’d been left speechless. This joined the list. Unclenching his fingers, he took a deep breath. “Put some clothes on.”
“That seems rather a waste. I was planning on going back to sleep since you don’t need me to cook anything else.”
“Put some fucking clothes on now,” he said through gritted teeth, eyes going everywhere but to Frey, Vanya’s suggestion drifting uncomfortably around in the back of his head.
The heavy sigh tweaked his irritation level up another two notches, and Tal scanned the floor, finding the duffel under the bunk. Shoving past Kellen, he grabbed the bag, reaching in blindly. “Get dressed.” He dropped the first things he found into Kellen’s lap. “I’m going to get Vanya. Have those on when I get back.” He turned around at the door. “Do not leave this room or I swear I won’t be responsible for what happens.”
“So, stronger coffee next time.” Frey’s voice floated down the hall after him, but Tal kept walking.
Vanya was still in bed, face buried in the pillow, nothing visible above the blankets but a spill of dark hair. Angry as he was, his ire cooled a little as he leaned over the bed and kissed the top of her head.
“Our prisoner made us pancakes,” he murmured against her temple, trailing his hand down her bare shoulder. It was always tempting to roll back into bed with Vanya, and this time it would have given him an excuse for the arousal he felt coiled in his belly. At least something other than an illicit glimpse of someone’s appallingly ugly underwear.
“Mmmm, pancakes sound delicious.” Vanya was smiling as she turned over, covers dropping to her waist. “Wait.” She sat up, eyes comically wide. “Who made pancakes?”
The Slipstream Con is available now in e-book and print from Samhain Publishing.
