Is there anything which causes more derision between writers and publishers? Is there anything which causes more books to rise or fall in spite of the writing? Cover art should not matter. In a perfect world there would be no covers. Books would sell solely on the merit of the writing. The authors who can write would flourish while the rest would flounder.



But that's not how it is now is it?



Back in the 20th century when a paperback did not sell it would be returned to the publisher with the cover ripped off to ensure it couldn't be sold again (people did some pretty stupid things back then). That's how important book covers were and still are. Many things sell books - publicity, word of mouth, the back cover blurb - but ultimately the one hurdle all books need to leap before a purchase can be made is whether or not the reader likes the look of the cover.



Writers tend to have the most simplistic take on the matter. We like imagery which sums up the whole of the book, or at least its best parts. Why? Because we are proud of our work and want something to show off that shine, but also because we are readers at base and want packaging that is representative of the story within.



Readers take this one step further. Readers want the representative image, but they also want a fashion statement which tells other people something about themselves. In our age of ebooks this doesn't matter quite as much as it did when paper was the only option, but people like to talk about what they read and nobody wants to gloriously babble on and on about a book which is only going to embarrass them once the babblees go to look it up online.



Publishers are in the business of pushing paper. They may be endeared by a writer's artistic endeavors, they may want to cater to each and every reader's individual whim, but mostly they just want to make sales by the truckload. And publishers are not afraid to break a few eggs (or a few eggheads) to do so. For publishers, the cover art is nothing more than a glorified fishing lure. As any fisherman can tell you, the name of the game is to catch the fish, not feed the fish. You figure out what fish are biting and where, then you select a lure that resembles what that breed of fish is known to eat and enjoy. Fish believe that safety can be found in familiarity and so they fall for this old trick over and over again. So do readers.



What's the answer to this curious love triangle? It would be nice to say compromise, but it's hard to get all three in the same room together. Normally the publisher has final say on cover art, the reader determines whether the book sinks or swims, and the writer simply grins and bears it.



Of course, now that self-publishing has become more common, the love triangle should become a simple love affair with everything working out happily ever after now that the publisher is out of the picture. Not so. You don't have to spend much time at Smashwords to realize that most indiebooks have terrible cover art (mine included). Usually this is because most indie authors are operating on a shoestring budget and don't have the money to hire a decent artist (or copy-editor or publicist or....), but it's also because they spend all of their time writing. Art operates on the other side of the brain. A writer may be able to appreciate good art, but when it comes down to creating it?



What brought me around to writing all of this was a conversation I had online about author Joe Konrath who just recently made $100,000 self-publishing novels which few have ever heard of (or at least few in the circles I tend to run in. On the covers his name is still smaller than the actual title, so he can't be that big an author, right :D ). I've never read the guy and I do not know whether he is any good or not, but his covers and his publishing savvy is fascinating; especially the covers of his Jack Daniels series - a string of detective novels starring a female private investigator busting murder cases named after mixed drinks: Rusty Nail, Cherry Bomb, Bloody Mary, Fuzzy Navel, etc. His site puts all of his books on the front page:



http://www.jakonrath.com/



Without even considering the book itself, here is what I see in the cover art:



The colors are bright, welcoming but not overly so. They do not seem nearly as threatening or demure as the darker colors of other books in the murder/mystery section. At the same time they are not so pastel that they come across as weak or washed out.



The titles are as big as a bus with little to no margin on the left or right side. While this may seem garishly overblown for a hardcover, these covers are designed to be seen as thumbnails. Even when reduced to just fifty pixels high (as often happens in an amazon search window) you can still read the title while most other books turn into a blurry mess.



On the flip side, usually in the center of each title, in-between the upper and lower words of it, and just behind the title is what we'll call a focus blurb. This is a small shape containing some text which is so infinitesimal that for the life of me I have yet to figure out what any one of them actually says. Of course, what the focus blurb says is unimportant, just so long as our eyes are drawn to it and the title as well. If anything, by being on the edge of illegible the focus blurb magnifies our need to know what it says and draws our attention in with greater strength.



Working in the same manner as the focus blurb is the background gradient, a solid color which is darkest on the outer border of the cover and brightest in the center of the book, giving the appearance of a concave surface. The author's name is usually curved along this concavity so that if our eyes were pinballs they would ride down both of them to settle in the center of the book where the focus image resides.



The focus image is the drink the book is named after. It's photo-realistic but often modified in some quirky little way, such as putting an M-16 in among the garnishes of the Fuzzy Navel or working a skull into the shadow of the Whiskey Sour.



What is interesting about this is that the earliest Jack Daniels books from Whiskey Sour to Fuzzy Navel are all done in the same style, but the three most recent books Cherry Bomb, Shaken and Stirred have changed. The focus images in these three books are larger and angled so as to lean out at the viewer as opposed to being something you would need to reach in and grab. I'm not sure if it's a smart idea. It seems desperate. The last two books, Shaken and Stirred, also use a white line stroke around the title which is so stark in contrast that they pixellate when reduced and look like crap in thumbnail form. Stirred is also much darker than the rest of the Jack Daniels books, possibly a testimony to the old Hollywood adage that if you can't make it better you need to make it darker. Oh well. Eight books is a pretty good run for anyone, but I am guessing that Jack Daniels has finally hit the bottom of the bottle.



One last bit about the Jack Daniels series which I think is worth noting, is the idea of naming each book after a mixed drink. This is a shrewd publisher style move. What does it say about the story? Nothing. It says that the book is not for children, and yet it is not toxic for adults. If anything it is something craved by adults, almost as a reward for being grown up (but not starchy or old). The books are not named Zinfandel, Chardonnay, Malt Liquor, or Hooch because that would target the wrong audience. In a way, the Jack Daniels books almost don't seem like books so much as actual cocktails - and at $3.99 a pop that is not a bad price to pay for a drink. You really have to wonder whether or not Konrath is counting on people buying his books using the same impulse which causes people to drink (actually make that to buy a drink).



So am I going to buy one of Konrath's books? Probably not. Murder/mystery isn't my cup of tea. Now if he comes out with one called Brass Monkey (that funky monkey) I might reconsider. Will I start designing my covers to be like his? Probably not, that would be uncreative and derivative and not the message I want to send out. Yet I might take a tip or two.

The Triple C, as in Crusty Curried Chicken. It is a simple dish that makes for a great lunch time meal. It's hard to say if it's Oriental or American, but perhaps it's a little bit of both.

Chicken Tenders usually come frozen, so you'll need to let them sit out and thaw thoroughly before using. Once ready, place them on some paper towels and pat dry. Squeeze them dry. You really want the chicken to be as dry as possible on the surface so that the coating doesn't clump.

Put the Wok on the stove top and begin it heating towards medium-high heat. Fill it with peanut oil until at least a 1/4 inch of it pools in the center of the pan. Peanut oil has one of the highest smoke points among oils, so you can make it nice and hot without worrying about filling your kitchen up with smoke. If it does begin to smoke, turn down the heat a few notches and it should stop.

In a large zip lock bag combine the cornstarch, curry powder and salt. Mix thoroughly. Toss in the dry chicken tenders and shake until coated. Remove from bag using a pair of tongs and give each tender a shake to remove any excess coating.

Carefully place all of the tenders in the wok at once and cook for about three minutes, turning them often with the tongs. When finished, let them dry momentarily on some paper towels, place in buns, top as you like and serve.

I took my mom fishing this morning. Niether of us know squat about it and haven't caught anything in years (nothing of a size to keep that is), yet there's something simply nice about rising before the sun and driving out to the St. Marks lighthouse to drown bait and watch the sunrise.

The lighthouse is at the tip of a nature preserve that stretches for miles in every direction. It's peaceful, tranquil, quiet. Play a few John Denver tunes and you'll think you've stepped into a Nature's Valley granola bar commercial. Yet, this is the wilderness. We have seen alligators floating in the waters and even once a tall limbed bobcat pawing his lanky way along the side of the road. The reserve is so accessible by road it's easy to forget this simple fact.

We waded out into the gulf and cast our lines. My dog Angus, a stout little Westie, had a good time swimming in the ocean and chasing crabs along the shore. No fish were caught but many minnows were fed. By ten in the morning the temperature was already creeping up into the nineties so we decided to pack it in and get some breakfast. On our way out we stopped in at the park restrooms, right next to the rustic building is a quarter mile path through the forest which leads to an observation deck overlooking a lake that is slowly turning into a swamp. We've been there countless times before. It's no big deal, but neither of us wanted to leave so soon, so we went to check it out. Cue the smurfiness...

Tra-la-la-la-la-la Tra-la-la-la-la

Nothing had changed. The swamp had grown a bit more swampy but that was it. I looked out over the green expanse and said to mom, "so, how many alligators do you think are down there?"I think she said something along the lines of "more than I care to know." Earlier that day we had mentioned alligators, she had dreamed about them the night before, and how we really should bring with us some form of self-defense. She wanted a knife (as in a Crocodile Dundee sized knife). I had been thinking about this and liked the idea of a knife that could be screwed onto the top of a pole to create a spear. Or if that couldn't be found at least an alluminum baseball bat.

Please note that none of us ever think this way.

She looked down into the black mud and noted places where it looked like a sack of something had been dragged out of the lily pads. Gator tracks we cheered happily. We have spotted more nature! Then it was time to go. The three of us headed down to the path and were almost ready to hike back to the car when I noticed some tall weeds being pushed over in forest ahead of us. We stopped. Something big and black seemed to be coiled on the side of the path. Once the creature noticed that we were no longer moving, and perhaps guessing that it had been spotted, the blackness uncoiled and a huge seven or eight feet of alligator came tromping out of the underbrush. It turned and looked at us.

"Okay everyone, back to the observation deck."

Cue the smurfiness, double-time.

Tra-la-la-la-la-la Tra-la-la-la-la

We were hoping the big lizard would ignore us and continue on his merry way, instead he slowly trundled his way after us. We went back up onto the deck and there I realized that the big lizard had us trapped. Unless we wanted to cut through a quarter mile of swamp (and probably encounter more alligators) there was only one way back to the road and he was on it. Even the observation deck itself was something of a trap. There was only one stairwell going up into it and the deck was about fifteen feet off the ground. I could have leapt off it but my mom - being in her 70's and having had problems with her legs since she was treated for cancer a few years back - was in no shape for running let alone leaping. So I went down to face the alligator.

Not far away I spotted a fallen tree, not thinking that anything (especially rattlers) could be hiding under it, I picked up a huge hunk of trunk (crawling with fire ants btw) and threw it in the alligator's path. From watching skinks and anoles hunt insects on the deck at the house, I knew that lizards like to rush their prey, so I wanted to make sure he had something to haul himself over first. Then I went back and ripped a limb off a tree. Amazingly, I was able to rip a limb off a tree. It wasn't much of a cudgel but it was better than nothing. The lizard saw this, and for a moment, especially after tossing down the trunk, he laid flat to think this over. Evidently, brandishing a branch that still had a bright swash of leaves on one end, I didn't seem like much of a threat, so he got up and started trundling forward again.

Adrenalin is an amazing thing, especially when your fight or flight response only has one option. It's not a rush so much as a high caliber burn. I started growling at the alligator. I wasn't thinking that I should growl at the alligator in hopes it might scare him away. I no longer existed. I was no longer human. I was growling at him because he needed to be growled at. If he had come up to the stump I would have roared at him. If he had opened his mouth to attack I would have shoved my branch down his throat and leapt on his back and gone totally great ape on him. I would have King Konged his scaly ass and not stopped until I had ripped his spine from his back and/or had my arm torn off at the shoulder.

Thankfully, my dog came to my rescue. I think Angus knew, more-so than my mom or myself, that the reason the alligator was coming after us was he because he seemed so small and tasty. Angus had been whimpering nervously up until this point, but then he broke in with that fierce westie bark and it caught the alligator's attention. The lizard was about one lizard length away. He looked up at the observation deck, then back at me, figured he was outnumbered, and slunk back into the swamp.

Holy Shit. Forget the smurfiness, we hauled it triple time back to the car and were laughing about it (albeit somewhat nervously) by the time the rubber hit the road.

One thing that really gets me about all of this was just that strong a sense of premonition came before it, not just for me but my mom and myself. This isn't the first time it's happened. Once when I was a teenager, my friends and I began to joke nervously about the dangers of driving in snow just a few minutes before loosing control and swerving off the road, a crash that would have been disastrous if we hadn't slowed down a bit beforehand. Then as a twenty-something, before I took to swimming on a regular basis, I once became overwhelmed by an urge to hit the university pool, something I hadn't done in months. It was the middle of the afternoon, storm clouds were forming above. I had been out working on the lawn, looking forward to a date with a girl from school, and had simply decided that I'd rather go swimming than take a shower. I went out to the car and lightning struck a tree on the lawn. It traveled into the house through the plumbing, and if I had been in the shower at the time I probably would have been electrocuted.

The most logical answer is that deep in our subconscious we have a department of predictability that occasionally sends us warning signs in the form of nervous jokes and strange urges to try to keep us away from danger.

Other times you really do have to wonder about destiny, not in the majestic sense but in having had ones future already written out for ourselves, possibly in its entirety or at least a few minutes ahead of the present. The future couldn't be too solidly set, otherwise we wouldn't be able to make decisions and change our course of action. Right now, people tend to think of the future and the past as not existing. There is only an eternal present. The past is a manifestation of memory, and the future is a constant prediction controlled by what this conception of the past can tell us.

Whatever it is, you really have to wonder.

HAPPY MEDIA DAY!

I am officially declaring April 23rd Media Day - the day when all the media companies rejoice over the extra profits they have made trying to fool the public into believing that the mega-corporations who rule the world actually give a flying fudge-sicle about the environment on Earth Day.

What did I do this past Earth Day? I walked the dog down streets still roaring from the sounds of overly large gas-guzzlers, vehicles with usually only one person behind the wheel. I know Americans have put on some extra weight but does it really require a twin-cab diesel combo to get around? I swear I am not making this up, but about two or three weeks ago there was a Winnebago parked outside my neighbors house which was towing - not a smart car, not a prius, not even a Ford Mustang - but an entire Ford F150 pickup truck, a vehicle that doesn't get over 20 mpg on the highway when driven by itself. I can't manage what the whole rig gets as it rolls around the countryside. And what tremendous cargo was it hauling? A wrinkled little prune of a man and his wife. I wonder how much he complains when he spends an hour at the Flying J pumping gas into his tank at $4 a gallon - probably not as much as I do knowing that our tax dollars, through fuel subsidies, are all that is keeping him from having to pay $8 a gallon. I love the idea of paying for other people's gas.

On Earth Day (but certainly not <i>for</i> Earth Day) I went to McDonalds for breakfast. Summer hits early and sticks around way too long here in Florida, but at 8AM it was still nice and in the low 70's. Inside Mickey-D's they had the air conditioning cranked to where ice crystals should have been blowing out of the air vents. It was quite uncomfortable, especially to someone in shorts and a t-shirt. Of course, if I were to wear a suit and tie, drive around in a car with the windows up and the AC cranked, and then go to work in an office building where the thermostat is locked in at 60 degrees all year long, and live in a house where the windows are kept closed and the thermostat pegged at 60, then I wouldn't be freezing my ass off now would I? <i>I'm such an asshole sometimes.</i> Why do I have to go and ruin the world by dressing according to the way it is outside and not the way that corporate America keeps it inside?

I didn't say anything because I've been in this position before and know that the corporations (Wafflehouse and Burger King are also egregious offenders in this one) do not trust their employees enough to let them touch the thermostat. They can cook our food, dab their dicks in the mayonnaise and spit in the salads (afterall, you eat the food, not the CEO's, not off-camera), but the people they hire cannot be trusted with a temperature dial. And have you ever noticed that modern business buildings just don't like windows? I mean, McDonalds loves windows, tall panes of glass are what gives its eating area a pleasant feeling of airiness, but I am pretty sure that these are windows that cannot be opened with anything less than a sledgehammer. Yet McDonalds celebrates Earth Day. They're all about being green - here, have a Shamrock Shake.

After dinner, I watched a recording of NOVA called "Power Surge." It was about how the combined forces of technologies which we have right now (!) can together stop the menace of global warming. It also managed to place more product than Morgan Spurlock(tm) on a sugar fit. It was the first time I had ever heard the effect of CO2 in the atmosphere described as "wrapping a giant layer of Goretex(tm) around the Earth." Power Surge very briefly mentioned the BP Oil spill but spent a good twelve minutes talking about how BP has set up a natural gas refinery in Algeria which pumps the CO2 it creates back into the earth. It mentioned the Fukushima power plant disaster in Japan, and rationalized it as the perils of keeping older Nuclear Power Plants online. Power Surge recommends replacing them with newer power plants that are being made as <i>factory  prefabrications</i> in China. I don't know about you, but nothing to me says iron-clad safety with lasting quality quite like a factory made prefab from China. No offense to all the Chinese in the world (after all, I suspect you are about as powerless to control your country as we are over here) but I would clean up the messes made by lead laced baby formula and asbestos thick dry wall before trying your hands at cookie cutter nuke plants.


So Happy Media Day!


And if you happen to run into David H. Koch be sure to give him a big sloppy hug from me (and no I won't post your bail), because as long as we keep believing that something is being done about the environment and that we can trust the companies who cause nuclear power disasters, oil spills, and global warming - then we will keep believing that something is being done about the environment and continue to trust the companies who cause nuclear power disasters, oil spills, and global warming.

      

A simple but elegant dish. It's not exactly heart healthy but close. On a back burner, in a pasta pot, bring the 4 cups of water and 1 Tbsp crab boil to a boil. This is critical - reduce heat to low and wait until the until the surface is simply steaming and not bubbling. Add the chicken breasts and cook for 20 minutes.

Do not cover the pot and check the chicken occassionally to make sure it is not boiling. If the water begins to boil the chicken will harden up and turn as stiff as a board.

Meanwhile, in a tall sided skillet melt the butter. Then add everything from the Olive Oil to the Parmesan Cheese. Be sure to use hard block cheese and not the shaker can kind (which is mostly sawdust). Stir over a low heat until the cheese completely dissolves.

Once the chicken is done cooking (it should be white all the way through), pull out of the pot and set aside to cool. Bring the water it was cooking in back to a rapid boil. Dump Gnocchi in and cook according to its instructions (most of the time the gnocchi takes about 2 minutes to cook and you'll know they're done when they start to float). Strain the gnocchi and put them in the serving bowl.

Pull apart the cooled chicken breasts creating thick yet ragged strips then add to the sauce. Throw in the pepper rings and stir to coat. Pour the sauce over the gnocchi, juice the lime over top of it, salt and pepper to taste, and serve.

This is an excellent dish for days when the thermometer peaks and you want nothing to do with heat in any way shape or form. It does require heating up the grill, but at least everything you put on it cooks fast.

Three hours before the meal, light up the grill to get it heating. Back in the kitchen get out three mixing bowls, ten metal skewers and a cookie sheet.

Cut up the pineapple, using two inch-thick slices worth. Mince those parts of the cut which don't form nice chunks and mix with any gathered liquid to make the pineapple puree (if using chunks from a can, just chop a few chunks and mix with some pineapple juice). Slice the peppers into 1 inch squares, being careful to remove the seeds, stems and white inner lining first.

In a bowl combine everything from Olive Oil to Coriander. Mix it well, possibly microwaving the honey if it is running heavy. Pour about 1/4 of the mixture into each of the two other bowls, cover and store in the fridge for later.

Dump the cut pineapple and peppers into one of the bowls and mix to coat. De-vein and de-shell all but the tail section of the shrimp and toss into the other bow. Mix to coat.

Stick the pineapple & peppers onto one set of skewers. Pop the shrimp onto a second set of skewers. Place the skewers on the cookie sheet, soap the empty shrimp bowl in the sink, and head outdoors. The pineapple will need to grill for 5-7 minutes, or at least until it is blackened about the edges. The shrimp cooks very quickly, 3 - 5 minutes depending on the size of the shrimp. Use a high heat but be careful not to overcook! The shrimps are done when the last shrimp on the skewer loses its blue/gray tinge and has turned a bright pink/white. Feel free to brush the skewers as they cook with whatever marinade is left in the pineapple bowl.

Once done, use a fork to slide off the skewers. Mix the grilled shrimp and fruit together into the bowl you used for the pineapple, cover with tinfoil and place in the fridge to chill. Throw a bottle of white wine in there too.

Right before the meal, place the salad greens into individual serving bowls. Mix the chopped mint and (drained) mandarin oranges into the shrimp/pineapple mixture and scoop a serving onto each salad. Sprinkle with Chinese noodles, dress with the reserved marinade and serve.

Cherub Pork is named after the Smashing Pumpkins song Cherub Rock which is likewise very simple, stripped down and yet absolutely smashing.

Set the oven to 350 degrees. Start the rice cooking.

Slice the porkloin down the center, much in the way you might cut open a sub roll, leaving the back hinge in tact. Spread flat on a cutting board and beat with a tenderizing mallet until it's about an inch thick on each side. Sprinkle inside with Greek Seasoning.

Evenly cover the inside of the porkloin with prosciutto, sprinkle with grated parmesan (be sure to use cheese that is sold in a wedge and not the spaghetti topping that comes in a shaker can - which is mostly "cellulose" aka sawdust).

Guava paste is usually sold in blocks in the ethnic foods aisle of your grocery store. It's an amazing substance that tastes like cotton candy flavored jelly - but not as sweet as you would expect. Slice off and lay down enough of the stuff so it looks like two slices of bacon sitting side by side on the parmesean.

Fold the sides of the porkloin back together, sandwich-style, and tie shut with the cooking string. Sprinkle outside with Greek Seasoning.

In a large skillet, heat up the 1/4 cup of olive oil to where it is very fluid but not smoking. Carefully place the stuffed porkloin into the pan. Quickly cover the pan to keep the hot oil from splattering. Swirl about and let it cook on the stove top for 4 - 5 minutes. Flip the porkloin over and brown the other side for another 4 - 5 minutes.

Remove the porkloin, place in a baking pan and cook in the oven for 20 minutes or until the pork is white and cooked through.

While the loin is baking, reduce the heat on the stove top, add the wine, chicken broth, sage and butter to the skillet and cook it down for another 4 to 5 minutes. Be sure to scrape up any brown bits on the bottom of the pan with a wooden spoon. Turn heat to low and wait for porkloin to finish cooking.

Spread rice on a serving plate. Carefully remove string from porkloin. Cut the loin into 1 inch thick slices and arrange atop the rice. Pour the skillet sauce over the top of the loin and serve.

AKA “How I learned to completely alienate myself from the academic literary tradition (not that they were paying a whole lot of attention anyway).

It all begins in the factory. Back near the end of the 19th century Victorian literature was experiencing a boom based on the ability to print and sell massive amounts of books (moreso than the writing of anything worth reading). Colleges, looking to capitalize on this phenomenon, pushed literature courses - basically the Victorian readers circle but in a classroom environment with tuition fees and massively overpriced text books. Quickly it was discovered that this course of discussion didn't exactly fess up to the high standards of an advanced education, so to keep the literature course from devolving into a mundane exercise in recitation, the literature professors turned to the study of increasingly complex novels. This gave birth to Modernist Literature.

Inspired in part by rebellious attitudes sparked by WW1 as well as a collegiate demand for complex literary puzzles, Modernism provided us with heavily stylized novels which tried every method of communicating their core ideas except for the obvious straight-forward route. They use symbolism, style, appeals to ancient mythological patterns or archetypes – anything to separate themselves from the Victorian literature of the fifty years prior. This works! As the colleges churn out more and more graduates trained to respect this kind of writing both the number and complexity of modern writers grows. Ernest Hemingway smartly gave us novels anyone could read yet few could fathom (at least to the depths which we believed we should be fathoming them :-). William Faulkner used the modernist trope to write about the brutality of race relations in the American South. His use of the modern style is very pragmatic in that the people he writes about, who would have torched his house and lynched him in the nearest tree should they ever discover what he was writing about, were not educated enough to get past the first page of what he was writing. The tipping point of Modernism seems to come with James Joyce. Ulysses is the Mount Everest of Modernist literature. If you have managed to plow through it then you have accomplished a rare feat – even if you are left with no idea what it is about. Joyce's follow-up work Finnegan's Wake is not nigh-incomprehensible but simply incomprehensible. WW2 erupts and the Modernism with its somewhat fascist tendencies loses its steam.

Post Modernism rises to take its place. It sees Modernism as something like a Rubics Cube. It starts as a jumble of colors in need of fixing. Many complex mental manipulations later and the problem is solved. You now have a simple six sided block with six separate solid colors, one to each side. Big whoop. The Rubics Cube itself isn't half as interesting as the complex dance of fingers and thoughts which turns one cube into the other. But what ever happened to the book as a book, as a record and study of life? the Post Moderns answer this conundrum by producing works which are the complete opposite of the Modern novel. The Post Modern novel is considerably easier to read (stylistically more in tune with the dime-store pocket book than Henry James) yet harder to solve. The Post-Modern novel admits that life is not as clean-cut and easily understood as the Moderns made it out to be. Instead of having a single set of core-ideals to be gleaned from the words on the page, the Post-Modern novel “lends itself to multiple interpretations. All of which will be discussed over the course of this semester.”

Through the second half of the 20th century the Post-Modern novel rode currents of rebelliousness and hedonism to become the king of the college classroom. Unlike Modernism, the Post-Modern novel was considerably easier for students to read but because it lent itself to multiple interpretations. It could be discussed endlessly and in many different way and through many different classes – all of which added up to big bucks for the Universities. Cha-Ching $$$!

Inevitably the end-point of the post-modern era will be 9/11/01. These things fade in and out, but history likes solid start and stop points usually identified with some widely recognized trauma (ex: the point of separation between Modern and Post-Modern is the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki - 8/6/45 – but Post Modernism really does not come into vogue until the advent of the Beatniks in the fifties.). It is hard to say what will come next, if anything at all. Back at the turn of the twentieth century the book had no competitors. It really did shape the mindset of the world which was smart enough to matter (yes, this sounds rude but that's how it was). While the book has managed to hold its own against Magazines, TV, Movies and Radio; it's ultimate defeat may come from within, from the fierce growing rapacity with which new titles are produced each year. Think of water. In a desert it is the most precious thing around. In a flood you just wish it would go away. Eventually people's bookshelves may become so overstocked with unread books they will stop buying them and the publishing industry as a whole will implode.

On top of this you have the disappearance of the middle class and the free time this lifestyle provided, you have an increase in distractions and time consuming entertainments (ex: cellphones, gaming, porn, blogging, social networking), you have a forthright assault on the attention span (ex: I'm willing to bet that only 10% of you who started reading this essay actually made it this far), as well as a general acknowledgment of the dire uselessness of the study of literature. As long as money can be made by the university system in hosting literature courses they will continue to be taught. Otherwise, it's history.