Book worm

I'm burying the lede while stopping to smell the ink on paper.

More than a quarter of a century into the digital communications revolution, we’re learning it’s awfully hard to shake the printed word. Every Saturday I savor the weekend FT, I love getting Monocle monthly, and pretty much every week I find myself buying a book of some description. And as if I needed any more signs I’m meant to be with someone: just yesterday, Elevator Girl and I were texting from several states apart when she said she’d just ordered a book to pick up … while I was in a bookstore.

I’m not some Luddite. I do the vast majority of my reading on screens and spend my entire working life on a laptop. But I grew up with parents who were rarely without their noses in books, read like crazy as a kid, and at the age of 16 found myself intoxicated by the smell of ink on paper as I grabbed newspapers hot off the presses as a copyboy at The Courier-Mail.¹

Now, there’s no denying newspapers and magazines are barely shadows of what they once were, which is depressing on multiple levels—especially given how people now consume “news.” And no one is suggesting either will return to their former glory. But there are signs of life and that the pendulum may have swung too far in the digital direction.

While it’s true that most people today don’t buy books, more than a billion are still sold in the United States annually—and the numbers are holding steady. Magazines and newspapers appear on life support, but the reality is more nuanced: publications like the New York Times have converted millions of readers to digital platforms, sustaining dead-tree editions. And I have a suspicion print may receive a boost from an unlikely source: companies that increasingly see value in beautifully presented content, eagerly embraced by consumers craving connection.

“You’re not gonna believe this. Then again, maybe you will,” Monocle founder Tyler Brûlé declared in his weekly column on Sunday. “Newsflash: it’s time to invest in that stretch of forest you’ve been eyeing up in British Columbia or Poland because I can confidently report that paper, as a vehicle for distributing information, emotions and irrational impulses, is making a comeback. And it’s about bloody time!”

Brûlé noted that many airlines were rethinking their decision to kill in-flight magazines, a trend accelerated by the pandemic. “Four years later, I’m chatting to some airline executives who are looking at what their competitors are doing, listening to their passengers and realising that there’s not only a missed opportunity to talk up their brand to their passengers but also to sell a few ads and generate a bit of extra revenue,” he said, quoting one executive who said “most of us have come to the conclusion that digital can’t do everything and we’re missing that moment to connect with passengers when they’re not on their screens.”

As someone who’s spent his life connecting with print products, I can relate. I mean, I’m the first to admit I can sometimes be a little slow on the uptake. Exhibit A: it took me the better part of twenty years to see how my life had contorted me into something I wasn’t. Exhibit B: it then took me another year to realize why I really began writing here more than a year ago.

I’ve spent the past a couple of years scraping away the calluses and looking beneath the scar tissue to return to the person I truly am. I’m not sure that’s a process that’s every really finished: I mean, we’re all works in progress, so your authentic self is a moving target. But I’m closer today than yesterday and immeasurably closer than a year ago, and I’ve come to recognize a lot of things I had ignored or avoided—and vowed to not do either again.

Reading for pleasure was one of them, especially reading the printed word. Another was the need to write, which sounds odd given I’ve written nonstop for 35 years—the first half as a journalist, the balance for other people in their voices and their names. What returned was the desire to find my own voice again which, I told myself, was a consequence of divorce and its upheaval and my need to structure my thoughts through text.

That’s no doubt partly true. But it was only last week that I connected the dots and realized the urge to write was fundamentally about returning to who I am. I like reading stories and love telling them, whether it’s my random notes here or helping companies connect with audiences through my work. And I’m excited to continue doing both, hopefully not just online but with the feeling of paper between fingers.²

Which gets to the buried lede, something I would normally always advise against: I’m going to write a novel. Hemingway famously noted “the first draft of anything is shit,” and people may want to extend that to whatever finished product pops out.³ But I still love the minor miracle of creating something from nothing, and the joy of knowing I’m providing a diversion from whatever’s going on in the world.

Of course, I’ve privately been down this road many times before, always unsuccessfully. At both primary and high school, I would start stories in a blaze of optimism and, at some point, run out of steam and scrawl “cancelled!” across the page. In my 20s and 30s, I had the same problem: the brain worm demanding I get my thoughts out was insistent enough to get me started; the ability to actually see it through was lacking.⁴

Maybe that’s because I’m scared of testing myself, or maybe it’s because I have way less to say than I think. I guess we’ll find out. But it’s time to give it a shot, and I’m declaring it here because I need to be held accountable. So, strap in. This is gonna be rough.

1. This may have contributed to my hearing loss but … worth it?

2. I still vow to produce newspapers companies: who wouldn’t want to be at Davos or a corporate event and receive a beautifully produced print publication that informs and entertains?

3. Hemingway also may or may not have declared “there is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed,” which seems about right.

4. To clarify: it was a metaphorical worm eating at me to test myself by writing fiction. Not an actual brain worm like the one that turned RFK Jr. into a raving lunatic.

A note about whatever this is …

After writing a few thousand articles for newspapers and magazines, I spent a long time trying a bunch of other stuff. I guess I figured what came (relatively) easily must by definition be less valuable, so I wandered in the corporate wilderness, becoming increasingly frustrated and doing work that felt increasingly lousy.

Sometimes with age comes wisdom, and I’ve realized finding something (relatively) easy ain’t a bad thing. So, this is a space where I’m resurrecting writing for myself, on topics weird and wild and wonderful.

Posts will appear when the mood takes me, but I do try to be consistently inconsistent—sometimes it’ll be a couple of days between drinks; sometimes a week. But if you subscribe, you’ll get a email letting you know I’m ranting. Again.