The Muse

In today’s Dining In section of the New York Times, Sarah Kershaw writes about “menu psychology” — the science (or art?) of designing a menu that will most entice diners. So, really, someone does understand that the “99″ in just about every price (not limited to food items) does very little to promote quality.

One concept that strikes me is the similarities between a simple menu and a well-crafted manuscript. Kershaw brings up the analogy of music and lyrics, where one may be great but is utterly destroyed by the other (think of a ear-catching pop tune with absolutely horrendous lyrics), and the same may be said for a manuscript. Think carefully about the layout. If your story is about love and the human condition, you probably don’t want a font that is sharp-edged and bold. Or, if you’re going for an academic journal, you don’t want your tracking or leading so far apart that the page looks as though it’s mostly empty space.

A quarrel I have with the way some restaurants mentioned in this article do things is the melodramatic wording in the menu. Saying something is “slammed with flavor” is a turn-off for me, because I appreciate the nuances in food. (You’ll notice that places such as Applebee’s and Huddle House go for the thick wording, while higher-end places go for simple and pithy copy.) I can go to the local supermarket and pick up a Little Debbie cake that is “slammed with flavor,” or I can visit my local baker and get a blueberry scone that has many different flavorful, quality ingredients that work together. One is dominated with sugar and chocolate, the other allows me to experience many of the quality ingredients that the baker uses. I prefer nuance.

When creating your manuscript, I suppose you could ask yourself, “Do I want the equivalent of a laminated chain restaurant menu the size of a legal pad, or a simple, cogent menu from a quality independent place?”

        

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When you hear the term DRM, you most likely think of music. That connection has been reinforced by the digital rights wars of the past couple of years. While Amazon has a fair shake at online music sales, Apple’s domination of the pay-for-play music market has made it a major player in DRM negotiations with content providers. Between the iPod and iTunes (proprietary devices that incorporate their own licensing model), Apple has become the premier digital music outlet.

But what of digital books? E-books vary in definition from an unsecured PDF on a website to a DRM-protected work on Amazon’s Kindle. In between is a myriad of proprietary licensing models and content management solutions, the most prominent of which are Adobe and Mobipocket. Neither offer a solution solid enough to bet on in five years. Publishers must step in, says Bill Rosenblatt in Copyright and Technology:

If publishers don’t act quickly, they face two alternatives, neither of which is very pleasant.  In one, Amazon succeeds in emulating Apple’s success in music and takes control of e-book business models.  In the other, excessive fragmentation leads to confusion, frustration, angry pieces from the blogosphere about the evils of DRM, and a limited market.

But is DRM even worth pursuing? Imagine downloading a PDF from an emerging author’s website. You pay a modest fee and are given a password to access the content. Excited about the read, you share it with friends. You bought a paperback before and did that–why not do it with a PDF? What’s stopping a friend from buying his own copy if he likes what he read? On the flip side, though, what’s stopping him from emailing it to all his friends?

Rob Beschizza, of Wired.com, predicted this dilemma way back in 2007:

Book publishers, scared of the ease of cut, paste, send, demanded it. Understandable. But few customers wanted locked-down devices, or bizarre file formats that offered nothing over plain text, Word documents or Adobe’s PDF.

In short, free copies are acceptable risks. As an emerging author, unless you’ve got enough cash to sink into publishing hard-copy books or setting up sales through Amazon.com, you’re probably going to post an E-book on your website. Be prepared to take the loss. Readers of new authors aren’t going to pay big bucks for someone they’ve never read before, so your first e-book on the market should probably be considered a free sample. If you get paid for a few copies, fine. Just promote your site and e-book until you are blue in the face and get your readers hooked. Then move to a more secure sales solution.

If you don’t bend a little, you may wind up killing your potential sales before they’ve had a chance to start. Eric Lai of Computerworld has a solid analogy, from the perspective of the potential consumer:

Imagine bringing home a music CD from Best Buy and discovering that it will only play on some of your stereo equipment. Moreover, you’re limited in the number of times you can switch the CD from one stereo to another.

Bottom line? In the interest of building a reader base, don’t get bogged down with DRM. Be snobby with your e-books when you can afford it.

        

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I often find myself suggesting that clients use less words, adding that “one can say so much more without using so many words.” Although I tend to ramble when talking, I try to keep my writing pithy. It’s much more efficient and refrains from diluting the point.

One Sentence might be a terribly oversimplified example of this, but the site is nonetheless a wonderful showcase of just what can be contained in just a few short words. One Sentence also ties my editing advice to a quote from Roland Barthes’ The Pleasure of the Text: “Is not the most erotic portion of a body where the garment gapes?”

There’s much to be said for not spelling everything out. Think of these sentences as the glimpse you might catch of a bare calf or shoulder.

        

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Have you ever wondered what that guy was doing about thirty minutes ago?

He’s on the news right now, his cap perched atop the crown of his head.
Slightly sweaty t-shirt, a bit stretched at the neck but tucked neatly into his pants.

We’re workin’ on it, he says–

It’s all he can say right now, for the reporter who looks at him with intent eyes, nodding, then back to the camera for what she hopes is a quick cutaway.

Her hair shimmers in the artificial light of the camera, and the flames,
and the trucks.

Perhaps this man was at home with his wife no more than thirty minutes ago.

Perhaps they were watching one of those crime dramas.
CSI, I think.

Then the tones sounded, and he knew–she knew–he might not come back.

But his most trying situation tonight is talking to the reporter, who makes him feel unkempt.

        

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Marc Trujillo’s 4504 Van Nuys Boulevard appeared in the November issue of Harper’s Magazine. This short piece is based on that reproduction. (Anyone may see the thumbnail but only Harper’s subscribers can see the larger page.)

“I’ll be glad when this shift is over,” Matt grumbled in his mind as he blip-blipped the ticket machine. Two tickets came gliding out of the counter like postage stamps out of the machine on the corner. The couple through the glass was, no doubt, on their war from an early-evening dinner. He wore shorts and sandals; she wore jeans and carried a cardigan. The theatre was alway cold. Anna always complained about that when she came. Would the woman on the other side of the glass? Matt felt a short sense of camaraderie with the man in sandals.

Matt was used to the cold on his arms. The standard-issue shortsleeve dress shirt gave them no protection. No matter, though – Anna never came that much anyway. It was difficult for him to enjoy date there. Why would he watch a movie for pleasure when he could only think of how filthy the floor underneath their feet really was?

Save their car, the couple were the only occupants of the space outside the theatre. Rows of small downlights under the marquee dimly lit the crowns of their heads and cast a glow across the sidewalk out onto the black asphalt of the parking lot. It was just past dusk. Normally busy, but their business had slowed over the past few months–the product of online rentals and video-on-demand, Matt knew. He found the task of coming to work only slightly more interesting than sitting at home with his roommate. Even at that, it was more about the idea of the theatre–the lights, carpet, mosaics, the smell of popcorn and whoosh of fountain drinks–than actually working there. He wanted better things, better means to entertain Anna, but he couldn’t overcome a sense of complacency for his routine.

        

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