Almost since the publishing industry’s inception, it seems, book sales have suffered drastically during the summer months.
Fine weather is—rather unfairly—labeled the sole culprit, but it is more its effect on people that is to blame. The golden rays of the sun seem to induce strange actions in humans all over the Northern Hemisphere, causing them to burst into song or give into the sudden inkling to find a field of flowers and run through it–when they think no one is looking—perhaps accompanied by an indiscreet whoop and holler. And… despite a bevvy of trendy commercials–picturing folks sitting by the seaside in a curving chair, swiping their way through a good digital book on their dedicated devices–eBook sales drop just like those of their paper counterparts.
Large online platforms try to remedy this seasonal slump by cutting prices across the board so that the pain can be borne by many shoulders. I cannot really blame companies for slashing prices, though—to me–it brooks of desperation. Surely there is a better way to garner the attention of folks other than promising rock-bottom prices for literature slaved over by its writers, but I have yet to find a better solution to offer. Folks do love a bargain…
The consumer is the big winner in summer, able to cruise the lists of freely falling book fares and stock up on reading material until the winter holiday sales begin. Such is the climate in which the indie writers and self-pubbers of the world finds themselves in summer. Most writers I know remedy this odd state of being by writing feverishly so that they have a brand new book to offer come autumn.
Fair weather holds little sway over many wielders of the pen. Oh, most writers appreciate nature, and utilize it’s beauty to color our scenes and set some of our stages… but it is often viewed with an outsider’s eye. Through a window–or under the protection of a pergola–writers sit and watch and make notes… smiling at the folks charging over a city soccer field… shaking one’s head at the bold youth diving off a bridge trestle into the murky river waters below… messily writing down every little detail of the witnessed frivolity, much like a painter trying to capture the effect of changing light on leaves.
Why not join in, one may well ask. A fair question… one that could similarly be asked of the cameraman who records the film that wins an award statue. Some are made to stand on the outskirts and see, notating or filming as they go. Indeed, some prefer to step back and observe life as it happens rather than be constantly in its midst. I’m certain many writers and artist have felt as I do, and yet find it hard to explain “why.”
My oldest daughter once asked me how the world looks to me, as writer. I told her–without hesitation:
“It’s like being in the eye of human hurricane, an eerie calm surrounded by varying winds speeds and raw displays of power… and yet there are moments of beauty and unrivaled color.”
Her surprised expression led to a more gentle explanation, but… she did ask. She dove headlong into music, I am happy to say; I don’t feel all that sorry that the pen held little allure for her, or the others. My children all have the care-free ability to play in the golden sun, not feeling that pull to stop, to look and whisper a few lyrical lines to themselves in order to solidify the moment in their mind. They merely run and shout… and wouldn’t even think of reading a book, until later, when the sun has set and their limbs are tired.
I watch them in contented silence, writing away… not minding in the least that my fingers muscles are the only part of me anyone would label “dexterous.”
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L. R. Styles is a writer for Belator Books