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Blind date anyone?

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Its a bit risky? you should be able to return it after a first night out, IE after reading 10 pages and you dont think you are going to hit it off, you should be able to say thanks but no thanks hope i didnt hurt your feelings, your a good book, its just me.
 
There are so many hearts on those books. Did romance not go down well?

I like the idea. Might not like the first page, but I suppose that's blind dates for you.
 
Now they say only the first line matters; possibly two as well; definitely not more than three.
What happens when it's not love at first reading? The dumpster?
 
Any sales trick that stimulates trade is good, however gimmicky. This ploy reminds me of a rather more open method of recommendation that my favourite CD store in Atlanta used—they encouraged customers to suggest albums they'd liked, displaying them in separate racks at the top of each genre with the listener's comments. I was introduced to several artists new to me in this way.
 
James Marinero said:
I'm back to my theme about random selections from marina laundromats. It broadens the mind.
Click to expand...
I always read whatever is left behind in tramping huts--it's usually stuff like NZ Pig Hunter magazines, but even these are good to read now and again, for the broadening of perspectives they offer. It also makes me feel really good about my own writing, because the writing in those sorts of magazines uniformly sucks. ;)
 
Bluma Bezbroda said:
Almost all of my books are blind dates. I buy 90% in the second hand (charity) shops, so I act on impulse/intuition/that author is said to be good, lets give them a chance. Usually I'm satisfied- and if not, I just take them back from where I got them :)
Click to expand...

50% of my novels come from charity book shops. I love to imagine who read the story before me. For instance, I bought a book, I cant remeber the name of it now, so I wont lie. But as I was reading, it was a bit strange, it was bought in a book shop in Dohar, it was priced in the currency, and halfway through the book, I found 4 x 100 Afghan Afghanis crisply pressed into the book. My imgaination flew, who had the book? where they from Afghanistan or passing through? what was there connection with Dohar and how did the book end up in a charity shop in Switzeraland.

One of the downsides o charity shops is you do get a load of Dab Brown pulp.
 
Most of my reading comes from charity shops and online vendors—Amazon, eBay and AbeBooks (who are often the most competitively priced).

We should take some comfort from these stories about the books that are most donated to charity shops, overwhelming the staff with how to dispose of the putrid things; a lot of them are pulped. Unsurprisingly, 50 Shades and Dan Brown feature highly in the most donated titles. This tells us something about the transience of best-selling books, as they're often something that gives a quick fix, a transient thrill with no lasting worth.

I should make my writing shallower, and spend less time editing if I want to be a success!

Dan Brown's latest honour: 'most donated' to Oxfam

Charity shop begs women not to return used copies of Fifty Shades of Grey

Charity-bookstore-asks-public-to-stop-donating-Fifty-Shades-of-Grey.jpg
 
Yes, the abundance of "50 shades" in charity shops has hit the news big time some months ago

Charity shop builds fort out of unwanted 'Fifty Shades of Grey' books

I had few very pleasant surprises after buying books entirely on a hunch. That's how I discovered Wally Lamb. I grabbed one of his novels from the shelf and the first thing that hit my eyes was a gigantic "Oprahs reading club" sticker. Probably not my thing, I thought, but still turned it over to read the blurb. Then pushed it back where it came from, as it would be vermin. Went away to select something else, but somehow couldn't stop pacing and looking in the direction of the poor reject. In the end I picked it up, because come on, it's just 2E... It turned out to be one of the best contemporary novels I read for a long time!

Funny thing happened to me with "Jamrach's Menagerie" by Carol Birch. I bought it (I will shamefully admit), because of the nice cover. It indicated a fairy tale/adventure, also the blurb (which I should finally learn to distrust), and I need a lighter read from time to time. I ended up shedding copious tears over the pages and let me tell you that I read almost exclusively in public transport, not to mention I'm anything but sensitive.
 
No. Life is short. I want a reason to read, and ideally, books that will stay in my mind or I will want to read again. I want a hook, or a feeling to come off the cover. All those cover designers, having their carefully crafted work factored out of the equation....
 
To be a success I may need a frontal lobotomy, just to help me dumb my writing down to a level were loads of readers buy my books.

As humorous writer Don Marquis said: 'If you want to get rich from writing, write the sort of thing that's read by persons who move their lips when they're reading to themselves.'

He said that at least 80 years ago, which proves that badly written but successful books have been around for ages.
 
Somewhere in the east of the UK, where Essex starts to think about becoming Suffolk, there is a small rural train station with a small waiting room. The waiting room has a small library. The idea is you take a book, read it and put it back when you have finished with it. Just like a real library, except honesty-based. Make a bookish donation if you choose to. It's a beautiful idea, and from this wonderful institution I once picked up a rather nice little book. 'Hector and the Search for Happiness,' which I greatly enjoyed. (For adults, despite the title). But to my everlasting shame, I have not yet managed to return 'Hector', because I never returned to that station. Can't even remember which station it was. (Kelvedon?) What do I do?
 
Marc Joan said:
Somewhere in the east of the UK, where Essex starts to think about becoming Suffolk, there is a small rural train station with a small waiting room. The waiting room has a small library. The idea is you take a book, read it and put it back when you have finished with it. Just like a real library, except honesty-based. Make a bookish donation if you choose to. It's a beautiful idea, and from this wonderful institution I once picked up a rather nice little book. 'Hector and the Search for Happiness,' which I greatly enjoyed. (For adults, despite the title). But to my everlasting shame, I have not yet managed to return 'Hector', because I never returned to that station. Can't even remember which station it was. (Kelvedon?) What do I do?
Click to expand...
Several of those lovely 'libraries' popped up in the vacant spaces around Christchurch after the earthquakes--an old glass-fronted drinks cooler (probably from one of the supermarkets that were destroyed), filled with books, and a few benches to sit on while you read. Such a lovely idea! I would say, @Marc, you should donate a book to your local library--it's like random acts of kindness--you don't expect reciprocity, but you expect it to be passed on.
 
KG Christopher said:
50% of my novels come from charity book shops. I love to imagine who read the story before me. For instance, I bought a book, I cant remeber the name of it now, so I wont lie. But as I was reading, it was a bit strange, it was bought in a book shop in Dohar, it was priced in the currency, and halfway through the book, I found 4 x 100 Afghan Afghanis crisply pressed into the book. My imgaination flew, who had the book? where they from Afghanistan or passing through? what was there connection with Dohar and how did the book end up in a charity shop in Switzeraland.

One of the downsides o charity shops is you do get a load of Dab Brown pulp.
Click to expand...

The actual life of a book is an interesting topic. Many that I read have travelled on other boats. this was an interesting one ( a book of short stories):

Conceived in London under the guidance of an undisclosed editor, with an introduction by Geraldine ________, this copy was born on Guernsey in 1996. The Guernsey Press acted as midwife and despatched the copy off to its first temporary home, before it met its first parents. I didn’t meet the anthology on that island jewel of the English Channel, even though I lived there for a short while some years ago.

In fact I don’t know where I acquired it, but certainly it was this year, and as far as I can deduce it was in Greece – perhaps Paxos or Cephalonia, maybe even Ithaca or Levkas.

Now I think about it, not far from the bones (would there be any remaining) of Lord Byron? Or it might have been here in Sicily - it was certainly an island and somewhere where we engaged in a book-swap; that intermittent activity that cruising folk enjoy. That activity is now in rapid decline, with space on boats at a premium and the advent of the e-reader well under way, but that’s another essay.

The meeting was not immediate. The compendium stole aboard secretly, hidden amongst a set of other books – fiction mostly, with its own set of surprises and new-to-discover (for me) authors such as David Baldacci. It lay undisturbed, secreted in that collection of regular fiction. The first meeting finally took place last week, when I had finished working my way through the novels. Hmm. Not my thing, short stories. Nevertheless I was committed.

That first brief lunchtime kiss engaged me – I think it was accompanied by salami Milanese. That was not a good choice - garlic for a first date? The trysts are – usually - restricted to the lunch hour, but the affair continues unabated. A week already! Have we known each other that long? It cannot be! And, as one does in any affair, in any interlude of love, one develops knowledge of the subject of one’s affections and examines more closely the crows feet and laughter lines, knowledge built up from a series of open examinations made in brief snatches across the lunch table.

I know it will end. The kisses may become uninteresting, I may lose that frisson that one experiences before the next meeting. End it will, but still I am drawn to my lunchtime thrill, each one bringing something different. Such variety! Occasionally, we meet over dinner, but only occasionally, as by the evening I am usually too tired to give mon amour the attention deserving of such an exquisite treasure.

Don't Get Excited!

Hey - it’s only a book! Don’t get carried away, the feelings will pass. Fine, I acknowledge that. A book it is, set, unfortunately, in what is at most, nine point type - as with all affairs, one has to work at it. But what a book! A distillation of so much experience, so many eyes, thoughts, cultures and historical settings, it is there with me, during lunch. Such a flexible spine!

So, how did it arrive at my table on a boat in Sicily? I have described the migration from acquisition to acquaintanceship and deeper affection, but what about the laughter lines? They tell the tale of travel, perhaps. Inside the front cover, written hastily in pencil, I see “$5”, so I can assume that it has in all probability travelled on an American boat for some of its life, or at least lived on one. Some literary stowaways have tattoos - ink or embossed stamps - showing that they have been on the 'SV Marie Celeste' or other sailing vessel, but not this one.

Despite being only fifteen years old the cheap paper has acquired a weathered colouring. Weathered but not faded, strengthened towards a sepia tone, with freckling; and there are water stains too – probably from having resided temporarily under a dripping hatch, or leaking deck. Which waves, which seas brought the book here? The tired spine tells me that others too have enjoyed this volume, or parts of it anyway, and that it has been manipulated by their hands. How long were their encounters? Were those encounters at an anchorage, or whilst on passage at sea? Perhaps both, and probably there were some enjoyed with a glass of wine as the sun set, as is the wont of we cruising folk. Or perhaps some encounters were like mine, at the lunch table.

Of course, the volume may have experienced an occasional air flight too. That I cannot know, only guess at – just as I can only guess at the number of harbours and anchorages the book might have visited, and wonder. Romantically, I prefer to think that it arrived at the table via the Straits of Gibraltar, and not via Luton Airport.

These days, ‘books’ – hardly the word - are travelling through cable, fibre optics and via radio signals, to terminate on an e-reader. I’m not sure I would enjoy the company of an e-reader every day at lunch. In fact, I’m not even sure that the words – even of this anthology of short stories – would have the same magic at my lunch table when viewed through an LCD screen.
 
Robinne Weiss said:
Several of those lovely 'libraries' popped up in the vacant spaces around Christchurch after the earthquakes--an old glass-fronted drinks cooler (probably from one of the supermarkets that were destroyed), filled with books, and a few benches to sit on while you read. Such a lovely idea! I would say, @Marc, you should donate a book to your local library--it's like random acts of kindness--you don't expect reciprocity, but you expect it to be passed on.
Click to expand...
Good idea! That should appease the guilt.
 
James Marinero said:
The actual life of a book is an interesting topic. Many that I read have travelled on other boats. this was an interesting one ( a book of short stories):

Conceived in London under the guidance of an undisclosed editor, with an introduction by Geraldine ________, this copy was born on Guernsey in 1996. The Guernsey Press acted as midwife and despatched the copy off to its first temporary home, before it met its first parents. I didn’t meet the anthology on that island jewel of the English Channel, even though I lived there for a short while some years ago.

In fact I don’t know where I acquired it, but certainly it was this year, and as far as I can deduce it was in Greece – perhaps Paxos or Cephalonia, maybe even Ithaca or Levkas.

Now I think about it, not far from the bones (would there be any remaining) of Lord Byron? Or it might have been here in Sicily - it was certainly an island and somewhere where we engaged in a book-swap; that intermittent activity that cruising folk enjoy. That activity is now in rapid decline, with space on boats at a premium and the advent of the e-reader well under way, but that’s another essay.

The meeting was not immediate. The compendium stole aboard secretly, hidden amongst a set of other books – fiction mostly, with its own set of surprises and new-to-discover (for me) authors such as David Baldacci. It lay undisturbed, secreted in that collection of regular fiction. The first meeting finally took place last week, when I had finished working my way through the novels. Hmm. Not my thing, short stories. Nevertheless I was committed.

That first brief lunchtime kiss engaged me – I think it was accompanied by salami Milanese. That was not a good choice - garlic for a first date? The trysts are – usually - restricted to the lunch hour, but the affair continues unabated. A week already! Have we known each other that long? It cannot be! And, as one does in any affair, in any interlude of love, one develops knowledge of the subject of one’s affections and examines more closely the crows feet and laughter lines, knowledge built up from a series of open examinations made in brief snatches across the lunch table.

I know it will end. The kisses may become uninteresting, I may lose that frisson that one experiences before the next meeting. End it will, but still I am drawn to my lunchtime thrill, each one bringing something different. Such variety! Occasionally, we meet over dinner, but only occasionally, as by the evening I am usually too tired to give mon amour the attention deserving of such an exquisite treasure.

Don't Get Excited!

Hey - it’s only a book! Don’t get carried away, the feelings will pass. Fine, I acknowledge that. A book it is, set, unfortunately, in what is at most, nine point type - as with all affairs, one has to work at it. But what a book! A distillation of so much experience, so many eyes, thoughts, cultures and historical settings, it is there with me, during lunch. Such a flexible spine!

So, how did it arrive at my table on a boat in Sicily? I have described the migration from acquisition to acquaintanceship and deeper affection, but what about the laughter lines? They tell the tale of travel, perhaps. Inside the front cover, written hastily in pencil, I see “$5”, so I can assume that it has in all probability travelled on an American boat for some of its life, or at least lived on one. Some literary stowaways have tattoos - ink or embossed stamps - showing that they have been on the 'SV Marie Celeste' or other sailing vessel, but not this one.

Despite being only fifteen years old the cheap paper has acquired a weathered colouring. Weathered but not faded, strengthened towards a sepia tone, with freckling; and there are water stains too – probably from having resided temporarily under a dripping hatch, or leaking deck. Which waves, which seas brought the book here? The tired spine tells me that others too have enjoyed this volume, or parts of it anyway, and that it has been manipulated by their hands. How long were their encounters? Were those encounters at an anchorage, or whilst on passage at sea? Perhaps both, and probably there were some enjoyed with a glass of wine as the sun set, as is the wont of we cruising folk. Or perhaps some encounters were like mine, at the lunch table.

Of course, the volume may have experienced an occasional air flight too. That I cannot know, only guess at – just as I can only guess at the number of harbours and anchorages the book might have visited, and wonder. Romantically, I prefer to think that it arrived at the table via the Straits of Gibraltar, and not via Luton Airport.

These days, ‘books’ – hardly the word - are travelling through cable, fibre optics and via radio signals, to terminate on an e-reader. I’m not sure I would enjoy the company of an e-reader every day at lunch. In fact, I’m not even sure that the words – even of this anthology of short stories – would have the same magic at my lunch table when viewed through an LCD screen.
Click to expand...
Beautifully written!
 
Paul Whybrow said:
Any sales trick that stimulates trade is good, however gimmicky. This ploy reminds me of a rather more open method of recommendation that my favourite CD store in Atlanta used—they encouraged customers to suggest albums they'd liked, displaying them in separate racks at the top of each genre with the listener's comments. I was introduced to several artists new to me in this way.
Click to expand...

I like that.

Not the blind date idea linked.

All of the fiction books I read were snagged on a whim in used book stores, or bought used online. I never, ever buy new books, with two exceptions: I will buy a "new" book if I have to buy it for Kindle for one reason or another, or if it's a self-published author and I want to help him or her out.
 
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