Though everybody is writing about ebooks and the digital experience these days, I find I don’t have much new to add to the conversation; I’ve said it all before. Sometimes I was right, sometimes I was wrong, sometimes I evolved. I still absolutely believe that user experience is — after the content of the book — the most important place for publishing types to focus their attention.

I’ve given up on reading banal analysis and wild conjecture. I ignore anything with the word “killer” in the headline or lead. If there’s a question mark in the headline — Will the iPhone Destroy How We Cook Dinner? — I don’t even bother to click through. I presume it’s a question the writer is asking himself, not actually bothering to consider with any depth. It’s just vague punditry designed to fill the web equivalent of column inches.

Others seem to agree, which is heartening. I feel like the publishing industry is at a place where the pundits have said what they needed to say, some in a nice, evenhanded and measured manner, some, not so much.

We’ve been talking the talk for years (at least some of us have been), now it’s time to walk the walk. More to come (maybe. maybe not).

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Evan brought up some very good points that many people are probably thinking:

1 – Why should anyone care where he is?
2 – What’s the point of Foursquare?
3 – Why do we have to let anyone know where we are at any time?

My counter/bright side is this:

1 – There’s a spirit of camaraderie and competition in Foursquare. Kind of the point of the game. And I should say that word again: game.

2 – The point is to connect with people, leave information about a place, and potentially meet up with friends. That’s the consumer side. The biz side is to connect with your consumers, offer them a discount, market the hell out of your biz.

For instance, I just moved to Brooklyn (again), into a neighborhood with which I’m unfamiliar. So, I used Foursquare to check in and see what’s trending (where there are a lot of check-ins) and see if there are any local tips or special deals. One benefit of Foursquare is that it’s gotten me excited about exploring. Who wouldn’t want to earn the ‘Brooklyn for Life’ badge after just moving there?

And when a bunch of us went to SXSW this year, we all lived on the app. Not necessarily because we wanted to beat each other and get the most badges, but because I knew if I checked in at XYZ bar, my friends would know to meet me there later if they were around. And vice versa: we coordinated a number of times based on ‘not sure where we’ll be, but we’ll check in when we get there.’

And finally, whenever I go to a new city, I will definitely be using Foursquare as my Fodor’s. Logging into the app tells me what’s around, what’s trending, etc. What a fun way to sightsee – while earning badges and rewards.

3 – We don’t *HAVE* to let everyone know where we are. Just like Facebook filters (No need to cancel your account. Use your filters, check your settings, be responsible for your own content.) Don’t broadcast that you’re in line at the drug store, if you don’t want. Don’t follow people, if you don’t want to hear where they are. For that matter, don’t play. It’s like MySpace – I appreciate that there are still millions of people there, but I’m choosing not to be there and I’ll focus my energy on other outlets. Not a big deal.

And now, I’ll step into Marketer mode. If you’re a business, you should be looking into Location Based Social Media. I mean, why not?! If you’re a book store or library, why wouldn’t you prompt your readers to ‘check in’ to receive a 10% discount or special access to a signed copy or ‘firsties’ for the next author event? Why wouldn’t you add an upcoming event or book launch or author signing to your location? You can, you know!

I think Evan was right for bringing up these questions because he’s echoing a lot of what’s being asked. But, when people start to ‘get it,’ like they did with Twitter, wouldn’t you want to at least know how to meet them there?

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While on the train back from Atlantic City this weekend, I listened to my new favorite podcast ‘The Nerdist’ (walking the walk, fellow geeks). Host Chris Hardwick, on which I have an insane crush b/c I like em nerdy, sat down with two members of the band OK Go to talk about their creative process…and it wasn’t about their music, per se. It was about their latest video for ‘This Too Shall Pass’, featuring a massive Rube Goldberg machine. And most importantly, they talked about their PASSION for every aspect of what they do.

Hardwick asked about their special sauce when it comes to viral videos – and their response was that there isn’t one. They do what they think will be fun, creative, and they’re passionate about their projects. And as for the video, they couldn’t fake it. They had to be genuine. Yeah, they could’ve used special effects and edited the crap out of it, so they could succeed quickly and push out the video as fast as possible. But they didn’t and that’s what make the video and their connection to their fans so frigid amazing. And the noise didn’t stop with the video, there’s an interactive floor plan where I will be living for the next few days, while of course listening intently to evidence. They also created a fan contest where you can create your own Rube Goldberg project and win two tickets to any of their concerts. To them, it doesn’t cost anything, but to their audience it’s the chance to connect with the band and creating fun stuff for the sake of creativity and brainstretching.

This got me thinking about authors and their relationships with their publishers. EMI supported their first video for the same song, but wouldn’t allow it to be embedded or pulled from youtube. So, OK GO pretty much said ‘see ya’ and eventually ended up breaking their contract with EMI, working as independent band and ended up selling a crap load of CDs anyway and got over 12 million hits on YouTube for their new video. It’s easy to apply that same equation to publishers. Go ahead and block that video, lock in that content, close your Facebook wall, lock your Twitter feed. Then we’ll see what happens when frustrated, yet savvy authors move out and create something amazing for their fans and because they are in love with the process, not the business.

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Sometime around 1993 or 1994, I was in high school, Soundgarden‘s Superunknown was busting the speakers out of whatever I used to play music on before iPods came along, and my school library got a computer, some nondescript PC that ran Windows 3.x (those Windows boxen all look the same. However, I vividly remember the sexy sexy Macintosh LC III running System 7 that our chemistry teacher had bought for his classroom with his own cash around the same time). Having come up during elementary playing Oregon Trail on using a Commodore 64, I was perfectly happy to be using the card catalog on the computer to search for titles as opposed to that physical cabinet with its long cumbersome drawers full of cards (yes, I was a clumsy weakling as a teenager. Surprise, surprise, surprise).

Using the computerized card catalog was all well and good: useful, but kinda boring when you’re a kid in study hall. So a couple of us decided to install some computer games on the library machine. I don’t remember which ones, but Myst was probably in the mix somewhere. While we were gathered round the computer fooling with floppies, the head librarian—a normally stern but lovable matron with a penchant for over-enunciating the phrase “Dewey Decimal System”—spied us fooling around with her new, expensive-to-fix, electronimagikal fancy pants punch-card-less wonder of a card catalog. Probably worried that we’d damage the damn thing, she shooed us out of the library, (relatively) loudly berating us for vandalizing school property, or something  to that effect.

Sometime later that week, the assistant librarian walked by as I was once more, uh… searching for a book on the same computer. She stopped, leaned over, and said “Hey, you’re not allowed to install games on this thing, but want to see something really cool?” Intrigued (and possibly rocking a light crush—she was the much younger assistant librarian, and librarians are h4wt, after all), I said “Sure.”

She then proceed to fire up Mosaic and sat down next to me to tell me all about the World Wide Web. She introduced me to search engines (Altavista? Yahoo? ask.com? I barely remember life before Google). She taught me what a boolean search is. To say zomfgwtfbbq is probably an understatement.

I’d been on the Internet before, using BBSes, usenet and such, but on a very casual basis, and at an earlier school library, in middle school. But this was different. Utterly underwhelming by today’s standards, but a brave new world for fifteen-year-old me. Like a country boy on his first visit to the big city, I was enamored, seduced and immediately convinced that I had to go to there. I sometimes quip “the Internet” when people ask me where I’m from, but it’s only half a joke: In 1996 I rented a small pad at Geocities, in 1998 I was part of the neighborhood on ICQ and theglobe.com, and around 2001 I made the leap and put down roots with a place of my own.

To say that that librarian changed my life is an understatement: getting online that early has shaped my career,  my relationships—hell, my understanding of the world. And all it took was a knowledgeable librarian willing to sit down with a kid and drop some of her knowledge on him.

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I will spare you the stories about dodgeball, tetherball, kickball, anything that involved running, jumping, darting, or, horrors!, aiming at something (I’ll digress to say I was a master of foursquare; this probably doesn’t surprise some people). I resigned myself to my lot in life until one fateful event* changed everything.

The event was a reading contest. The winners would get to attend a booksigning in Santa Barbara. I need to confess here that my mother was my elementary school librarian. Some kids might be embarrassed to have their mother working at their school. I wasn’t. My mom is the coolest and, to this day, way more popular than I will ever be.

I was not only a privileged reader, I was a spoiled reader. All new library books passed through my greedy hands. I was first to read Newbery Award winners. I discovered Katherine Lee Bates. I knew exactly where to go in the library when I was having one of those days. I mastered the art of feigning illness so I could spend entire days in bed reading.

Definitely a most accomplished nine-year old.

Back to the contest. Finally, a sport designed for me. There was no way I could lose. Or so I thought. I mean, who else in my school read like me? I’ll tell you who: a sixth grader named Otis (last name withheld to protect someone who probably never knew I existed or that we were in life or death competition). He was older. He was taller. And he was probably an outstanding athlete.

My first clue that I had a cutthroat competitive instinct came when I saw his name in first place on the standings board in the library.

Needless to say, I kicked it into overdrive. The reading part, I pretty much had down. Softball certainly didn’t get in the way. My mother and I had agreed that it counted as “playing outside” if I left the house and read on the porch. All I had to do was read and fill out a little form, proving I’d absorbed the words. If there’s one thing I will never cheat on, it’s a book report. What’s the point?

It came down to the wire, but I won. But there were other winners. A handful of kids from my school were allowed to spend an entire day — a school day! — at what would become my first literary event, an event that continues to this day. We were tasked with taking library books from author to author, gathering signatures. I’m a bit jaded now, but, wow, talk about awesome responsibility. It was the olden days: we really respected school property.

I am sorry to say I don’t remember all the authors who were there that day. Two stick in my mind: the late, wonderful Leo Politi, who captured Olvera Street in Los Angeles with great love, and the incomparable Ray Bradbury.

Our delegation, the La Mesa Elementary School Wildcats, moved from table to table, proudly brandishing our library books for signature. I don’t think I’m overstating my importance when I say I was pretty much the captain of the all-star reading team.

Fast forward a whole bunch of years. My mom was still an elementary school librarian. Still more popular than me. Still super-cool. Still inspiring kids to love books and reading. And since she was working a school with a largely migrant population, she was trying to introduce their parents to love books, too.

One day, she was engaged in the periodic purging of books that libraries must do. It’s a sad fact of life, sort of like wrinkles. Authors like J.K. Rowling and R.L. Stein and others filled the shelves, and older books — some of which hadn’t been touched in years — were discarded to make room for new titles.

This is not a job for the faint-at-heart. It requires discipline and focus. Complete knowledge of your library collection. A keen eye for wear and tear and more. A librarian cannot afford to be too sentimental.

The way I understand the story, Mom was in the zone. She was focused, a machine. This one stays, this one goes. Oh my, some kid defaced this one. Kids! You can’t trust them to resist scribbling their names on the title page of…

S is for Space. She looked twice as she lined through the scribbles with black Sharpie. She looked thrice as she wielded the “Discard” stamp. Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes. It’s true. It was that scamp Ray Bradbury, writing his name in books.

He’d signed the book on that most magical day during my ninth year. My mother will never live down the ignominy. Mostly because we, her loving children (natural and by marriage) will never stop telling this story.

Because every time we tease her about Ray and his callous regard for school property, I remember her library. I remember the way I walked from Beverly Cleary to Noel Streatfeild. The roundabout route to the biographies. The weird mathy-sciencey area I probably should not have avoided. The card catalogs. And the librarian.

* Because I didn’t know at the time this would be a pivotal story with future implications, I neglected to note dates and may be smooshing two different events into a single, better story. Poetic license with my life and all that. The key points remain accurate-ish.

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I worked my way through the books with systematic determination. The librarians would come up with new ways for me to discover books too. On one occasion, it was decided that I could only check out books on a certain theme. Once there was a treasure hunt. I was occasionally the guinea pig for Summer Reading themes.

I spent many evenings and weekends in that building, even after I outgrew Summer Reading. The Baldwinsville Public Library helped me through all those school assignments and college applications. For me, that building was permanent. In 1993, the Library Board approved plans for a new building. One which would have a dedicated computer room and would be automated. It would also be about twice the size of the building I was used to. I left Baldwinsville the next year. I haven’t been back since, in fact. I’m planning on going back this year, for a friend’s wedding. I guess I’ll have to drive by and take a look at the new building. I guess. But for me, the Baldwinsville Public Library will always be in that little building, with the beautiful wooden shelves and card catalog and punch card due date slips.

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Not sure what sparked it, though I think it was while I was cleaning out my wallet and saw my NYPL card. At any rate, the memory got me all sentimental-like and I want to share it here:

The Cromwell Public Library was designated to the second floor of a home on Main Street of the small town (Cromwell’s population was ~12,000 in the early 80′s). I remember walking up the creaky stairs to the main room with walls filled with books I was too short to reach and too young to read. In the center of the room was a large wooden toy pirate ship on a long table. The librarian greeted me and my Mom as I walked in and said that if I check out a book today, I can play the “Pirate Ship Game.” What? I can play in here?! The game was simple: think Candy Land, but on a ship. You roll a die for a chance to win a small prize – mine ended up to be a little Dum-Dum lollipop. I felt so special that day, didn’t want to leave the place, and all it took was a 25-cent piece of candy and a little personal interaction.

This is where the library used to be located. Just like back then, I kind of want to live here.

This really potent memory has me wondering: Does anyone else have these little stories? Do I hear a ‘Library Week at The New Sleekness’ theme? Feel free to share your memories in the comments. We’ll be sharing our stories throughout the week, so stay tuned.

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When the book came out, I thought I’d take it for a test drive on the Kindle. And after a few pages, written in his exact tone of voice, I thought: I need to HEAR him tell this story! But alas, a voiceover actor named Frank Skinner has the honors. Yeah, you could argue that it takes a Herculean effort to make out what Ozzy’s saying. I mean, they DID have subtitles during the MTV series. But, screw it. That’s what makes him so charming and so much fun to listen to. Like Tracy Morgan, or Steven Colbert, who also have unique voices and line delivery.

Maybe Hachette didn’t want to gamble on this one. Or maybe Ozzy/Sharon didn’t want to do the recording. I doubt the latter, but it could definitely be the case.

I guess I’m rambling on this because I believe there are certain occasions where the audiobook, print, and eBook versions are multiple purchase opportunities.

Take I Am America, And So Can You. I bought the hardcover the first week it was out because I heart Mr. Colbert. Loved the book and read it from cover to cover in a no time at all. I then found I wanted to hear it from the man himself. So I bought the audiobook and used it as a distraction while I was riding passenger on #getjoeontwitter’s motorcycle. Yeah, 85 MPH with only a helmet and motojacket between me and four weeks in traction makes me a little squiggy.

Then, when I got my Kindle, one of the first books I bought for my library…was Colbert’s book. And I read it again. I’m a fan. Clearly.

My next purchase: My Fair Lazy, by Jen Lancaster, in hardcover. I already have all of her other books, follow her on Twitter, and think she’s the funniest author on the planet. If only she was actually reading her own audiobooks…I would buy that too. And the Kindle version, which isn’t up yet. HINT.

Another way to think of it: It’s a Gary V Fan thing (DRINK!). You know that fans of Gary (FOG) will buy Crush It, then buy the Vook, then watch his videos, then buy the next iteration…because they VALUE the content and want it everywhere at anytime.

What’s my point? I promise there is one: as publishers we have to think, thoroughly, about the possibilities and flexibility of our authors’ story. From the point of acquisition. While I agree it’s good to go back into the backlist and mine for digital opportunities, the meat of it belongs in the first meeting after the book is acquired. Maybe even earlier.

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So the question remains, of course: what next? Well, I’m delighted to announce that starting on 23 April, I’ll be taking on the role of Interactive Producer at Open Road Integrated Media, working on all sorts of wonderfully interesting and exciting new projects (which I can’t talk about publicly. Alas. But take my word for it, they are exciting, and they’re very interesting).

Open Road exemplifies some of the key attributes that I think are going to be crucial for publishers to not simply weather the years to come, but to thrive in this brave new digital world: a small, lean, nimble operation with an iconoclastic and focused leadership, a willingness to branch out beyond traditional print publishing disciplines and meld them with other media, and the fearlessness necessary to embrace new technology and techniques in order to spread the word about the authors that they’re passionate about.

I’m very excited to be embarking upon this new phase in my career, and really looking forward to doing my part in helping craft Open Road into one of the paragons of sleek publishing.

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