Editing At Large

Boston, You're My Home

2011-09-02T11:53:00.000-07:00

You may be wondering (or not) why it's been so long since my last post. To be honest, the long silence has been somewhat by design.

It was absolutely the right decision to plan five weeks of weekend travel in a row, with the big move back to Boston sandwiched right in the middle. Just four days after my arrival back in the country, I was off to Philadelphia to see old friends, next off to Michigan to see my family. I didn't take any photos of the trip, nor will I dig any out to catch up on posting. My brain, no matter how hard I tried to crank out an update, just wanted to stay off, and I knew it was better to leave it that way.

At the beginning of last week, however, I stepped out of Logan's Terminal B and realized I had no further plane travel scheduled. My suitcases would need to be unpacked and I would have to actually pick an address and stay with it for a while.

It's been nice to be back. Everything is just as I left it. In fact, oddly so. It seems like far more than a year and a half ago I was complaining about weird guys in yoga class after a jagged return home from India. I went back today and it was still the same people. Some of them even said hi and welcomed me back.

The only weird thing is that, for me, my last frame of reference was discussing how excited I was to find the bus from Oxford to London. When I see these people again, I want to say, "Hey! That coach left from in front of my flat!" Like they were frozen in time, still curious about my English day trip habits. For them, of course, time inbetween has filled with lots of other points of reference. They haven't been thinking about it. Life has gone on.

Not that my life hasn't gone on. It's just that, last time it went on in Boston this is what I was thinking about. I'm not the same person now. But I'll adapt.

In other news, I found a job. That's another reason I didn't write: no one wants to hear how boring it is to be unemployed. I did not want to talk about my interviews. Suffice to say, I'm happy to be using my new skills and knowledge in a way I never thought I would . . . and I'm lucky to have that chance.

The downside is, my job involves a lot of writing so I'm not sure what the repercussions will be for the blog. I would like to keep it up. I know several old classmates and coworkers read it occasionally, and, hell, I enjoy it. Time will tell how often I return to it, though. If life without travel starts to become boring, I won't share that here. I'll more likely just keep shtum until something new happens and I see fit to tell the world again . . .

Gravity

2011-07-30T07:27:00.000-07:00

As written in the Notes section of my iPod, traveling at 38,000 feet:

Please allow for an extended metaphor.

A few weeks ago I found myself making personal comparisons with a high diver, twisting and turning in midair as I completed my first draft of the dissertation, traveled to Scandinavia, attempted a trip to Stonehenge but wound up at Brighton, arranged farewell dinners and parties and picnics with anyone I could think of. To put it bluntly, preparing to say goodbye.

I came out of the acrobatics last week, shaking hands with bosses and supervisors and lecturers and friends in what finally was farewell, feeling like I was finally pointed down at the water. I have a friend from elementary school living in Nottingham, the one I called when I was first considering a Master's degree abroad. We've known each other almost two decades. Four nights ago I sat across from her and her mom in a London pub and we remarked on how far we'd come. Two nights ago I sat on a blanket in the Angel and Greyhound meadow in Oxford with classmates I'd known less than a year but who I hope to see gracing the industry newspapers. This morning, one of them had already made the Bookseller. What a cast of characters. What a life.

So I'm out of my twist and I'm pointed straight at the water. I've been focusing hard these past few months on what my first evening back will entail. A quality New England beer, a veggie chilli (two L's), a balmy Boston evening and glimpses of the Hancock Tower on Copley Square. Now I'm on the plane, it's the periphery stuff I worry about. The things like, how to pronounce 'can't', and the baseball scores, and 'line' versus 'queue'. There are many things I've missed. Things I can't put a finger on but which seem to linger beneath every attempt to listen to US radio. In a few moments I'll be back in the pool, hoping I remember how to swim, sure eventually I'll be back in the air wondering about that wild falling sensation still fluttering in my stomach.

I have no idea what happens next, but no one ever dives so they can swim. They dive for this crazy feeling of midair, the way I asked friends last night about their plans to move to London, or China, or Tehran, or beyond. Once I land, all I know is, it's time to start kicking, to come back for air so I can do it all again.

Bag It Up

2011-07-27T02:52:00.000-07:00

There is only one thing more chaotic than living out of a suitcase:

Putting it all back in when you're done.

More Things I Wasn't Expecting to Do Today

2011-07-25T02:31:00.000-07:00

The first: enjoy dinner at an Indian restaurant in East London with the same lovely British expats I stumbled into on my first morning in the Delhi guesthouse.

The second: Be appointed chief price negotiator, and successfully haggle the waiter into a ten percent higher discount and a few extra bottles of wine. Best customer, indeed.

The third: Go to Brighton.

We had planned for weeks to go to Stonehenge. If by 'planned' I mean, 'talked vaguely about' so that Saturday night found us googling 'trips to Stonehenge' at 2 am. We walked to the nearest hotel the next day and asked if there were any tours going, but of course in tourist high season they were all booked. Oh well. I'm told it's smaller than you expect, anyway.

Our Plan B was to hop on a train head to the coast, to the Atlantic City of the English channel.

At the end of the evening, my sunburnt face glowing over a plate of vegetarian tapas, I confessed I could hardly imagine any of the past two years of living abroad going half so well had I not been placed in such good company in our guesthouse in Delhi. I had arrived thinking I'd be traveling alone. Then I thought I'd disappear back into my country, never to see them again. Instead I find myself toasting the health of these same friends twelve months and two lifetimes away.

Isn't it nice to know that, sometimes, Plan B can be the better option anyway.

Now or Never

2011-07-23T02:17:00.000-07:00

I was in Nepal. I was tired. I had just come downhill from Everest Base Camp and wasn't looking forward to a few extra hours in dirty, bustling Kathmandu. I needed to rearrange my flight. To do that, explained my elderly travel agent, I would need to travel by motorbike with him to the offices across town.

That's how I found myself, on my last day in Asia, perched on the back of a motorcycle weaving its way in and out of traffic. I was pretty sure the old guy wasn't keen on me clinging to him like I'd seen most Indian families do. I kept a respectful if wobbly distance until he gently said, 'Hold my shoulder, please' and I gingerly held on to him with one hand while trying to keep my balance.

My blonde hair glinted in the sun and my expression, behind my aviator sunglasses, said to the gawkers: Yeah? so?

I bring this up because it's the kind of adventure you have when you're halfway out the door. Within 48 hours I was at the bar in Boston, shaking my head to clear the dust of Delhi from my nose. (Harder than you think.) This week, I looked at what I had been missing from my year living in Europe and took a long-awaited trip to Scandinavia to stay with friends.

There I was, cycling down the street in Copenhagen with a calm but bemused smile, wondering when on earth I would ever have a chance to do something like this again. Would I ever fly all the way from America to ride the roller coaster in Tivoli? Not likely. So why not now? When there's so much to see?

My hostess, a friend from the publishing program, understood completely and ushered me from boats to museums and, just for a lark, on a quick trip to Sweden. When we played fairway games at the amusement park they let me pick the prizes, and we (accidentally) stayed past closing at the Carlsberg brewery. Sure, I could have gone to Denmark earlier in life, or later, and there's plenty of things I need to take care of in Oxford before I go. But the chance to finally see Scandinavia, with friends, is an opportunity that can't be wasted. I only hope I can share such good experiences when it's their turn to visit me in the States.

At Least We Don't Call it 'Barbie'

2011-07-14T06:06:00.000-07:00

Last week a few friends and I gathered to celebrate the Fourth of July with a barbecue.

There were a few problems with that: first, it wasn't the fourth of July. We had to celebrate on the ninth of July because we were too busy the previous weekend, and the actual fourth was a Monday and everyone was working.

Second, there were only three Americans there. The rest of the party was made up of Germans, Australians, South Africans, Brazilians, an Irishman, and a few Brits.

Third, we were standing in the country we were celebrating independence from.

Needless to say, it was the least American celebration of American independence I have ever enjoyed. That doesn't mean it wasn't a good time. English weather threatened us with rain but for the most part we stayed dry. The grilling was fine and we had no fewer than three apple pies for dessert. In fact, we were even proud to call it 'dessert'. No 'pudding' here! Don't tread on me!

I suppose it could be worse. Another friend and I were at a grill-up a few days later and, upon looking at the menu, she burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?" I asked, and she pointed at the sign.

"Polish sausage!" she giggled. This friend was, I should mention, actually from Poland.

"Oh, do you want some?"

"What the heck is Polish sausage?" she cackled. She was barely able to contain herself. Apparently, in Poland there is no such thing. It's just sausage. Who knew.

She ordered it anyway, and thoroughly enjoyed the English barbecue version of Polish sausage, just as I had enjoyed the American version of an English barbecue. Tomorrow, I plan to celebrate Bastille day with my French roommate by drinking sangria. We are all rubbish at playing to type.

London Calling

2011-07-14T05:49:00.000-07:00

Being a longtime fan of classic British rock, it was vaguely satisfying to find myself wandering down the streets of Soho at 2 am a few nights ago, rushing to catch the last bus back to Oxford. I had the opening lyric to The Who's "Who Are You" rolling through my head on repeat: "I woke up in a Soho doorway, policeman knew my name." Now here I was, quickstepping right past the same bars I'd heard about in the songs, surrounded by friends after an evening of birthdays and conversation.

This isn't the only thing that's wonderful about living so close to London. When I first moved to Oxford, I remember planning exactly when I would catch the Oxford Tube, then staring out the window at the green fields we passed (wondering why we stopped to pick up passengers at a stop called 'Lucknow', which as far as I could tell was four houses in the middle of a field). When we entered London I looked around in awe at the hustle and bustle of the west end, then hopped on the Tube to--well, who knows. It was so long ago now I've forgotten.

Now, I stroll across the street whenever I can be bothered to catch whatever bus comes along for London. I can go just for dinner, for a drink, for a conference, and I can be back in my own flat by evening. That still hasn't deprived it of any of its wonder. A few weeks ago I took my older sister and we enjoyed imported American beers and veggie burgers from Borough Market along the Thames, not far from where Shakespeare had his Globe. We walked opposite the river from the Tower of London, in the shadow of the Shard, and then met a friend for curries in Brick Lane. Two days later, I was back in town having drinks in a riverboat with a friend from elementary school. From our window, we could see Big Ben and the London Eye making its lazy circles along the riverbank.

These are just a sampling of things to do in London. It can't even remotely describe what I'm trying to get at: the amazing diversity and life in the city. It's not very well organised and it's completely random. The White Tower where Anne Boleyn got her head removed is just around the corner from Canary Wharf.with its brand new skyscrapers. Many people dislike London for all its grey skies and (yes, occasionally) stuffy people, but now that I'm only a few weeks away from shuffling back to my side of the ocean . . . I'm going to miss it more than I originally thought.

It's been a great year. Now, as time marches on towards my flight, onwards and upwards, at the very least I can console myself with yet another lyric from The Who: "At each end of my life / is an open door."

Workaday

2011-07-11T01:41:00.000-07:00

During the trip to Italy last week, we were given the unique opportunity to visit one of the country's most prominent publishing houses. Guinti Editorial, whose dominance includes both books and retail chains, hold their operations in a beautiful mountaintop villa down the road from our own accommodation. So, after plenty of chatting and conferencing, we trod up the road to have a look.

As we toured around the beautiful, historic villa I tried to keep a running commentary in my head of what it would be like to actually work there.

"Here I am, coming into work, making my way past the carved marble statues and through the 17th-century frescos painted in the same style as the Palazzo Vecchio. Around the corner from the fireplace with the family crest of the Medicis, where nobles plotted the family's overthrow in the 18th century.

"Oh! Look what's hanging from the ceiling above my desk!

"Time for a meeting. Look at the view from my conference room!

Not your correspondent, but she could be my boss

"Time for lunch. What shall I read in my break time. Oh, I know! The collected works of Leonardo Da Vinci bound in priceless leather volumes handmade to replicate the original documents as closely as possible!"

Then I tried to think of the perks of my former Boston office. We used to brag because we had really nice cubicles and free coffee.

....... Yeahhhhh.

Here's the Kicker . . .

2011-07-10T11:43:00.000-07:00

'To punt' has a couple of different meanings, depending on which side of the ocean you're on. In America, it's something you do in (need I say it, American) football, where you toss the ball back to the kicker and he launches it across the field to the other end, buying you extra yards before you send out your defense.

As a result it's taken on a second meaning, when you decide not to address something right away and sort of waffle on it until you really can't help but get to work.

In the UK, it's a sport native of only Oxford or Cambridge, where you take a long flat boat out and steer it around using only a worthless little paddle and a long pole. The breed of punting can be distinguished by where you stand on the boat: Cambridge punters stand on the flat end, Oxford on the scooped end. Both of them tend to smack into the riverbank more often than float downstream.

Well, your correspondent has been doing a little bit of both.

It's been so long since I last posted because, as I've hinted at before, it's awfully difficult to take a break from intensive report writing to . . . do more writing. The good news is, one draft is (just about) done and I should be back to my regular schedule shortly.

. . . ANY other name?

2011-06-29T13:02:00.000-07:00

In case you were curious what we did in that week in Florence:

http://publishinglexicon.wikispaces.com/

A group of students from five countries got together to discuss what words we use when we talk about publishing. The results were fascinating.

Did you know Italians have hundreds of different words for different types of children's books? And that there is a unique word just for pop-up books? For textured books? For cardboard books?

Did you know that the French googliser and twitter, but insisted on creating a new word for "digital books"?

Did you know that the german word for Search Engine Optimisation, which we abbreviate as SEO, is Suchmaschinenoptimierung? (They abbreviate it as SEO sometimes, too. I wonder why.)

Did you know any words in Slovenian?

You do now!

A Rose by Any Other Name . . .

2011-06-28T06:52:00.000-07:00

The weirdest thing about summer school in Italy? I spent half of my time speaking French.

The course I participated in was run in conjunction with three other universities besides my own. The University of Paris, Leipzig University, and the University of Ljubljana sent their own publishing students, to talk about digital publishing in each of our respective countries. Though the common language was meant to be English, French lecturers began by admitting they were best prepared to speak in their native language and employ a translator. My notes are scribbled in a hodgepodge of languages, which was all the more confusing when it was time to go to town and I continued to merci the locals.

They, of course, said, scuzi?

Things became clearer by the end of the week, as altogether we agreed about the loveliness of the villa and drank more cappucino than could possibly be good for us. They literally served us three meals within five hours, each more opulent than the rest. That was before we went into town and saw the gelato.

Second breakfast

Fourth dessert

I made great friends with the other students, and the night before leaving for Casablanca found myself in a local bar enjoying another Italian specialty . . . A certain kind of drink which involved oranges, sugar, coffee grounds, bananas dipped in poppyseeds. How did you drink it? Following the commands of the mustachioed Italian bartender.

Chin chin!

Pisa Cake

2011-06-21T12:48:00.000-07:00

Here's the weird thing. The Leaning Tower of Pisa doesn't just lean. It leans visibly.

It leans so that you kind of suspect one of these days - in fact, any minute now - it will accidentally topple over. They only allow 40 people to climb at one time; one suspects that's because too many people gaping down from the top levels would send the whole thing to the ground.

It was leaning before they even finished building. That's why it also seems to curve, just ever so slightly, to compensate for the tilt at the base. No one tells you about that. No one tells you about the intricate design work on its many pillars, either, and the way it gently complements the beautiful cathedral sitting directly behind.

These were the surprising bits. Otherwise, it was something I'd seen a million times in photographs. I sat in the grass with a university friend I'd bumped into on the plane, both on our way to Florence for a seminar on digital publishing. We looked at the Leaning Tower together, and I couldn't help thinking that it was too familiar to be real.

My friend, a Chinese student with a talent for photography and a travel bug almost as large as mine, flipped through the pictures on his camera until he came to the one he wanted. He showed me the screen. "This all reminds me of a palace I saw in Beijing."

I looked. A temple, very Chinese in style, with the same sort of dome as the church whose shadow we were sitting underneath. Kind of. It looked completely foreign to me. But to my friend, this courtyard was foreign, and he was trying to compare it to home.

Just when you think you've got it pegged. . . . !
-----------------------

I'm aware that I haven't posted in a while, and there is a lot of news to share from the trip to Florence, Madrid, and Morocco. Bear with me for a while, since most of my time right now is taken up by my dissertation. I'm writing as much as I can these days - it doesn't leave much creative energy for blog posts. Once the paper is done, hopefully in a few weeks or so, posting should go back to normal..

Neverending

2011-06-04T12:17:00.000-07:00

I looked at the man in the bazaar. He looked at me.

"Two hundred," he said.

In the back of my head, a little forgotten gear gone almost rusty started to turn again. "Two hundred ... No. One ... hundred? ... I mean: one hundred!"

Just like that. I was haggling again.

I've been back from Morocco only about a week, long enough to dive into dissertation research and phone up a few publishers from Brazil, Argentina, and Mexico. Now I'm typing up the last of it before packing my laptop back into its case and catching a bus to the airport, destination Florence.

There, I'll be participating in a seminar on digital publishing with Slovenian, French, and Italian students, aaaaaaand of course sampling the local cuisine by night. (It's only natural.) On the way home, I stop for 12 hours in Madrid to see what I can see, then it's back to Morocco for my final visit to the sister, and then finally - finally - I land back in Britain.

No volcanic ash has caught up with me yet, but my goodness if this hasn't been a whirlwind month.

I'll write more about how it goes trying to speak 'e-book' with Slovenians. Meanwhile: ciao.

More Natural Disasters

2011-05-25T05:44:00.000-07:00

Here's the sequel to last week's blog post about the ridiculous travel arrangements for my favorite travel companion and I. We managed to get reunited after an additional 24 hours of him sleeping in airports, but unfortunately between his feet touching ground in Scotland and his feet completing a 26.2-mile marathon, there was only enough room for dinner and a quick nap.

This is what we get for choosing a marathon in Scotland, though: gale force winds, hail, and yet enough sun to give us both sunburns.

We both finished, though, and in good time. Maybe limping a little. (Or a lot.) We couldn't quite relax, however, until we were safely in Morocco with my sister, drinking mint tea with our feet up.

This is where the volcanic ash cloud comes in.

Those gale force winds kept on even after the run, which complicated things at the airport. One waitress casually mentioned that the roof had blown off part of the building and onto the runway, giving us nice little heart attacks over dinner. Our plane was severely delayed, sitting just a few miles away in Glasgow waiting for a break in the weather to come pick us up and shuttle us back to London in time to make our connection the next morning to Casablanca.

If we missed our flight, there might still be time to get to London before our 10 am to Casa. Except, of course, if the ash cloud cancelled all flights from Edinburgh entirely.

Ash clouds! Honestly, after all of this, you'd think we wouldn't have to worry about ash clouds!

We were still at the bar chatting with a Scottish ice hockey player when our flight board blinked from DELAYED to FINAL CALL and started flashing red. They weren't kidding. We chugged our drinks and hobbled towards the plane just as they were closing the doors, which must have looked both hilarious and pathetic to our flight attendants. I'm writing now from the safety of Morocco and still hobbling, but at least there's a hammam in my near future instead of an airport floor to sleep on.

Now let's hope the ash cloud settles in enough time for us to get back up to London by the end of the week. I never thought I'd find my travel plans at the mercy of a volcano, but . . . then again, I shouldn't be surprised at anything anymore.

Travelin' Man

2011-05-21T09:48:00.000-07:00

It has not been an auspicious year for travel. I really ought to pay more attention before I book my flights.

Bad enough was last month when I completely missed my flight to Morocco for very weak reasons. (I just can't read emails.) Now my favorite travel companion seems to have caught some of my bad luck.

First, he left Boston on his way to Philadelphia. His plane was delayed for two hours, which means he missed his connection to London. After sleeping in the airport, the airline put him on a plane to Orlando, Florida, which was nice, but then neglected to book him an actual seat on the flight from Orlando to London, which was not so nice. Oh, and that flight he was supposed to take from London to Edinburgh was long gone, so he's had to pay for another. Finally, he argued himself onto a flight to London and spent twelve hours sleeping on a plane, another eight hours waiting in the airport, is finally on his way to Scotland where he will land, sleep in a hostel, and run 26.2 miles tomorrow morning.

Post-race, thank goodness we've booked ourselves on a nice relaxing vacation . . . in . . . Africa.

I think next time we'll consider a staycation.

King's Cross

2011-05-21T09:38:00.000-07:00

I've done it again. I've begun another popular book series and am now roped in to spending money on the next two or three books. At least last time it was only a trilogy. Now, I'm started George R. R. Martin's Game of Thrones, of which I'm told there are six books, each 700 pages or more. I'm 85% through the first one after two days of reading, according to my Kindle, which tells you how badly I'm hooked.

The only problem is, I'm in Scotland today. That's not a bad problem by itself. I love Scotland. It's cold at the moment, and I'm far too sober, but otherwise it's absolutely beautiful.

I'm just a little annoyed because, after reading my novel about noble kings and princesses and honourable knights and dragons and warring families, I decided to take a little walk. So I went outside, circled the castle, sampled the fine dragon's ale by the Royal Mile just off of Fleshmarket Close, made my way to Horse's Wynd to view King Arthur's Seat, and . . .

Yeah, doesn't reading that just make you feel a little bit nerdy?

Because I felt a little bit nerdy.

Even though, it's not my fault this is what real Scots do!

Still, I thought I'd better switch to reading something else for a while. Wouldn't want to get carried away.

It Could Be A Long Summer

2011-05-18T00:55:00.000-07:00

Lectures are over! Now I have nothing to do for the next three months except write my dissertation. (And run a marathon, and go to Morocco, and attend a seminar on digital publishing in Florence, and...)

I cracked open a book this morning to take stock of the dissertation process, and the first thing I read was this:

There will be occasions during your dissertation journey when other - friends, family members, boyfriends/girlfriends, partners, spouses, etc. - will make demands upon your time. On such occasions you need to remind yourself that your priority is now your dissertation - if you respond to every request for help from those around you then you will have difficulty in concentrating on your work. Self-centredness is a quality that will serve you well during your dissertation. [Biggam, Succeeding with your Master's Dissertation, p. 9]

Oh. Well.

You know? Even if it's the truth? Do you really have to put in writing how reclusive and boring I have to be all summer?

Foreign Concept

2011-05-14T14:36:00.000-07:00

Eurovision.

Unless you're European, absolutely baffling.

I was in Greece a few years ago after their candidate had won, and I had no real understanding of why some guy's gyration-happy music video was all over the airwaves. "Eurovision!" everyone said, and I said, yeah, that's nice, but I personally found the tune a little naff.

Then I was told, no, you really have to see the whole contest. So I tuned in.

And witnessed the pride of such countries as Boznia-Herzegovina ...

... and Georgia ...

... and wondered at what the hell was wrong with Moldova when they sent these guys ...

For goodness' sake, there is a unicyclist in the band. Her instrument? Unicycle and pretend trumpet. (When the UK gave them eight points at the end, the BBC commentator sighed, "Britain. You're not taking this seriously.")

Then there was a rap number which was distinctly Greek ...

... and France sent an opera singer.

Mostly I felt just . . . sorry . . . for Ireland.

Then, at the end of every year you see how each of the countries vote. It's absolutely brilliant. Usually, it seems, Russia feels guilty and votes for whichever Eastern European country they're not fussing with (Azerbaijan this year), the UK usually tosses a few points to Ireland, no one votes for Switzerland, the Scandinavian countries all vote for one another, Cyprus votes for Greece (take that, Turkey!), and loads of countries actually vote for Moldova!?!

I loved it. And yet, as I went downstairs to grab a snack from the kitchen and found my Spanish flatmate watching the show unironically, I realised . . . I am such a foreigner. Dear god.

Something Corporate

2011-05-14T02:41:00.000-07:00

Now, I'm no stranger to corporations. I don't fear big companies. I don't even fear talking a few numbers - witness my presentation just last Tuesday in which I outlined the economic viability of a title for which I built the Profit and Loss spreadsheet myself, line by line. These things don't frighten me like they do a large number of English majors. And English majors, as one would expect, make up a lot of the publishing industry.

Now, I had a job interview last week. It was a one-hour phone call with an editor from a company which is better known for being big than for its publishing. The concept sounded great - crossing borders, commissioning translations, international writers, etc. - but there was something about it that threw me off.

"Tell me about how you analyse data," they asked.

Data? That's no problem. We use past sales data to project whether a book will sell or not in future.

"Tell me about what goals were set for you in a previous company and how you met them."

So I outlined my previous work experience. They said: "No. What targets were you given, and did you make those targets."

Oh. Well, fine, but I liked my first answer better.

"Now, when you went to India, what were your stated goals there?"

Blah blah blah, best practices, new processes, exchanging core competencies, blah blah blah. They said: "No. What were your targets, and how did you meet them."

Oh. Well, I guess if you care about those rather than the important breakthroughs we had honing the development process for complicated projects. . . .

It was a shame, almost. Even after it was my turn to ask questions and I was given answers which matched almost exactly the spirit of my own responses, I quickly realised what was going on with this interview: they were collecting data. On me.

That data will be fed back into the corporate machine and will determine whether I'm fit for Round 2. (Don't worry. I'm probably not.)

It's a little disheartening to come back to the real world after having been a student and praising these high ideals of internationalism and innovation. In the end, you get in the door with your numbers. But really? When working internationally, when crossing boundaries like that, is it possible to really use numbers to make all of your decisions? If that were true, literal translations would be a piece of cake. You could use exactly the format of Eurovision or Jersey Shore and bring it to the other side of the ocean and it would absolutely work.

If you've lived internationally, you know what rubbish that is. There's a reason people can differentiate between The Office in the US and The Office in the UK, and it's not because Steve Carrell is slimmer than Ricky Gervais. Imagine Bollywood in Canada. It's just not one to one.

Anyways. I tried to follow up to send a thank you note to my interviewer, but was politely but firmly told I was not allowed to receive their personal information. I suppose that's about right. They didn't seem to have collected any about me, either.

Currency Exchange

2011-05-10T12:18:00.000-07:00

I've been out of touch because of a looming deadline in our most difficult module, focusing on new product development. There is nothing quite so exhausting like standing in front of a group of your colleagues, tutors, and other publishing industry professionals to give a talk about . . . finance.

Cash money.

If this Blog Were Written Like One of My MA Papers

2011-05-05T03:15:00.000-07:00

Basic Features
- Short sentences (jargon)
- Bullet points
- No verbs
- Boring. Illustrations!

Several of these

Numbers often complicated, presented in table:

Figure 1.1: Ugly

Overall Objective: Detrimental to future writing abilities (Harvard referencing, 2011)

Appendix A: Can I go home yet?

Happily Ever After

2011-05-03T13:14:00.000-07:00

I suppose, since I live in England, you'll want to hear my thoughts on the Royal Wedding.

Let me put it this way: On my way home from Barcelona, I stood in front of a small family of Brits who, for reasons unknown, snapped into American accents and started making fun of random Yankee words.

"Duuude, I'm going to go eat a baaaagel on the siiiidewalk wearing paaaaants."

Really? I thought. These are the words you're making fun of us for? Bagel? Sidewalk? Pants?

Two weeks later, I signed onto Facebook as Wills walked Kate down the aisle, and noticed several American friends had gotten up in the wee hours to celebrate the nuptials.

"I wish I was in England celebrating with scones," someone had commented. "Or maybe some Cadbury's! Or some biscuits! With my tea!"

Really? I thought. Scones? Biscuits? Cadbury's? So what?

In my book, Cadbury's is just a candy bar, bagels are sold at Tesco, and the scones are rubbish here anyways and I prefer the ones in Ireland. Maybe the magic is lost on me. Anyways, since the whole affair involved someone else's future sovereigns, I caught a few moments on the BBC iPlayer and got on with my day.

I will say this: when Prince William spoke the wedding vows, it occurred to me that he has the most stereotypically English accent in England. Which is, I suppose, as it should be. Even though, just for fun, sometimes I like to ask my friends how they enjoyed "the Royal Wed-din', bruv".

French-abic

2011-05-03T12:48:00.000-07:00

I mentioned back in January that I was hoping to practice my French in my recent trip to Casablanca. I knew that most people living in Morocco had several languages, of which French and English are usually second and third, respectively. On the other hand, since I don't know Arabic, I was hoping that we could all default to le francais and muddle along together . . . and I would for once be able to use my second language in practice.

In reality, this is closer to the truth:

What I thought I said: "We would like two salads, please."
What our waiter hears: "I'm eating two salads, maybe."

What I thought I said: "... except, please do not put any fish on my salad. NO fish!"
What our waiter hears: "Two plates of fish, please! No! Three!"

What I thought I said: (waving my hands) "No, I asked that there be no fish!"
What our waiter hears: (indicating where to place the fish) "No, I have no idea what I'm saying!"

What I thought I said: "And . . . two mint teas?" (am corrected by sister) "No. Only one."
What our waiter hears: "There are two morons here." (correction) "No. Only one."

In general, it was easier than I thought to get around, even though I did receive the occasional "What language are you trying to speak, anyway?" I suppose it would be the same as going to India to learn English. Sure, you'll pick it up, but you'll pick up some Hindi, too. Or, in my case, Arabic. La, la, la.

Photos from Morocco, Posted on Moroccan Time

2011-05-03T12:38:00.000-07:00

Even though I've been home from Morocco for almost a week now, I haven't gotten around to sharing my experience. I must be operating on Moroccan time. It's like normal time, but two hours late.

Mosque Hassan II

Sunset during the call to prayer

Overlooking the Atlantic Ocean

What did I do in Casablanca? There's not many tourist attractions. My sister and I aren't much for shopping. We lay on the beach instead, talked about life, and tried in vain to order Moroccan mint tea. (You pour it three times before you drink it. It tastes better that way.)

We also saw a great Moroccan band performing at a local bar, including some of my favorite songs by the Gypsy Kings. It wasn't Rick's Cafe, but it was nevertheless pure Casablanca.

Bem bem bem Maria!

Why I am Not in Morocco Right Now

2011-04-25T02:56:00.000-07:00

Because this is the email I received from my travel company, with the subject line 'change to itinerary'. (Red circle mine.)

Do you see where the departure time is? All the way over on the other side of the email, by itself, just like it was a flight number or some other meaningless piece of information?

I sure didn't!

They have a saying in Morocco, 'inshallah', which means basically 'if God wills it'. Well, God did not will this one quite yet. I have another flight booked on Tuesday so will still enjoy a quick vacation with my sister, albeit a truncated one.

To all my digital editing readers, let this be a warning to you: word wrap is not your friend!

Working Vacation

2011-04-25T02:50:00.000-07:00

How do you travel so much and get all of your work done? Well, here's the sad truth: I'm a boring traveler. I walk and walk and walk and when I'm tired I sit at a cafe and type up papers. I had a fantastic time seeing Barcelona in this way, and I was able to get a lot done on my Language essay. (I wrote it about Spanish publishing, so I could feel like chatting to trinket vendors was doing 'research'.)

At one point, I was sitting at a cafe overlooking the Sagrada Familia and chomping on a pastry, when all of a sudden a great load of honking tourists came pouring out. Then fire trucks roared up. Whoops. Some guy decided that day was a good one to set Gaudi's still-unfinished masterpiece on fire.

Keep in mind, the building has been under construction since the 1800s. It's absolutely gorgeous, but the awe-inspiring towers are sort of dwarfed by even taller industrial cranes.

It kind of adds to the appeal, though. Maybe someday I will be able to take my children... or grandchildren... or great-grandchildren... to see the finished building. Or maybe it will take another 80 years, like they think, in which case my great-grandchildren will have to find dashing rich husbands to travel with; I'll be too tired.

But unlike Gaudi, my work has actual deadlines, so once the crowd became too much to bear I moved inside a Starbucks and watched the commotion from inside the window. Just another day witnessing a cathedral being both built and burned down.

Thoughts from Barcelona

2011-04-18T13:26:00.000-07:00

There's something about travel that changes the way you think. Everything is magnified; all sentences end with an exclamation point.

For instance:
- You! You there, wearing the ugly red, white, and blue American flag striped t-shirt!

You look like an idiot, and for that I salute you!
- You! Girl clmibing a steep hill in a short dress and tall heels! You are similarly absurd and I salute you, too!
- This hostel smells funny!
- That building is scary!

Sagrada Familia

- No, I do not want to buy your little noisemaker, tourist attraction vendor man! Why did you sell one to each member of that large group of schoolchildren! That was very thoughtless!
- That building is even scarier! Gaudi is so scary!

Casa Battlo

- Oh no! A nude beach!
- Upon closer inspection I see that the man in the American flag shirt is German! Even better! Thank you for inviting ridicule to someone else's country, sir! In return maybe I should go to Italy wearing a German flag and yell harsh-sounding things at small children!
- I now recognise the smell in this hostel!
- Ouch! Sunburn!
- Somebody needs to take those noisemakers away from those children! I can barely hear myself think!

Silly Cow

2011-04-16T01:57:00.000-07:00

The town of Oxford got its name because of the area in Port Meadow along the Thames where the oxen actually ford the river in the summer months. The phenomenon has been occurring for hundreds of years, and the wild cows in that great field still cross the river in Port Meadow today.

Uh-oh.

So, picture Your Correspondent after sixteen or seventeen miles of jogging, on my way home after a wonderful marathon training session. Headphones in my ears, a little sunburnt, and very very tired.

All of a sudden there is a moo. Then another moo. An ANGRY MOO.

Here they are, then, fording the river: the cows. Whole herds of cows. Where am I? Jogging past a smaller herd, consisting of mostly baby calves, which apparently Mama Cow thinks I am about to attack and kill. (No, Bessie, I'm a vegetarian!) I can see the anger flashing in her little cow eyes as she bellows again, lowers her head, and charges across the river at me.

I really should have kept my promise to find a different park.

On the other hand, it's a great way to train for a faster time. My little tired legs were a blur as I vaulted behind the gate, which, I realised too late, was probably built to keep cows out instead of herding them in. One thing is certain: as angry as Mama Cow was with me, it's nothing compared to how angry my own Mama will be when she reads this story. Sorry, Mom! I'll find a treadmill next week, I promise!

Let's hope this is my last post involving dangerous run-ins with livestock. With that, I'm off to Spain, where I will surely be safe from marauding cows.

Oh. Wait.

Fair Thee Well

2011-04-16T01:30:00.000-07:00

London Book Fair

They called it "back with a vengeance".

Last year's London Book Fair was described to me by many people as "eerily quiet" - not due to lack of interest, but because of the volcanic ash cloud hanging overhead which prevented any of the exhibitors' planes from landing at Heathrow. This year they made up for lost time and filled Earl's Court with chatter of ebooks, trade terms, and the latest news from Random House.

Sounds straightforward, right? You should know better. Personally, my LBF went a little bit like this:

- Day 1 - I was up in the International Rights Centre, the super-secret upstairs where you need either a red badge or a secret password to get in. This is where the agents sit who have hardcore dealing to do. No exhibitions for the public, just business. Well, I found myself at one point meeting with one of my boss's favorite customers who turned out to be a) living in Boston, b) from my hometown, and c) like me, a professed enthusiast of feather bowling at the Cadieux Cafe in Grosse Pointe, Michigan.

"Feather bowling?" my boss asked, having been interrupted from negotiating a contentious agreement. "Are you making that up?"

No. For the rest of the meeting this customer let his colleague do the talking as he pulled up YouTube videos of featherbowlers and explained how the game was so rare they didn't even play it in Belgium anymore - Belgians come to Michigan especially for the fun. Huh. My boss still believes that we were making an April Fools.

- Day 2 - On the other end of the scale, I volunteered as part of the Fair to oversee the Cookery Corner, where chefs had 45-minute presentations making their favorite foods for the crowds. It wasn't the most exciting job, as the Cookery Corner permanent staff already had things well in hand, but I did learn how to cut a mango. And it's about damned time.

Then I watched the sun set over the Tower of London on my way home.

- Day 3 - I had scheduled a rash of meetings relating to my dissertation. (Latin American publishers don't often have any other occasion to come to London.) The Fair had slowed down enough and my contacts were so kind that I was actually led to one or two of the super-secret negotiating tables to ask someone what they thought of publishing in Mexico.

Everyone was a bit bleary-eyed at that point, but good progress was made, and I went home appreciating the fundamentally social nature of the publishing industry. Yes, we have stuffy industry fairs and glare at anyone who's carrying a white badge in the red-badge-only zone, but the people who work in books tend to be those who have a thing for personal expression, the creative arts, spreading knowledge.

Put it this way: after three days of walking my little legs off to discuss platform-independent content, digital licensing, and ebook volume sales, what was the first thing I did on the bus? Crack open a book.

My Fair Lady

2011-04-10T13:41:00.000-07:00

It's official: I am terrible at vacationing.

My Easter break began last Thursday, and since then I have had exactly zero hours of downtime. In fact, I've been gearing up for what is the second-largest book fair of the European circuit: the London Book Fair.

While I hope it's nowhere near as hectic as Frankfurt was, I still have some major 'firsts' on the calendar. On Monday I will have a chance to sit in with the licensing agency I've been researching for this entire year, to discuss digital rights with a number of platforms including Amazon and Kobo. Then on Tuesday I'm actually volunteer, and there's a chance I will be leading around famous authors and finding them bottles of water. Wednesday is my day off, when I track down those elusive Brazilian publishers and try to get some interviews scheduled for my dissertation.

With all of these adventures it will be worth a moment to stop and appreciate the setting. Earl's Court, besides being the site of my previously described Great Britain Beer Festival adventures of 2008, is a historic venue for anyone who's any sort of fan of British music. How ironic I'll be sitting in my dress shirt and pressed trousers in the same room where Mick Jagger once performed this?

What A Twit

2011-04-08T06:47:00.000-07:00

I like to set the bar high for myself. That seems to be why I've decided to focus my dissertation on a continent which I am presently not on, and where I don't really know anyone, and where I don't really even speak the language. Problem? What problem?

In this electronic age, though, all barriers are surmountable. Really, getting the attention of the right people is a matter of marketing.

First step: publicity. I've started a Twitter feed to help me connect with people working in publishing half the world away, to see what they're talking about, and to try to talk to them. You can follow me at @PublishLatAmOXB, and of course feel free to retweet whatever you'd like.

How very Publishing 2.0. Just an experiment within an experiment.

More News On That Riot

2011-04-02T10:34:00.000-07:00

As seen from my bedroom window, just after the World Cup Cricket Finals.

I guess India must have won!

Fool's Gold

2011-04-01T06:08:00.000-07:00

Tell me what would your reaction be if you opened The Bookseller and read this: Government Set to Curb Foreign Authors. Under the plan, bookstores would only be allowed to hold 10% of stock from overseas writers.

The Bookseller has learned Prime Minister David Cameron is set to give a speech today [1st April] outlining his latest iteration of the "Big Society". A DCMS spokesman said: "The publishing industry needs protecting from the Browns, Larssons and Meyers of this world. We think British literature should be celebrated, not swamped. Crime novels set in gloomy Scandinavian forests have an unfair advantage over our cosy domestic settings, so we have to level the playing field to protect this vital domestic industry."

I think the date in brackets gives it away. Even the trade press isn't above a good April Fools.

(... Right?)

I Predict A Riot

2011-03-30T10:53:00.000-07:00

It's been a bad year for your correspondent and riots. I enjoyed a Thai riot during my trip to the company sales conference and a Nepali Maoist riot in Kathmandu on May Day. There have even been riots in London over school fees, teacher strikes, and now the 2011 budget unveiled this week has incited someone to hang a large "STOP THE CUTS" banner on the road heading to my university.

So it was with a sigh that I heard a ruckus this afternoon floating through my bedroom window. Another protest, I figured, and dismissed it from my mind. Not that I wasn't distracted throughout the afternoon by the occasional loud cheer and bursts of chanting.

Eventually I got curious and wandered down to see what the fuss was really all about. To my surprise, I discovered: it wasn't a riot at all.

It was the Indian cricket team fan club. At the pub next door.

There's even someone wearing an Indian flag

No wonder I didn't know what it was. Not even Six Nations Rugby can get Brits to cheer that loudly. A trip to the World Cup Cricket Finals, tho, and the place was going wild. I even heard the sound of drums coming from inside.

Well this is much more fun than arguing over pensions. Good luck, India!

Amazonians

2011-03-29T13:01:00.000-07:00

One of your correspondent's friends from her younger days is a raving Amazon brand advocate, and gleefully forwarded this link along to the old college circle. "Another reason to buy music from Amazon," he called it.

Just like the old days, your correspondent countered with a sigh and then a flying tackle. (We did, after all, go to a football school.) In the middle of my obligatory publishers-indignation-at-Amazon, I realized that this friend probably had no idea about the teeny tiny margins Amazon offers to publishers, the way the used book market has dissolved educational book sales, and the erosion of our preferred route to market, the chain bookstores. The punters just see Amazon as a great place to buy books.

That's kind of why I'm not sure if I would prefer to bury Amazon, or to be them. They do understand what makes customers tick.

I don't know, then. If a job opened at Amazon next year, would I apply? Would I accept? Seattle's not a bad place to live, and I can't exactly complain about the weather from where I'm sitting in England. The Kindle is doing great things for reading, and they're even starting to bridge cultures through their own translation imprint.

The real problem for me is the reliance of price on their marketing mix. Ebooks are great for consumers, especially if you price them at $0.99. I can buy loads of ebooks for that amount! But, really, is that good in the long run? What kind of book can you profitably produce for that amount of money? Should someone's Great American Novel cost as much as one song on iTunes?

It's pretty clear I will buy ebooks for higher prices than I would print books, for the convenience factor. As long as they're worth reading. If publishers stop making money and I have to slog through self-published novels--which I'm sure are great but are just overwhelming in their sheer volume--I will probably end up unhappy.

Something tells me the final answer to my internal debate over Amazon won't be settled until this trajectory is either changed or ... we hit a wall somewhere. Until then, I sure am glad I'm not employable for at least a few more months.

Interview Fail

2011-03-29T12:59:00.000-07:00

The European CV is twice the size of an American resume. In the USA we're told to put all of our information on one page (which, as a standard 8.5" x 11" sheet, is smaller than the UK standard A4). In the UK you need two sides of A4, and, no, large font and flowery writing do not earn you any points.

After tossing on as much information as I could, and inwardly rebelling the entire time, my CV was still looking one line short. So, to balance all the line items about travel, books, more travel, and foreign things, I decided to put one mention of strictly American hobbies down at the very, very bottom.

Last Thursday, I had a half-hour interview with a Dutch company about a potential summer internship. At minute twenty-seven, the publisher looked at this final entry and started laughing to himself.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I couldn't help but notice that you like American football and ice hockey."

"Yes, sir," I replied.

He shook his head another moment, and then giggled, "How violent."

D'oh.

"It's funny," he explains, "because I don't even know girls who like European football, let alone American football. I suppose it's because you went to Notre Dame."

Yes! Of course it's because of my prestigious university, sir. That must be it.

Anyways, I can't see how my sport of choice could be any worse than rugby. I can, however, see the merit of changing my favorite sport to something like, um, baseball. Batter up.

You're Telling Me, They're Hunger Games

2011-03-24T16:38:00.000-07:00

There's a new debate of the day in book publishing circles. Now that we're pretty clearly in the realm of e-publishing and the proportion of book sales has tipped in favor of electronic copies in the US, no one is questioning whether customers will read books onscreen. Now the question is, how much can we get them to pay?

It's sort of a shame when you hear that authors are selling their books in the Kindle bookstore for as little as $0.99, or even giving it away for free. I loved this post from Roxane Gay for a lot of reasons, but mostly for this paragraph right here:

If we as writers don’t value our craft enough to price our work appropriately, how can we expect readers to want to pay appropriate prices? If you have to basically give your writing away, what does that tell you? [. . .] I could see myself selling a short story for a buck or two but a book, a whole book? My work is worth more than that. Your work is worth more than that. If I cannot sell my books at a ore reasonable $8-$10 price point, perhaps the market is telling me something about my writing. Humbling? Perhaps.

On the other hand, this weekend I downloaded the first volume of The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins to my Kindle. Big mistake. I loved it. When, ten hours later, I finished the first book, the first thing I did before going to bed (at an ungodly hour, of course), was download the second book. I read that one in its entirety the next day. The third book was started before breakfast on day 3 and, just because I wanted to draw it out, I finished after class on day 4.

When was the last time I bought three print books in a row? Especially new? Amazon just made loads of money off of me. So did the publisher. More than I would have spent otherwise. But, my goodness, now I appreciate why it would be nice if ebooks could cost less. That's even though I know exactly how much goes into each book, and the giant commission Amazon gets per sale.

I suppose the trick is, convince publishers to drop the prices while I'm a student, so I can still eat. As soon as I go back to work for a publisher, move the prices back to normal, so I can keep eating. Doesn't that sound like the best solution?

Studious

2011-03-23T04:04:00.000-07:00

Your correspondent has no control over the selection of her uni's film society, but when they advertised a showing of the Bollywood hit 3 Idiots . . . Well, I'd be an idiot not to attend!

The film's message is the importance of life lessons over school lessons. Real learning over school memorization. The dangers of too much pressure on students for a few meaningless grades on a paper. Sounds good to me! So I guess it's OK to spend the rest of my afternoon studying whether I should prefer Shah Rukh or Aamir Khan.

Black Sheep

2011-03-20T06:47:00.000-07:00

My favorite complaint about Oxford is its teeny tiny size. I'm training for yet another marathon, which means sixteen- to eighteen-mile runs at least once a week, which last time resulted in a few rather unfortunate run-ins with cows.

This time, I've gotten to know the area a bit better and found a lovely path following the Thames for miles and miles, which, technically, could take me all the way to London. It won't, however, because I run in the opposite direction, north through the Thames river valley, and into wide open fields where soon there's not a building in sight. Just miles and miles of fields, and, of course, new dangers.

Mile eight of yesterday's run found me blissfully trotting along in one of these fields, enjoying the peace and quiet of the river, when suddenly, I rounded a bend and saw them coming at me: sheep! Not just one or two sheep. A herd of sheep. Maybe a hundred, maybe more.

Worse, they were being herded. There was the sheepdog barking them forward, there was the farmer driving them from behind, and now here comes me, sprinting right for them, which was no less surprising for me than for the sheep.

"Baaaaaaaaaah!" they called.

"BAAAAAH!" I cried back.

Now, of course, the sheep saw themselves as being herded from all sides, so they reacted as sheep usually do: blind panic. Sheep everywhere! I considered jumping off the narrow path, but then I'd be running through some random field and did it belong to the farmer? Would the farmer like that? I couldn't cut through the herd without dispersing sheep everywhere, and the farmer was giving me a look that, if I wasn't already running, would have set me off at a sprint immediately.

So, I turned tail and was chased for the next mile or so. By sheep. What can I say? At least it was good training: I can't remember the last time I've run so fast.

The Irish Rover

2011-03-17T02:04:00.000-07:00

It's St. Patrick's Day today, one of my favorite holidays, if not one that I've had much success celebrating in recent years. For the second year in a row I've missed my college friends' reunion over pints of Guinness and probably just a little bit of mayhem - as alumni of the Notre Dame Fighting Irish, it's a holiday we take seriously.

Last year was a wee bit harder than this one, of course. I was in India and besides the obvious technical difficulties and the paucity of corned beef and cabbage, there was one more problem with my attempts to share the holiday with my friends.

I walked into the office with a bright green shirt on and a big smile on my face, only to run smack into one of my coworkers. He looked tired, drawn, and he had a streak of white on his forehead. He explained, he was celebrating a holiday too - the days of Vasant Navratri leading up to Ram Navami - and he was fasting.

So, no green beer, in other words.

That was probably the quietest St. Patrick's Day I'd ever had. No matter where I'd spent it, though, it would probably be hard to top the time I actually lived in Ireland, the holiday's spiritual home. My sister was in town, and besides the usual tomfoolery we stumbled across a céilidh and danced like idiots with half of Dublin. The rest of the night, we [scene missing].

More than anything, today's celebration of its patron saint makes me reminisce about the good times I had there both as a student and more recently for a rather long run. Maybe it's time for an impulse trip back to the Emerald Isle . . . You never know . . .

Trinity College and Dawson St

O'Connell St looking towards the Dublin Spire

Cadbury Without Borders

2011-03-13T01:41:00.000-08:00

An Iranian friend and I were chatting yesterday about where to go on one of our weekly lunch dates. As often happens, the conversation veered from a description of a traditional English Sunday Roast to one of our own respective traditions. As it turns out, the Persian New Year, or Norouz, begins next week.

My friend tried to describe the festive table setting Iranians have to celebrate the new year. It's called haft sin, where sin is a letter of the Persian alphabet (س). Seven foods are placed on the table, each starting with the letter sin, and each carrying its own symbolic meaning.

We were sitting in the school's computer lab, so we clicked over to Wikipedia for a full list. (It's not very easy to describe your own traditions without visuals. Last season this same friend asked me why we decorate Christmas trees and I could only quote Jim Gaffigan.) Sure enough, there was a list of seven foods - sabzeh (wheat or barley), sib (apples), senjed (oleaster), somaq (sumac), sir (garlic), samanu (a sweet pudding), and serkeh (vinegar).

"That's so funny," I said. "That sounds a lot like something we do in Italy, where we eat seven fishes for Christmas."

"Sometimes you have other things," she added. "Not just those seven." She pulled up one of the many photos of various haft sin spreads.

Haft sin spread, by Mandana Asani

"That's lovely!" I said.

"But . . . Wait a minute."

Peering closer.

"Is that . . .?"

"Um, those look like Easter eggs," I told her.

They are clearly not Easter eggs, of course. But, at the same time, they are. Hard-boiled eggs, decorated and painted, although in Iran you place them on the table where in America we hide them and make small children go hunt for them.

So we reminisced together for a while about decorating eggs. It was all well and good, of course, until she asked me about Easter.

"Um . . ." I said. Where to begin - the high religious significance, or . . . "We celebrate with . . . the Easter . . . bunny? Who lays . . . chocolate?

"Shoot, we're going to need a visual."

And then I just chundered everywhere

2011-03-12T11:56:00.000-08:00

Is it awful that I watched this and thought, "Hey I've totally done that!"

Except I've never taken a gap year, and certainly not a 'gap yaah'. Americans don't have gap years! We don't believe in taking a year off just to be young and travel. You graduate . . . You work! You work while you travel! And when Americans "chunder everywhere" (which, yes, I've done that too), it's probably e.coli, not "being on the lash".

It's funny you should say that, tho. That totally reminds me of this time, on my year-of-working-in-random-far-off-locations . . .

Lording over you

2011-03-06T11:01:00.000-08:00

Some whispers went around last week that someone in your correspondent's circle is the son of a Lord.

I needed this explained to me. What, exactly, makes you a Lord? Does this make my acquaintance a Lord? Is it anything like being a Knight? Do you have a say in Parliament? And, for goodness' sake, since when have there still been things like Lords in the twenty-first century?

One friend (who is a subject of Her Majesty, though not English) tried to explain: "It's kind of like the Kennedy family in America."

I thought back. Sure, they're the most famous political family we have. But, no disrespect to the Kennedy family, but they're also famous for various assassinations and the occasional scandal on Martha's Vineyard. Plus, when John F. Kennedy was elected president, it was under much suspicion - he was the first Catholic in office, and many thought he would be answering to the Pope.

"No," I disagreed. "I don't think we would consider the Kennedys anything close to a Lord."

For lack of a better analogy, we let the subject drop, and to this day I'm still not entirely sure what a Lord is.

As I found out, however, they are definitely still alive and well in the United Kingdom. I booked myself a flight to Morocco last week, and as I was entering in my passenger information, a drop-down menu offered me a choice of honorifics - Doctor, Mister, Miss, Ms, Mrs . . . Lord . . . Lady?

As tempted as I was to fly as Lady Your Correspondent, something tells me this sort of joke would be strongly frowned upon, and I'm not crazy enough to try. After all, as the expression goes, I'm no Jack Kennedy.

Thought of the Day

2011-03-04T01:43:00.000-08:00

I found this quote in an Economist article, and felt I had to share:

Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. -- Mark Twain

At the very least, Mr. Twain has just justified the flights I've booked for Casablanca and Barcelona in April. One woman's lying on the beach is another woman's horizon-expanding fight to eliminate prejudice. You wouldn't want me to become narrow-minded, would you?

You Say Potato, I Say French Fry

2011-03-03T12:44:00.000-08:00

Since moving to England, I've really missed the opportunity to do some good outside of class. Last week I was happy to stumble across the website of a local homeless shelter which seemed to match my old volunteer work: low-key, non-denominational, and non-judgmental. I went today for my first tryout and, as usual, found a few surprises.

Oxford is such a small town, so small that it literally takes me five minutes to run myself out of town. Sure, there's a bit of scruffy neighborhood down Cowley Road, but the group I joined was just open for a few hours every evening between the day shelters and the night shelters.

In those two hours, over one hundred people showed up.

Obviously, they need the help, so I will most definitely make it a regular occurrence. Next time should go better now that I've learned where they keep the plates and cutlery. Getting the terminology down is key, too.

"Do we need more cheese and crackers?" I asked the other kitchen volunteers. No answer. Blank looks.

Someone popped in from serving tea up front. "Do we have any more cheese and biscuits?"

Oh.

"Can you pass me the aubergine?" someone requested.

I stared at the pile of vegetables next to me.

". . . You might call it eggplant."

Oh.

The kicker came when one of the volunteers popped into the kitchen and asked me, "Quick! Can you make one of the ladies a Marmite sandwich?"

Ugh. Marmite. Marmite is one of those strictly English foods. I've never seen anyone eat it who wasn't a Brit. It's meant to be really good for you, but no matter how many times I try to give it a chance, it's still disgusting.

You're not doing it right, my friends tell me. You're supposed to put only a teeny little bit on toast. And lots and lots of butter.

"Are you sure I should be doing this?" I asked, when someone handed me the jar and a knife. "I'm an American! An American!"

But, I was there to pull my weight, and I dutifully followed the instructions I had been given hundreds of times. I handed my finished open-faced sandwich to the volunteer and waited for her reaction.

"No, we need more Marmite on that," she said, handing it back. "There's barely any there."

"I'm an American!" I explained again, and, shrugging, added more Marmite.

"Ew!" said another woman. "That's way too much Marmite!"

Lesson learned. I handed in my knife, and decided to wash dishes instead. Eating it or preparing it, I just can't win with English food!

Sacre Bleu!

2011-03-02T13:36:00.000-08:00

The other night, I was standing in my local grocery store looking for a good beer to pair with dinner. Surrounded by Fuller's and Old Speckled Hen, nothing caught my fancy, nothing seemed to do. The English are so proud of their "real ales", but was that what I wanted?

Then, I spotted a four-pack of Guinness in the corner, straight from Ireland. I bought it without a moment's hesitation.

A few days later, I was lost for inspiration and turned my internet radio on to the first channel I came across. That night, I happily finished an entire paper nodding my head to nothing but rap music. Even though I wasn't a big fan before, for some reason out here I can't get enough Outkast and Eminem.

This morning, I realized I've spent the past week swapping between two other internet radio stations: what I call "yeehaw" country, and pop music from . . . France.

My goodness. It seems as though six months in England has turned me into the walking cultural opposite of English-ness. I suspect my subconscious is trying to tell me something.

The Inspiring City in Spires

Who Needs a Time Machine?

2011-02-25T02:14:00.000-08:00

I just started reading a non-fiction book I found reviewed in The Economist, called Triumph of the City: How Our Greatest Invention Makes Us Richer, Smarter, Greener, Healthier, and Happier by Edward Glaeser. (Full disclosure: there is a large chapter about the decline of Detroit, but that was just more synchronocity, not the reason I picked it up.)

His argument is that cities, rather than creating poverty and crushing inhabitants -- which is, frankly, what it does feel like sometimes -- attract the poor and help inhabitants by making it easier for people to be productive. Even in a world where outsourcing is becoming the norm, we benefit so much more from personal human interaction than when we're typing on our computers at home.

That's all fine, but the reason I mention it is because I was lying in bed last night reading the following passage about the role of publishing:

[. . .] The book didn't help cities just by boosting their publishing industries. The printed word also made the world more urban in subtler, deeper ways. One direct effect of the printing press was allowing far-flung farmers to read the Bible, but indirectly the printing press helped make the world more knowledge intensive, more democratic, more commercial, and ultimately more urban.

"Yeah!" I thought to myself. "Books are awesome!"

Then I realized: here I was, feeling very proud about my profession's press and paper contribution to history and society, and yet I was reading these words off of the screen of my little e-ink Kindle.

Wow.

Makes you think, huh?

[Comic gratefully borrowed from xkcd]

Long Walk down a Short Road

2011-02-20T01:41:00.000-08:00

I discovered this morning that the man who has been publishing for forty years on my dissertation topic, who is cited in paragraph two of my dissertation proposal as being a key scholar in my area of research, isn't based where I'd expect him to be. He's not in the UK, he's not in Brazil or Mexico, he is in . . . wait for it . . . Boston College.

So, you mean I could have just walked up Comm Ave with a cup of Dunkin' Donuts?

Sigh . . . Well, you know what they say. It's the journey that counts . . .

Imported from Detroit, Part 2

2011-02-19T02:36:00.000-08:00

It started at the beginning of the semester, when my Iranian roommate talked about his Urban Planning and Design coursework. "You're from Detroit?" he asked. "We're studying Detroit." When I asked why, he just kind of laughed and shrugged. "Maybe because it needs to be rebuilt." OK, so we have an entire classroom of students trying to figure out how to rearrange my hometown. Good luck to them.

Now, my business module seems to be experiencing some odd syncronocity with the poor city. So far:
- In Week 1, we did a case study on Gale Cengage. I said to my workshop team, "That's in my hometown." Its headquarters is in Farmington Hills, not far from where I live. At the end of class, the professor, who is English, was running down the list of all Cengage divisions and described Gale as being "I forget where, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, where you'd never want to go." I quickly raised my hand and enlightened her. "Michigan, m'am."

- In Week 2, this same professor described a sales conference she had been to as part of the Gale Cengage team. "It was somewhere out of the way like Grand Rapids and it was just awful." I hoped she meant the conference, not Grand Rapids. GR is actually quite nice.

- In Week 3, we're reading in our textbook about international M&A. What's the case study (non-publishing related)? The "celebrated" and "successful" merger of Daimler-Benz in Germany and Chrysler in Auburn Hills, Michigan, USA. What the copyeditors didn't know when they published this edition is that Daimler would sell off most of its Chrysler holdings in 2009, Chrysler would go bankrupt and get bailed out by the US government and -- hooray! -- get bought back up by Fiat. (Fiat is an Italian automaker whose name it is often suggested is an acronym for "Fix It Again, Tony".) Though Chrysler seems to have bounced back fairly well by now, my guess is they'll be suggesting a new case study for the fifth edition.

Not one to take the news lying down, in Week 4, a defiant grassroots movement in Detroit raised $60,000 to build a Robocop statue near the abandoned Michigan Central Station. Now that's what I call "rising from the ashes". I'll bet they didn't see that one coming in Urban Design.

There's a Solution for Everything

2011-02-18T07:22:00.000-08:00

The one area where my Kindle can't compare is in the smell department. I'm sure you'll agree that books have their own distinctive olfactory pleasure.

What you may not know is that so does the Kindle. It smells like plastic and manufacturing.

The world is full of solution-builders. Enter Smell of Books, "An Aerosel E-Book Enhancer". From their website:

Does your Kindle leave you feeling like there’s something missing from your reading experience?
Have you been avoiding e-books because they just don’t smell right?
If you’ve been hesitant to jump on the e-book bandwagon, you’re not alone. Book lovers everywhere have resisted digital books because they still don’t compare to the experience of reading a good old fashioned paper book.
But all of that is changing thanks to Smell of Books™, a revolutionary new aerosol e-book enhancer.
Now you can finally enjoy reading e-books without giving up the smell you love so much. With Smell of Books™ you can have the best of both worlds, the convenience of an e-book and the smell of your favorite paper book. [From http://www.smellofbooks.com]

You'll be happy to know that Smell of Books is DRM compatible-as well. But is it eco-friendly? Can you read it in sunlight? Most importantly, will it help you pick up chicks on the subway?

Back to the Books . . .

2011-02-18T02:43:00.000-08:00

My last few posts have been uncharacteristically free of any discussion about books, but there's a simple reason for that: I've been buried in mine. With a semester full of courses on International Publishing Management, Language Issues, and (gulp) my dissertation, my time is less structured than last semester but far more precious.

I was also involved in a terrific research project for my university in which I had to provide the top five publishers across various genres in a long list of countries. This included doing research on the Middle East, Africa, and continental Europe. It sounds fairly straightforward until your contacts start to email you in Cyrillic characters or, worse, Arabic. With Arabic, words are read left to right -- so was the name on the right the number one publisher, or the one on the left? How do you pronounce that? And for goodness' sake, how do you write it in an alphabet I can read?

Luckily, my fabulous sister in Morocco was able to help out, and the work was done with no further difficulty. Now I just need to find someone who knows someone in Brazil, Mexico, or Argentina, for my dissertation.

As a kid they tell you that reading can 'take you to far-off places', but I think they meant using your imagination. I seem to have taken that advice far too literally.

Oh the Weather Outside is . . . Weather

2011-02-17T01:52:00.000-08:00

My favorite travel companion was in town last weekend so we did what we do best: hopped a bus for somewhere distant and got ourselves proper lost. Living in Oxford, that "somewhere distant" is usually and most easily London. So, we found ourselves strolling along St. James' Park on Saturday afternoon with the idea to take in the sights.

Before we left, I received an email from a friend who wished me a good weekend. "The weather's meant to be pants!"

This caused somewhat of a dilemma. How, exactly, does one dress for "pants"?

Crucially--and this is one of the first things they tell Americans as we get off the plane--"pants" means something very different in our separate versions of English. What we call "pants", they call "trousers". If you talk about your pants, you are being *ahem* possibly a bit *ahem* rude.

This makes idioms such as "flying by the seat of your pants" famously, famously inappropriate.

However much we debated, we had no idea what "pants" weather would look like. As a matter of fact, I still don't know. Saturday afternoon was absolutely gorgeous.

The gate of Buckingham Palace

Westminster Abbey

Sunday, on the other hand, was so grey and rainy that we spent the afternoon watching rugby in a pub.

So, which of these weather systems was "pants"? I don't know. Given my poor track record with the word, I'm not likely to adopt that particular bit of slang. I'm not keen to see what would happen if I walked into class complaining (or bragging), "I just feel pants today!"

The Seven Year Itch

2011-02-14T13:20:00.000-08:00

A few weekends ago I was able to make my way down to London on a whim and stopped in on an old friend to catch a Six Nations rugby match. I knew this friend since the time I studied in Ireland at University College Dublin, back in 2004. Oddly enough, that was one of the years the Irish won the Six Nations trophy, but I'm sure superstition had nothing to do with him inviting me along to the match. (Probably.)

The thing I remember most about Six Nations that year was, after the Irish victory, a giant tarp with a picture of team captain Brian O'Driscoll hung very prominently along Grafton Street. When the commentators announced his name in the starting lineup, then, it was a pleasant little surprise. "I would have thought he'd retired by now," I told my friend.

"Yeah, he's getting up there," my friend admitted. "But he can't have been that old when you were in Dublin."

"Well, he was definitely already the captain," I said.

"Oh. Then he must be old," said my friend. "That was . . ." and then he calculated in his head. "Seven years ago."

I immediately flashed back to one night during that time in Dublin, when some friends and I went drinking at Foley's Pub between St. Stephen's Green and Merrion Square. We were chatting and enjoying ourselves like normal when I noticed one boy in particular across the bar who looked vaguely familiar. He seemed to have the same thought about me, so we introduced ourselves and realized we had gone to the same high school together and shared an English class in ninth grade.

Immediately, since he went to a hometown university where many of our classmates were still in touch, I pestered him with questions about other old friends. I bashfully asked about one boy who I had fostered a bit of a crush on in my tender years. "He was so cute!" I gushed.

"Really? You thought so?" he asked. "I don't know. I don't see him much anymore. That was seven years ago!"

It made me feel old to remember this (tho not as old as Brian O'Driscoll), but it made me feel a little better, too. After all, here I am seven years on with a friend I made my very first time abroad, having a beer at Covent Gardens and commiserating about our dissertations. If this is the rate I'm going, what will things look like seven years from now?

Imported From Detroit

2011-02-07T01:15:00.000-08:00

I didn't watch the Superbowl this year, but after seeing a few intriguing posts on Facebook I went to my computer in my little flat in England and YouTube'd this:

My reaction was to start cheering like an idiot at the top of my lungs. (I probably freaked out my flatmates.) That view, right there, is what I see when I drive home from the airport. That's what I see every time I drive to a Red Wings game at Joe Louis Arena. My neighbor works for Chrysler and my Dad drives one.

It's been a while since I've felt so proud of my hometown. It's not easy to make Detroit look good. Thank God, somebody did. As someone who really is imported from Detroit can tell you, that's no small feat.

Food for Thought

2011-02-04T15:52:00.000-08:00

This is true, but I still can't believe it's real:

The national beer of Wales is made by Brains Brewery. This isn't some small microbrew -- it sponsors their Six Nations team. In the background of each match you can see large blinking signs saying "Brains" "Brains" "Brains".

In other words, the Welsh drink Brains.

I don't know what they call that over here. In my book? That's a zombie.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Mister Mister (I Mean . . . M'am)

2011-02-01T09:14:00.000-08:00

Here's your first lesson in international business:

When given a list of executives to contact by email who hail from foreign countries and who have complicated foreign names, Google them. Sometimes Jan is a man and Francis is a woman (or a doctor). Some of the names might seem fairly girly but belong actually to a gentleman in Belarus.

And for goodness' sake, if you're going to guess . . . Guess right.

I won't tell you how I came to learn this very important lesson. Just trust me.

British Television

2011-01-29T02:47:00.000-08:00

Being raised on a steady diet of Mr. Bean and A Bit of Fry and Laurie as a child (thanks, Mom!), I was looking forward to fleeing American cable saturated with Jersey Shore for the comfort of quality programming this side of the pond. (Or is it programme-ing?)

Before I even arrived in my flat, however, I was receiving threatening letters from the authorities making sure I immediately paid my TV tax. Even though all TV channels are technically free (with the exception of Rupert Murdoch's channel SkyTV, God bless that capitalist), the BBC is financed via a stiff annual tax on anybody with a television. Per television set.

Luckily for me, I'm a student, so I'm too poor for a set. That didn't stop the letters, though. They kept coming and coming, promising me every time that They Would Find Me and someone would Come To My House To Make Sure I'm Not Watching TV. The worst bit is, I think they actually would have. To avoid that bit of unpleasantry, I returned the letters assuring the sender I wouldn't watch live television, and now enjoy all the same shows on BBC iPlayer after the appropriate delay. Don't tread on me!

Now. British comedies. Where do I begin. Um? I'm not so sure they could broadcast most of these comedies on American TV. I won't go into details, but . . . Let's just say I can't get into details.

"So, you bleep out those words when it's actually broadcast on TV, right?" I asked an English friend.

She looked at me like I had ten heads. "What words?"

The philosophy is, if it's after "watershed" or about 9 pm, parents should know to keep kids away from the telly because the humor becomes a bit, well, puerile. It's so puerile, in fact, that on American television it would only be found on premium premium cable such as HBO. Nope! Here I can get it for free on the official YouTube channel.

Eventually, another ex-pat assuaged my concerns by reminding me: The Puritans did, after all, leave England.

Oh, well. I can't complain. Now I can watch back episodes of Top Gear to my heart's content, and not the cruddy American version either. Jeremy Clarkson all the way. Some things, after all, should stay as they are, unadapted across the pond. God knows I didn't come here so I could watch Geordie Shore.

Moveable Feast

2011-01-26T06:11:00.000-08:00

It's a symptom of how busy this year has been that, exactly one year after celebrating Republic Day in India, I am now celebrating Australia Day at an Oxford pub.

It's also a symptom of just how insane Indian driving is that, for the second year in a row my eyes boggled at a clip of the Army Signal Corps in the Republic Day parade.

I actually wish I had the video of what they did last year. The first few daredevils on the route sat at the top of giant, thin poles, holding on with just their legs as they 'casually' read the paper twenty feet above the ground, at high speed. Oh, by the way, they were facing backwards.

Wow. All we're doing for Australia Day is eating lamingtons.

All Greek to Me

2011-01-26T04:59:00.000-08:00

I spent last weekend in London celebrating my one-year anniversary of moving to Delhi by reuniting with my old flatmates from our Gautam Nagar guesthouse. On the way, I did a wander through the British Museum with another friend who happened to be in from Boston.

It's a testament to London's cultural and historical wealth that this was the first time in many trips that I was retracing my steps through a tourist attraction. Even if I had been to the British Museum hundreds of times, though, I would go back in a heartbeat. As a philosophy major and a longtime student of Greek antiquity, the giant collection of statues and marbles makes my heart just pitter-patter. I wandered through, my mouth agape, pointing out every artistic detail I could remember to my Boston friend.

She nodded along for a while, then wondered aloud, "I wonder how the British Museum got to keep all of this stuff. Shouldn't it be in Greece?"

That is an excellent question, of course, although one I left for the pamphlets at the entrance to explain rather than go into the details of colonialism. It reminded me of my own trip to Greece as a backpacking undergrad, just a few short months before the Athens Olympics were to kick off. Even then, I was eager to see Greek history up close, and it was with a deep and profound awe that I looked forward to seeing the epitome of architectural mastery: the Parthenon in Athens.

Photo not mine -- original from linz_ellinas

When I approached the building however, I learned that a few key pieces were missing, or had been replaced by replicas. It wasn't the real Parthenon, in other words. The majority of the originals were in the city where I had just made my first, three-day visit, though, sadly, without stepping foot into any museums -- London.

Whoops! There it is!

Yes, they were all kept in what is now my favorite room on the island of Britain: The Parthenon Room.

I felt a right idiot.

Of course, that wasn't the only odd part of my trip to Athens. In preparation for the Olympics, the authorities were giving the entire Acropolis a little facelift. Scaffolding propped up parts of the Parthenon and the Erechtheum. Approaching the windy southwest corner of the rocky promontory, I noticed a jumble of stones where the Temple of Athena Nike was supposed to be . . . but no Temple of Athena Nike.

Well, readers, they had taken this gorgeous, ancient temple apart. To clean it.

Don't worry. They were going to put it back together when they were done.

So, if someone isn't putting it indoors in another country with the outside facing in, someone's quietly dismantling it for a week or two. Which, speaking of philosophy, begs an interesting question: if a temple has been rebuilt for the hundredth time last week, how ancient is it really?

Au Contraire

2011-01-24T10:07:00.000-08:00

Mike Shatzkin posted an article this morning about the new trend of US and UK publishers muscling into a greater presence in foreign territories simply because publishers in other native languages haven't yet gone digital. Paired with this week's Economist article about disappearing South African languages, and you start to see a pattern of creeping decay for everything but English.

Ironically, the digital revolution has brought me un peu plus de francais. Before setting off for Malta, I downloaded the Merrill-Webster French-English Dictionary to my Kindle and, after a little research on Amazon, learned how to switch my default dictionary. Now I'm zipping through The Comte de Monte Cristo in its original language, buffeted along by the ease in which I can look up unfamiliar words. (Unfortunately, as my French hasn't been stretched since sophomore year of university, there are many.) Reading a novel in French seemed a giant task when I started. Now I've put down the Evelyn Waugh book I'd thought to balance out the project and am reading solely the Dumas until its completion.

My guess is no one will put this in the marketing materials, but it's a personal godsend. With luck my April trip to Morocco to visit the sis will find me jabbering along with Casablanca locals beyond cab fare and groceries. Maybe English is the lingua franca, but since that's the one I already know, j'en ai beaucoup plus à apprendre.

Maltese Morning

2011-01-23T12:11:00.000-08:00

Having been in America only a short thirty-six hours beforehand, I woke up on my first morning in Malta a little earlier than normal. I stumbled over to the heavy curtains and drew them open just in time to be greeted by this:

"Oh come on," I said out loud. "This is just unnecessary."

Malta is just that, in two words: gratuitously beautiful. The residents demurely apologized for the "chilly" weather as I pulled out my sunglasses for the first time in months and practically lobbed my fleece off the top level of an open-air bus. Day one found me wandering around the medieval towns of Valletta, Mdina, and Vittoriosa admiring the gorgeous architecture and even more breaktaking scenery.

From Upper Barrakka Gardens, Valletta

St John's Co-Cathedral, Valletta

From Lower Barrakka Gardens, Valletta

From the waterfront, Vittoriosa

Sunset from Vittoriosa

Day two found me traveling to the neighboring island of Gozo for more natural beauty.

The Blue Lagoon, Comino Island, from the Gozo Island Ferry

View of the Mediterranean from Calypso's Cave, Gozo

Azure Window, Gozo

Fungus Rock, Gozo

The most telling feature of the trip, however, came slightly beforehand. Being acquainted with a Maltese family now living in America and whom I used to both work for and go to school with, I got back in touch to ask their advice on my journey. What I got in return was a long, thought-out, bullet-pointed list of things to do, restaurants to try, and family connections I should visit on the way. Their advice led me to some of the best food I've ever eaten, and a ream of photos just as beautiful as the ones above. Afterwards, my classmate saw my photos on Facebook and discovered I had been standing under the balcony of yet another family member. I was promptly scolded for not stopping by for a meal.

It was well above and beyond what I would have expected. But, just like the rest of Malta, it was a most welcome surprise.

In-flight Entertainment

2011-01-15T10:46:00.000-08:00

Seems like every time my plane encounters turbulence, I invariably find myself clutching the hand of some old woman of exotic nationality and trying to keep her from crying. God knows I'm not a relaxed flyer myself, but in this kind of situation I find it's best to play your poker face At any show of nerves, the foreign lady might scream, I might scream, and at that rate the plane would never get down.

(In case you're curious why I hate flying, I can trace it exactly down to when I took this video of our takeoff from Lukla, Nepal. I literally spent this entire flight delivering my soul up to God. This is also where my first encounter with a crying Nepalese mother took place.)

I arrived back in England this morning only to forget which side of the road cars drive on, an incident shortly followed by the bungling of a coffee order. In other words, it's just as I remember. After one look around, I'm packing my bag for Malta where I'll be for several days scoping out the Mediterranean Sea and . . . well, hopefully doing very little else. In the meantime, keep watching the skies.

Dum de Dum-de-dum Dum-a-dum Day

2011-01-14T09:21:00.000-08:00

Farewell once again to Boston. And, in the immortal words of Jonathan Richman:

Dum de Dum-de-dum Dum-a-dum Day, I love New England
Dum de Dum-de-dum Dum-a-dum Day, oh New England

And now . . . back to Old England!

Never Fails

2011-01-12T12:10:00.000-08:00

Just in case I'd forgotten what a real winter feels like . . .

It's what we Bostonians call a "Nor'easter". And, yeah, a good number of people went to work anyways. Including several gentlemen I saw wearing cross-country skis and snowshoes.

As for me? I'm a student! I've been inside watching movies all day. Pass the popcorn.

The Desert Island List

2011-01-10T15:12:00.000-08:00

Now that my brief sojourn back in America is winding down, it's time to consider what American groceries to ~~smuggle~~ bring back into the UK. More than once, I've wandered the aisles of Tesco pining for a Trader Joe's. Soreen Malt Loaf and crumpets just can't compare to the comfort foods of home.

This afternoon, I bit the bullet and made my shopping trip. In America we have a term, "Desert Island List". It refers to the short list of things you would choose to take if you were to be stranded on a desert island for the rest of your life. Consider this my Desert Island List, British Isles edition:
- large bags of mixed nuts (2) - necessary because they are twice as expensive in the UK
- dried edamame - the Brits have no appreciation for soy products
- peanut butter - because it tastes terrible in the UK (no wonder they don't like it)
- dried cherries - to remind me of my home state of Michigan
- one more package of each of the above, in a chocolate-covered version (not kidding)
- sweet potatoes, cornbread mix, and canned pumpkin - Southern US staples
- various spices - sorely lacking from most UK meals

Who knows? On the return trip I may have a suitcase full of McVitie's and Cadbury. Not that this would stop me from falling on the first plate of nachos I could get my hands on.

What I'm Reading

2011-01-09T00:01:00.000-08:00

As I wend my way through lunch dates and post-work drinks, it occurs to me that this is undoubtedly my last chance to enjoy four weeks of carefree irresponsibility. Nine months from now I'll have completed my degree, and it will be back to the working world having reached my ultimate educational goal of a Master's.

Never to be a lazy student again. How do I take advantage of my time? By sleeping in, by spending American currency I won't touch again for nine months, by revisiting favorite bars and restaurants, and by reading.

I've just finished Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts, a purportedly true story of an Australian escaped convict who spent eight years in Mumbai as a gangster / Bollywood actor / slum doctor. From skimming the first few pages I've been recommending it left right and center to friends, but only now have I gotten a chance to finish reading. It's almost 1,000 pages long, which by the end left me wondering if anyone thought I was crazy for subjecting them to so much book. It's also the reason I had to finish quickly. I couldn't take something that big off the continent.

It was an enjoyable 1,000 pages, though, and I certainly appreciated it now on my almost one-year anniversary of my departure for Delhi. The book was so long because of the diversity of the characters, the events, and the setting. You can't consolidate such an amazing experience into any less. It's the kind of book that makes you appreciate your own cast of characters, and the way it grows and grows every year.

The best way to show that appreciation, of course, is to call up old friends and set up more lunch dates. It's good to be back, at least for a short time.

The Gift That Keeps E-Giving

2011-01-03T12:16:00.000-08:00

True to form, I bought almost every single one of my family's Christmas presents in a bookstore this year. (The one notable exception was the Top Gear Stiggy Toffee Tin I bought for my boyfriend at Tesco. Fantastic. But I digress.) At one point I was even so brave to 'gift' an ebook to my younger sister. But horrors! The Amazon UK Kindle bookstore wouldn't let me send any ebooks!

Undaunted, I simply switched my account back to the US by tying it back to my US credit card. The result was like the change from night to day.

As it turns out, the Amazon UK ebook store and the Amazon US ebook store are nothing alike. True, they're different markets, but I didn't realise that by reconfiguring my Kindle to my Amazon US account I would gain thousands of books in the library and new features like gifting and, now, lending. Now I even have Kindle bestseller lists and personalised recommendations to help me search, which is pretty significant when there are no physical books to browse through.

No wonder my English friends are still a bit curious when I rave about my ereader. With a noticeably more dismal online shopping platform, it's not that difficult to imagine a lingering preference for brick, mortar, and binding.

And, by the way, Sis: you're welcome.

New England New Year

2011-01-01T09:04:00.000-08:00

Happily back in Boston to celebrate the beginning of a new year of adventures.

Note that this was all made possible despite a foot of snow dumped on the city a few days before my arrival. Unlike London, however, Boston was able to clear the runways and I arrived without incident. Let me put this in writing: it is great to be back. I missed this city more than I realized, and at midnight on January 1 (er, 1 January) I was only more resolved to begin 2012 right back here where I belong.

The first step is to nurse my hangover on the couch watching the Bowl Games with my loved ones. If 2011 continues how it began, I think I'm in for a good year.

Auld Lang Shah Rukh

2010-12-30T10:27:00.000-08:00

Your correspondent would love to go back in time and give her 2009 self the following quiz.

1. You will live in the following countries in 2010:
a) India
b) England
c) USA
d) All of the above

2. You will have been present for various protests and/or riots in the following countries in 2010:
a) Thailand
b) Nepal
c) England
d) Ireland
e) All of the above

3. Your favorite dessert will be:
a) Laddoo
b) Eton mess
c) Scones
d) All of the above

4. You will spend the last week of 2010 doing this:
a) Watching ice hockey and American football
b) Training for a Scottish marathon
c) Watching the Bollywood hit My Name is Khan while drinking Irish beer and eating Moroccan argon butter after a lovely dinner of caprese, curry, and baklava
d) All of the above

5. None of this will be surprising to you by December 31, 2010
a) True
b) False

I bet I would get 100% correct.

Proof is in the Pudding

2010-12-26T06:16:00.000-08:00

Your correspondent's younger sister was in charge of the dessert for our Christmas feast this year, but unfortunately she arrived from Boston on Christmas morning with a cold to kill a rhino and had to politely decline. Undaunted, I stepped in to fill the dessert void with my personal favorite creation: pumpkin fluff.

It wasn't until I had gathered all of the ingredients when I realized what I had done. I had made a classic mistake. My Christmas pudding

Desserts

was literally pudding.

Pudding

Nevertheless, with a little pumpkin and spice thrown in it became more than just Jell-O and went deliciously on top of homemade ginger cookies. And it was far superior, I might add, to fruitcake.

Recipe for an American Christmas

2010-12-25T06:56:00.000-08:00

Step 1: Christmas Mass: midnight or otherwise. (Some of us are jet-lagged.)
Step 2: Prepare turkey.
Step 3: A Christmas Story
Step 4: Watch snow. With dignity. We're not England.
Step 5: Open presents
Step 6: A Christmas Story
Step 7: ~~Destroy~~ Watch home movies
Step 8: ~~Die of shame~~ ~~Apologize to boyfriend for being forced to watch home movies~~ Christmas Carols
Step 9: A Christmas Story
Step 10: Eat.
Step 11- 14: Eat
Step 15: A Christmas Story
Step 16: Eat
Step 17: A Christmas Story
Step 18: Destroy home movies

Parting Gift

2010-12-22T22:51:00.000-08:00

Dragged myself out of bed to catch the 4 am bus to Heathrow, arrived at 5:15 am and nevertheless had to jostle with thousands of other travellers, finally got through the mess and found myself a Starbucks breakfast, only to discover -- BLAH! -- porridge is not the same thing as oatmeal. Blah! Porridge!

That makes this semester's score: British Food 24, Your Correspondent 0. Get me back to America!

Happy Birthday, Blog

2010-12-22T08:39:00.000-08:00

It wasn't until I checked the profile of my blogger page that I realised: I've been writing for more than a year now. Editing at Large turned one on 21 December.

I didn't exactly expect to be writing my one-year anniversary post from England, but then again life is full of surprises. I head back to America tomorrow (weather permitting) and couldn't be more ready for College Bowl games, Trader Joe's, and the un-ironic use of the word "y'all".

In the meanwhile, I found a lovely article on The Economist's "Johnson" blog which stands up to a celebratory post. You may or may not know that my own handle is a tribute to the usual way Economist writers self-refer. I had never really known the semantics behind the practice, but now I do.

My bus to Heathrow leaves in twelve hours so while I'm airborne fingers are crossed there will be a Dunkin Donuts coffee waiting on the other side of the ocean, just for me. My family and loved ones wouldn't hurt, either.

At Least the Snow is Good for One Thing

2010-12-21T10:23:00.000-08:00

Snowball fights.

My pub's been pelted!

I'm Screaming of a White Christmas

2010-12-19T12:23:00.001-08:00

Here's some culture shock from an unexpected quarter:

Snow.

Oh, please.

Six to eight inches of snow fell in Oxford yesterday. Let me put this in perspective: there are places in my home state of Michigan which sit under several feet of snow most of the year. In Boston, temperatures can hover around freezing sometimes into early May. Snow doesn't phase me.

England, on the other hand, has closed its eyes, curled up in a little ball, and is now rocking slowly back and forth, muttering to itself.

It wasn't until this morning that I saw plows going through the streets or grit being spread on the roads. The universities are closed and bus services were suspended. Worse, Heathrow is closed. All flights leaving the country, entering the country, carrying people to and from their Christmas holidays, are cancelled. All flights meant to be leaving in the next few days will be packed to the gills with no room for the 400,000 folks who have just been misplaced.

I should be more sympathetic. This little island doesn't usually see more than a few flakes, and if you don't own many plows you can only clear the roads so fast.

On the other hand, a little part of me is saying: It's snow. I'm used to it. Why aren't you?

This may be a sign it's time for me to go home. I just hope I can.

Important Facts about English Christmas Parties I Wish I'd Known A Bit Earlier

2010-12-17T01:49:00.000-08:00

- One traditional English treat is the mince pie. Mince pies do not actually contain mincemeat. Most grocery-store varieties are actually suitable for vegetarians.
- This does not mean mince pies are worth investigating.
- "Fancy dress" in America does not mean the same thing it does in England. This is "fancy dress" in the US:

Formalwear

This is "fancy dress" in the UK:

Costume

This could lead to some awkwardness if your invitation isn't clarified.
- Treacle tarts probably aren't vegetarian but probably aren't worth investigating anyways.
- Don't tease men in kilts. If he's wearing a traditional kilt there's a 50/50 chance he'll be carrying the traditional dagger. At the very least he is packing a kilt pin.
- Puddings are not necessarily made of custard. The term encompasses all desserts.
- Crackers are not food. They are exploding party favors. Probably not edible. Do not investigate.
- Puddings are not necessarily dessert. (See: Yorkshire pudding, Sunday Roast)
- Christmas pudding is a traditional English dessert. When translated into American, the term is pronounced "grandma's fruitcake with cream on top" and by the by they are definitely not worth investigating.
- In fact, the one thing worth investigating is the drinks. Happy Holidays!

The Semi-Alright Gatsby

2010-12-12T10:36:00.000-08:00

During less studious moments I've been tearing through books on my new Kindle. After seeing a large poster of the iconic The Great Gatsby cover in the shop window of Blackwell's, I downloaded the Amazon version for a winning one pound ninety, and e-enjoyed an old favorite.

As a student of books, and at the present moment taking a course on book design, I inherently appreciate the beauty of a printed tome. I also grudgingly admit that though I'm enjoying the Kindle it could use some work in the aesthetic department. It was only when I got to the last page of classic Fitzgerald when I was able to put a finger on why.

The famous last line is as follows:

"And so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

It's a beautiful close to a beautiful novel, and I've read it many times before.

Unfortunately, the Kindle default page layout and font size renders the last line like so:

Page One

Page Two

I'm sorry. I'm an editor. I saw that last orphan and stared at it in dismay. Really? This is what you do to The Great Gatsby? And of all lines to orphan, you orphan that one?

Those of you who doubt the endurance of printed books, look no further. Until issues like this are sorted, at least some version of humanity's important literature needs to have been consciously designed and permanently stamped on paper. (This hasn't even gotten me started on Project Gutenberg downloads. Hanging indents! No hanging indents! Unnecessary line breaks! Maybe I should watch some TV instead . . .)

London Calling

2010-12-11T02:12:00.000-08:00

It's difficult to say how I feel about the student protests rippling through England right now. Smaller, more peaceful demonstrations dot the main street of Oxford every day, but thank goodness no violence has been reported in these parts. In London, on the other hand, the spectre of raised tuition fees has gotten the young'uns up in arms.

It's a foreign concept to me, really, because the numbers being thrown around by doomsday activists - sixteen thousand pounds for an education! - are actually standard American rates. I almost blush to think how much a Notre Dame education cost my family. (Here's a hint: we're still paying.) In contrast, English children have been going to university for only a few thousand pounds per year, usually softened with student loans and bursaries for the neediest candidates.

There's a difference, of course. American parents start saving before their children are even born to afford those college tuitions. If you're an English parent, and you haven't made such preparations, because there was no need to make such preparations, this is a huge blow. If your savings are already stretched tight, that could rule out college entirely. What will your children do now?

It's a difficult problem, and I don't envy the decisionmakers on this one. As someone who knows what it's like to pay the full fee for an education -- like the full fee I pay for my MA course, the English subsidized rates not being available to me -- I know these choices are hard. Just consider this: a big motivator for my decision to move abroad for continuing education was the fact that this same program in the US would cost twice as much and take twice as long. You'd hope that there is a lesson in this for the powers that be.

'Murican, Abroad Y'all

2010-12-10T15:58:00.000-08:00

"I think it's really funny that you say I have a British accent."

"Why? Don't you?"

"No! I have an English accent! When you talk about Britain you mean the entire island!"

"Oh! But . . . Oh. We don't think like that. We speak English."

"Sort of . . . But not English."

"What!? Well, then, what do we speak?"

"..."

"..."

"..."

"... y'all."

"Was that an American accent? All you said was 'y'all'."

"Well, I'm, like, totally going to go to the mall later, and then, like, I'm going to call Becky, and we are, like, toooootally going to go shopping because, like, this place is so whack."

This, my friends, is cultural exchange.

One for the Gipper

2010-12-08T13:51:00.000-08:00

Adding to the stress of finals, we're getting close to decision time on our dissertation topics. I've narrowed down my field of interest to educational publishing in emerging markets, particularly Latin America. Most likely I'll be creating in-depth case studies of three countries: Chile, Mexico, and Brazil.

"Oh!" said a classmate, upon hearing my suggestion. "Did you know I'm from Brazil?"

"Yes," I replied. "I've been meaning to ask you about the topic, and I'll definitely be taking you to lunch next semester to hear more about what you think."

"That's great," she said. "Although I should warn you, I've lived in the States for the past fifteen years."

This time it was my turn to ask, "Did you know I'm from the States? Where did you live?"

She replied, "South Bend, Indiana."

I could have jumped out of my skin. "That's incredible! I went to Notre Dame."

Now she jumped. "I used to work in the Hesburgh Library! My husband got a PhD from Notre Dame."

For those of you keeping score at home, that means I've met fellow Domers in places ranging from Everest Base Camp in Nepal to my own MA in International Publishing course in Oxford (via Brazil). It's not every day you find yourself reminiscing about Touchdown Jesus when you're supposed to be talking about the educational system of Chile. Go Irish, indeed.

Moat Hockey, Anyone?

2010-12-06T11:07:00.000-08:00

It's been another shamefully long time since I've posted, but for that blame the absurd amount of coursework I've been jamming through for the past week. I find myself just as busy as I was during our most hectic busy season at the old custom textbook company, except this time I am paying someone else for the pleasure of dreaming in P&L spreadsheets.

It's also been snowing. Nothing stifles the creative urge like a face full of snow. Oxford's weather is some of the most frustrating I've seen -- it doesn't really snow, per se, but it doesn't ever really not snow, and then all of a sudden the fields are covered in white and you're freezing.

There is a bright side to this. Look: you can now ice skate in front of the Tower of London.

Bright "Black Friday"

2010-11-28T02:55:00.000-08:00

I've been a poor correspondent lately, due to having some company in town, but I hope that these photos from the streets of London on the start of the Christmas season will earn your forgiveness.

Picadilly Circus

Regent Street

Picadilly Circus

Oxford Street

Light the Night

The brightness of the lights almost makes up for the sharpness of the cold . . . Almost!

Maybe I Will See My Book in Stores (Which Isn't Good)

2010-11-22T03:09:00.000-08:00

I mentioned how in India I was able to work as the development editor for a new B2B Marketing textbook adaptation due to be published in October 2010. It's finished, and it's lovely, but I had guessed I would never see it sold in person because of territorial constraints between Indian publishers and the United States. Since my company already published a version in the US -- and since the Indian version included a red bar on the cover which very clearly stipulated the territories where it could be sold -- the belief was that it would stay on the subcontinent for life.

It was with much interest, then, that I found this article on Inside Higher Education this morning. Remember those cheap Indian editions we made of our US textbooks, appropriately priced to a developing market? Right now, there's a case in the Supreme Court which may bring them flooding into American bookstores, at the expense of those pricey hardback editions. As odd at it sounds, Costco's right to resell cheaply-bought Swiss Omega watches to global consumers could send vibrations through every multinational publisher on the market.

If I'm a multinational publisher -- and right now, sadly, I'm not -- this is a difficult decision point. Publishing wasn't built to be global, and this is one more growing pain to add to the list. The watch debate isn't as dramatic as the glamorous rise of the ebook, but it just might bring a louder tolling of the bell.

Today's Oxford Forecast

2010-11-20T08:19:00.000-08:00

Did you have to rub it in?

Howdy, Stranger

2010-11-18T06:52:00.000-08:00

It's always nice to have visitors in from overseas. It's not always nice when, the first thing you have to do upon their arrival is scarper off to class.

In my defense, today's lecture was very important. It was about paper.

Did I mention publishers are crazy?

---
Speaking of crazy, this is a wonderful new website I've been led to: a collection of the worst cover designs from sci-fi/fantasy novels. [Good Show, Sir] It will make you both sad and yet glad that you're not the editor who approved that particular cover design. My personal favorite is Qhe! The Prophets of Evil. Lovely stuff.

Playstations, Persia, and Publishing

2010-11-15T03:39:00.000-08:00

At long last your correspondent found a reason to go to London, albeit for work instead of play. This year's Society of Young Publisher's Conference boasted the theme "Publishing on the World's Stage", and offered a refreshing look at issues such as translation, international digital publishing, and the things we can learn from related industries like video games.

It was purposefully high-level stuff, for a very important reason: as the new generation coming into publishing, there is a good chance the bodies behind the industry's top desks are going to be nowhere near as comfortable with the digital revolution. One bookseller told us about her former marketing manager, who used to respond to every email in person -- he didn't know how to type one himself. Meanwhile, HarperCollins is teaming up with Nintendo to sell classic (read: out-of-copyright) literature on Nintendo's DS console. Not exactly your mother's novel, but this is what readers are becoming comfortable with.

A certain publisher of Arabic literature even explained his use of the digital revolution in terms of international issues. He showed a slide drawing a five-mile radius around a publishing house in Cairo. "That," he explained, "is the distribution range of a book for this publisher." How can that be? Because the infrastructure isn't there. Publishers in developed countries rely so heavily on sophisticated delivery and fulfilment mechanisms that they're almost taken for granted. Now, thanks to the internet, even a publisher smack in the middle of the desert can send an ebook to anywhere in the world with the click of a button. (Getting people to want that work is a different story, but . . . baby steps. Baby steps.)

There was a lot more I could say about the conference, but what I took away from it was this: books are a resilient commodity. Now that the panic has died down, most people are agreed that paperbacks will never go away. Most people are also agreed that we can't stop at paperbacks. As publishing evolves to allow more writing to be read in more ways, our sector is becoming more and more a rights business. Exploiting those rights, and getting an author's work out to as many people as possible in as many ways as possible, is the way forward. There might be some technical difficulty getting from here to there, but unlike with Nintendo there is no reset button.

Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go play some Super Mario . . . I mean . . . read Shakespeare.

Was It Something I Said?

2010-11-14T02:34:00.000-08:00

A guest speaker came in to talk about running an independent bookstore, and began the conversation by describing the logic behind his logo. "We wanted something a bit . . . naff," he concluded.

Yes, yes, of course, we all nodded, and wrote "naff" in our notebooks.

This isn't the first stumble I've had over British slang. Most of the time, the context will help you navigate these expressions without too much confusion. Reversing the dates (as in, writing 15-10-1983 for October 15) is a struggle when we're working on production schedules, but after staring blankly at a calendar it's usually pretty easy to figure out.

It's more complicated when I'm the one inadvertently slipping up. Once, when describing Thanksgiving to a classmate, I demonstrated a trace-your-hand turkey drawing (sample below).

Little did I know, the same words we use to describe the noise a turkey makes are terribly rude on this side of the pond. There was a bit of blushing and a bit of "Oh that's nice" and we quickly switched topics to sweet potato pie.

Maybe we should stick to dessert. Er, um . . . pudding.

Internal Illogical

2010-11-10T10:41:00.000-08:00

Your correspondent was lucky enough to have an opportunity to attend a dinner with a visiting academic come to speak to our publishing students. He's been doing research on publishing culture in New York and London, and in the process has done hundreds of interviews with people from all ranges of the industry - agents, booksellers, editors, publishers, and even lowly assistants. Over the course of the meal, he was asked: Who was the best interview subject you've had?

Surprisingly, he answered: the assistants. They were the people who had the least exposure to the internal logic of publishing and who would actually notice when someone's actions were incongruous with everyday common sense. 'Why would you do that?' they'd ask. 'In what world does that make sense?'

To someone who was still an assistant a very short few years ago, this was the best observation yet heard on my MA course. It's a hard day when you're told, instead of sitting by the fireside with your red pen and a bunch of manuscripts, you will live your life by market share spreadsheets. You will be running profit and loss statements. You will be doing something called the 4 P's and analysing target markets. In fact, the closest you'll get to a fireside is the flaming pile of garbage your author calls 'writing', which he will sometimes send you with the intention of publishing. It's a tough thing for a 21-year-old to take in.

It does get better. That was the other great part about this academic's speech: I felt that, eventually, everything starts to make sense. You start to play the game, and someday you get good at it, and someday you can fight battles against online retailers and chain store discounts and the commoditization of books knowing that matters just as much as the misplaced commas on page 17.

That doesn't mean editors don't seem crazy to everybody else. That's probably why we still let people believe that whole red pen and fireside business. Maybe if we spread the rumor enough, it will start to become true . . . Or maybe that's just publisher's logic again.

Guy Fawkes Night

2010-11-07T09:33:00.000-08:00

A PLAY IN THREE ACTS

Act I
FIREWORKS: Boom!

Act II
YOUR CORRESPONDENT: Ahh! It's a scary wicker woman!
CROWD: Ahh! Scary! Burn it!

Act III
YOUR CORRESPONDENT: That's an awful lot of burning.
CROWD: Agh, too much fire! Run away!

THE END

Firecracker, Firecracker, Sis Boom Bah!

2010-11-05T08:11:00.000-07:00

In a happy coincidence, my friends in India are just celebrating Diwali just as we here in Britain are observing Guy Fawkes Day. What do they have in common, you ask? Firecrackers!

I don't know much about Guy Fawkes Day besides that it's mentioned in the movie V for Vendetta. (You know, "Remember, remember, the 5th of November.") I asked a British classmate who Guy Fawkes was and got the simple explanation, "The guy who tried to blow up Parliament."

"Oh," I said. "So you celebrate him?"

"No!" came the reply. "We burn him!"

"Every year?"

"Well, he tried to blow up Parliament!"

Apparently, besides lighting firecrackers, they build a large wooden statue of this chap and light him on fire on a yearly basis. The moral of the story is: don't p** off the British.

The festivities are planned for tomorrow night, and I'm certain to attend. In the meantime, I've already written about what it's like to celebrate with fireworks in the US, so here's a challenge to my Indian readers: if anyone has any great photos from Diwali that they'd like me to post (with proper crediting and a link to your own website, of course!) please do say so in the comments. And whichever holiday you celebrate, I hope it's a good one!

The Unintended Consequences of Excellent Marketing

2010-11-03T13:37:00.000-07:00

I've spent these past few weeks buried in my marketing coursework, which is helpful given that a major portion of my development editing experience has been spent servicing a market of one professor at a time. (Market research: "Would you like us to fix your typos or leave them?") The best way to learn about successful marketing is to look at successful books, and of course in any publishing course the number one example you hear mentioned day in and day out is good old Harry Potter.

The Boy Who Lived is popular in India too, it seems, because all of a sudden they're losing all their owls. Either there is a disproportionate number of wizards in Delhi or there are too many silly Muggles about. Hopefully the authorities will take notice and head off all those Harry Potter parties on their way to Bharatpur.

Taken while birdwatching last February . . . This guy doesn't look too keen on delivering your mail.

A Feast of Fiction

2010-10-31T13:01:00.000-07:00

For anyone who treasures looking at beautiful, thoughtfully crafted books which would age gracefully on any bookshelf, check out Bespoke Editions. They publish custom-made editions of classic titles, printed and handmade to order, and judging from the photos on their website these books are works of art in their own right. It looks like they're only selling to "selected customers" for the time being, but this is one spot worth watching.

We're Not in Kansas Anymore

2010-10-30T09:57:00.000-07:00

Though I had a lovely time running the marathon in Dublin last weekend, the sad consequence was a minor injury to my right foot. Small price to pay, of course, but it makes the issue of getting to and from class a little difficult. Luckily, living in Oxford means there's an easy solution: the trusty bicycle.

I was really excited when I got back from India and noticed that Boston had installed new bike lanes. Oxford is streets ahead on this one. Not only are bike lanes present and accounted for on almost every road, they are put to heavy use by cyclists making the appropriate turn signals, obeying traffic lights, and generally sharing the road in a safe and efficient manner. With the cost of owning a car (and parking!) so extraordinarily high, the bicycle--specifically, the "sit up and beg" model, as used above by the Wicked Witch of the West--is the preferred mode of transportation here in the Thames Valley.

This produces some strange results. At 6 pm it's not uncommon to see women in dress skirts and men in suits happily pedalling away alongside students in clubwear. It's also not uncommon for a Yankee on wheels to have heart palpitations as she navigates down what feels like the wrong side of the road. What's a girl to do? In this case, it's to take a lesson from my Indian friends. If I'm not sure whether someone knows I'm coming . . .

. . . they will once they've heard my bell. Tingalingalingalingalingalingaling...

The Kids Are Alright

2010-10-29T07:59:00.000-07:00

Much is being made of this new survey conducted by Publisher's Weekly, which reveals that 74% of students surveyed prefer print textbooks over ebooks. Even with flashy iPad apps like Theodore Gray's The Elements at their fingertips, good old pulp and binding is still the most comfortable way to learn.

I have to say I'm not surprised. Even though my own library gives us the option of accessing our materials as ebooks from anywhere on- or off-campus, I found my own exploitation of this feature short-lived. Last week I broke down and paid real pounds for a heap of books, knowing the money was better spent in the long run on hard copies rather than the antacids I would need when I discovered none of my hours of reading had sunk in. There's only so many times you can switch between your textbook and facebook before your studies start to suffer.

Now, I do realize that this slightly contradicts what I said earlier about the iPad. Funny what being a student will do. I will, say, however, that publishers seem a lot more comfortable producing a hybrid model, where materials are available both online and in print form. Some people are going to learn better from the computer -- think of all those young kids who grew up reading from a screen -- and some people will want paper. There really is no reason not to service them both. If done correctly, the result will be a bottom line of more readers, and how can a publisher argue with that?

But It's Good For You!

2010-10-26T13:53:00.000-07:00

Fact: when you complete the Dublin Marathon, they do not give you a free pint of Guinness at the finish line.

If I had known that, I wouldn't have been in such a hurry.

We had to find our own

It's Bad Enough We're Getting Rid of Paper

2010-10-21T02:55:00.000-07:00

Now there's a blog post on The Bookseller's website (written by an agent) suggesting we get rid of editors.

Next month: "Reading - should we even teach our kids? A debate."

OK, so that might be an exaggeration. I would be curious to see which publishing house would actually succeed by telling a brand-new author, "We'd love to publish your book. Our marketing team really liked it. We'll send it out to a few freelancers to see if it reads OK and then will get in touch once we need you for book tours.

"Wait, is there a problem? Don't worry. Your agent will call you as soon as he can."

And then they'll wonder why Lulu.com is suddenly doing so well.

One for the Authors

2010-10-18T10:11:00.000-07:00

Phew! That was two technical blog entries in a row. I've clearly been studying too hard. Time for a pleasant reminder of the real reason we edit:

I'd publish you, Sir Paul. . . . even if I may renegotiate that "thousand pages" part . . .

Get What You Pay For

2010-10-18T10:03:00.000-07:00

The market for ebooks in the US is far more mature than the market for ebooks in the UK, so it's interesting to hear that just as I've gotten myself a gadget the pricing wars are suddenly erupting at Amazon.

Basically, the big players in the UK publishing industry--Penguin, Hachette, HarperCollins, MacMillan, and Simon & Schuster--have all decided that they will no longer allow Amazon to set the prices for their ebooks. Previously, pricing had been set at a uniform $9.99 for all ebooks, which actually makes each ebook sale a loss-leader. Though ebook sales are starting to outstrip sales of some versions of the printed book (i.e. hardbacks), Amazon was losing money on every purchase.

What do they gain from this? More importantly, what does that say about books? Let's say your technical handbook on book publishing retails at a brick-and-mortar for $34.99. The ebook (should you make it available) is $9.99. The paperback guide to getting your first job as an editor is probably only $12.99 in stores. The ebook? $9.99. That makes it slightly more difficult for Suzy College and Professor Pompous to discern which book is meant for whom. They could go on the website and read the blurbs, or read the first chapter, but that's much more time and investment than the usual consumer will take when deciding to make a purchase. Make no mistake: how publishers price books is very important to how publishers sell books. Take away that lever, and you're removing a very powerful tool.

So, publishers understandably want to have a little bit more say on their own marketing mix. Fine. Amazon, of course, is unhappy, and sent UK Kindle owners a letter to prove it. Their own lever has been removed--uniform, cheap pricing across the board. With the iPad looming over the punchbowl with its own publisher-set price model, it seems Amazon would rather set their own terms and keep their loss-leader rather than cede marketing power.

This article from the Idea Logical Blog makes a great point, though. Smaller publishers, or publishers who already focus on the ebook model, still stand to benefit from Amazon's one-size-fits-all pricing. These publishers can't pay Barnes and Noble or Borders the same huge sums to get their books featured at the front of every store (if they can get their book into the store at all). I especially like the point this writer makes that big publishers should be doing everything they can to keep brick-and-mortar booksellers in business, given Amazon's flattening of the marketplace. Through customers may buy more books thanks to lowered prices, they also take away a lot of intangibles which bias the big powerhouses. Amazon, after all, doesn't hold Harry Potter parties.

End of the Debate

2010-10-16T10:15:00.000-07:00

It's been decided. Thanks to a thoughtful choice of birthday gift from my significant other, I own a Kindle.

Welcome to the future!

It got me thinking. If you want some background on international publishing rights and how my little Kindle will deal with them (tying in with my earlier visit to Frankfurt), look after the jump. If you'd rather not, here's a pretty video from Nepal.

As I learned from working in India, having the rights to publish a book in one country (or, more exactly, 'territory') has no bearing on your ability to publish those books anywhere else in the world. This is irrespective of language, so an author is able to sell the rights to his book to completely different US and UK publishers--with the result of receiving handsome sums from each. Good job, author!

Certain territories such as India, New Zealand and sometimes the European continent are often treated as open territories in which any publisher from anywhere in the world can sell their books. This is one place where US and UK books will compete head to head. In Frankfurt's airport, for instance, we saw three different versions of the dreaded Eat, Pray, Love by two separate publishers, sitting on the same shelf. Regrettably, Julia Roberts was visible on each.

A smart publisher, when signing a new author, will ask to be given world rights, ebook rights, and other subsidiary rights which would then be sold again for further profits - split with the author, of course. This is often a practical path if the company has more bargaining power than the writer, especially in sectors where agents are uncommon. This is the raison d'etre for conferences like Frankfurt: so that publishers can meet in person to set up rights deals between their foreign counterparts.

Now, with the Kindle, that territory breakdown is changing. For instance, what happens when I use my American Kindle and my American Amazon account to download an ebook over an internet connection in the United Kingdom? Am I buying it from the US, or from England? What if the ebook rights have been sold in America but not in the UK? What if I'm in Europe? What if - wouldn't this be nice - I'm in New Zealand?

Publishers are absolutely aware of the problem, as is Amazon, so I'm told that once the device arrives in the UK it will be able to appreciate the change of territories. Libraries are personal property, so once a UK book is on the device it won't disappear once I re-enter the US. Still, as everyone knows, in this internet age there are ways around these boundaries. The best publishers will either start pushing harder for world ebook rights or else change the terms of their territories - breaking them down by language, for instance.

It's probably more information than the average reader ever wanted to know, but when you're in my line of work it's fascinating to watch this stuff become more visible. For now, it's time to curl up with another paperback textbook before my gadget arrives and a new era begins . . .

[Update (22 October, 2010):] How topical. The Bookseller just published this article with the headline, "Amazon Kindle's territorial controls 'easily cracked'." That certainly answers some of my question, although not in the way I think publishers would like.

2010-10-15T09:07:00.001-07:00

Pardon the silence. My Google account was hacked last weekend, so for a short time I wasn't able to log on from my home computer. The problem's been resolved now, thanks to my French computer-genius housemate, so with luck more posts should be up over the weekend.

One unintended consequence of the hack was the occasion to discover the odd things that happen when you move your crappy netbook from time zone to time zone. For instance, in the corner of my Blogger text field, I have a little icon that looks like this:

It's a Hindi letter. (Anyone know which one?) That's what you get when you set up Blogger in India.

Meanwhile, whilst rummaging through the inner workings of my Google Chrome browser, I tried to navigate to the "Under the Hood" section to adjust my cookie-setting preferences. I didn't find any such screen. When I had deleted and reinstalled the program, I'd been given a new version containing this button instead:

Aww. Now my browser speaks British. It's like the United Nations on my hard drive.

Editing At Large

Boston, You're My Home

Gravity

Bag It Up

More Things I Wasn't Expecting to Do Today

Now or Never

At Least We Don't Call it 'Barbie'

London Calling

Workaday

Here's the Kicker . . .

. . . ANY other name?

A Rose by Any Other Name . . .

Pisa Cake

Neverending

More Natural Disasters

Travelin' Man

King's Cross

It Could Be A Long Summer

Foreign Concept

Something Corporate

Currency Exchange

If this Blog Were Written Like One of My MA Papers

Happily Ever After

French-abic

Photos from Morocco, Posted on Moroccan Time

Why I am Not in Morocco Right Now

Working Vacation

Thoughts from Barcelona

Silly Cow

Fair Thee Well

My Fair Lady

What A Twit

More News On That Riot

Fool's Gold

I Predict A Riot

Amazonians

Interview Fail

You're Telling Me, They're Hunger Games

Studious

Black Sheep

The Irish Rover

Cadbury Without Borders

And then I just *chundered* *everywhere*

Lording over you

Thought of the Day

You Say Potato, I Say French Fry

Sacre Bleu!

Who Needs a Time Machine?

Long Walk down a Short Road

Imported from Detroit, Part 2

There's a Solution for Everything

Back to the Books . . .

Oh the Weather Outside is . . . Weather

The Seven Year Itch

Imported From Detroit

Food for Thought

Mister Mister (I Mean . . . M'am)

British Television

Moveable Feast

All Greek to Me

Au Contraire

Maltese Morning

In-flight Entertainment

Dum de Dum-de-dum Dum-a-dum Day

Never Fails

The Desert Island List

What I'm Reading

The Gift That Keeps E-Giving

New England New Year

Auld Lang Shah Rukh

Proof is in the Pudding

Recipe for an American Christmas

Parting Gift

Happy Birthday, Blog

At Least the Snow is Good for One Thing

I'm Screaming of a White Christmas

Important Facts about English Christmas Parties I Wish I'd Known A Bit Earlier

The Semi-Alright Gatsby

London Calling

'Murican, Abroad Y'all

And then I just chundered everywhere

Maybe I Will See My Book in Stores (Which Isn't Good)