Who Cares What You Read? (E-Reading, Privacy, and Engagement)

The Wall Street Journal’s Alexandra Alter published an article last month entitled Your E-Book is Reading You, which examined the myriad ways that publishers and booksellers are tracking reading habits on e-reading devices.  In the examination of what seems to be a marketing research tactic for the wider publishing industry, the article takes an almost conspiratorial tone, evoking the question of privacy for readers. Alter posits that “for centuries, reading has largely been a solitary and private act,” but is this really the case? Furthermore, does the average reader actually mind that a publisher knows that it took them an hour to read 57 pages of The Hunger Games? Is Orwell’s Big Brother watching because they want to alter the world of publishing and sell us more information in the form of 1s and 0s, or is this kind of research just business as usual in an information society that has grown accustomed to over-analyzing every consumer-end click for the sake of a few more ad-cents?

While Orwell was a respected visionary, I tend to think that readers are far more willing to share their habits and opinions than the industry may think. E-reading technology simply makes it easier to track this behavior without the need to engage with the reader. Reading might occasionally be a solitary and private act, but I would argue that books have always opened doors to community interaction. From the symposiums of ancient times to the modern-day reading series held at local bars, live author readings to streaming video Q&A sessions on Goodreads.com, customer reviews, and book clubs, the ideas contained in books have always been connected to a tradition of dialogue… And in this day and age, who isn’t a tablet-tap away from social networks where we can share our every waking action?

…Excuse me while I tell my Facebook “friends” and Google+ “circles” that I am writing this…

Some authors are viewing this new age of data-gathering among readers as a beneficial prospect. Local author and president of the Authors Guild, Scott Turow, is quoted in Alter’s article as saying “I once had an argument with one of my publishers when I said, ‘I’ve been publishing with you for a long time and you still don’t know who buys my books,’ and he said, ‘Well, nobody in publishing knows that.’ “ Turow raises an interesting point and simultaneously illuminates the flippant short-sightedness of some publishers that have grown too accustomed to old industry ways. Now that established changes in publishing become obsolete faster than your new cell-phone, it is going to take a group of thinkers with a new skill set to figure out what all of this data actually means beyond an accelerated commodification of books. My hope is that the truly great books written by dedicated and passionate writers will be easier to spot, as they will vividly stand apart from the books that adhere to a matrix of tightly researched e-reading preferences.

Furthermore, who is analyzing the effect and reception of e-reading on the general reading public? The Atlantic recently published A Midterm Progress Report on e-reading that questions the engagement of readers rather than just their rates and methods of consumption.  Though some readers will balk at any sign of underlining or marginalia in books, many others find that such markings provide an enhanced reading experience. Unfortunately, nearly all e-reading platforms and devices seem to be catering primarily to casual reading rather than thoughtful, responsive reading.

Personally, the changes taking place in the wider reading world have not come close to my preferred method of participating in the book ecosystem. I enjoy reading a text, occasionally underlining or writing notes in the margin, developing my thoughts about what I just read, then sharing those thoughts in a public forum such as book club or on Goodreads. In fact, I’d be willing to wager that Goodreads is the more accurate site for gauging reading habits of the world’s most voracious readers… no privacy infringement necessary. The authors who care about these things are already active over there, and I guarantee we will see increased engagement as time goes on. 

(originally written for Open Books)

Sniffing Glue



I am a proud bookseller and an avowed book lover. I am also someone who acknowledges that the publishing industry and world of books is changing drastically and rapidly. You won’t find me sitting behind a dusty stack of Encyclopaedia Britannicas muttering to myself about rascally kids and their infernal digital devices of doom. On the other hand, I own a device of doom or two of my own. They serve their purpose and they serve it well. There is a well-established place for these devices in the ecosystem of the book.

Still, I do prefer a paper book for most reading purposes. 

This could easily turn into a long rant that encompassed all of the romanticism and nostalgia and downright social usefulness of paper books in my life and the society at large, but instead, I’d like to focus on the one thing about this silly skirmish between paper and digital that irks me more than erotic Twilight fanfiction.

The irk came when I read this piece in the paper of record (digitally, mind you) this morning. Nick Bilton begins by admitting that he misses print books. Now, I’ve heard this lament before and my initial reaction is always to respond with, “well, they are still here,” in a friendly, joking way. He seems to come upon this realization when he is stopped by his tracks in the West Village by a bookshop’s panoply of product on display.  It is at this point in the column, that I start to think that he will realize the importance of a bookshop’s tactile and browse-able superiority in the realm of intellectual discovery. I imagine the rest of the piece sailing atop the dividing wall of the ridiculous print vs. e-book standoff, eventually reaching a place where a brick or two has been knocked loose and either side begins to gaze upon each other with understanding and respect.  I expect even a weak argument for co-existence.

Instead, I am struck by the Hallmark nostalgia of Nick’s journey through the shop. Is it the human connection that one can make when witnessing someone reading their favorite book? Is it the unique function of memory that makes it easier to flip to a passage than search for it in a text box? Is it the sight of a book that his first girlfriend gave to him as a somewhat self-serving gift that sets his nostalgia reeling? 

No.

Any of these would have been perfectly valid (if somewhat watery) reasons to explore what is lost when one reads from a ubiquitous device, but instead, Nick focuses on… are you ready?… the scent!

…

Yes, Mr. Bilton’s nostalgia is kick-started by the scent of “the paper, the ink, the glue,” and leads him to the realization that “IPads and Kindles, in comparison, don’t necessarily smell like anything.”

…

Honestly, I had to go back and read that part a few times in order to actually believe it. 

I’ve heard this complaint from several book lovers… Usually right before they shutter their stores for the last time.  I just wouldn’t expect this sole bit of cutesy remembrance from someone who is asked to write for one of the most respected papers in the land.

It infuriates me as a bookseller. It infuriates me as someone who reads both ebooks and print books. It infuriates me as someone who suffers from mold and pollen allergies, yet still reaches for a physical book 90% of the time. It is no wonder that booksellers across the country are resistant to change and progress. Most of them don’t want to read in the same library as someone so condescending and precious. Whether you read digitally or on paper, if the highest praise you can bestow upon a medium that has lasted over 2,000 years is the scent of its parts, then you deserve to miss bookstores. It is obvious you can’t see the forest for the plants that give birth to some of the olfactory pleasure you seek.

Of course, Mr. Bilton leaves the bookshop that has graced him with this whiff of nostalgia without purchasing anything and his final wish is not for a more interesting and integrated world. Instead, his final wish is for simulacra of feeling to be injected into his culture of cold clean practicality.

I’m just happy that the collection of items in my backpack (a book, a reading device, and an ink pen) require no such imitation.