Last night I dreamed my son was a Sandy Hook victim.

He’s six years old.

In my dream, I’d returned to Sandy Hook Elementary School for the first time since the shooting. I walked in the front, and there were photos of the victims, along with flowers and wreaths and pictures and poems. I approached the shrine set up for my son, and I felt my grief overwhelm my reason for a moment. Then I backed away, and I remembered why I was there.

Outside that front hall, school life had returned to normal. Children were in their lessons, or should have been. I spent some time there, wandering the halls, waiting in vain to see my son’s smile or hear his voice raised in laughter or argument.

I found myself on the grounds of a nearby high school. Much in the way of dreams, I don’t know how I got there. But I approached a young woman sitting at a table on her own. She would have been thirteen, and had dark curly hair and dark eyes. Ear-buds were jammed in both ears. She was reading a magazine.

When I stood next to her, she took out her headphones and looked at me. We exchanged pleasantries, and then I showed her a picture of my son. “This is Big Brother,” I said. “He died just down the road at the elementary school.”

“That’s sad,” the girl said. Then she shrugged. “But at least it wasn’t me.”

“No, you’re right,” I said. “It wasn’t you. You’re safe. But wouldn’t you rather it hadn’t been anyone?”

Her look turned guarded. “You’re one of those anti-gun crazies,” she said. “My Dad told me about you people. But guns don’t kill people, people kill people.”

Then she put her earbuds back in and turned away.

——————–

Last week in Kentucky, USA, a 5-year-old boy was playing with a child-friendly rifle he’d been given as a gift. He pulled the trigger. And in that simple action, he killed his 2-year-old sister.

When I read the story, my children were 5 and 2 years old. I tried to imagine handing my eldest boy a rifle. But I couldn’t do it.

I tried to imagine letting my eldest boy play, unsupervised, with a rifle. But I couldn’t do it.

I tried to imagine the grief of losing not just my youngest child, but both my children in a moment of negligent parenting. Because make no mistake, the little girl may be the one who died, but the 5-year-old is at least as much as victim in all this, if not more. But in this case, I didn’t want to do it.

Whether that poor boy is physically removed from the care of his parents or not, he will never be the same joyful, innocent child again. He’s too young to have understood what he was doing, and what it would mean, when he shot his sister, but exactly old enough to remember and regret it for the rest of his life.

——————–

I was driving Big Brother home from school two weeks ago when he asked me a question out of the blue. “Mummy,” he said. “If guns are so bad, why do policemen have them?”

A pause. A moment to gather my thoughts. And then, “Why do you think guns are bad, sweetie?”

“Because today at school I drew a picture of a hero shooting a bad guy, but my teacher told me we’re not allowed to draw pictures of guns at school.* And we’re not allowed to pretend sticks are guns and shoot at each other either.* So guns are bad.”

(* This is not uncommon in Australia, where most schools and child-care facilities won’t allow toy guns, and discourage gun-based pretend play. The majority of urban households won’t have toy guns at home for young children either.)

“Guns themselves aren’t bad,” I said carefully. “Guns are just pieces of wood and plastic and metal that have been turned into a tool. In some places, guns are very important and do a lot of good: like in the country where farmers need to protect their cows and sheep from predators.”

“Then why aren’t we allowed to play with them?”

“Well, you tell me what guns are used for.”

He thought for a few seconds. “Shooting people.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “And what happens if you shoot someone with a gun?”

He thought again. “They fall down.”

“Yes. And what else?”

“They die.”

“Yes,” I said. “Guns are used to shoot people or animals so that they die.”

There was silence for a good few minutes. “But, Mummy. After they die, do they get back up and be alive again?”

“No, Sweetie,” I said. “I’m afraid that when you shoot someone and they die, they stay dead.”

“Forever?” he asked in a tremulous tone.

“Forever.”

Another moment of silence. “But… But we don’t have real guns at school. It’s only pretend guns. And it was only a picture of a gun.”

“I know,” I said. “But do you think pointing a gun at someone is a very friendly thing to do?”

“No.”

“And it’s very important that we’re nice to our friends, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“So that’s why there’s a rule about guns. Because it’s not nice to pretend to kill someone.”

“Okay,” he said. And then, “But why do policemen have guns?”

That was a trickier question to answer simply, especially on the spur of the moment. But I did the best I could. “Well,” I said. “Policemen have guns because it’s their job to protect people from criminals. Sometimes criminals have guns, so policemen have to have guns, too. But they don’t like having to carrying a gun and they really, really, really, really don’t like having to shoot at someone.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“But if it’s a bad guy, then it’s okay.” Pause. A little less confidence in his voice. “Because it’s a bad guy. And you’re allowed to kill bad guys.”

“No, Sweetie. Policemen don’t even like to kill bad guys. Bad guys are still people.”

A long pause. “So… Are guns bad or not?”

“No, Big Brother, guns aren’t bad. But the only thing they can be used for is hurting and killing. They’re good for farmers to protect their animals from dingoes and other wild animals, but guns aren’t toys. And it’s never okay to point a gun at someone, even if it’s only a pretend one.”

——————–

I woke up this morning shaky and trembling all over. The dream left me feeling traumatised. Not, strangely, because of the death of my son. Rather, I was traumatised by the uncaring and dismissive reaction of the young lady I encountered. By the way she shrugged off an entire tragedy because someone else told her not to listen to the crazies. By the way that maintaining the status quo was more important than even acknowledging that lives had been lost.

Because she’s right: Guns don’t kill people without someone to pull the trigger.

But killing is the only thing guns are good for.

]]> http://joeberhardt.com/2013/05/09/children-and-guns/feed/ 23 thehappylogophile Water Pistol http://joeberhardt.com/2013/04/20/conversations-with-children-when-i-grow-up-ill-be-rich/ http://joeberhardt.com/2013/04/20/conversations-with-children-when-i-grow-up-ill-be-rich/#comments Sat, 20 Apr 2013 05:39:39 +0000 Jo Eberhardt http://joeberhardt.com/?p=2602 Continue reading →]]>

“It would be really cool to be a robber, wouldn’t it?.”

We’re in the car, on our way home from dance class, and Big Brother is thinking out loud.

“When I grow up, I’ll be a robber. Then I’ll be rich. Right, Mummy?”

“Yep,” I say. “You’ll be rich right up until they put you in jail.”

He thinks for a minute and then says, “No, it’s okay. I’ll be a Good Guy robber. And first I’ll tell the police that I’m going to help them.”

I have to admit, I’m intrigued. But I don’t quite understand the difference between a Bad Guy Robber and a Good Guy Robber. “How do you be a Good Guy robber?”

“Well… I’ll only rob from Bad Guys.”

He pauses, and I let him work out his plan.

“Bad robbers only rob people at night. Because they’re bad. So I’ll wait until the morning when the Bad robbers will have to be asleep, and then I’ll sneak into their secret hideouts and I’ll steal all their gold and money and jewels and crystals.”

I can’t help it. I have to ask. “And what will you do with the money you steal?”

He doesn’t even hesitate. “I’ll give it to other people.”

Awww… That’s lovely. “Anyone in particular?”

I glance in the rear-view mirror to see him shrug. “Anyone who needs to money.”

“Okay,” I say. “That’s really nice. And you think the police will be okay with that?”

“Oh, yes,” he says confidently. “Because then I’ll sneak into the police station and I’ll tell them where the Bad Guy Robbers have their secret hideouts. And then the police can go and arrest them.”

“But they won’t arrest you?”

“No. I’m a Good Guy.”

I’m glad he’s got it all worked out. But there’s one thing I’m still confused about.

“So, let me get this straight,” I say. “You’re going to wait until morning–”

“So the Bad Guys are asleep,” he interrupts.

“–so the Bad Guy Robbers are asleep. Then you’re going to sneak into the bad guy’s hideout and steal all the money and jewels they’ve stolen from other people–”

“And crystals!”

“–and crystals. Sorry. Then you’re going to tell the police where to find the Bad Guys, and you’re going to give all the money away to other people. Right?”

“Right.”

“So how is this going to make you rich?” I ask.

He sighs. That long-suffering five-year-old sigh I know so well.

“Oh, Mummy. I’m going to give all the money away to people who need it. But I’m going to keep the crystals. You know, like diamonds and rubies and emeralds…”

“Ah.”

“Do you understand now?”

Oh yes, I understand. But we may need to move to a bigger house to accommodate his Merry Men.

And his “crystals”.

My puppy woke me up at 4:30 this morning. An hour earlier than usual. I staggered out of the bedroom, told him to shush, and tried to go back to bed. He started barking again.

After the third trip from the bedroom to the back door, I gave up on sleep. I put on a pot of coffee, made myself some toast and sat down to write a blog post. I had an hour of free time before it would be light enough to take Buddy for a walk.

At 5:00am, just as I was at the halfway point of my blog post, my Facebook timeline exploded.

“What’s happening in Boston???”

“Is it true? Were there bombs?? Is anyone hurt??”

“OMG, Boston!”

“The news is saying two people are dead in Boston. Are you guys okay? Were you there?”

I could barely bring myself to click on the news links.

Not again, I thought. I just can’t take it.

And then, I hope no one I know was there. 

I looked back over my half-finished rant about a very First World Problem and I hit the ‘delete’ button. And then I read the news.

I cried.

But around and around in my head went a single thought. This is so epically unfair. Not the loss of life, or the injuries, or the shattered innocence of the children who were at ground zero this time around. That was all too much to process at 5:00 in the morning.

I just kept thinking about the runners.

The other competitors.

The people who had trained and trained and trained to run the marathon.

The people who made it almost 26 miles — and then watched the finish line explode.

The runners who (mercifully) hadn’t made it to the end. The ones who were within a mile of their goal, and were then redirected elsewhere.

For those people, that race will never be finished.

It will never be over.

No matter how many other marathons they run, in their heads they will always be half a mile, or a mile, or ten miles from the end of Boston 2013, watching as the finish line vanishes in a blast of flame and terrorism and unfairness.

Epic unfairness.

Later in the day, when the dog had been walked and the children fed and dropped at school, when I was standing in the supermarket trying to decide whether to buy lemon or lime scented dishwashing liquid, the full weight of the tragedy hit me.

The true epic unfairness.

The unfairness of good people killed in the midst of a celebration of strength and fitness.

The unfairness of people injured, lives derailed, and a long-held tradition besmirched with blood.

The unfairness of small-minded people committing evil acts.

You’d think that by this stage of my life, considering the number of times I’ve grieved and emotionally bled for victims of terrorist attacks, I would have developed some kind of coping mechanism; some kind of system where I could hear about tragedies and just be okay.

But I haven’t.

So I stood in the supermarket, one hand hovering in front of the dishwashing liquid, and I cried.

And then I came home.

Because there’s more important things in the world than washing dishes.

When I got home, I re-read Patton Oswalt‘s statement. I shared it on Facebook this morning, but it wasn’t until I read it again that I was truly able to appreciate the message of hope he offers. Here’s what he had to say:

Boston. Fucking horrible.

I remember, when 9/11 went down, my reaction was, “Well, I’ve had it with humanity.”

But I was wrong. I don’t know what’s going to be revealed to be behind all of this mayhem. One human insect or a poisonous mass of broken sociopaths.

But here’s what I DO know. If it’s one person or a HUNDRED people, that number is not even a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a percent of the population on this planet. You watch the videos of the carnage and there are people running TOWARDS the destruction to help out. (Thanks FAKE Gallery founder and owner Paul Kozlowski for pointing this out to me). This is a giant planet and we’re lucky to live on it but there are prices and penalties incurred for the daily miracle of existence. One of them is, every once in awhile, the wiring of a tiny sliver of the species gets snarled and they’re pointed towards darkness.

But the vast majority stands against that darkness and, like white blood cells attacking a virus, they dilute and weaken and eventually wash away the evil doers and, more importantly, the damage they wreak. This is beyond religion or creed or nation. We would not be here if humanity were inherently evil. We’d have eaten ourselves alive long ago.

So when you spot violence, or bigotry, or intolerance or fear or just garden-variety misogyny, hatred or ignorance, just look it in the eye and think, “The good outnumber you, and we always will.”

Just take a moment and say it with me.

“The good outnumber you, and we always will.”

It doesn’t change what happened in Boston. It doesn’t minimise the terror or the grief or the sadness. But it does give me hope.

I hope it does the same for you.

“I open up a word document and nothing comes out. I kind of just stare, fingers ready, but with no real idea. I’m terrified of clichés, and every time I think of some remotely interesting story line, am blocked by fear or self-doubt. Has anyone felt this? Does it get easier?”

I read this question and was immediately transported back to various points in my own life.

…when I was 16, with five months off school, and the burning desire to write a novel.

…when I was 18, fresh out of high school, with the burning desire to write a novel.

…when I was 21, unemployed, with the burning desire to write a novel.

In each of those periods of my life, I found myself sitting in front of a blank screen feeling exactly the fear this young woman is feeling. In all three instances, I managed to overcome the fear enough to write something (although the quality of that ‘something’ was debatable). But I always felt I was alone, that I was the only wanna-be writer who experienced the knee-knocking, soul-freezing fear that comes with staring at a white screen and having no idea how to fill it with meaningful words.

So I answered the question. I have her the advice I wish I’d heard when I was young and enthusiastic and inexperienced. And then it occurred to me that it’s not advice that is best kept private, it’s advice that should be shared. Because everyone feels overwhelmed and out of their depth sometimes, regardless of age or experience.

So here goes. I hope you find it helpful.

• Too much time is as much a motivation-killer as too-little time. Allocate a set amount of time each day to writing and then fill in the rest with LIFE. Life helps you write. It gives you things to write about. It lets you experience emotions and situations and setbacks that will make it into your writing in some way. Go outside your comfort zone and live.

• What you’re feeling is normal. Normal for writers and artists and entertainers and just about every creative type out there. That doesn’t make it easier, but knowing you’re in good company helps.

• Just because it’s normal doesn’t mean you have to like it. And it doesn’t mean you should just sit back and let the feelings overwhelm you. Those feelings of fear (terror!) never go away. Never. What does happen is we learn how to overcome the fear and do it anyway. (To use one of those dreaded clichés.)

• A best-selling, multi-published author once said to me, “In my head, before I start, [a novel] is a perfect thing. It stays perfect until the moment I start typing.” Accept that’s the truth of things, and then write anyway. 

• Like I said, you’re in good company when it comes to feeling this way. So let yourself BE in good company. Online writing groups are great, because you’re surrounded by writers. But, you know what else is great? Writing groups in the real world. See if you can find one in your local area. Talk to the librarians at your local library (you’d be amazed what and who they know), ask your friends on FB (you’d be amazed how many people are secretly writers but are too afraid to share it with anyone), or loiter outside creative writing classes. When you find like-minded souls, TALK TO THEM. Regularly. About writing. About your struggles and successes and fears and inspirations. You’ll find you have more in common than you expected.

• Most of all, live the Nike slogan. When you sit down and look at that blank page, tell yourself it’s your job to fill it. Fill it with anything. Write about how terrified you are, write about what you want to write about, write about which actor you’d like to play your main character, write about anything that comes to mind. And when the page is no longer white and scary, start telling your story. Starting is always the hardest part.

• Finally, celebrate every success. Eat chocolate! Drink wine! Buy books! Share your writing successes with like-minded individuals! Celebrate however is meaningful to you. Just celebrate, no matter how big or small your accomplishment.

Do you have any additional advice to offer?

This story begins, as many do, with me sitting at the dining table, exhorting five-year-old Big Brother to eat his dinner.

It’s not that he doesn’t like his food, or that he’s a fussy eater. He just gets distracted by all the thoughts and stories in his head. If no one reminded him to eat, I’m sure he’d just wander off and not notice his grumbling belly for days at a time.

“Come on, Big Brother. Keep eating,” I say.

“Mummy?” It’s the tone of voice that tells me he’s got an important question to ask. “Is this candy?”

I look at the food on his plate: Lettuce, cheese, green beans, broccoli, carrot sticks, boiled egg, and ham. You’d be hard pressed to describe any element of his meal as “candy”.

“No,” I say. “Eat up.”

He picks up a bean and slowly, carefully nibbles on it until he’s holding a stub between his fingers. He pops that in his mouth and his eyes refocus on me. “Are apples candy?”

“No, Sweetie. Apples are a type of fruit.”

“I know,” he says. “But something can be candy and fruit. Can’t it?”

“Well…” My first instinct is to say ‘No’. But then I think of candied apples, and I wonder what they’re made of, and if they’re really apple or not, and if they are, are they classed as fruit or candy, and… and… and this is exactly where Big Brother gets his wandering mind from. “Eat some more of your dinner,” I say to cover up the gap in the conversation.

This time it’s a carrot stick. He nibbles on it, his eyes unfocused and his mind far, far away.

“Then, what’s candy?” he asks.

I don’t even know what to say. First of all, I don’t like the word ‘candy’. It’s not a term we use in Australia. Over here, we eat lollies and chocolates and biscuits. If you’re particularly posh, you might even eat confectionery. But not candy. In my head, the word conjures up images of spoiled rich kids holding up Halloween bags and buckets and screaming, “I want more candy!!”

I know, it’s not the poor little word’s fault that I have negative associations. But still.

Big Brother picked up the word years ago,  back when he watched TV. And that’s one of the reasons he doesn’t really know what it means — it’s not a word he hears in the real world. But it is a word he likes the sound of.

“What do you think candy is?” I ask him in return. (Long-term readers may recognise the turn-the-question-back-on-you technique that is my parenting staple.)

“Well,” he begins, absentmindedly building a log cabin out of beans and carrot sticks. “It’s something yummy that you don’t get to have all the time. And it might not be healthy. Is candy healthy?”

“Not usually,” I say.

He thinks a moment longer, then nods. Answer given. Decision made. Conversation finished.

“That’s a pretty good definition.” When he has nothing more to add, I say, “Now how about you finish your dinner?”

He eats quietly for awhile. Then he looks up at me with a mischevious grin. “Mummy, do you know what my favourite candy is?”

“What?” I ask.

“Sushi!”

And you know what? I’m just going to go with it.

Bring on the candy!

What’s your favourite candy?

“Mummy, are dragons real?”

Big Brother is five years old. Nearly six. He loves stories of knights and dragons. He wants to be a superhero when he grows up so he can protect people.

“Are they extinct?” he asks.

I don’t know how to answer.

I feel like I’m standing on a tightrope, my position precariously balanced between two core beliefs.

I believe in honesty always.

But I also believe in fairies and dragons and elves.

So I stand, unsure how to cross the gaping chasm between truth and imagination in a way that doesn’t disrespect my son’s question.

I must delve into my own beliefs. I question them; turn them over and over in my mind; put them to the test.

(This is one of the great wonders of parenthood — the way our children push us to examine our own feelings and become better, stronger people.)

I do believe in dragons.

But do I believe dragons are out there, ready to fly forth from their hiding places at any moment and raze our cities to the ground?

No.

Probably not.

It’s fairly unlikely.

Do I believe that was true once-upon-a-time?

Yes.

Scientists tell us that dragons were never real, but scientists aren’t always right.

As a friend of mine recently blogged, not finding something doesn’t necessarily mean it isn’t there. And scientists learn new things every day.

The Brontosaurus never existed. Dinosaurs may not have been cold-blooded reptiles. New living species of plants and animals are discovered every day. Who’s to say what will be discovered in the future?

Maybe we’ll find dragon fossils.

Maybe we’ll find dragons.

But even if we don’t…

I’ll still believe in dragons.

I stand on that precipice while my son watches me expectantly, secure in the knowledge that his mother knows everything. Not yet old enough to understand how much I don’t know.

So I look him in the eye and I say…

Nothing for a second. Instead, I gather my thoughts.

Then I cross that chasm of doubt, the chasm spanning untruth and disbelief. And I do it one slow step at a time.

“No one has claimed they’ve seen a dragon in a very long time,” I say.

“In fact, it’s been so long, most people don’t think dragons were ever really real. Some people think dragons are just stories. Some people think dragons are still alive but they’re very good at hiding. And some people think dragons are extinct.”

My beautiful son looks up at me, and his lips curl into a smile.

“I knew it,” he says. Then he skips off to play.

A minute later, I hear him telling himself a story about dragons and I smile.

Do you believe in dragons?

I believe in a world where all people are loved and respected and treasured.

I believe in equality.

I believe in joy.

I believe in wisdom.

I believe the strongest blade is forged in fire.

I believe in grief.

I believe in friendship.

I believe in recovery.

I believe in making the hard choices when they need to be made.

I believe in respecting the choices of others even when we don’t agree with them.

I believe in respect.

I believe in love.

I believe in the power of positive action.

I believe in art and music and stories.

I believe in truth.

I believe in magic.

I believe in fairies and dragons and elves.

I believe in personal responsibility and self-discipline.

I believe in offering help to those who need it.

I believe in asking for help.

I believe in honour.

I believe in justice over law, and reparation over punishment.

I believe in honesty and integrity.

I believe in forgiveness.

I believe in following your dreams, wherever they may lead.

I believe in passion.

I believe in happiness.

I believe in the inherent innocence of children and the inherent goodness of adults.

I believe in trust.

I believe in community.

I believe in you.

What do you believe?

This is not a post about self-publishing vs traditional publishing.

This is not a post about eBooks vs Print books.

This is a post about the way we think about pricing books, regardless of how they’re published, or by whom.

Over the last couple of years, I’ve read numerous articles regarding the “best” or “correct” way to price eBooks. I’ve heard stories about the benefits of giving away books for free as a promotional tool, and diatribes about the insanity of devaluing your own work by giving it away. I’ve heard arguments for pricing eBooks at no less than $4.99, and arguments for pricing eBooks at no more than $1.99.

I’ve not gotten involved in the discussion before. I’ve listened to the arguments, formulated my own opinions, and let it go. After all, I don’t have an eReader, don’t read eBooks, and don’t have any books of my own published (yet). So I figured the debate didn’t really concern me.

And maybe it doesn’t.

Or maybe it does.

Maybe it concerns everyone with an eye to the future and a care for the way artists interact with their fans and the rest of the artistic community, from writers to musicians to visual artists. Because when we talk about how we price our books, we’re not just talking about a simple matter of ‘Price = Cost + Profit’. We’re talking about wider issues.

We’re talking about the changing face of publishing.

We’re talking about the way the internet informs our choices, as both writers and readers.

We’re talking about the new and varied ways we communicate and connect with each other.

We’re talking about the way being an Author has changed and is changing.

No matter whether you’re self-published, traditionally published, or hoping to be published, I can guarantee you are well aware that being a writer is not just about being a writer anymore. It’s not enough to write a book. You’ve also got to market that book. You’ve got to build a platform and create an online presence and use social media and so on and so on.

As writers, we no longer connect with readers through book tours. We can’t sit in our fortresses of solitude, trusting in our publishers to get our books into bookstores, and trusting in the bookstores to put our books into the hands of readers. Now, we’re directly and intimately involved in the process. We connect with readers online, using blogs and Facebook and Twitter and whatever other social media sites you frequent. We forge personal connections with our readers, sometimes  long before they even are our readers.

But what does building personal relationships have to do with the price of eBooks?

Nothing. And everything.

Let me explain.

One of my heroes in the creative world is Amanda Palmer. If you don’t know her, she’s a singer/songwriter who first came to fame as half of the Dresden Dolls punk cabaret duo. She’s now a solo artist, touring and recording with the Grand Theft Orchestra band, and made headlines last year with her Kickstarter project.

She asked for $100,000 to fund her new album.

She got $1.2 million.

Amanda Palmer is a big believer in music being free. She supports downloading, torrents, file sharing, and good old fashioned copying of CDs to give to your friends. If you visit her website, it’s possible to download all of her music free of charge. All she asks is that if you like it, you come back and pay what you think it’s worth and what you can afford.

I’d love you to take a few minutes and listen to Amanda Palmer’s TED talk, ‘The Art of Asking’ where she says, “Don’t make people pay for music. Let them.”

One of my favourite quotes from Amanda Palmer’s TED talk is this one, in relation to her Kickstarter project:

The media asked, “Amanda, the music business is tanking, and you encourage piracy! How did you make all these people pay for music?”

And the real answer is: I didn’t make them. I asked them. And through the very act of asking people, I’d connected with them. And when you connect with them, people want to help you.

You see where I’m going with this?

As writers, we connect with readers online, using blogs and Facebook and Twitter and whatever other social media sites you frequent. We forge personal connections with our readers, sometimes  long before they even are our readers.

We connect with our fans in exactly the way Amanda Palmer is talking about. We do it already. We blog and tweet and connect on a personal level. But we don’t take advantage of that.

We don’t ask for help.

We just tell them that if they want our book, they’ll pay the ticket price.

Imagine what would happen if we did things differently? Imagine what would happen if we offered our eBooks for free, and asked our fans to pay what they think the book is worth.

I’m not just talking about self-publishers here. As I said to start with, this is not a post about self-publishing vs traditional publishing. This is a question for everyone.

I know the current publishing model doesn’t support giving away books for free. I know the current model is all about making people pay, not asking people to pay. But we’re in the middle of major changes in the way that publishing works. And if we, as writers, don’t have the right to have some say in the future of publishing, who does?

I’d like to leave you with another quote from that TED talk.

For most of human history, musicians — artists — they’ve been part of the community. Connectors and openers, not untouchable stars. Celebrity is about a lot of people loving you from a distance. But the internet, and the content that we’re freely able to share on it, are taking us back. It’s about a few people loving you up close, and about those people being enough.

Do you think eBooks should be available for free?

Do you use this fabulous new technology to pay for purchases without the time-consuming need to sign your name or push five buttons?

I’m talking, of course, about Mastercard’s payPass and Visa’s payWave.

If you’ve got the payPass/payWave technology on your credit or debit card, you can lightly tap your card at the checkout and your transaction is processed without any mess or fuss. I think it’s incredibly cool, in a “Hey, we’re living in the future!” kind of way, so I generally try to use it as often as possible. Even if that means spending an extra two minutes digging through my purse trying to find my payPass card rather than using my “old fashioned” card.

I was at the liquor store buying my daily weekly supply of booze, when I found myself in exactly that situation: digging around looking for my card so I could quickly and conveniently have my husband’s hard-earned money removed from our bank account instantaneously (rather than just using the cash in my purse).

“These things are great, aren’t they?” said the cashier.

“Yeah,” I said, finally locating my card. I tapped it and waited for the friendly beep that indicated Approval.

“It’s amazing what they come up with,” he added.

“It really is,” I said, already thinking about getting home and opening the first bottle of booze to my family.

“It’s so convenient to be able to wave your card past it, and not have to remember numbers or anything. It makes things so much quicker,” he said.

I looked at him, my brain whirring. “I know. Soon everything will work that way. Our driver’s licences already have chips in them. Then it will seem silly to have multiple cards, so we’ll be able to choose to have all our details put on the one card. Banking, Licenses, Insurance, Medical records, the whole deal. It only makes sense, right?

“That’ll be even more convenient, because we’ll only have to carry around one card.  But why carry a purse or wallet just for one card — because, let’s face it, who uses cash anymore? — and so someone will come up with an idea for a watch or a bracelet that has your details on it so you can just scan your wrist past the chip reader.

“The bracelet will have a fancy name, of course. Some marketing guru will come  up with it. Like… I don’t know… A Personal Identification and Monetisation Passport? Then we’ll be inundated by ads with fresh-faced twenty-somethings visiting exotic locales while wearing their bracelets. The slogans will be: ‘PIMP your life with Visa!’ and ‘A PIMPed life? Priceless.’.

“Of course, that will cause all sorts of trouble. When someone can steal your identity just by taking your PIMP band, people will try to find all kinds of ways to keep them safe. So the magical boffins in lab coats will say, “Hey, we have this great microchip technology that’s getting better every day! Why not really PIMP your life, and have your PIMP card injected under your thumbnail?”

“It has to be the thumbnail. Because that way you’ll need to press your thumb against a pressure pad so your details can be scanned. And everyone knows that’s how the future looks.

“And that will be awesome. Until, of course, the inevitable rise of a corrupt government power who asserts its dominance by wiping the PIMP cards of radical thinkers thus removing them from regular society, and creating a sheep-like population striving for mediocrity and a seething underworld of disenfranchised rebels forced to exist in an antiquated culture using a barter system and tokens or notes to represent wealth.

“But one day, a small band of rebels will rise up against the government’s oppressive rule, and–”

…

Okay, I didn’t really say any of that. But I thought it. Loudly.

Out loud, I said, “Yeah.”

Then I went out to my car and drove home.

What do you think? Want to PIMP your life?

Saturdays are a big deal around here.

The kids run around in their pyjamas until after 9:00am. We chill out and snack instead of sitting down for a “real” lunch. We have an early dinner of fish & chips. And, most importantly, it’s Movie Night.

We only turn the TV on once a week, and that’s for our weekly family movie. Then we all sit around together, giggling at the funny bits and generally enjoying our special weekly treat.

Choosing the movie is generally up to five-year-old Big Brother. (Mostly because Little Brother is too young to care what we’re watching.) I usually give him some guidance, or a few movies to choose from, and let him pick. But last Saturday night, our conversation took a turn for the exasperating.

“What movie would you like to watch tonight?” I asked Big Brother when I picked him up from dance class mid-afternoon.

“Hmmmm….”

“Would you like something new, or something you’ve seen before?”

He thought for a few minutes. “Can we make our own movie tonight?”

“Instead of watching a movie?” I asked. Because I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Yeah, make our own movie. We can call it The Invincibots.”

“Um. Maybe.” And then I changed the subject. Because… Make a movie? Really? I didn’t even know what that meant.

Cut to two hours later. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s pick this movie for tonight!”

“No,” said Big Brother,”we’re going to make a movie tonight, remember?”

Oh, yes. How could I forget? “I don’t really understand what you mean.”

He put on his serious expression and looked at me steadily. “I mean, make a movie.”

“Yes. Okay. But what does that mean? Is it like putting on a puppet show?”

“No.”

I was struggling to get a sense of exactly what he wanted to do. (Is it just me? Is this obvious to everyone else?) “So how is making a movie different from making a puppet show?” I asked.

He kept giving me that same look. “One of them is a movie,” he said. “And one of them is a puppet show.”

At this point, I poured myself a drink.

Of water*.

Obviously.

Then I tried again. “Okay. So when you say you’d like to make a movie, what exactly do we need to do? What steps do we need to follow?”

His plan was simple.

Step 1: Think of what you want to make.

Step 2: Make what you thunk.

Step 3: Watch it on TV.

I waited. Just in case there was more. But there wasn’t.

“So when you say ‘Make what you…. (I couldn’t say it) …thought’,” I said. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

He looked at me with his deadpan expression.

“Mummy,” he said. “Do you remember step one?”

* I can neither confirm nor deny the veracity of this statement.