On forming clay and chipping marble
There’s something amazing about holding your own book in your hands. Like magic, all of those stories and thoughts have moved from fleeting, drifting notions in your mind into the stark reality of paper and ink.
The UPS man knocked on my door, and when I answered, I found a box of paperbacks from HarperOne. Upon opening it, I found a stack of orange books. Author copies.
There’s something amazing about holding your own book in your hands. Like magic, all of those stories and thoughts have moved from fleeting, drifting notions in your mind into the stark reality of paper and ink. Flipping through the pages, the letters take on a concreteness, and there is a possibility that they will outlast you. When you’re becoming dust, the words will still be bound. When all your digital media has been wiped away, the book will be in a library somewhere. Maybe it’s your grandchild’s library or maybe it’s in every library. Either way would be amazing.
The book is a footprint, a reminder that you walked this planet and you didn’t do it alone. Like Derrida reminds us about our signature, when we write our names down on a formal document, we are preparing for the day when we will not be there. The signature has a significance that standing above a desk and uttering our own name above a piece of paper does not have. I have told these stories a thousand times, but they are now bound and relatable for the moment when I cannot be present.
