Why Is This Hill So Steep? Page 7

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  The programmers of the early consumer computer age were late Boomers, who were trying to distance themselves from Boomers in the first place, and the generation that followed, Generation X, also often called “the ME generation.” These ME programmers saw the incredible potential of computers, and they wanted to be part of that, partly because they expected the developing profession to pay well, and partially because it meant being creative and having fun while they made money. The ME generation was dedicated to fun, and money, and most of the generation believed the mantra that “if you love your job, it will not be a job.” They threw themselves into the things they loved with abandon, took risks, and often succeeded on the strength of their enthusiasm alone. It’s no wonder that these people made up a significant part of the dot-com boom in Silicon Valley.

  These programmers would willingly work on their office projects into the wee hours simply because they enjoyed it… then they would go home and work on their own programming projects for the same reason. Many of them cut their teeth writing computer games, the latest sensation that had developed from such simple video games as Pong, and was quickly becoming a major industry. Further, they were inspired by the graphics interfaces of the new consumer- and business-oriented computers, and they wanted to create games for those.

  But there were only so many games-writing and NASA consulting jobs to go around, and a lot of programmers out there. Naturally, a lot of those people ended up in what they considered less-than-ideal jobs.

  So they did the less-than-ideal work, for the paycheck. But on their own time, they continued to work on their fun personal projects, doing what they wanted, and maybe hoping that someday, one of their creations would give them their Big Break into a better job.

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  This is where e-books enter into the programmers’ world. Programmers were among the first e-book writers and readers, as they were already in the habit of documenting their work on electronic files, and sharing those with others who used their programs. So they showed an early interest in digital texts and manuals related to their work. Programmers also tended to be geeks… so they showed an early interest in the fanfic that was developing, and, in fact, wrote some of it themselves.

  At first, they used the same tools that they had used to write their manuals, i.e., basic text formats, a few of the more popular word processing programs, and Adobe’s Acrobat format. But as the PDA was beginning its rise, many of the programmers showed a quick interest in moving their electronic texts to the tiny organizers, either for utility’s sake, or just because they knew they could. The original organizers’ applications were okay for small collections of text (some of them had word or letter limits that kept a single page to no more than the equivalent of a letter-sized page or two of text), but of course, manuals and fanfic were longer than that. Fortunately, the organizers were open in format, like computers, so programmers could obtain the hardware’s specs and write their own programs.

  The ME programmers took to this with abandon, along with programmers who had made the same discovery about organizers in relation to other tasks. Soon groups, and then companies, were springing up, driven by programmers writing applications to do all kinds of things with handheld organizers, from reading texts, to computing auto mileage, from playing customized games, to computing orbital re-entry plots, and everything in-between.

  As mentioned in Chapter 6, PDAs were sold by many differing companies, and had many operating systems and control interfaces, meaning one program would not automatically work on every piece of hardware. Some programmers were willing to rise to the challenge, and create versions of their applications for multiple operating systems. But other programmers did not want to be bothered with multiple operating systems and interfaces: Many of these had latched onto one OS or interface, declared it “perfect” in their eyes, and therefore the only one worthy of their time. So many programs initially went no further than their original iteration for one OS.

  But programmers were not all of the same opinion of operating systems—one person’s “perfect” OS was another person’s “crap”—and while many of them appreciated the features of a particular program written for another OS, they still wanted to be able to use it on their own OS. So programmers started writing their own, often unauthorized, versions of other people’s applications, in order to port it into the OS of their choice. Some of those programmers were good, and very thorough, and managed to duplicate the features of the original application almost to the letter. Other programmers, perhaps more lazy, or perhaps not so enamored about certain features, replicated some functions of the original application, but not others, and occasionally added a feature or two of their own.

  This activity was resulting in a horrible mish-mash of applications across multiple operating systems, some compatible with their original app, some not, and some barely recognizable from their origins. As well, those multiple applications required specialized text files to be read, and many of those text files could only be read by one application, and in some early cases, by only one operating system. E-book consumers, interested in the application that contained the most features they wanted, would buy the operating system that supported the apps they wanted—though this often conflicted with the desire for other applications and their features, and forced users to assume a “this OS does the most things for me” attitude when choosing their hardware and software. The market was becoming heavily divided amongst operating systems, application versions and text formats, right at its beginning.

  As PDAs were supplanted by cellphones, only a few of which could run a reading application or display a text file, some programmers responded to the new market with new versions of their reading programs. Most did not. In most cases, only those cellphones that ran a version of an operating system that already had an e-book application written for it, were able to read e-books. This led to more of the same fractionalization, especially as consumers now had to choose the cellphone according to the available brands and operating systems of their provider’s phones, which were not shared by each provider. Providers with popular phones initially did well, and when cellphones began to incorporate the more advanced organizers, those phones with a popular OS helped to drive the providers’ success in the market.

  Many people who had not previously experienced e-books were now discovering the possibilities of reading them on their cellphones (especially in the East), and were further swelling the ranks of e-book fans. But others were discovering that their new hardware did not support the e-book applications they used on previously-owned hardware, perhaps with a different operating system. While some were thrilled with the new possibilities, others were angry that they could no longer read the books they had obtained (and in some cases, paid for) on their new devices.

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  As new software companies were developing and looking to take advantage of existing markets, a few of those companies took notice of the fledgling e-book market, and the small-time or struggling nature of the applications and formats involved. A few companies quickly came to the conclusion that the small-time players were “doing it all wrong,” and that they could do things much better. They also believed they could profit on a successfully-entered e-book marketplace. So these larger companies threw their hats into the e-book ring, starting at the bottom to create their own applications and e-book formats, in their ideal of the “perfect” e-book format. Once again, programmers were jumping the familiar multiple OS, multiple interface hoops, though at least now they were getting paid much better to do so.

  Other companies believed an existing e-book format was “ideal,” but it had suffered from not having the correct marketing strategy, or money available to market it. As they felt they could transform these “also-ran” applications into gems, and incidentally make themselves a tidy profit, they bought up these small-time companies, or licensed the applications and formats from the programmers that created them, and put their marketing plans in gear. Programming team
s in this situation often found themselves being traded like football stars, or discarded as the new company’s programmers were given the green-light to continue on without them. And some of the legacy applications were suddenly being altered by their new parent companies, when it was decided by some higher-up that “this was good… but that will make it better.”

  Using their marketing might, they threw major promotional campaigns behind their formats, mostly aimed at other businesses—the book publishers and sellers—in order to secure a distribution chain for their products. At that particular time, tech companies were riding high in popularity and profits, and were good at convincing other companies (and investors) that they were the future, and could do no wrong. Many publishers and sellers signed on to work with these tech companies, and visions of dollar signs began dancing in everyone’s heads.

  Unfortunately, there were issues beyond the formats and applications that had not been carefully considered by any of the parties involved: They faced an uphill media campaign convincing consumers to sign onto the new applications and formats, as consumers were already smarting from changing operating systems and hardware and losing their existing e-books; there was a lack of actual books prepared for the new or altered format, and publishers were still refusing to release their books in e-book formats; there was no infrastructure in place to handle sales and distribution of electronic files; and there was the concern of file security, the notion that customers would resist the idea of paid digital content, and perhaps share paid content with others, robbing them of their expected profits.

  All of these problems were dropped quickly in the laps of the programmers, who had shown no interest whatsoever in these problems in the past. Further, lack of understanding of the complexities of the problem by the upper echelons of the companies, ineffective communications between them and their programmers, and a lack of effort in trying to find out exactly what consumers wanted, exacerbated problems that developed in trying to create the perfect consumer market for e-books.

  In the end, decisions were reached that were often ill-informed, programmers were given nigh-impossible tasks, and marketers would take a “this is what you need” (as opposed to “tell us what you want”) approach to marketing. The corporate e-book formats did take off, mostly with e-book newcomers (of which there were still many), but the veteran e-book consumers mostly shunned them in favor of older applications and formats. The problem with that was, since most of the programmers who had created the old formats were now working for others, and now found themselves with significantly less time for personal projects, the old formats and applications weren’t getting the support they needed to continue to thrive. One by one, the old formats dropped to the wayside, with no changes or improvements to the applications, no new operating systems getting their version of the apps, and fewer and fewer avenues of support available.

  The ME generation had moved on. The “Tower of eBabel” was tall, strong, and looking more and more likely to collapse every day.

  8: The literati—The peasants are revolting! (You can say that again.)

  (With apologies to Johnny Hart)

  Unprofessionally-published literature and amateur writing based on popular or cult subjects of the day—what has been referred to over the last few decades as “fan fiction,” or “fanfic”—has been held at arm’s length by most of the public for most of its life. As described in Chapter 1, Big Pub is partially to blame for this, as they have actively promoted the idea that “if we didn’t publish it, it must suck,” and that idea has become part of the modern assumption about non-publisher work.

  There is another reason that must be acknowledged, of course: The fact that much of that fanfic did, actually, suck. Fanfic is fanfic, whether it is written by a professional author on their own time, or by a twelve-year-old who should’ve been forced to spend more time in English class before being let loose on a keyboard.

  But even among the lemons, there were always apples. Many people who wrote fanfic of one kind or another went on to become professional writers, because they really could write well. This aspect of writing rarely gets mentioned, though, because publishers wouldn’t want their new writers to be associated with the very fanfic they insist is all so very bad. It also allowed publishers to remove the good writers from the fanfic world, leaving the bad writers there, and thereby strengthening their position that all fanfic was bad…

  At any rate, this vicious circle did not used to matter, because one of the other common aspects about fanfic was that it rarely got much exposure. This was due to its amateur nature, and the fact that amateurs don’t usually have the money to print and distribute their writing very far. Generally, fanfic writers were known to the fans in their immediate sphere of influence, which was usually a fan club or its chapter, and possibly their immediate family and circle of friends. In short, most fanfic didn’t go anywhere.

  All of that changed with the introduction to the public of the Internet and the Web. Suddenly, a club made up of a few buddies that meet in the basement every Thursday could become huge web-based organizations with international followings. Newsgroups, e-mail and discussion forums allowed a single voice to reach thousands, even millions of people, where it had only reached a dozen before. Into this world, fanfic would evolve to establishing a global scope, and scare the bejeezus out of the literary world.

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  Fanfic was a perfect candidate for the first e-books: They were available; they were free; they often represented a pop subject or theme; they often catered to consumers who were a bit less discerning of quality versus the subject; and did I mention their being free? E-books did have a bit of a learning curve, but most fanfic writers were more than willing to learn their way around a piece of software that would get their writings out there for millions to see (potentially, at least; in most early cases, they were lucky if their audience numbered in the dozens). And a fringe benefit of e-books was the small devices they were being read on: PDAs, unlike any other kind of delivery mechanism for literature, had the distinct advantage of privacy, because it was almost impossible for others to see exactly what you were reading. This meant that the fanfic that might be too embarrassing to let your buddies, or your girlfriend, or the dozens of strangers on the train around you, see you reading… was an embarrassment no more. You could read away, because no one else had a clue whether you were reading Captains Courageous or Captain Kirk and the Orion Slave Girl Harem.

  Regardless of what people thought you were reading, it was soon well-known that the assortment and quality of e-book material out there was more heavily skewed towards Captain Kirk than Captain Hornblower. This suited Big Pub just fine, as it gave them more reason to downplay and ignore the fledgling digital format. And they quickly passed the word onto their closest allies: The literary critics and columnists that were such a major part of their promotional machine; and the literary buyers, those who appreciated a professionally-produced piece of literature, the kind of people who carefully and lovingly displayed shelves of hardbacks in their studies and living rooms.

  The party line was that e-books were all written by hopeless, pimple-faced kids, uber-geeks working from their labs or their mother’s basements, and teenage girls with pop singer crushes. They were not to be taken seriously, they were their own punchline. E-books became a new indicator of writing quality in the public eye and the business world: If you were only out in e-book, it could only mean your writing sucked. In many cases, publishers would even pass on the opportunity to publish good copy if it had already been released as an e-book, and a major reasoning was the “stigma” that existed on e-books, and the concern that it would negatively affect sales of a related printed book.

  All of this eventually percolated down to the writers themselves, who began to realize that if they wanted to be taken seriously by the publishers to whom they hoped to sell their books, they needed to avoid e-books, or be tarred by the same brush as the trekkies and pop rock fans. This kept many authors away from e
-books, and the possibility of getting their work into the hands of others… there is no telling how many literary works may still be languishing away in slush piles the size of Citizen Cane’s library, which might instead have been delighting readers the world over as e-books.

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  In this realm, the agent was as important as ever: They were the gatekeepers to Big Pub, as far as authors were concerned. As e-books developed, and new writers started to come seemingly out of the woodwork, it was the agents’ job to find the “diamonds in the rough” and bring them to Big Pub for their chance at “becoming professionals” and selling “real books.” As the preponderances of parentheses suggests, these euphemisms were designed to convince writers that they were not considered anything but amateurs, no better than the John and Jane grocery-list-writers of the world, and would not be considered good and truly legitimate until they had gone through Big Pub’s machine and become Professional Authors.

  Doubtless there were as many authors as agents who did not truly believe this. On the other hand, one of Big Pub’s strengths was the significant income they could generate through producing and promoting a work, an income much larger than a self-published author could expect. So, for the lure of a larger paycheck, and despite the lack of veracity of the party line, authors continued to queue up for entry into the Big Pub machine, and the agents (who got their cut right after the publishers) were more than willing to begin filtering authors along.

  The agents were always in business to play both sides against each other, while they raked in their profits. But euphemistically speaking, they were in bed with the publishers, not the authors. Agents knew what publishers were looking for, so they could either spot those authors who embodied that, and send them along, or they could mold and shape an author into what publishers were looking for, and then send forth their Eliza Doolittles and make their commissions. But as the ultimate goal was to give the publishers worthwhile authors—since it was reasoned, after all, that the money would be generated by the efforts of the publishers—the agents were always looking out for the publishers more than for the authors. This publisher’s bias meant that agents essentially shared (or aped) the same views about e-books and their authors as the publishers. Agents would actively discourage authors from digitally publishing, not because they did not expect e-books to be successful or widely-read, but because of the adverse reaction they knew they would get from the publishers.