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Friday, 3 November 2017

CLEARING SHELVES A FEW POUNDS AT A TIME: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

Job done?
   It's the start of November, and I've caught up...almost. With weeks to go, I've read 50 of the 52 books I planned to tackle this year.
   Except that I didn't plan a list. I chose this book or that book and got down to it.
   The state of play is wide open in January and narrow as hell as the last sands drift out of the calendar. Right now I don't have a shelf with two unread books on it...or I'd read those and close off another shelf.
   This means...unless I go book-daft between now and the last hours of December...that I've pretty much limited myself to clearing three bookshelves.
   Recap: a shelf takes an average of two-dozen books. A short shelf will squeeze in a dozen. After reading 52 books, I'd expect to clear two long shelves and a few unread books on a short shelf.
   No surprises there.
   Did I stick to reading hardbacks? Given my two mass-purchases of hardback books in generous sales created a bookberg that collided with my shelves, wrecking them, the agenda is to melt the bookberg.
   However, through the year you buy in a few paperbacks and insist on the rule: if a book comes into the house, it jumps to the front of the queue. Try to read it the day it arrives.
   If we go by bookcase, I have 25 unread hardbacks to the left of me. Half a year's reading. Forward and left in a most awkward bookcase, there are 35 volumes queuing up.
   Ahead of me there are a mere eleven tomes desperate to be read. If I read that one small shelf, I clear the entire bookcase. Why don't I hop on that train next year? Perhaps I will.
   On my right, bloody hell, only five. That can't be right. And yet, I find it easy to count to five.
   I must away, to another room, and check on the rest. This is what happens when you buy in loads of books.

*

But I stop in my tracks and wonder what these hardbacks weigh. After a few mystic miscalculations, I misconclude that I'm staring at half a metric tonne.
   I buy hardbacks for their durability. Moths last longer than paperbacks. I don't buy books as potential investments. Hell, I don't buy anything as a potential investment.
   Nothing I own is bought with the view to its increased value over time. If I don't recycle or throw out the things that are worn out, I keep what I buy or make gifts of things.
   This means these books are here until I'm not here. I clear the shelves of unread books, but I never clear shelves of books unless I am moving bookcases.
   At the moment, my reorganisation of the collection leaves me with two near-empty bookcases...and one of those was bought in as the lastest of the last bookcases I'll ever buy...yes, I've thought that before. That's the lastest of the last this time.
   Lack of space is funny that way.
   So. Challenge. Can you read 52 books a year? Yes. Did I read a book a week? No. I started the year reading more per week, and knew I'd tail off as I tackled immensely lengthy volumes. It averaged out, just in time.
   Will I clear more than three bookshelves next year? Depends entirely on what I feel like reading. As usual, the plan isn't to have a list but to get through a pile without adding significantly to the pile by purchasing even more books.
   If you or loved ones have been affected by the issues raised in this blog post, remember there is no cure for book-reading. Readers will buy more books even if they have enough unread books to construct a small house. Ooh. A bookhouse. Mmm.

*

That weighty detour took me away from the truth. Elsewhere, not right here, there IS a bookshelf with two unread books on it. Will I tackle those in the coming weeks? Depends entirely on what I feel like reading. ;)











Monday, 2 October 2017

CLEARING SHELVES NEARER YEAR'S END: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

A chunk of the way into the year, I pondered the state of my bookshelves. Was I clearing bookshelves after reading books, week in and week out?
   For reasons of the plot, no.
   A writer's bookshelves are not stacked alphabetically. As a writer, you cram the books in by height, or width, BOTH, and that is the system of systems - perfect in its randomosity.


*

Now I am a chunk of the way from year's end, and the great accounting nears. Have I been reading a book a week? No. I started out by reading more than a book every week, knowing that the pace would slacken as I tackled weightier tomes.
   As I am reading more than a book a week at this end of the year, I am on track to finish 52 books in 2017. Luckily, I didn't buy 52 books. I reined that unicorn in, oh, many a moon ago.


*

How many shelves have I cleared of unread books, then? Two. And one of those I managed only in the past month. (And I killed off two shelves by reading a bare minimum of books. Not even a handful.)
   Averaging it out, I'll have finished the equivalent of two full bookshelves by the end of December. Where the hell are those shelves? Here, there...
   I read what I read thanks to the random nature of my very practical filing-system. Books fit on shelves. I vary the topic, week by week, and that sends me flying around the shelves on a mission to bring the number of unread books down to microscopic size.
   Quick poll. To my left, I'm staring at four bookshelves in one wide bookcase...
   The lowest shelf doesn't count. That's packed with reference books, and I am not in the mood to read dictionaries from cover to cover. (Exception: I've read The Devil's Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce...so that you don't have to.)
   Above that, most of the books are unread. Fifteen. Possibly sixteen. I have three books by J.M. Barrie there, and I know I've read two of them. But I can't be sure which two. I leave them there for now, knowing I'll solve that puzzle when I take a notion to.
   Higher up. There are five unread books, all short story collections, and I am working my way through those VERY gradually.
   Top shelf. Three books to go, there. No. Four. It pays to double-check, and peek past the bulk of one mighty tome to see an unread book not in its shadow...the missing book is way over to my right, on a table packed with unread books. Over a dozen of them...removed from shelves for convenience...
   If I see the books off the shelves and on the table, I am more likely to take action. It's a system that works, going by the books I've polished off this year.
   My unread book problem is dwindling. Yet I don't seem to clear the shelves. There'll be a turning-point on the shelf situation. But I fear it won't be this year.
   In my first post on this topic, I cleared a shelf. And I've cleared a second shelf since. My fast-paced high-powered executive lifestyle whizzes along faster than I care to describe.
   Glancing sideways, I see I'm being overtaken by a snail. Wonder what the snail's reading.
   Look on your own Shelves, ye Mighty Readers, and despair.
   Shelley.


   

Friday, 1 September 2017

THE PAPERLESS OFFICE: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

Where is this paperless office?
   That rare creature exists...if you let it gambol freely through the digital pastures. Can you run a paperless office? Yes. Do I run one? Almost. Okay...no.

*

Wilf Lancaster was an information expert who envisioned a paper-free society. Are we living in that society now? On a global level, no.
   Through the haze, the future happens all around us in the here and now...in fits and starts. We're still in need of paper.
   Wilf didn't invent the paperless office. He considered society. The paperless office sounds as though it is an advertising slogan, and with good reason.
   IBM wanted to sell IBM. The corporation needed to flog its International Business Machines. How do you go about selling arcane devices seen as part-electrickery and much-wizardry?
   You promote convenience. Solve a problem. Save people time, effort, energy, cash, or all of the above.

*

Why am I thinking about the paperless office? I'm going through the vault again. Every few centuries, I mountaineer my way through stacks of paperwork and decide what to sacrifice.
   That time has come, again. Unclutter. And so, I scale the teetering piles and separate wheat from chaff. There's a lot of chaff. But...
   I must ask the obvious question, even though I know the answer. Is paper-use down? Significantly, oh yes. Have I eliminated my use of paper? Almost.
   And other organisations? The ones my office reels into, in the night. Have they eliminated their use of paper? To a great extent, yes.
   A scan of a document is accepted in an e-mail, in place of a piece of paper I "must" post away. This is a widespread move, and has been moving and spreading widely for ages.
   Some hold out against convenience, unfortunately. So. No paperless office, not when my office comes into contact with papery offices across the globe.

*


I shredded.
   Thirteen bags of confetti headed to the great recycling plant in the sky. In the Olden Times, in a year of thirteen moons, I might expect that pile of paper to represent the annual haul.
   Now I am shredding back almost half a decade, to generate the same level of material. The vaults are swept clean, once more. Waste paper in the office hasn't been a thing for a long long time.
   I find that there's still stuff worth keeping for a few years and then shredding. And I find there are still official organisations that only operate by transfer of paper.
   Do I have a chequebook? Yes. When did I last use that? Not once, this year. Hell, I don't even use the PIN when flashing the plastic in public. You flash it now with a wave that's read at a short distance, so I'm not shocked that I haven't used a cheque in over a year...
   Actually, I'm more surprised that I used the chequebook around a year-and-a-half back.
   Paper money itself is being taken over by the Australian concept of polymer banknotes. And books?

*

Okay, I'm a Kindle author. My books are digital. The advantages of digital storage are vast. Could I convert my paper library into a digital one?
   Fuck, no. This trove is bought and paid-for and lurks on shelves that were bought and paid-for. Once I became a Kindle author, did I stop buying paper books?
   No.
   Why was that the case?
   Books bought and stored on an e-reader are easier to ignore than are the books on the stacks. Physical presence tops digital presence as a reminder, if not in many other categories.


*

Time to conduct a survey. How many books are on my Kindle?
   I mean...ignoring test copies. There are plenty of test-bed files on there that I created, to check formatting of my own stories.
   Now I see the battery needs charging. And I've just flicked Spaghetti Bolognese off the screen. When did I last have spaghetti? (It's been three days.)
   I dropped a splodge of food back to the plate, and there was a mild spattering of sauce - most of which I cleared up at the time.
   There are 109 items on my Kindle - there were 110, if we count the wayward spaghetti blob.
   Right, then, to the numbers...
   There are multiple versions of my stories in various format testing stages, including those ready for publication, and they take up half the number of titles on the Kindle.
   Then there are classic literary works that already sit on my shelves as paperbacks and hardbacks - and I downloaded those free books to have a look at different versions and Kindle formatting techniques.
   Of 109 items...55 were my files.
   And of the remaining 54 files, I paid for...
   Only four files...one I selected accidentally and instantly refunded. Meaning the money I spent on buying Kindle books over a five-year period was...£6.64 for three books.
   My Kindle was, and is, a device for testing the integrity of the formatting on the Kindle books I write. It doesn't serve as a magical portal to books. Not for me.


*

Yes, I am still a Kindle author who reads paper books. In that sense, the office is FAR from paperless. (In the time it took to compile this post, two books came into the house and I read them both on the day of arrival. This keeps the backlog down.)
   I stared at the bags of shredded paperwork, knowing that I stared at the end of an era. Few documents come into the house. And of those, very few require shredding. So thirteen bags for years of documentation...they represented steep decline of paper-use in the office.
   Yet I still have a printer, for the few times I must print material. Shredding is still important, and printing...became more vital than ever, at a lower frequency, but...shredding and printing are in decline.
   Thank fuck for that. Ink cartridges are priced in kidneys, these days. We'll never have a paperless society. You could wipe your arse on a Kindle screen, but I'm not recommending it and I'm not speaking from experience.
   Instead, I busy myself wiping off the spaghetti.

   









Tuesday, 1 August 2017

UNFINISHED BUSINESS IN ALGERIA.

I always thought of reading a particular book as unfinished business - the setting happens to be Algeria.
   A billion lifetimes ago, I caught a documentary on the author Albert Camus. Of note was his death in a car crash. Details of the author's doom translate into oddball fiction when dropped onto the page.
   Camus died with a train ticket in his pocket. If he'd boarded that train with his family, he'd have avoided being killed by his publisher.
   Francine Camus took the children through the winter landscape by train. Albert, on the other fateful hand, accepted a lift from his publisher pal.
   Being Scottish, I'd easily avoid this fate - if you spend money on a ticket, you use it and damn any inconvenience that comes your way. The offer of a free lift counts as an inconvenience once you've paid for another trip.
   Life is random. By default, death is random as well. I once avoided a travel-related death by not being in the wrong place at a very wrong time.
   If I'd been there, I couldn't have avoided death. Destruction was guaranteed.
   John Donne observes that death itself is slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men. This goes for the rest of us, too.
   If you risk doom on one form of transport instead of aboard another, which path do you take? At the outset, virtually every journey carries risk. Use the ticket? Accept the lift?
   Camus felt like keeping his publisher company, I suppose. Michel Gallimard didn't long outlive Camus. Nasty wreck.
   The writerly thing that jumps out of this story is the train ticket. And the really writerly thing that leaps from the affair is a snowstorm.
   No, not from the wintry French landscape. Inside the car. All those paper notes. The wreck was littered with dozens of pages from the writer's latest and greatest work - unfinished as he died.
   This documentary touched more upon the finished books, and I was curious about the story of a stranger. Camus set this in Algeria. On the American side of the ocean, that book is The Stranger. 
  

The Outsider. Cover, the Folio Society edition, 2011, illustration copyright Matthew Richardson. 

Conflict with an identical title forced a change to The Outsider on this side of the Atlantic, and that is how I've known the title down the years.
   The book's reputation is one of those awkward beasts. Do I really want to read a story about a cold fish who doesn't respond well to anything around him?
   But it's a classic.
   That label carries little currency. I've tackled a few dud classics in my time. No point naming names. I suspect emotional wear and tear on facing a few classics I've yet to read...
   Every million years I glare at The Whale, and turn away...much as two wedding-guests would hastily shun an ancient mariner.
   I know, from the nautical reputation preceding The Whale, that Mr Melville's weighty tome is a treatise on the inner workings of ceteceans. It also contains a few scenes about sailors.
   To deal with the generalities of the plot, I must wade to the eyebrows in the specificities of the whale itself. Ambergris and baleen are sure to feature.
   Camus died in a car, with a book and a publisher. His death reads now like a strange fiction. And his fiction, The Outsider, plays like fact.
   Eventually, I picked the book up and read the first part. (The book is divided into two sections, for reasons of the plot that I won't spoil here.)
   Would I even care about the uncaring character depicted in the story? I had to set the book's reputation aside and judge for myself, of course.
   And I found a character who observed a great deal. I remembered the line by Christopher Isherwood.

I am a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking. 
   
And I thought...no, not quite like that. But in the general area. Isherwood is saying (or waving) Goodbye to Berlin. Camus is remembered through the filter of winter-bare trees on Parisian streets...
   But his story of an outsider burns harshly under an Algerian sun. Long story short, too late, I finished my business with an unread book, and set it up on the shelf between...
   An unread book and an empty space where an unread book once perched. More unfinished business. The missing book was located on that special book storage area...the floor.
   I find it impossible to write about The Outsider without revealing the plot. It's not a barrel of laughs, that's for sure. This is Graham Greene, with all the jokes cut out and more heft in the telling for that.
   Camus. The Outsider. It's a classic.


Monday, 3 July 2017

UNPUBLISHED BLOG POSTS: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

I came in here - and here means Blogger - to publish a blog I'd written up. Then I remembered, that blog post was something I worked on for LATER USE. Couldn't publish it, not just yet.
   And this sent me on a quest to write of something else instead. What, though? I started counting unpublished blogs. There are sixteen unused bullets dotted throughout the list of posts.

*

Why aren't they published?
   Several fall under the category of things I am working on...things I can't talk about just yet. I'd say half a dozen blog posts are in that line of work.
   One is an obituary for Harlan Ellison. It's difficult to publish that sort of item while the old fart is still alive.
   Another is an obituary for a writer who disappeared off the internet, and I was about two weeks from publishing it when, lo, there was a miraculous recovery from death. Awkward.
   Three were about the dreaded Table of Contents, formatting issues with electronic books, and problems with Amazon Kindle. This small series on difficulties with formatting...felt too topical at the time.
   I had the sense that industry-level problems would be overcome in no time at all. And my instinct was right. There might be something worth salvaging from those three blog posts. Something of use in the longer term. But I don't see how to convert the pieces into something coherent. Well. Damn.

*

And that leaves a few isolated blog posts on random topics. Comic books. A singer, and her one song that I liked - leading me to conclude that I'd never buy any of her albums. But that blog post was meant to slide majestically into the subject of writing. And it never quite did.

*

Okay. Why leave these items unpublished on the blog? There's an option to delete. Why not take it?
   Recycling.
   I've gone back to short stories and inflated them to novel-length. Never throw anything away, if you are a writer. That scrappy piece of nonsense might come back...not to taunt you, or haunt you, but to inspire you from out of the depths.
   Obviously, I'm glossing over the novel I shredded. But even with that novel, I made sure to save the one section of it that was halfway decent. And I could still reconstruct the book from memory, with a second stab at that story.
   Recycling. Using the unpublished blog posts in a different way. Even if a blog post is timely and its time comes and goes too quickly to be of use, there might be a kernel in there that adds a crumb or two to a different cake at a later date.
   Don't recycle crumbs that way. I won't be eating out of your kitchen.

*

Life goes on. And it ends. So there'll be an obituary for Harlan Ellison one day. It's not a piece of writing that praises him, just so you know.
   OVERLY-LITIGIOUS OLD GROPER HARLAN ELLISON IS DEAD.
   Just giving you a sense of how that one pans out.

*

Blog posts are sometimes, like this one, slapped down and published. It's important to write things and put them out there as soon as they are written.
   (Though I had to wrestle with a formatting glitch that shrank the first line of each new section, delaying publication by a few minutes. Damn you, Blogger! I was making a point about near-instant publishing, and you tried to steal my coffee.)
   On other occasions, a greater degree of planning is required.
   You force yourself to blog about complex things that haven't happened yet - things that won't happen for AN AGE. And that is one way to force yourself to get those advanced plans seen to.
   Now I must away, into the grey day, to see to those advanced plans.

 

Thursday, 1 June 2017

SHORT FAN-FICTION: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

How short is short fan-fiction? I thought about that, and remembered the Twitter. The Twitter amuses me. It readily accepts coffee in a pure state - coffee with a hashtag.
   I struggle to write coffee in stories without putting a hashtag in there.
   Rarely, I might mention my books on the Twitter. Only rarely, though. Mostly, I Tweet the #coffee, and THE STAR WARS. Sometimes I Tweet both in the same typing breath.
   Does this constitute short fan-fiction? Yes. It does. I rounded up those Tweets and sent them to a coffee shop for cake.
   These altered snippets appear courtesy the Fair Dealing and Fair Use doctrines of copyright law.
   The alteration to Fair Dealing, allowing the inclusion of parody as a category, is a relatively recent addition. Long overdue, and most welcome.













Wednesday, 10 May 2017

HELPING WRITERS WITHOUT HINDERING: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

Recently, I helped myself out by refitting the office and turning it back into an office. The workspace gradually deflated around me and turned into a nightmarish place to navigate.
   Salvador Dalí took charge. I sent him to live on Mars. Free holiday. Things are back to abnormal.

*

Even more recently, a writer came to me backstage and asked for help. I offered help. That doesn't mean I helped. It means I offered information that worked for me AT THE TIME.
   Hints, tips, help...
   If these things work for me at the time of asking, you get those things packaged as advice. Business advice on writing changes with the weather, and is not solid. Rely on it while it works...
   Dot dot dot.

*

But I must add this.
   Use the advice that works for you. I may offer formatting advice that is dead and done once Amazon drops support for a particular format. And that is what it is. Time-stamped aid.
   Advice rises and falls with the tide, true.
   When it comes to solid writing advice, your basic solid writing advice is timeless. Put the hours in. Read all kinds of stuff, and do more than just the reading.
   Did I mention coffee?
   When it comes to the writing, do the writing. No shortcuts. Write the bad stuff. Stop writing the bad stuff. Keep going.

*

So what is the advice on giving writing advice? Don't hinder. In giving advice, ask questions. And after giving that advice, ask questions of yourself.
   I hope I avoid hindering writers who come to me for help.

*

Then...another writer put material out there for comment and modification. I went backstage and ran through the manuscript.
   You spot formatting glitches, and gradual inconsistency sneaks in...so you want to nail all that...
   Anyway. Writers actively come to you for help, and you do what you can. Other writers reach out to the whole audience, and if you can help from your seat eight rows back...go for it.
   Though I recommend going backstage, even if you are at a public event. A professional approach stands more chance of getting through to a truly busy person.
   I was thanked for my hints and tips. My views. But I asked a load of questions in reaching the point at which I decided to offer those views.
   We all steer our submarines through the murk of the internet. It's better to up-periscope and take bearings...than to lie on the bottom of the sea, running out of air.

*

Also, did I mention coffee?
   The alternative is tea, if you'd rather secure your caffeine intake without relying on the taste of coffee.
   And there's chocolate. Coffee. Chocolate. These things will aid your writing. Your superpower is storytelling, and your secret origin is being exposed to magical levels of coffee and chocolate.
   I don't give advice on superhero costumes. Me? I'm with Edna Mode. No capes, dahling.


  

Sunday, 2 April 2017

REFITTING THE OFFICE: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

One more book came into the house...
   And the house snapped.
   Valiantly, I held both halves of the house together with grit, determination, and Elastoplast. I'd say don't try this at home, but, it's a house thing, so...

*

I speak of reaching the limit. Saturation. No more room for books, and certainly no more room for bookcases. This time, I brought a book into the house and read it immediately.
   If I misremember correctly, I'm (barely) maintaining my pace of reading a book a week.
   Anyway...I was done. No more room. And I needed more room. It was just (barely) possible to refit the office and come away with more room at the end of the ordeal.
   If I planned it right.
   Planning. What does that mean? It means that, out of all the tools in the toolkit, the tool I keep handiest for handiwork is the tape. It's within reach as I type.
   I don't think about moving a bookcase without reaching for that tape. Moving a bookcase means shifting the books off it: shifting the books to SOMEWHERE ELSE - a mythical place.
   The monoliths close in. To shift a bookcase I must first move another bookcase deeper into the room. Twelve other items shuffle around the floor before I'm ready for that phase.
   Bookcases that move with books in them - ah, those are rare birds. I think twenty steps ahead, and I am five steps behind. Each of those five steps is a fatal flaw waiting to pounce.
   Apply the old rule.

*

The space you'll need most is the space you just obliterated with the heavy object. Now the heavy object can't come out to play. Find a new space. In another country. That's the closest space free, now.

*

I repaired a few world-weary bookcases.
   Hundreds of books marched off shelves. Space disappeared. Every night, Prometheus recovered from the morning's eagle attack. His liver regenerated.
   Every night, I played Frankenstein, and regenerated the computer. It had to go. Then it had to return. Ah, the joy/misery of plugging cables in, and hoping for the best. Ritual sacrifices to the great god Komputie staved off the horror.

*

And so it went, for a time Beyond Time. Until...
   Nay, I dare not speak of it. For...as I write this blog, I'm not quite finished. I knew I had to print a few letters out, so I managed the feat. Then I cut my printer off from my computer in an act of bravery that was really an act of stupidity in thin disguise.

*

Here I sit, after countless days, waiting for one more extension cable to arrive. But it's...mostly done. What did I wreck? A little space, but that loss of a little space is AWFUL.
   Yes, I gained a great deal of floorspace. But I had to sacrifice four feet of space on the very top of two now-awkward bookcases. With all that repositioning, it's not safe to return tall books to the highest spots if they aren't backed by walls.
   It's true. I reached for that awful solution.
   Thou Shalt Not...project bookcases into the room. For that way, and it is written, that way madness lies. Bookcases now surround the screen I'm staring at. I've created a cubbyhole for writing in.
   Now, more than ever, my office IS the library. Everything shifted back to the other end of the room in a move that I never saw coming. That's because I looked the other way, denying that I really had to do SOMETHING about this office.
   Matches and petrol cans weren't going to cut it.

*

Now I have a book problem that runs exactly four feet long. A solution will present itself. I'm certainly not going looking for one.
   It was enough for me to save the office by refitting it and making it so much easier to cross in a hurry. (Or even slowly.)
   Refitting took too long. And I haven't the energy to recount the heroic deeds behind saving the jumbo extension cord. There's no scope for investigating the odd little piece of broken plastic that's clearly sheared off SOMETHING.
   But what, though...what?!
   Cables snake everywhere. I think of the word snake as...that's the technical term for the plastic monster that devours all the other cables and makes the place 3% tidier. Is a cable snake poisonous? Why would you eat one?

*

My thinking was elegant in closed-minded simplicity. I'll never have to refit the entire office again. So they said, in whispers. They lied to me! New equipment ran in, and demanded space. I cut a deal, moving shelves with the speed of a tortoise on its day off.
   Bookcases, bookcases, bookcases. All out, a bit like the tide. And most back in. It's true to say I retired an awkward rolltop bookcase to...another place...
   And a few cupboard doors had to go, to squeeze that extra drop of space out of the new arrangements. I pensioned off a picture that could still hang on the wall...but that's inviting trouble.

*

Inevitably, I am done rearranging shelves. Really done with it. I knew I had to get on with the job and accept that dismal fate. You put it off with a bit of tinkering here or a spot of adjusting there.
   Eventually you know there's no way around it. That's because it's towering above you, and you foolishly moved a companion bookcase into its path. But you do what you can to squeeze by.
   If I didn't have hundreds of hardbacks on those shelves, I'd have hundreds and hundreds of paperbacks. Yes, I have hundreds and hundreds of paperbacks anyway.
   I know. No more books. I have four feet of books to squirrel away, and only prestidigitation will do the trick. Or digitisation. In this electronic age, that amounts to much the same thing.