the nameless horror

Not only very cool, but some sharp photography there.

Hmm… now there’s a thought (if we ignore the possibilities of monopoly production behind the scenes) for future bookstores. (via @spinetinglermag and Andrew Sullivan)

So apparently, Waterstones has decided that capitulation is the only honourable choice, that or the chain’s upper management have been smoking some really rocking shit. The details are yet to be released, but from the sounds of the arrangement, Waterstones and Amazon will have a deal whereby you can buy books via your Kindle in-store from Amazon, presumably allowing Waterstones an affiliate percentage (or vice versa) for arranging the sale.

[Quick edit to add: unless they really are expecting you to purchase a specific Waterstones-labelled ereader and shop on that (presumably for those who’ve not yet taken the software/hardware plunge). In which case, well, everything below will only happen the quicker..]

I appreciate, in all seriousness, that MD James Daunt is “selling reading”, and that this is an attempt to keep his chain (and bookselling in general) relevant in a digital age by offering, effectively, what Amazon is exceedingly poor at - “curation”, presenting to the customer things they might want that they never knew existed and making it easy to find good stuff.

But - and I’m not the only one by any chalk to think similar things - given that ebook sales are rapidly overtaking print (albeit print, especially for big, colourful non-fic - photo and fashion books, some types of text books, etc. etc., though the iPad-only ibooks will and are making inroads here too - won’t die out completely), and given that you have to sustain massive amounts of very expensive town centre real estate and staffing costs, it seems insane, totally, utterly, insane, to say: “Sure, we’ll accept only making x% on what we would’ve had from the dwindling print sales to feed from a growing portion of electronic ones that are, nevertheless, cutting our existing sales base off at the knees, while you work on figuring out how to better curate your own content so we won’t be needed, and in the meantime we’ll make it seem more ordinary to buy via your hardware until we exist only as a sort of vestigial showroom storefront, commercially and financially fucked, while you kick on into the future.”

Obviously my own opinion is showing through there. I doubt anyone actually said that when Bezos invited Daunt to the Death Star and told him to turn or be destroyed, but I imagine that will turn out to be more or less the gist of the deal.

Waterstones isn’t B&N, it doesn’t have its own hardware and ebook storefront known across the land and beyond as the Other Place to buy books. It’s sold the Sony ereader for a few years (though I’ve never noticed much push for a matching online storefront, however much I’m sure that one exists), and presumably that experiment tanked. The management - and if, as that profile of Daunt suggests, he’s kept most stores open and encouraged, in a few at least, a return to the more independent buying habits of the pre-hub days, he’s to be applauded - clearly see the future as being primarily digital. It’s just a shame that they seem to have settled for slowly turning the company into something between a living museum and a UK customer service front end for Amazon while all the money-making happens out the back in the parent organisation’s HQ inside a hollowed-out volcano. Shaped like a skull.

“I’m selling reading,” says Daunt, who shares my view that, from many perspectives, this is a golden age for the consumer. “We have to insinuate ourselves into the process, and we have to be seamless.” On closer examination, “seamless” turns out to mean persuading Waterstones customers to choose an e-reader (and ebooks) through a Waterstones-sponsored device. Daunt won’t say when this will happen – “it’s the bit we have to get right” – but it’s imminent. “We’ll be different from Amazon,” he says, with characteristic ebullience, “and we’ll be better.”

Huh. I see.

I call the people who say such things the Gutenbourgeois. They believe in the cultural primacy of writers and editors and they feel good—even a bit superior—about working in publishing. They believe it is their job to drive culture forward. The web, they are a little proud to admit, confuses them. They say: “We gave away all those short stories on our website but it sold no books.” Or: “We built a promo site for our famous author who does the crime novels and it was just a total boondoggle with no traffic.” Or: “The magazine can’t get enough pageviews, even after we hired the famous blogger. Now management wants to make people pay for access.”

“Look,” I say, “maybe you’re doing it wrong.”

“But,” they say, “we tweet.”

That’s when I tell them about the fundamental question of the web.

Aidan: I’m going to be really smart for the wedding.

Me: I know, mate. We’ve got your suit all ready for you.

Aidan: … But if I go to another wedding, I’m going to dress really smart. I’ll wear jeans, and a jumper, and a top, and trainers that are black and yellow, and socks with advertizements on them. Do you know what ‘advertizements’ are?

Me: What are they?

Aidan: They’re pictures of town halls. I’m going to be so smart.

There is a window of opportunity now to expand upon the concept of a publisher-centric ebook hub, to take Pottermore’s partial blueprint and use it to futureproof publishing.

No. Just no. Just fucking… I mean, Pinterest? No. Fucking no. I hate Pinterest. I hate everything about Pinterest. I hate how it looks. I hate how it works. I hate the word ‘Pinterest’. If you’ve signed up to Pinterest, then I hate you. In fact, the only things stopping me from coming over there and punching your jaw off for having a Pinterest account right now are a) I don’t know where you live, and b) even if I did, there’s a strong statistical likelihood that you’ve got a mural of a fucking cupcake on your living room wall.

The charming Kate Horsley has invited me to judge Crimeculture’s new genre-bending Sherlock Holmes flash fic competition. What does this mean? It means Crimeculture are running a genre-bending Sherlock Holmes flash fic competition! Entry’s free, deadline’s June 15th and all the details including prizes and delicious things are on Crimeculture’s website.

My past ventures up this alley are lost to the mists of the internet (mid 2005 was a long time and several computers and site iterations ago), though I did manage to rescue one from the Wayback Machine last year. Kate’s included it in the ‘about your awesome, brilliant judge’ page, and I’ve just cross-linked it myself, but let’s include the whole shebang below. Enjoy!

Cthulhu Holmes & The Case Of The Missing Brother

The clock had barely chimed two in the afternoon when the young woman knocked somewhat nervously on the door. Cthulhu Holmes had been out on one of His customary strolls along the Thames, and was playfully tossing a seaman from tentacle to tentacle, teasing him with the horror of the fate that had already befallen two of his shipmates. The eyes of the poor wretch were white, rolled back in his head with terror, and he screamed and yowled piteously.

Hearing the knock, the great detective hurled the petrified man into His gaping maw and swallowed with every sign of satisfaction before Mrs Hudson showed the woman into Holmes’ drawing room. She was young and pretty, dressed in a sensible velvet dress and coat the colour of red wine, but was pale and trembling slightly, and had been before she even laid eyes on the great detective.

“Oh, Mr Holmes,” she said, averting her gaze from His monstrosity. “I could think of no one else who could help me. My name is Elizabeth Dawkins. Something terrible has happened to my brother William. Not two days ago, he disappeared while visiting an old friend in Putney, and now I fear someone is trying to kill me!”

YOUR DEATH MEANS NOTHING TO A BEING OF UNIMAGINABLE HORROR THAT WILL CONSUME ALL MANKIND ON THE DAY THIS WORLD SINKS INTO ETERNAL NIGHT BENEATH THE SCREAMING BLACK WINGS OF THE BYAKHEES, Holmes’ thoughts tore through the minds of those present.

“But Mr Holmes,” the woman said when she regained consciousness, “I must know what happened to my brother and why those responsible seek me too. This mysterious note arrived this morning. Surely you can deduce something from it?”

Holmes curled His tentacles in distaste. I KNOW EVERYTHING THERE IS TO KNOW ABOUT YOU. I READ YOUR PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE LIKE AN OPEN BOOK. NO PART OF YOUR BODY OR SOUL IS HIDDEN FROM THE ALL-SEEING EYES OF GREAT CTHULHU.

The great detective collected His deerstalker and ate a Meerscham for good measure. Miss Dawkins raised her gaze in hope and was instantly stricken blind in one eye at the sheer horror of the squamous form that stood in front of her. “Then, you will help me?” she said.

Cthulhu Holmes nodded slowly. YOU SHALL ACCOMPANY ME TO PUTNEY. He turned to His right. YOU TOO, WATSON. DO YOU HAVE YOUR TRUSTY SERVICE REVOLVER?

The doctor gibbered with excitement and produced a pistol from one detritus-filled pocket. It did not appear to be loaded, but Watson seemed unconcerned by this trivial detail. He waved it feverishly in the air, crying, “Ia! Ia!” in a piercing falsetto before happily defecating in his trousers.

Holmes led them through the winding cobbled streets of Putney before coming to a halt before a derelict cloth warehouse whose painted logo had long peeled into obscurity. He shouldered His bulk through the stonework, bricks bouncing harmlessly from His rubbery hide, His two companions in close attendance.

Tied to a chair against the wall was a respectable-looking young man, no doubt William Dawkins. Five men sat, twisting in surprise and shock at the sudden intrusion, by a table to one side. Two instantly turned white and collapsed, clutching at their hearts, two more were swept up by Cthulhu’s mighty claws and devoured, and the last was set upon by the giggling Watson, who cracked open his skull with the butt of his pistol and began to feast on the dripping brain matter inside.

Miss Dawkins ran to her brother’s side and began to loosen his bonds. “Oh, Elizabeth,” he gasped. “They were trying to get me to tell them where the Unholy Tome of V’Hnii was hidden! Thank goodness I gave it to you for safe keeping! But however did you find me?”

“It was all Mr Holmes,” she said, turning to look back at her brother’s saviour as He picked a tattered shoe from between His teeth. The single glance was enough to send her blind in her remaining eye and she began to shake uncontrollably.

“How can I ever thank you, Mr Holmes?” William asked, doing his best to ignore the slurping sounds coming from the doctor’s direction.

YOUR EVER-LASTING SOUL SHALL SERVE AT THE ETERNAL COURT OF AZATHOTH THE MAD GOD AT THE HEART OF THE UNIVERSE, the great detective replied, reaching out one claw and plucking William’s head from his shoulders. AND YOUR SISTER’S SOUL SHALL DANCE AND SHRIEK TO THE INSANITY OF THE MAD GOD’S SONG.

With that, He leaned down and tore the unfortunate woman in two with His tentacles.

“I say! Good work, Holmes! Heeheeheehee!” Dr Watson said, before returning to his feast of brains.