Since apparently some people need the reminder: Letting a book go out of print is not censorship! Books go out of print all the time! I myself have several books that are out of print in various formats. They have not been censored, they just aren’t being printed any more.
If you are yelling censorship because an author’s estate said “Mmmm...nah...let’s not keep printing those...” then I’m not sure what to tell you. Do you want the government to force those people to print the books? That seems excessive.
I must conclude that perhaps you are completely ignorant of the publishing industry, where books are not eternally in print. No, not even with POD. A gazillion books are out of print!
A book not being in print does not, however, cause the existing books on the bookshelves to explode into a rain of confetti. Your memories do not erase themselves. Used bookstores do not set them on fire. They are not banned from libraries.
They just aren’t making the publisher money, or they’re not the direction the publisher wants to go, or the publisher got distracted and it fell through the cracks or any of a few dozen reasons that a publisher might let something go out of print. That’s all.
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Right! Here is your friendly neighborhood Salvia enthusiast weighing in to remind my fellow white people that white sage (Salvia apiana) is sacred to indigenous people, many of which have expressed the desire that we leave it alone because we’re killing it all off!
I am not equipped to talk about the spiritual side, but boy, can I talk about Salvia cultivation, and boy, is S. apiana in a world of hurt! Let’s talk about why!
White sage is a shrub that lives in coastal sage scrub, on the edge of the desert. Amazing habitat, coastal scrub. Still is, even though it has been badly overgrazed by cattle. Cattle don’t eat sage, but they do eat a lot of other things, and their hooves cut up the soil.
Seriously, one of the creepiest drives of my entire life was pre-dawn in hill country. The roads were lined with hundreds of Axis deer, their eyes in headlights. Worse, the blacktop was absolutely smeared in roadkill.
Every few minutes, the lead car would radio back a warning because there’d be a carcass in the middle of the road still intact enough that you’d have to swerve around it. And you’re doing it with these hundreds of pale white eyes staring at you out of the gloom.
90% of the conversations I have with other authors about our books consists of stuff like “This book is not working, I will never finish it, my editor will have me killed,” “I will die before that book earns out,” and “That book over there did well, god knows why.”
Conversations I do NOT have: “The symbolism of this book is deep and meaningful.” “That book is an exploration of themes of loss and longing.” “I wore pants while writing that other book.”
10% is one of us saying enthusiastically “Okay, but I LOVED your book!” and then the author gets flustered and says “oh my god I didn’t actually expect you to read it wow thank you jeez”
So Shep and I have to go into The Big City for errands (aka Apex) or rather I have to go and Shep came because I promised them free food. Errands concluded, we go to Noodles & Company.
It is empty.
The lights are on. The computers are on. The drinks machine hums with ice. But there are no humans. It is empty.
We wait, but no one comes to take our order.
All is silent.
Has the noodle Rapture occurred? Were the employees taken and we were judged unworthy?
“hello...?” I call, at a volume low enough that I don’t feel I am imposing, and thus, no one can possibly hear it.
So a CERTAIN CANINE REPROBATE who has impeccable eyeliner and absolutely no shame whatsoever dug a hole under the fence and escaped into the woods. After fruitless callin, we got in the truck to go to the next street over, where Hound has meandered in the past.
While Kevin was having a deeply Southern conversation with the neighbor who’s driveway we wound up in, @LizardbethArt texts that Hound is on the front porch, sans collar, going “HI HOUND IS BEAUTIFUL AND WISHES TO BE INSIDE NOW”
Hound’s adventure included a mud puddle. She has now had a bath. Her look of horrified betrayal would put Cleopatra’s wrath at Marc Antony to shame.