A rediversification of the book world needs to happen in order for some new vigor to come to the fore. I could see a larger publisher creating a great web of relationships with quality small independent publishers. The larger publisher would limit their exposure while the smaller publishers, who usually occupy their own niche, would probably take more risks to find quality writing. The small publisher would have the benefit of the larger publishers clout in marketing and connections. I could even envision a sort of network on the web as a source for analyzing new work and funneling the best work to the appropriate small publisher. Maybe there could be a bounty, a finder's fee, for the good work. Of course a referring source's reputation would begin to count for everything, so those sources would have to become literate and intelligent. What we would have is a nutrient network that begins to feed the whole system. I know there can be other solutions, but I hope to stimulate some real thinking.

I'd like to skip to the other end of the spectrum, to the writer. For writers of fiction, narrative non-fiction, and poetry their ancient roots lie in the storytelling mystery at the fire. Most of us don't treat writing with awe any longer, don't treat it as a means to contact one of the muses and tell a story with roots in the other side. If writing is held in awe, then language becomes a living delight that threatens to part the veil of existence. These moments of living delight fall within the realm of art. Bringing them to the world involves craft.

I imagine that the storytellers of old had to serve an apprenticeship to get it right. Not only did they have to remember the tales, they had to learn delivery. The storytellers had to be able to weave a spell that could bind their people together. This is in the realm of craft. It takes practice and more practice, hopefully with a skilled guide, but not always. It goes beyond sentence construction that contains a few descriptive adjectives. Nailing a couple of boards together does not make one a master carpenter. Shall we describe a writer as one who knows proper syntax, or is it more than that? These days everyone is in such a hurry that an apprenticeship to words is unthinkable. When we combine a basic impatient narcissism with technology, we not only lose the apprenticeship, we lose the last vestiges of awe and living delight in language. It becomes a daily cataloging of opinions, sorrows, and complaints that keep us mired in our pain. The mystery of language that is supposed to lift us is lost to sight and ear.

Salvaging the the world of language and books is akin to returning awe to the world and bringing a failing ecosystem back to life. Are we ready for this apprenticeship, ready for the long run?