I got some samples of the dust jacket of Practically Perfect this week. I've known what it looks like for some time now--hey, you've known what it looks like for some time now, unless this is your first visit here, in which case look to the right. There 'tis.
There's something very exciting, though, about having the actual physical thing. Stephanie and I were talking a couple of weeks ago about the benefits of hard copy versus the internet. For one, it's just awfully nice to have portable reading. (Every evening, I'm eagerly awaiting the scenario in which I can turn on the fireplace and flop down on the couch with my blanket and Jane Smiley's Ten Days in the Hills.The physical stuff is an important part of this scenario.)
For two, the screen requires a certain kind of writing (like the radio does): shorter sentences and a different kind of rhythm. It becomes physically uncomfortable otherwise, unless you have Super Eyes. And the posture of steel to park it in your computer chair for a few hours. I think very few people would read the same sort of long, chewy reporting onscreen as they would on pages.
Of course, Stephanie and I are biased. We publish Brain, Child. But Steph pointed out that having the physical magazine is something both that's truly a tangible benefit and something that's hard to tout to readers. (We'd both read that Malcolm Gladwell piece about people being notoriously bad at predicting what will make them happy.) I suggested that maybe our next house ad should be: Brain, Child. It's paper.
Anyway, I got a huge kick at seeing the dust jacket. The blue is brilliant in real life, and the paper is super glossy, as if you could use Windex on it. Rock on, art department, I say!
Confidential to Myrtle: Joyce says she's not promiscuous.