Ken Bilderback

I just read an essay by Harper’s Magazine Editor John MacArthur in which, among other things, he lauds newspaper headline writers.

The headline on his essay is: “Internet con men ravage publishing.” I wrote newspaper headlines for many, many years, so I appreciate the shout out, but I also think I have a more appropriate headline for his piece: “YOU RATZLE-FRATZLE KIDS GET OFF MY DAMNED LAWN!!!!”

My quibble is not with MacArthur’s point about headline writers; it’s with just about every other word of the essay. He’s still fighting the battles of 20 years ago, when print publishers first began to realize their business model was doomed by a fledgling industry called the internet, which seemed to be run entirely by Pepsi-guzzling college-age kids in baggy sweatshirts. Like nearly all of his colleagues back then, MacArthur haughtily dismissed these dreamers as “ideologues.” Sadly, perhaps pathetically, like many of his colleagues, he still does.

Sorry, Mr. MacArthur, but you are the ideologue in this debate, and you’re clinging to ideals that died years ago. Specifically, he clings to the belief that there is no possible business model to be built from free content on the web. To make his point, he has to gloss over the fact that since the advent of radio and television, most news has been delivered free to the consumer. Of course, the free model existed in print even before then and continues to this day; most free alternative weeklies and neighborhood shoppers aren’t hurting appreciably worse than their paid-circulation cousins.

But the threat of television was child’s play compared to the threat posed by the internet. For all of its advantages, TV was a clear loser to print in both spatial and temporal reach. The newspaper was more portable and permanent than the flickering airwaves from broadcast towers in faraway cities, but the internet solved both of those problems, plus an even greater challenge: The ability to filter through vast amounts of data, which meant newspapers now had to compete head-to-head with other sources of information, including the original sources of much of what they print. It also blew newspapers’ biggest cash cow, classified advertising, off the map.

He addresses the television challenge in passing, quickly dismissing the effect it had on newspapers.  While he is correct that newspapers survived that challenge, he misses the fact that they didn’t escape unscathed. By the time of TV’s ubiquity in our culture, the newspaper industry’s proudest statistic, household penetration, was in steep decline. As Baby Boomers swelled the ranks of adults, our sheer numbers helped mask the grave threat this decline posed. Circulation kept rising, but at a rate far slower than the population of adults.

The ideologue in Mr. MacAuthur flails wildy at the challenges to his certitude, causing him to, among other things, sing the praises of junk mail. Yes, even junk mail is preferable to any online journalism in his fanatical mind.

Sadly, the essay is from a speech he gave to graduate journalism students. I guess he thinks he’s helping to shape impressionable young minds. Kind of like your grumpy old neighbor, stooping to pick up his newspaper while screaming at the kids to stay off his lawn.

Addendum: I agree with MacArthur’s point about paying journalists, but I don’t agree that feeding the increasingly monolithic corporate publishing machine is the only (or best) way to do so.

The following is an excerpt from Creek With No Name: How the West was Won (and Lost) in Gaston, Oregon, available in paperback and for Kindle. All material copyright Ken Bilderback 2011. All rights reserved:

In 1916, most folks in Gaston fought their way across the area’s bumpy, rutted roads with horses. Even the few early automobile enthusiasts often had to rely on horses, if only to pull their cars out of the mud, and many of Gaston’s stodgy rural stock still scoffed at the automobile.

Gaston wasn’t really that far behind the curve, however, because 1916 also was the year that the first tank was introduced into World War I. Until then, the world’s armies had fought their way through battlefield trenches mostly on foot and horseback. In 1916, even many of Detroit’s great industrial pioneers hadn’t fully jumped on the automotive bandwagon.

Take Horace Dodge, for example. By 1916, Horace was a rich man. He had, after all, invented the dirt-free ball bearing, a critical element in allowing cars to maneuver the country’s dusty dirt roads. Horace had not invented the ball bearing with cars in mind, however, but rather for another modern marvel, the printing press. But that’s not to say that Horace wasn’t an early adapter to modern transportation. He and his brother were all over the new-fangled bicycle when it came to America in the late 1800s.

Living in Detroit, it was only natural that Horace would benefit from the rise of the Motor City, and he did so by branching into building motors for people such as Ransom Olds and Henry Ford. When World War I came along, the country needed all the industrial might it could muster to build motorized weapons to match the inventions of Britain, France and Germany. Horace Dodge did his part by building ambulances for the war effort. Finally in late 1917, Horace Dodge decided that maybe there really was a consumer market for these gizmos, and he sold his first automobile to the American public.

So if it took one of Detroit’s great pioneers until 1917 to finally go all in on the automobile, one can’t be too harsh on Gaston’s great pioneers to do the same. Take, for example, Joseph Bates, who one might say actually beat Dodge to that conclusion, if only by a few months. By 1917, Joseph Bates was 92, and had never traveled by automobile. It’s not as if Joseph Bates hadn’t traveled, either, because he had. Oh, had he ever.

Joseph Bates came to the Oregon Territory from Vermont as a young man, but he remained fiercely devoted to his mother and sisters, whom he had left behind there. He was delighted when gleaming new steam-powered ships made ocean travel much faster, enabling him to visit his family back in what he referred to as “The States,” despite the fact that by then Oregon had been a state itself for a full five years. Apparently Old Joe was sometimes slow to adapt.

He set out in January 1864 on a steamer out of Portland. Well, technically he didn’t leave until February 3, because his ship had run into another steamer in the port, so his trip was delayed. We know all this because luckily for all of us, Joseph Bates kept a detailed diary of the amazing adventure he was about to embark upon. Finally on his way, he sailed 60 miles up the Columbia on his long journey when the ship he was on ran aground. The tide lifted the ship overnight and the next morning they were on their way for real.

Joe didn’t sail all the way to Vermont on that ship, however, but rather only to Panama, where he crossed the isthmus to the Atlantic. Of course this was long before the Panama Canal, so he had to cross on land. He hadn’t brought with him one of his trusty old Oregon farm horses (or “dobbins,” as they were called) and there were no cars back then; in fact, it would be 20 years before people such as Horace Dodge brought even bicycles to the continent. So Joseph Bates walked across the mountains to his ship on the other side. From Panama he steamed up the coast to New England and saw his beloved mother once again.

He decided he didn’t want to make the return trip to Oregon by steamer, so he began the 3,000 mile journey back home by train. He stopped in Dodge’s native Michigan, albeit four years before Horace was born and more than 30 before the automobile’s birth, and spent several weeks in Detroit visiting family. Finally in Iowa, one-third of the way home to Oregon, Joseph Bates decided he wanted a different mode of transportation, so he bought two mules and rode the remaining 2,000 miles across the Plains and over the Rockies and Cascades, mostly alone but joining with wagon trains whenever there were rumors of Indian ambushes.

Anyway, the point is that Joseph Bates had always gotten around just fine without an automobile. But then in February 1917, his friend John Baxter showed up at the Bates’ home in Gaston, driving a car. It’s not surprising that Baxter would be susceptible to fads, because he was much younger than Joseph; Baxter was only 84.

“Why not trade off old Dobbin and get you a car, too?” Baxter asked his friend. We know all this because luckily for all of us there was a correspondent for The Oregonian present at the meeting. “It’s a good idea, John,” Joseph Bates replied. “I’ll do it!”

His decision did not sit well with his family, however, who had some “consternation” about the image of Joe Bates learning to drive at age 92; they didn’t want him to kill himself with an automobile after the rich, full life he had led. Family members kept an eye on Old Joe, concerned about him “falling victim to a fast-talking car salesman.” Fortunately for the Bates family, there weren’t a lot of car salesmen in Gaston in 1917, and even the fastest talker among them would have to be “one with a very loud voice” to close the deal with the nearly stone-deaf Bates. We know all this because luckily for all of us, his granddaughter Mary Patton Kurtz wrote about it for the Washington County Historical Society in 1976. The family prevailed, and Joseph Bates never did drive a car, although he did nearly kill himself with one.

Walking out to see the new automobile bridge over the Tualatin River one morning, Kurtz tells us, Joseph Bates, oblivious to the aahoooga of automobile horns, walked right into the path of “a Model T, which knocked him down and dragged him around, scraping the hair and flesh away from his skull and leaving the bone visible.” The doctor said he would surely die, either from the injury or from the resulting shock. But “live he did,” his granddaughter tells us, and “the hair grew back on his scalp as thick as ever. Grandfather was a hardy man.”

But Grandfather Bates never bought a car. A few months later, back in Detroit, Horace Dodge and his brother John sold their first car, most likely to a much younger man, no older than, say, 84.

John Dodge, it is said, was a very fast-talking salesman.

The following represents my personal thoughts and in no way represents the opinions of the Gaston Rural Fire District, the Gaston Volunteer Fire Department or of their management and members.

Not too many years ago, police and fire agencies had no effective way to communicate with the people we serve.

On rare occasions one of the local newspapers or television stations would report on one of our calls, but usually hours or even days after the incident took place. In the interim, rumors, questions and speculation already had spread through town.

The advent of the internet, smartphones, digital cameras and other technology has changed all that, giving us effective tools to inform and even interact with our public, sometimes while we’re still at the scene of the incident. That’s mostly a good thing for everyone, although it also places new burdens and responsibilities on our shoulders.

When a call comes into a fire department, it usually involves bad news for someone: someone usually is sick, or has just lost their house, their car, or even a loved one. In a small town like Gaston, the person suffering that loss often is someone we know. Sometimes it’s a neighbor, a loved one, or even one of our own volunteers.

When the call is for things such as house fires or accidents on a busy highway, our volunteers pull out of the station with mixed emotions: eager and ready to help, but also worried about what we will see when we arrive. Fortunately, we rarely encounter the worst possible scenario. Usually no one has died or been horribly injured.

Yet even the best-case scenario in these situations usually isn’t good. Even when the people involved haven’t suffered any broken bones they’re still suffering in some way. They’re fearful, or anxious about their loss. Their minds are racing with thoughts such as “Where will I live?” or “How will I get to work without a car?” In other words, the volunteers of Gaston Fire see things they don’t want to see nearly every day.

At the same time, just as often we see some ray of hope. We see good Samaritans who have risked their own safety to help strangers, or drivers who have walked away from an accident that looks like it could have killed someone. We see people who, as they watch their home burn or their mangled car towed, react with grace and courage.

We often also take away important lessons. Veteran firefighters usually are careful about what they put in their woodstoves, or about leaving flammable objects near a fireplace, or about where they start a backyard burn. We become attuned to dangerous stretches of road that might have appeared perfectly safe until we respond to numerous accidents at the same place. We see first-hand how weather conditions can affect driving in unanticipated ways.

And always, we gain new empathy for the people we serve. We all have left a pan on the stove, or forgotten to clean the lint from our dryer, or taken our eyes off the road to adjust the temperature in our car … and we know that even when we take every precaution, sometimes bad things just happen to good people. The images of what we see stay with us, and often affect how we live.

After the call, we face questions from friends and relatives, nearly always about the welfare of the people involved. “Was anybody hurt?” “Did they lose everything?” “Do they have anyone who can help them?” Until recently, we could answer those questions only one-on-one. The dozens (or hundreds) of other people who saw the house burn or drove past the accident, or who were stuck in long delays or detours, never learned the truth of what happened.

That brings us to our new dilemma. It’s wonderful to be able to tell everyone what’s going on. In fact, as taxpayers, you have a right to know, with a few legal restrictions. We are in the public spotlight more than ever as taxpayers rightfully demand openness and transparency from their public agencies. So we’re proud to tell you what’s happening in your backyard and how your tax dollars are being spent. The dilemma is HOW to tell you.

We can tell you in a terse sentence: “A house burned on Patton Valley Road,” or “There’s an accident at Laurelwood and LaSalle Road,” leaving you with more questions than answers. We can try to explain further with words, but sometimes words can’t convey the tragedy or miraculous good news as well as a picture can. That old adage, “a picture is worth a thousand words,” is repeated as often as it is for good reason.

In our case, a picture can help you understand what happened at the incident you viewed from afar. It can help you see the response you can expect if such a thing ever happens to you or a loved one. It can let you see the faces of the volunteers who answer the call and the dangers and miserable conditions they have to work in. Of course, at the same time, a picture can offer a graphic look at the heartache the people involved must feel.

At Gaston Fire, we have chosen to use social media such as Facebook and Twitter to communicate to you and with you. Social media provide an unprecedented opportunity for our taxpayers to ask questions or criticize us publicly for the decisions we make. We listen, and your feedback helps shape how we’ll interact in the future.

In recent years, Gaston Fire has added a volunteer charged with shaping communication policies. That person is me, Ken Bilderback. My background includes 30 years as a newspaper reporter and editor, as well as certification as a National Fire Protection Association Public Information Officer and a slew of other public safety certifications. I don’t say that to suggest the decisions I make are right, just that I take my role very seriously.

Sometimes I wonder why I volunteer for what is so often a thankless job. Some people are angry, feeling that their privacy has been invaded, that we have simply added insult to injury, while others are upset I don’t release even more information; I have faced some harsh criticism and even threats for doing my job.

I do it because I think it’s important. It’s important for our volunteers to get credit for their extreme bravery and sacrifice, and for our taxpayers to see first-hand how we do our jobs. I do it because it gives each of you an opportunity to share your thoughts about what we do, for better or worse. And I do it for personal moments such as the time the homeowner of a house fire tracked me down, not to complain but to thank me for the pictures I took. I think what he said neatly sum up how I feel after witnessing the pain of almost every call we go on: “It was a tragedy, but it’s also an important memory. The pictures remind us of what we lost, but also of what’s really important: that we’re still alive.”

The following is an excerpt from Creek With No Name: How the West was Won (and Lost) in Gaston, Oregon, available in paperback and for Kindle. All material copyright Ken Bilderback 2011. All rights reserved:

The motives of those suspected of hiding secret lives remain unclear as well. Why would a man live like a hermit in a decrepit shack if he really was a millionaire? Why would a man who lived a life of international intrigue suddenly turn up as pastor at an old wooden church in the foothills of Oregon’s Coast Range? Why would a quiet rancher warrant a raid by federal agents?

The case of Louis Rader is the easiest of the three to solve. Rader was the subject of many stories in The Oregonian after his arrest, but the basis of his story is revealed in the cascading headlines on the very first article, which appeared on the doorsteps of Portlanders on the morning of June 27, 1923. The story involved a planned visit to Portland by President Warren G. Harding, and the main headline blared: “Farmer Threatens Life of President.” The first subhead elaborated on the evidence against him: “Rancher of Gaston Arrested for Writing Letter.”

On the surface, a letter threatening the life of a President about to visit the area sounds pretty damning. Upon closer inspection, however, the letter seems more a statement of confusion than confession. The letter was written to the Portland Chamber of Commerce and contains this threat, or possible threat: “Now friends this nice morning I have a hunch here it is President Harding will be called this month on a Fryday to a high court where he will give account to the above mention.”

OK, so maybe the letter itself left a little doubt about his motives, but this is where Mr. Rader’s small-town neighbors enter the drama. Rader is described as “a grizzled (sic) little German, short of stature, stockily built, with a cheerful, good-natured disposition.” But neighbors told investigators of a darker side to this immigrant from Europe who, they said, was hiding a past as a radical in his faraway homeland of Germany. While he had managed to escape to America, neighbors said, many of his fellow radicals remained imprisoned back home, and he hoped to avenge what he saw as injustices perpetrated against them. Rader was, his neighbors in Gaston told the agents, much too dangerous to remain free while Harding was in the area. Another of the subheads in the Oregonian story summed up the neighbor’s accounts: “Louis Rader, Elderly German, Who Is Said to Be Erratic, Forecasts Death of Harding.”

Louis Rader, however, was never charged with any crime, freed in part by the meaning of the word “forecasts.” The final subhead elaborates: “BLAME LAID TO SPIRITS.” The spirits that led to Rader’s arrest were not the kind being distilled in the steep hills of moonshine territory across the valley, either. They were “celestial spirits” who spoke regularly to Louis Rader, guiding every aspect of his life. It seems that while his nosy neighbors were speculating about him conspiring with radicals, he really was conspiring with unseen apparitions to lay bare the future. These spirits had sent him a prophecy that Harding would die in Portland.

It was ghosts, not Rader, who predicted this foul turn of events, but the Feds had no jurisdiction to arrest the ghosts so Rader was the one who found himself in jail. Rader’s luck improved while he languished behind bars, however, when he got yet another message from his guiding spirits, telling him that they had been wrong about Harding’s impending doom in the Rose City. Louis Rader shared the good news with prosecutors and was released to return home to Gaston.

Of course Warren G. Harding did not die on his visit to Portland, where he gave a triumphant speech to nearly 30,000 people at Civic Stadium on the Fourth of July before continuing on to British Columbia and then north to Alaska. He even visited Portland again on his return train trip, but this time he had to cancel a planned speech because he unexpectedly fell ill between Seattle and Portland. So no, Warren G. Harding did not die in Portland. He died a couple of days later in San Francisco from the sudden illness that thwarted his second Portland appearance.

Louis Rader was wrong on another count: Harding did not die on a “Fryday”; he died late on a Thursday night. Nonetheless, Rader felt vindicated and a few days later wrote a letter to The Oregonian from his farm in Gaston. In it, he said: “You know now I did not miss it very much.”

We don’t know if Louis Rader ever was an agent provocateur as his nosy neighbors alleged. Regardless, it wasn’t his life before arriving in Gaston that made him interesting. It was his life on his little ranch that earned Louis Rader a spot in history.

In the 1990s I decided to try solo mountain climbing, which was a foolish decision made even more foolish by the fact that I had no training or experience in climbing mountains.

Somehow, out of sheer stubbornness I was successful in a surprising number of these ascents, and those successes fueled a self-confidence that carried me to my greatest successes, both professional and personal.

Standing at the summit of a mountain, even a relatively small mountain, is as exhilarating as anything I’ve ever experienced, made even more special by the knowledge that no one, including me, would have thought I could do it.

Each such experience is different; even the same mountain never yields the same experience twice. One time you might find yourself in bright sunshine, surrounded by an endless sea of clouds below you. You find yourself on a deserted island with nothing in sight but the summits of a select few other mountains, enjoying an experience that is, for a moment, yours alone, unique in all the world. The next time the same peak might offer unobstructed views below of crowded cities and remote mountain lakes and golden eagles soaring high above the Earth, yet not nearly as high as you, one of the most Earthbound creatures on the planet.

One unseasonably hot September I felt the urge to climb a mountain. An unseasonably hot September is a bad time to conquer most peaks, because the snow and ice is very unstable. Bachelor Butte, however, was surprisingly bare of snow that cloudless, sizzling summer day, rendering it more of a strenuous hike than a climb. I had been to the top several times before without incident, so off I went, dressed in shorts and T shirt but carrying warm clothes, just in case.

Before long, the thermometer on my pack registered an even 100 degrees, much warmer than the forecast high. The eastern sky also was defying the forecast, producing billowing white clouds. The extreme heat slowed my ascent, giving the clouds time to build into suddenly black, roiling masses. Pondering my options, I decided that making it toward the top and to the relative safety of the ski lift terminal might be safer than trying to climb back down into the disorienting darkness.

Soon I encountered a young couple, both experienced climbers, who affirmed my decision. Together we headed toward the building, reaching it just as frigid gale-force winds swooshed up the mountain. We watched as our thermometers plunged toward freezing, and suddenly we were in a whiteout of ice pellets that felt as though they could penetrate our skin in the howling wind. We were, I think, prepared to weather the storm, although that didn’t completely alleviate my anxiety. We decided to spend the night on the leeward side of the structure, hoping for sun the next morning.

As it turns out, we didn’t need to wait nearly that long. Within minutes the last of the storm blew off toward the east, and the sun re-emerged. The temperature rose just as quickly, which gave us only moments to gape at the ice crystals that had formed from the cracks in the rocks. By the time I dug my camera from my pack, the best of the formations already had melted or broken.

The skies suddenly clear again, we started down the mountain, and I was happy to have company for a change. Not because I was scared. Far from it; the bright sun and the idle chairlifts created the perfect path and conditions for a smooth and rapid descent. Instead, I valued the company of these strangers because they affirmed what I had just experienced, even if each of us described it in different terms and with a slightly different sense of how long and how scary it actually had been. We soon split up, because the young woman was developing shin splints from our quick descent, and I wanted to get back to Bend to have my amazing pictures developed to share with friends.

The pictures turned out to be less than amazing. I had missed the moment, and even my best shots couldn’t capture the context of an ice storm on perhaps the year’s hottest day. That evening in my hotel room I watched the local news to see what other effects this unexpected storm had created, but there was no word of it on the news. In fact, the lead story was of people tanning and trying to stay cool in the sweltering sun, oblivious to the storm clouds around them. My experience had not been completely unique, because I had shared it with two total strangers. Still, as I looked out over Bend at dusk, watching commuters headed home from their air-conditioned offices or days of physical labor in the blazing heat, I felt I was privy to a magical secret, as though for a few moments I had been transported to a parallel reality in a world most people didn’t know existed. As I went to bed that night I couldn’t wait to climb more mountains, to acquire more such experiences.

The experience spurred me to tackle higher and more difficult climbs, but I never again reached the summit of a mountain. The climbs I chose all proved to be a little too high or a little too difficult for me, and each exhilarating day ended with me trudging down the mountain cloaked in noble failure. Settling again for lesser conquests held no magic, so by my late 30s, my climbing days soon were over.

“Climbing days” is an accurate measurement of my alpine adventures, which lasted only about three years, a mere blink of the eye for a now 56-year-old man. Still, those few days created many years of memories and pride. Writing about this chapter in my life is somewhat embarrassing, because I would never undertake anything so foolish today. I’m too old, too sedate, too broken down for that nonsense I left so long ago in my past. Among other things, my old-age-afflicted knees are shot, and the pain, perhaps appropriately, affects me more when I’m walking downhill than when I’m ascending. The forces of nature have a way of pulling a body down much faster than one might want to go of his own accord.

I don’t think about those reckless days often, but when I do I swell with a certain odd sense of pride despite the fact I know that I wouldn’t, and couldn’t, do it all again. I’m thinking about those days right now because I heard an old Kris Kristofferson song the other day. The song’s message is, for my readers, a trite cliché unworthy of a true writer. I prefer to think that I might see a meaning in the lyrics that others (maybe , for example, the people who spend too many days in air-conditioned offices), might miss.

“If all he ever gets is older and around,” Kristofferson wrote, “the going up was worth the coming down.”

You now can find Creek With No Name and Wheels on the Bus in all formats at one place on my Amazon Author Page. Amazon Prime customers can read either book for free.

Better yet, if you have read either book you can leave a review or start a discussion about them.

Regardless, thanks for being a fan!

The Yamhill County History Museum in Lafayette is the latest outlet for Creek With No Name, joining Corner Antiques in Forest Grove and these fine Gaston stores: the Gaston Market, the One Horse Tavern, the 3 Layer Quilt Shop and Plum Hill Vineyards.

When you buy the book at any of those outlets, you will get a signed copy AND you will be supporting a local business or organization.

The book also is available in paperback or Kindle version at Amazon.com, if you are outside the area.

Third Street Books in McMinnville, Oregon, is making national news by taking on amazon.com.

When small bookstores stage stunts such as Third Street’s (bring in proof that you canceled your Amazon account and get a 15 percent discount), the message is that consumers are standing up against corporate greed. In reality, consumers are being duped into doing the opposite.

I am an avid supporter of local businesses, especially the ones along Third Street. Third Street is the main drag through McMinnville, which is one of the most beautiful and vibrant small towns in America. You won’t find corporate chain stores along Third, just a series of unique restaurants and stores carrying merchandise from local producers. Although my wife and I live as close to Portland as we do to McMinnville, “Mac’s” Third Street is our preferred destination for special dinners and holiday shopping.

I’m an even bigger supporter of small businesses in a little town a few miles up the road from McMinnville: Gaston. Gaston is my home and the subject of my latest book, which nearly every local store carries. I could sell those books myself out of the back of my car and eliminate the middleman, but I want local businesses to prosper. I want the struggling local merchants to get a cut of each book sold, and the chance to show off the unique products or services they offer to those coming in to buy a book or to have a copy signed.

One might think that I would be a prime target audience for gimmicks such as Third Street Books, but in reality the owner’s call to boycott Amazon feels like something of a personal attack. I can survive quite nicely without Third Street Books, but without Amazon I cannot survive as a small local business (remember, self-publishing is a business).

I have ample evidence that I can survive without Third Street Books because the owner declined to carry my first book, even when I offered her free copies to sell as a test after being honored at a major book festival. That rejection stung, but also motivated me to concentrate on new business models. It helped me realize that small bookstores, which I had hoped would be my major sales channel, were instead irrelevant to my success.

They were, sadly, in some ways almost worse than irrelevant. The small bookstores that did carry my first book bought it at extremely sweet prices, and I got a royalty that amounted to a tiny fraction of what I would get through Amazon. Most of those small bookstores then turned around and sold it on their Amazon online stores, usually undercutting Amazon by a few pennies per copy. They stole the sale from Amazon, consumers saved 25 cents or so, and I lost dollars on each sale. Perhaps worse yet, some of those stores took me up on the offer of free books, which meant the sales were pure profit for them and pure loss for me.
So instead of realizing my dream of selling my books in charming little stores such as Third Street Books, I sadly decided that for self-preservation I would initially bypass them altogether for my second effort. I say initially because I know that like my first book this one will end up on the shelves of quaint bookstores as used copies, which are highly profitable for the bookstore but from which I don’t see a dime.

I don’t begrudge any bookstore owner’s right to deem my books unworthy of space on their shelves. Some of their customers actually appreciate that screening process. When I objected on Third Street Books’ Facebook page to the store’s attack on Amazon, a customer responded by saying she buys at bookstores because she is “appalled at the crap” self-published authors turn out. It is that customer’s perfect right to shop at stores that fill their shelves with publishing house’s books by authors with names such as Kardashian, Bachmann, Gingrich, Bieber, etc., in lieu of the “crap” produced by self-published writers. But when the owners of those stores go from turning up their noses at my books to trying to deny me any outlet to reach readers, their defense of literature looks more like what it really is: sanctimonious bullshit.

I don’t think most bookstores are malicious; I think the problem is they don’t understand their own industry. One local bookstore owner proudly showed me her “local authors” shelf as proof of her support for independent voices. Every single book on that shelf was used, so the local authors make no money and lose sales they might otherwise have made on Amazon. Meanwhile the prime space in the store was filled with new copies of corporate books, and every selection in the store’s book club for the past year has been a corporate title, many of which the “customers” borrowed from the library or purchased from Wal-Mart or Amazon.

I don’t claim that I have discovered the secret to being a successful self-published author, but the first week for my new book offered promise. Stores in Gaston had trouble keeping them in stock and we filled the One Horse Tavern to standing room only on a typically slow Wednesday night for a book signing. The One Horse made money from a non-traditional source – books – and sold beer and food to a packed house. A tavern owned by a shrewd businesswoman sold more books that day from one independent author than many small bookstores sell by all their corporate authors combined.

In another touch of irony, my wife and I went to McMinnville to celebrate our success. We love it down there. Every store along Third Street features amazing local food, local art, local music and local products of all kinds … with the notable exception of the bookstore, which struggles to survive selling the corporate wares of multinational publishing powerhouses.

I’m not bitter about local bookstores’ rejection of my books. In fact, I’m grateful for the store’s rejection because it forced me to become creative and find ways to sell books in a post-bookstore world. Among other things, it frees me to work with small, local businesses that support other small, local businesses, such as mine. I can share the wealth through sales at museums and other non-profits without a tinge of guilt that I might be hurting a local bookstore.

The rejections actually make me sad for the bookstores, because it proves that even I don’t need them anymore, even in my role as a book lover, supporter of local businesses and author.

Creek With No Name is available online. It has to be or I would go broke. Plus, I make more money from selling on Amazon than I do selling through local stores. But here’s my message: If you can, buy the book at a local business.

The Gaston Market, the One Horse Tavern, the 3 Layer Quilt Shop and Plum Hill Vineyards all enthusiastically carry the book. Up in Forest Grove, Corner Antiques and Collectibles has it for sale on the counter.

When you buy it at one of those places, I share the profit with the owner and the wealth is spread around town. Better yet, if you go to one of those stores to buy a book you might just find something else you like. Your jaw might drop when you see one of Amy’s quilts at the 3 Layer shop. Your mouth might salivate when you see Wendy’s menu and beer list at the One Horse Tavern. You might sample Juanita’s incredible pinot noir at Plum Hill (although Kris suggests you to try the pinot gris instead). When you walk through the unpretentious doors of Jeff’s Gaston Market you’ll find an array of gourmet meats and food you would never expect. And Sue’s Corner Antiques? You could be lost for days.

In short, when you buy the book at a local store, the experience is a little like what you encounter upon opening a book: A little curiosity, a little intrigue, and the hope that you might find a new favorite.

All the books in the stores are signed, although not personalized. Don’t worry, however, because I gladly will add a personal message later.

Please don’t feel guilty if you end up buying the book on Amazon instead, because without Amazon there wouldn’t be a book. Amazon’s subsidiary, CreateSpace, is the publisher and printer for every book, whether you buy it online or in a store. Amazon also is the distributor that allows people outside the Gaston-Forest Grove-McMinnville area to enjoy the book. In short, Amazon is the company that allows me to operate my small publishing business against the wishes of the corporate publishing giants (I’m looking at you, Rupert Murdoch).

And if you do buy the book on Amazon, I’ll sign it for you next time you’re in the area. Maybe I’ll meet you for a beer at the One Horse or a glass of wine at Plum Hill. Maybe we’ll buy a snack at the Gaston Market or look at quilts at the 3 Layer. Want to search for artifacts at Corner Antiques? I’ll meet you there.

After all, buying books should be fun, don’t you think?