Even though it falls at the beginning of June, BEA always gives me a back-to-school feeling: I want to get a new plaid skirt, a box of pencils and a bunch of new books.
At least, this week, I know I'll get the latter.
It has become fashionable to lament the work that goes into attending (much less presenting oneself at) the several trade shows that have become de rigueur in this industry. In fact, such lamentation is almost as fashionable as lamenting the state of the business itself. And yet, every year, publishers, agents and booksellers convene in one major American city or another for BookExpo, for what some have told me is their favorite fair.
Why is this book fair different from all other book fairs?
At other book fairs, we mostly hear about deals; at this book fair, we actually see and receive books.
At other book fairs, we buy and sell usually as-yet-unwritten projects. At this book fair, we see mostly finished ones.
At other book fairs, publishers and agents speak only to (and of) each other. At this book fair, we meet actual booksellers—and maybe even the occasional civilian.
At other book fairs, we compete with each other for deals and party invitations. At this book fair, we do all that and reward publishers and booksellers for hard jobs well done.
All that, plus Billy Crystal. No wonder BEA is popular.
Never mind that BookExpo this year is held in New York, which annoys many of the local publishing folk, who look forward to getting away from their offices for a few days. (They console themselves by saying BEA is good for the city's economy.) Never mind that the fair is held at the Javits Center, which I've never heard anyone claim as a favorite venue. The corny fact is, we like BEA (which, duty requires me to tell you, is owned by Reed Exhibitions, a subsidiary of Reed Elsevier, PW's parent company) because it reminds us of why we do these not altogether financially rewarding jobs in the first place. To paraphrase James Carville: "It's the books, stupid."
To be sure, the convention carries with it a history of politics and infighting, much like the industry that spawned it. For years, at least one major publisher refused to participate, and as independent booksellers fell on hard times, attendance, or its lack, became a politically charged badge of courage. Further, there are plenty who—either by memory failure or, more likely, by design—insist on calling BEA by its former acronym, as if to deny the ways the business has changed. But powerful as these issues are, they should—and usually do—lose their power when everybody actually gets here and starts talking and meeting about the things that they love.
Even for the most cynical among us, it's hard not to get excited about new books—many of which will be available for the first time at BEA—by the likes of E.L. Doctorow and John Berendt and Amy Tan and Bret Easton Ellis. It's hard not to forget your petty squabbles when you find yourself at dinner with people from stores like Books & Books and the Tattered Cover and Book Passage, among many others—people from whom it seems, sometimes, we've been separated at birth, so similar are our sensibilities and interests. BEA, at its best, is like an annual family reunion; you're so happy to see the couple of people you love, you don't even mind listening to that one old uncle who keeps telling the same boring stories.
Besides, publishing is all about stories—and stories are what we live for.
So maybe I don't need a plaid skirt after all.
