You glance into the rear-view mirror and decide to cancel the rest of your morning before anyone else sees you.
66 years old. Far, far too soon.
One of the few authors for whom Kate and I have tried to maintain a complete collection. We've never quite been able to keep up, because this brilliant, funny, angry man was simply so prolific.
He is one of my favorite authors to read; I did so in small doses because even the lightest-seeming book contained themes that deserved weeks or months of reflection.
He was a giant, and he will be missed.
Terry Pratchett kindly posed with his hat for us.
It's difficult, I've found, to figure out what you've got when you finish a big story (and this one is big) – it's like working as a blind sculptor: you know the shape of the thing as you perceive it, but really have no idea if it scans as intended for anyone else.
Kate's approach to reading something new is always as a reader, first and foremost – for the enjoyment of it – and after having put parts of this thing through so many technical feedback loops and workshops, getting a "reader reaction" from someone was so incredibly helpful (and gets me past the post-completion "I suspect this thing I made is terrible" funk.)
The upshot of the conversation was "the story is doing all the things I want it to do," so I'm happy.
I've been thinking about this more and more as I consider the idea of friction — of resistance — in my life, and how to eliminate it.
To paraphrase and subvert the standard definition, technology is the collective term for techniques, methods, and/or processes that make an activity easier. Cooking has tech. Hunting has tech. Manufacturing, from machinery to millinery, has tech. Scientific investigation has tech.
Basically, if it's something humans do, we've come up with tech that makes it easier to do.
Sometimes, we iterate on that tech endlessly (see: ways to kill each other), sometimes, we figure out the best option right away and leave it (see: the wheel and/or lever).
Sometimes – the majority of the time, probably – an attempted improvement to existing tech fails to make The Thing easier (whatever The Thing is). In those instances, the iteration is discarded or is itself iterated on until is does improve The Thing.
This is so obvious it seems silly to say; if you do a thing that makes the existing tech worse, that is failed tech. (Maybe not a failed attempt, if it teaches us something, but it is failed tech.)
In short, good technology – functional technology – reduces friction: it makes the effort required for A Thing, less. If it doesn't do that, it is not technology.
By this definition, DRM – Digital Rights Management – as it is implemented today by various media industries, is not technology.
It's not a failed iteration of technology; if DRM were completely successful in its purpose (it isn't), it still fails to meet the one criterion for technology: it does not reduce friction for whatever Thing it affects. In a perfect world (which, again, this isn't) it might theoretically achieve a state of adding no additional friction, but it will never make friction less.
It is, in short, doing nothing but making things worse.
Today, it makes it harder to get to your stuff. Tomorrow, that difficulty increases, and as time goes on, so does that difficulty, until we reach a point where The Thing no longer works because of this anti-technology.
Until we reach a point where we've lost years or decades of our culture because we let our Things be locked in vaults we didn't control, to benefit people who only exist to sell keys.
This evening, while getting ready for bed, Sean pointed out the lamp on his dresser and said "I have a book about that bear."
The lamp in question is a ceramic sort of thing, the body painted to look like a tree, and the broad base painted to look like grass. On the grass there's a rather mopey looking Eeyore, and Kanga and Roo, and about three quarters of the way up the tree there's a somewhat faded bear, trying to look innocent, with a paw buried inside a hole in the tree.
It's quite an old lamp – I'm pretty sure my mom bought it to decorate my room before I was born, or perhaps a bit after – and it's the reason there's a Winnie the Pooh theme to Sean's room.
Sean has never so much as mentioned it before, ever.
"Yes," I said, "I'm pretty sure you do have a book about that bear. Would you like to read it for bedtime?"
Sean frowned. "No, the book is at school."
(Sean has a very… proprietary relationship with the small classroom library at his pre-school.)
"We have one here too," I explained, and pulled out a very hefty Complete Winnie the Pooh hardcover book from the bottom of his bookshelf. "Do you want me to read you a story?"
"I wanted a super hero story…"
"Well," I said, checking the clock, "I can read you one of each, as a treat."
He considered this, somewhat suspiciously, but seemed moved by the offer of extra stories. "Okay."
So I read the very first Pooh story, in which Pooh climbs a tree for some honey ("Like on the lamp!") and falls back down, and gets help from Christopher Robin in a rain cloud-based bee deception. There was a lot of giggling and complete concentration from Sean.
It's pretty long for a four year old: twenty pages, with only small illustrations, and probably the longest single story he's sat still for, as far as I know.
We finished the story and, as I've done in the past, I told him the title of the next story in the book, so he'd know what to look forward to, and turned to check out the selection of "Golden" super friends stories.
Sean kept looking at the opening illustration of the next story (something about Pooh getting stuck in the door at Rabbit's house… you might have heard of it), and fingering the pages.
"Do you want me to read another Pooh story, or a super hero story?" I asked.
He paused, really giving it some thought. It's no small thing, if you're this kid, putting Batman on the back burner even for one night.
"I want another Pooh story," he whispered.
So I hid a smile, we read, and when we were done Sean climbed up, retrieved a stuffed Pooh-bear from a shelf above his bed, and tucked into his pillow without a word of complaint.
First couple steps into the hundred-acre woods. A pretty good night.