EvilChuck
Full Member
I would like it to be known that under no circumstances whatsoever do I share eBooks or any other digital media with anyone else. Not even my wife. Or my son. Or his friends. Or my friends. Ever.

I would like it to be known that under no circumstances whatsoever do I share eBooks or any other digital media with anyone else. Not even my wife. Or my son. Or his friends. Or my friends. Ever.
Will books, as we know them, come to an end?
Yes, absolutely, within 25 years the digital revolution will bring about the end of paper books. But more importantly, ebooks and e-publishing will mean the end of "the writer" as a profession. Ebooks, in the future, will be written by first-timers, by teams, by speciality subject enthusiasts and by those who were already established in the era of the paper book. The digital revolution will not emancipate writers or open up a new era of creativity, it will mean that writers offer up their work for next to nothing or for free. Writing, as a profession, will cease to exist.
Writing, as a profession, will cease to exist.
Any on the horizon, Steve?
Never. A book will always be unrivalled compared to lifeless objects like e-books. I've never bought into the e-books concept anyway, a book has a life and path of it's own.
My wife has begun to read stuff on her iPad whereas a year ago she hated the idea.
You need a 10-year plan mate (and balls of steel like Wenger).I'm bloody useless, mate - it takes me an age to write anything novel-length. So, by the time I finish my next one, printed books will be a thing of the past; like Arsenal's title hopes.
This time last year, I was metaphorically invited to the only party I've ever wanted to be seen at. My first novel was picked up by an agent, and then by a publisher. I've made it, I thought to myself as I clutched my invite to the most exclusive set of all. I'm going to be a published author.
So imagine my surprise - nay, dismay - to discover that publishing's streets were not paved with gold, but stalked by the anxious, the gloomy, the suicidal. "Publishing's dead!" shouted men in sackcloth on Bloomsbury street corners. I had arrived at the party, but the coats were being handed out, the drink had dried up and the hostess had collapsed...