A Human Author
Welcome to Current Topics, where you will always hear electrifying talks on subjects of immediate interest. These talks are being recorded for later access on our site. Our speaker today is Robyn Byrd who will describe how she became a most unique best selling author. Without further ado, Ms. Byrd.
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Well, best selling if you can say that of an author whose output is counted in double digits. To explain that, I’ll start at the beginning. I was a script writer for studio productions, both television and movies. The Writers Guild strike of 2023 was prolonged and ultimately resolved but to neither side’s satisfaction. slide—here I am on the picket line. Studios already made extensive use of CGI or computer generated imagery in films and had even tried to do a full-length film—that was Polar Express, a Christmas movie—completely computer generated, but it met with a mixed response because the process was not mature at the time. So given the writer’s strike, it was understandable that the studios would think about producing scripts using AI.
From the writers’ standpoint, when word of these early trials got out, it was betrayal. A breaking of a long-held unspoken understanding with the studios. From the studios’ standpoint it was economics. And guess who eventually prevailed? Right!
But it wasn’t just the studios. Change was occurring across society. From bank tellers to legal assistants to the factory floor. Automation and AI were replacing humans. And yes, authors. When a publishing house—I know, not many left—could order a novel with a specified number of pages in the style of, say Faulkner, with a specified era and location about a specified subject and receive a manuscript that only the dedicated Faulkner scholar could tell was a forgery, well, the barn door was wide open. Want pseudo-Agatha Christie? No problem. A lost Steinbeck manuscript? Can do that. Of course there was still room for the truly original and gifted voice in writing. But for the formulaic adventure story, love story, mystery, western? AI took care of those.
Well, I knew I didn’t have one of those gifted, original voices. And I was out of the job that I knew and loved. I looked around and realized that almost everything was mass produced. But there seemed to be a high end market for things that were scarce and original. Art of all kinds was still being bought. Hand crafted furniture—the one of a kind piece that demonstrated the owner’s status and taste. The hand knitted sweater. Things that bore the touch of a human mind and hand. And who were the people who could afford these objects? The technocrats, the money people, the creative people, the CEOs and the entrepreneurs—people who worked mostly with their minds and not their hands.
My friend, Henry Clay, is a potter—well, he calls himself a ceramicist when he talks to clients. He’s been doing very well making one of a kind dinner services, selling at selected outlets catering to the one percenters. slide—here’s Henry at his wheel and—slide—here he is with one of his dinner services— A light bulb went off. Henry works with mud. I work with words. What if I wrote and then hand produced a limited number of works of fiction? Like original art prints. Would there be people who would buy them to display on their one of a kind coffee tables?
Writing stories was no problem given my background, though they tend to be heavy on dialogue. I already had the basic necessities. Laptop, laser printer. I just needed to acquire the skills and tools of book binding, the more hand crafted the better. Found a mentor and learned the trade. slide—John Inkstone has been binding and rebinding books for forty plus years—And acquired the tools. You can find almost anything online, which seems ironic given what I was trying to do. A friend who’s a printmaker agreed to make a print relating to the story for the front piece, for a small percentage of the sales. slide—this is Jonny Tu with the print she did for my first book—Found a source of natural fabrics for the covers. Depending on the story, I will make different covers. For example, denim if it’s a blue collar story; tartan if it’s set in Scotland; black silk for a bodice ripper.
The initial trial run was of twelve, that I took around to galleries and interior decorators and explained what I was trying to do. slide——And this is the first copy of that run—I was thrilled when I was able to place ten on consignment. Then I waited. If this didn’t work, it was back to the unemployment line.
When word came of the first sale, I was ecstatic. The other nine sold within a month. I felt that I was on to something. The next run and all subsequent ones was of forty. I had no trouble placing them. And they sell. And that’s my story. In a world flooded with machine-made objects, there is a desire, a need, to possess something made by another human being.
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We do have some time for questions.
Yes. The woman in back in a purple blouse. Why a run of forty? I didn’t want the series to be too large, like say a hundred. That would detract from the idea that this is a limited edition. Oh, and I number the books on the title page like prints. I also include a pair of white cotton gloves with each copy to reinforce the idea that what the reader holds is of value and should be handled with care and respect.
The man with a beard in front. Did I consider setting type rather than using a laser printer? No. I don’t have the skills and that would frankly be just too much work. But an acquaintance is handwriting his books on handmade paper. Needless to say, his calligraphy is beautiful and his truly one of a kind books are priced at ten times or more than mine. Yes, much like what the monk scribes did.
The woman on the aisle in yellow. How do I determine my price? I talked to gallery owners to see what limited edition prints were selling for. And then set a median figure.
Why not in bookstores? Because I’m selling these as original handcraft or artwork and they would be out of place among the best sellers and popular books.
The man in front in the Hawaiian shirt. Do I still use and compensate my artist friend? Yes. Jonny silkscreens forty prints that relate to the story, numbers and signs them, and I pay her five percent of the net sales.
Sorry, but I’m being signaled that that’s all the time we have. Thank you for your interest and your questions. I’ll be happy to stay around afterwards and talk.
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On Memorial Day, this is for the classes of 1950 and 1954 and 1958. My classes sequentially in Honolulu and Cambridge and Boston.
Where Have All The Flowers Gone
(adapted from Pete Seeger)
Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time passing.
Bright in the morning sun,
Long time ago.
Where have all the flowers gone?
Faded, scattered every one.
When will they ever learn, when will they ever learn?
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Where have all the young maids gone?
Long time passing.
Strong and graceful, without fear,
Long time ago.
Where have all the young maids gone?
Grown grey and tired, long in years.
When will they ever learn, when will we ever learn?
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Where have all the young men gone?
Long time passing.
Swift and certain of their dreams.
Long time ago.
Some are gone and some remain,
Moving slow with aches and canes.
When will they ever learn, when will we ever learn?
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And where have all the children gone?
Long time passing.
Full of wonder, spirits free.
Long time ago.
Where have all the children gone?
They’ve grown to be like you and me.
When will we ever learn, when will we ever learn?
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Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time passing.
Bright—in the morning sun,
So long ago.
Where have all the flowers gone?
Faded, scattered every one.
What did we ever learn, what did we ever know?
What did we ever know?
The Long and The Short of It 