Here's a great story on Book Expo America and the constant hand-wringing of large book publishers by Paul Constant. His argument pretty much boils down to this: Large publishers are cowardly crowd-followers; readers are as hungry as ever for good literature and tired of being talked down to by the cowardly large publishers; and this has created a huge opportunity for small presses and indie bookstores.

It's funny, but in this ecosystem, the "small" publishers he refers to are the very ones we look up to: Akashic, Small Beer, McSweeney's, Soft Skull. We're saving up to someday be able to afford a booth at BEA, so I guess that puts us in the teeny-weeny press category, a garage band of sorts. But all the same, I think his argument holds true. The old venues for reviews and publicity are becoming less and less relevant, and today's small press has to be nimble enough to get its books talked about in other venues. Readers will respond, as we've found in our tiny slice of the publishing world. And the good thing is we're still being discovered.

Constant made me laugh out loud several times in this piece, like when he contemplates facing the apocalypse at Larry King's house:

I grab a beer and slip back inside the house. Unsurprisingly, there are some books by Larry King on the bookshelves—I resist the urge to see if they are lovingly inscribed from Larry to Larry. Though the shelves probably cost more than my father made in six months at his job in a paper mill, the collection of books is roughly identical to my parents'. There are some mysteries, a couple of inspirational-type books, a dictionary. There's a People Magazine Almanac from 2006. I imagine what would happen if, like in the TV show 24, an atomic bomb went off in Los Angeles and all these people and I wound up duct-taped into Larry King's house, waiting out the fallout. We wouldn't suffer for food, of course. There's enough bison and cheese for everyone, so the class struggle wouldn't turn to violent cannibalism or anything like that. There's enough booze to keep us insensate through the apocalypse, too. But the books. The few times in my life when I've been deprived of books, I've become monstrous and depressed, as though going through physical withdrawal. What would I read if I wound up trapped in here for a few weeks? I look at Larry King's shelves. There is nothing that interests me. It is a barren wasteland, and if I had to subsist on it, I'd die.

Thanks to Akira at Design Kompany for bringing the article to my attention.