Shortly after we took off, the pilot announced we would be roughly following the old Santa Fe Trail. Because of the clouds there was little chance of seeing the terrain the old traders crossed, but I nonetheless found myself feeling I was similarly on one of the adventure roads: the Silk Road, the Oregon Trail, the overseas Spice Route, or any of a dozen others. Whatever was on the way, there was bound to be treasure* at the end in the Land Where Books are Made.
Although I instantly liked the title “Land Where Books are Made” when it popped into my head, I was afraid it would be more poetic than accurate. Not only is most American publishing coming out of New York, but I knew that most of the physical books were coming over by slow boat from printing presses in Asia. But in the past weeks I’ve learned that much of my press’s black and white printing is actually done in America, so I’m keeping the epithet.
All is going very well in Boston, the Land Where Books are Made, and the books themselves, like the treasures at the end of the Santa Fe trail, are both as dully magical and as delightfully mundane as you’d expect.
*treasure. Fortunately for me—or perhaps not—“not all treasure is silver and gold, Mate,” (Jack Sparrow) since my Bostonian fortune will be largely of the figurative variety.
