Bob Dylan’s “Autopen” Controversy and the Privilege of Hand-Signing Books
By Judith Lindbergh
On a cool autumn evening in 2005, I sat on the rug in front of my favorite low, Japanese-style table, a cup of tea, a lit candle, and my favorite pen in hand. Beside me was a cardboard box filled with one thousand sheets of cream paper—rough-cut “tip-ins” that my publisher had sent. I would have to sign them, one by one, over the course of the next few days, and send them back to be bound into my debut novel.
It is a big deal to sign your name on one thousand sheets of paper, even if you’re not overwhelmed by the prospect of finally being published. I was daunted by the size of the stacks. (Yes, there were several.) But I knew it was a huge honor.
My novel, a challenging literary work about three women in Viking Age Greenland, had already caused quite a stir. These pages would be included in its first print run, along with an artful book cover embossed in gold. My publisher had a magnificent marketing plan which included a two-week tour, and this was the first step. I took a deep breath, sipped my tea, and began.
Sitting on the floor is my favorite place for quiet, intense work. This table was where, months before, I had edited and then copy-edited my book. Here I could focus. The candle was for concentration—a kind of meditation, but also a ritual signal that something important was going on.
It was astonishing how my hand shook. The first few signatures felt awkward, like I was still a little kid learning to write in school. A couple of times, I messed up my own name, the letters jumbling or dropping into ugly, unkempt squiggles. Of course, I knew how; I’m of the generation when handwriting was de rigueur. But the import of the action—the thought that my novel was important enough that readers might value a signed copy—was unimaginable through all those years while I’d been writing it. I honestly thought that no one would ever care.
Most authors sign their books in person, generally at a bookstore after a launch event. These days, like so much else, there are fewer and fewer of those chances for authors to meet their audiences in person. Not only have many opportunities shifted to virtual. There are fewer bookstores that host signings unless you’re famous or local, and even fewer authors sent out on tour. Signing a book you’ve written is like a gift—to the reader who receives it, but also to the author herself.
The import of the action—the thought that my novel was important enough that readers might value a signed copy—was unimaginable through all those years while I’d been writing it. I honestly thought that no one would ever care.
Memories of signing my name came flooding back when I read the recent reports about Bob Dylan using a robot to electronically “hand-sign” limited edition copies of his new book The Philosophy of Modern Songs.
It was considered a betrayal from the perspective of many writers, most of whom have never—will never—get that chance. In his apology, Dylan said he did it because of vertigo, which may have been the case. I’ve had vertigo and, trust me, it’s no fun.
Or maybe he was simply apathetic because he’s been famous for so many years. His signature was worth something even before I was born. To him, the prospect of signing all those books might have felt like an unnecessary chore. But for those of us who have worked in anonymity, getting the chance to leave our mark, quite literally, and pass it into the hand of someone who might treasure our efforts, feels like a brush with immortality. We would never pass off such a gift to a machine.
For most authors, that brush is more like a feather passing lightly across our cheek. And then the moment is gone. My debut novel did well, but never became the anticipated bestseller. My literary career has languished for years, teaching me to cherish the moments that I had. They were longer than the proverbial fifteen minutes of fame, but not by much.
The other day I discovered a signed copy of my book at a local library, still on the shelf after all these years. I picked it up, brushed the hardcover gently, and flipped to the signature, shaking my head at the optimism in its slant.
My new novel is coming out in 2024, eighteen years after my last. It is being published by a lovely small press, not a “Big Five” like last time. In these days of shrinking traditional publishing opportunities, and self-publishing if you’re willing or able to pay, being published by anyone is itself an honor. But it’s unlikely that a box of tip-ins will be delivered to my doorstep. The marketing plan is mine to create and what buzz I can stir up will undoubtedly be much quieter.
Still, I look forward to sitting at any table in any setting and taking out my favorite pen. My signature will still be jaunty and earnest, if a little less cocky than my last time around. Most of all, I look forward to handing the book over to a willing reader, hoping that the story I share will resonate with them, if only for a moment, or, if I’m very lucky, long after the book passes hands.
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Judith Lindbergh’s debut novel, The Thrall’s Tale, was published by Viking in 2006. Her new novel, Akmaral, is forthcoming from Regal House Publishing in 2024. She is the Founder/Director of The Writers Circle, a creative writing community based in New Jersey.