Unknown Artist, probably Spanish: Shadow Box: Castle (1693)

"I'm a tad old-fashioned that way."

"I have adjusted your shopping cart to show the custom cover lite. Please send me your final manuscript and the cover art. Please send any notes you may have regarding the cover design as well.

"I now just need the production approval. Please log in to submit. When you log in, click on the title ID in the active titles box, and you will see a checklist to the right. The last item under the column, You Must applies to you. Please click on ‘Click Here for Production Agreement’. Some terms will drop down. Please review and then click on the Approve Production button. We can then start work."

One of the features of self-publishing involves being instructed on what to do rather than being served. I have proven myself to be relatively incapable of following even the more straightforward instructions, such as the ones I copied and pasted above from an email from my Author Representative, Elaine. I interpret her directions as if they were koan-quality contemplation, since I'm sincerely uncertain how to interpret them. They assume much. This company has condensed its entire publishing experience into a tightly nested series of checklists, which an author supposedly accesses by logging in to a portal and then navigating through various non-intuitive levels. I never remember how to log in. I never remember the URL I'm supposed to log into. My Pastword-remembering software never remembers these sorts of Pastwords, either, perhaps because the website was so cleverly designed that it's one-of-a-kind.

In our age, we desired to replace paper with online forms. This was supposed to be more convenient and less troublesome to trees. It has turned out to be neither of these. Those of us with form phobias managed to seamlessly transfer our paper psychoses to their online counterparts. Virtual forms seem, if anything, even more confusing than their paper forebears, and, believe me, they always seemed confusing enough to me. They suffer from the same fundamental design error, though their designers probably wouldn't admit to committing any mistake. They produce sequential lists frozen in specific orders, ones which doubtless make perfect sense to them. They commit the original sin of design, which has always been to design for the designer's satisfaction rather than for the user. I admit that designing to my preferences would have severely complicated the designer's challenge; yet, ignoring my needs uniformly produces forms I cannot comprehend, rendering the designer's efforts moot.

I understand. The ideal would be to produce a system so prescient that it wouldn't require supervision. Users could order their own inventory, stock their own shelves, make their own selections, and then check out their orders, while the owners sit back and enjoy an endlessly renewable passive income. However, I always need supervision. I'm the character most likely to crash the server, not through any willful sabotage but because I chose one of the unwitting paradoxes the designers inadvertently built into their system. I would never trust myself to try to complete any online form. I find Amazon Prime's ordering system terminally confusing, as if it had been specifically designed to prevent me from successfully using it. And so it is with virtually every online ordering protocol. I might get all revved up to buy something, then I'm virtually always chased off by some question or input convention I cannot comprehend. I leave my virtual shopping card filled, then disappear, probably never to return. No ordering system has ever been my friend.

I'm currently in the stage of completing the self-publishing effort, where I've finished reviewing my copy editor's suggestions, accepting or rejecting each one in turn. I've notified Elaine that I'm ready to submit the completed manuscript, and I even have cover art ready. However, I suspect I'll need to consult with the graphic arts department on the final touches. She's directed me to the self-checkout aisle. I will sit here for a long while, contemplating whether to log in and how to do so. I figure I'll give Elaine some time to wonder where I've disappeared to before seeking her assistance again. I will ultimately consent to enter the self-checkout station, but I will very likely quickly disqualify myself in there. Ultimately, Elaine will have to accompany me through the system, prompting me with each required entry. I will enter the data Elaine understood, and I never would, then all might be right with the world again.

The net effect of automated systems might be to increase the net number of assistants required to accomplish tasks. The adage remains true that you can move resources from one place to another, but never successfully replace them with technology, regardless of the advances touted in technology and design. Real systems occur all at once. Checklists insist upon strict sequences, an unnatural and ultimately self-defeating convention. The machine would prefer that we adapt to its preferences, and I suppose many of us do. I remain an isolated island of inability surrounded by unnecessarily clever technology. I freely admit that it has outsmarted me, and I might become morose or disappointed if I had ever aspired to acquire some machine's notion of intelligence. I'm a tad old-fashioned that way.

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #FollowingChapters, #PureSchmaltz