“I hate Adobe Digital Editions with a passion,” he concluded. It is not clear to me whether I will be able to do so after three days (the remaining period for which I have it checked out.) I can’t see any way of actually taking the file and transferring it to another user-you.
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I was eventually able to download your book, then, using Adobe Editions, I was able to open the book and read it. “I entered the Hell that is Adobe Digital Editions,” he reported. Could he send me his library’s copy? He tried. I emailed a friend who’s the director of an academic library one state over.
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Some said they’d be happy to send the book but could not free it from DRM restrictions imposed by Adobe Digital Editions, software designed, ostensibly, for reading electronic books, but designed, in actuality, of course, to prevent anybody other than members of the purchasing institution from doing the same. Some reference librarians said the terms of their contracts prohibited them from sending me my book. Responses ranged from sympathetic to puzzled to annoyed. I began cold-calling reference desks at libraries that owned the ebook. I consulted an interlibrary services colleague, who resolved, in fervent tones, to find, somewhere in the world, one library-just one-that would provide me an electronic copy.
I ordered an electronic copy through interlibrary services. The sole achiever spat out a file largely bereft of formatting.
I spent days looking for software to remove the DRM. Only to discover a digital rights management (DRM) container wrapped around the file, preventing me and everyone else from reading it on another device. I finally ferreted it out (labeled, less than helpfully, “085cd30f-8ae3-4a6a-a7d6-85ca8bd53adc”) in a folder as remote as Pitcairn Island. I could not find that vendor’s copy on my laptop either. I purchased and downloaded another copy from another vendor. Frank Costanza’s “Serenity Now” came to mind more than once. Multiple representatives declined to divulge its location. But I could not determine where, on my hard drive, Amazon’s reading software stored the thing. I did manage, after much bumbling about, to download a copy to my laptop. It sits on my Kindle, where it’s locked down tighter than-I would have said Donald Trump’s tax returns-but now, we know, even tighter than that. It’s just that I want an electronic copy to share. I don’t blame my publisher, an august outfit that has been awfully good to me: its peer-review process was stellar, its editors improved my manuscript in multiple ways, and its designers produced a handsome artifact. As for “anytime, anywhere”: the jobber’s terms and conditions warn that the jobber may “restrict access” to all or part of my book “with or without prior notice.” The terms also warn I may not share the book with others-the intent behind my request in the first place. Instant access proved less than instant half a year later, I still await a copy. The jobber’s website promises “instant access,” “anytime, anywhere” to its wares. My publisher directed me to the jobber that distributes ebooks on its behalf. And the librarian in me wanted that work available to all. The author in me wanted copies of my work in all formats. This time, I decided-with my latest book-I would own an electronic copy I could share.
Having none, I shelled out $60 to Amazon for a print copy and then shipped that copy at my expense across the Urals. I recall the destitute graduate student in Siberia who, several years ago, wrote me asking for an electronic copy of my previous book. Yet demand exists in more remote and specialized realms. None of those recipients-but for my loyal father and earnest brother-in-law-read them.
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