I love The New Yorker, but I cannot ever seem to keep up with it. Case in point: I’m just now getting around to the June 22, 2009 issue. Specifically I’ve been reading — and thoroughly enjoying — Lauren Collins’ profile of romance novelist Nora Roberts.
I don’t have anything to say about the content of Roberts’ books, as I’ve never read any of her romances, much less the detective novels she puts out under the nom de plume, J. D. Robb. It’s not that I’m so snooty a reader that I wouldn’t bother with her books; I’ve just never had the occasion to do so.
Anyway, what struck me about the article was the magnitude of Roberts’ output. Here are a few of the more stunning tidbits:
- Roberts has written 182 novels since 1980;
- lately she’s been publishing around 10 novels a year;
- 27 of her books are sold every minute;
- the amount of Nora Roberts books in print is equivalent to the volumetric capacity of Giants Stadium . . . times 4,000.
All I can say is, whoa. Anyone who believes that print is dead hasn’t caught up lately with Ms. Roberts.
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