PUBLISHING IN THE TIME OF CORONAVIRUS: Jesse Pollard on silence

The next entry into our staff diary series on working in publishing in the time of coronavirus features junior typesetter Jesse Pollard, talking about the technicalities of typesetting and the value of silence.

When I studied literature at university, one of my tutors posed the question of how exactly we define a book. The next picture he used in his presentation was that of a household mop. Although the actual topic of debate was about how books have moved to digital platforms, I’m still disappointed whenever I discover we have yet to translate Shakespeare’s works onto the fibres of household utilities.

My job at Wakefield Press is difficult to talk about, because there’s no easy way to sum up what I do. When someone asks me what it is I work as, I always say ‘I design books’. Sorry Liz (who is our actual designer).

Well, I have a confession. I typeset, not design. When I tell people that I typeset, and they ask what typesetting is, the details are so mundane that I say ‘I design books’. Again, sorry, Liz.

In actuality, I’d say my job is to get the technical details of a book ready. I make the measurements for the book so that when it gets made and sent off, it’s not a horribly mismatched mess of miscalculations. I juggle everything from the body of the text to how large in scale the pictures are on the page, so that they all fit neatly on each and every single page. Have you ever read a book where the text was being swallowed up by the spine? I make sure that doesn’t happen.

But in this horrendously chaotic time, in which toilet paper seems to be well on its way to replacing currencies around the world and with our prime platform for forum forcibly shifting to the digital landscape, it has become increasingly apparent that the traditional sense of unity has been disbanded for now. Now, more than ever, working at Wakefield Press has taught me that a valuable privilege not often afforded is a voice and a chance.

Before joining Wakefield Press in 2019, I used to volunteer at my local library every Friday, doing just a little bit of everything. I would’ve carted a trolley back and forth between the sorting room and the shelves and the racks, slotting the books back where they belong – including the small, red-labelled ‘romance’ paperbacks a lot of people don’t like being caught with (you know the ones I mean). On some weekends, I’d stick around from nine in the morning until three in the afternoon helping the staff with community events.

Eventually, I ran out of time and effort to continue with volunteering. Although I enjoyed my time there, sometimes through casual conversation outside of its walls, if I was asked when I’d go to the library or told to go and help them by anyone other than the staff, my strength of will would throw its hands up, decry any attempts to muster any sort of willpower, and let all the energy I had to simply run loose.

It seemed like an innocent enough response: ‘don’t tell me what to do, because then I won’t want to do it’. But that was when leaving the house wasn’t a taboo can of worms, when a physical presence didn’t make people nervous. Recently I received a call from the new team manager, to notify me that the library would be closed until just after the Easter weekend – no doubt due to the virus.

But as someone who grew up being what you might call an ‘introvert’ and a ‘dork’, I can tell you now that just because your weekend might look a bit more boring, that doesn’t mean it has to be.

My time volunteering at my local library and working at Wakefield Press has taught me the value of a single thought born in silence, that words can resonate stronger if the people reading the words put in front of them are the same to have that silent voice in their heads. In a profoundly quiet way, you are not alone in these trying times.

So, as I try to write this blog entry, I’d like to put to you a challenge. Write your own diaries. Record your own thoughts each day. Whether or not you share them is at your discretion (although I will say it’d make me happy if you did – even if it’s just with us), but the power of the typed word, now more than ever, has the ability to shape the course of socialisation, for months – even years – to come.

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