Editor's Note: This article is reprinted from Dotted Line, our newsletter from earlier days, because it captures so well the fierce yearning of many would-be Braille publishers to make fresh ideas available to Braille readers. It seems especially suited to the Web, where belief in freedom through the flow of information is (nearly) as strong.
"My spouse and I are going to start a little Braille business!"
I wish I had a Braille Express for every time I've heard those words spoken by some hopeful young voice. They call me on the phone, or they knock on my office so full of hope, and so sure I will tell them what a wonderful idea it is. What I tell them usually goes something like this:
"Why don't you try starting a pig farm in Iowa for a couple of years first, just to get a general idea what you're in for?"
That's old Dotty for you. What a soft touch, right? Well, that's exactly what someone should say to a person or a couple who think they are going to make a living (or even a piece of a living) for the next few years running a Braille business. Knocking about with those dirty, greasy, old zinc plates, those oily cranky presses, those endless boxes of covers and bindings, and those stacks and stacks of pages someone has put in the wrong order, is about as satisfying and rewarding as slopping the hogs in a snowstorm. And I ought to know: I've done both!
It does absolutely no harm to say those things to the starry-eyed dreamers who come to me for advice--it also does no good. No matter what I say to them, I know they are still going to buy that embosser, order up a bunch of paper, hang out their shingle and begin, just as soon as they receive that first order, to spend every waking hour they can scrape together in the editing, proofreading, embossing, bursting and binding of Braille.
Why, I know one couple who bought themselves a Marathon, put the darned thing outside their bedroom door, and soon got so much business they had to run it all night as well as all day. I don't see how they got much sleep the whole night through with that infernal noise going on, but that isn't why I titled this piece A Braille Romance. The point is, they devote a good part of their lives to editing the files people send them on their computer, printing them out, checking them, correcting them, then printing them again.
When that's done, they have the pages stacked all over the house until one of them can get around to tearing the tractor holes and perforations off, punching the holes and putting the binding rings in. I'll bet their postman loves them. Ditto the United Parcel Service driver who has to come pick up the rush jobs.
So, why do they do this?
It couldn't be for the money. People do pay and pay pretty well for custom Braille, but they don't pay any more than you could make cleaning out those hog pens in Davenport.
And why did another lady I met last year have her husband take off the front door so four big burlies could haul in a Braille plate-making machine? And this is not one of your tabletop ratta-tat-tat numbers. This is a thumping mini-Sherman tank with a ten-ton press inside, and you load it one piece at a time with great sheet of zinc that can cut your hands to ribbons if you're not just real careful.
Why do people put Romeos in their basements and run them all weekend to pass out free copies of minutes at the next meeting of groups they belong to? Why do others scrimp and save to pay for a small embosser just to run out the Braille they transcribe as volunteers?
I warn all you cynics out there: You're not going to like the answer. There's only one thing that could explain all that bother and all that commitment, and that one thing is love.
I speak here not of the sentimental commodity of which the pop songs are full but of the tough. robust affection generated by the employment of a hard-won skill to open a long-closed door to priceless information.
In many ways, it must be the same response young Ben Franklin felt when he insisted on hanging around the print shop until someone would show him how to manipulate the bars of type and set up the press.
For the transcriber, it's the mastery of a symbolism that few could handle, employed in the creation of opportunities for other people. For the Braille reader, full control over the creation and circulation of information in Braille is a pure triumph over the environment. It's something the Braille reader can do with no help from anyone, thank you very much.
All sorts of people have gotten deeply involved with Braille, mainly because they just can't help themselves. Believe me, that's what happened to me. But that's another story for another time.