Have you ever loaned someone a beloved copy of your favorite book, only to never see it again? And now you've decided that generosity is pointless because no one understands the deep bond you have with your books? Yup, been there.
Originally, bookplates were the perfect solution to mark your territory and ensure everyone knows that book is yours. Are bookplates passive-aggressive? Maybe, but who cares?
They’re also a fun way for authors to personalize books for readers, even during a pandemic, creating a unique experience that keeps fans eagerly awaiting the next release.
A Brief History
A bookplate, sometimes called an ex libris plate, is a label affixed inside a book. Traditionally, they indicated ownership, with evidence dating back to Ancient Egypt and Medieval Europe. Before the printing press was invented in the 15th century, books were rare and valuable, so marking ownership was crucial in case a book was lost or stolen (though whether bookplates actually increased book returns is anyone's guess).
Early bookplates were practical, but they eventually became elaborate works of art as wealthy patrons commissioned designs from famous artists. Check out this bookplate designed by Albrecht Dürer (late 15th/early 16th century) from the Metropolitan Museum of Art: [Dürer’s Bookplate]
Bookplates often featured family crests or coats of arms, inscribed by hand or transferred via woodcuts or engravings. Today, bookplates are usually stickers or stamps affixed to the inside cover or front matter. While they still indicate ownership, they’re also used to display an author’s signature or otherwise personalize a book.
An Author’s Signature
Adding a signature to a book bridges the gap between author and reader. The personal connections made during book signings can turn a casual reader into a lifelong fan.
Bookplates allow authors to send their signature safely to booksellers and fans while adhering to social distancing measures. If meeting in person isn’t possible, sending a signed bookplate is a great alternative.
Authors might also sign bookplates for efficiency when signing numerous books at once for a bookstore, book club, or large event.
Marketing Plan
So, how can bookplates fit into your marketing plan? When and to whom should you send them?
Bookplates are especially useful for virtual events. You can send signed bookplates to a bookstore before an event, ensuring attendees have access to signed copies. This benefits attendees and helps build a good relationship with your local bookseller. Bookplates can encourage attendees to buy from their local store instead of Amazon, supporting a shop-local campaign!
You can also offer signed bookplates as a gift for fans who pre-order your book. Ask fans to DM or email their receipt, and then mail them a bookplate with a personal thank-you note.
Additionally, bookplates can be an exclusive perk for a giveaway. Hold a bookplate giveaway alongside a virtual event or on social media just for fun!
Get Creative!
Traditionally, bookplates have been used in a limited number of ways, but the possibilities are endless. There are plenty of unexpected ways to personalize books and make them stand out.
Some authors, like David Sedaris, add drawings or sketches to their signatures. These drawings often relate to specific meanings within the book, acting like an inside joke or teaser for what’s to come.
One author, Will Maclean, took this idea to a whole new level. For his book "The Apparition Phase," he signed 1,000 copies and "hid" a 1,000-word short story within them. Each book contained one word from the story and a number indicating its position within the story. Fans turned into detectives, eagerly piecing together the story on Twitter.
My favorite way to use a bookplate is to sign it with a message that says: So glad you found this book. Read it and pass it on. Then leave the book on a bus, a subway, or a park bench.
Bookplates show readers and booksellers that you care. They create a heartfelt memory for the reader.
And Now a Creative Non-Fiction Break
Hard Questions
By Liz Dubelman
One evening recently, Grace, my precocious almost-four-year-old, asked me about sex. Her precise question was, “Mama, how does a baby get inside a mommy’s belly?”
“Well,” I said, “a little piece of a daddy and a little piece of a mommy come together and grow inside a mommy’s belly into a baby.”
“I know that,” she said, with a roll of her eyes worthy of a teenager. “But how do they get the pieces?”
I panicked. I had just read on a popular parenting website that four-year-olds won’t ask about conception and even if they do, they will be satisfied with the simplest answer (which I thought I’d provided).
“In your case, a doctor put the pieces together,” I said, feeling like I had dodged a bullet. Grace is an in vitro baby.
“How did the doctor get the pieces?” she asked.
“Why don’t you take your bath now?” I said, stalling for time, “and we’ll talk more afterward.”
As my husband bathed our sweet innocent child, I ran to the Internet. I went back to the parenting website and looked for advice in a slightly older age group. When Grace was freshly bathed and in her pajamas, I came back in, armed with more advice from the Internet. “When mommies and daddies have private time together, they do a special type of cuddling that helps get the pieces out.” Grace let out a long exhale indicating either exasperation or exhaustion. In any case, I was off the hook for the time being.
The next day, I went looking for live human advice. First, I asked a family counselor who is also the director of a preschool. She said I should tell Grace “the truth” and convey that it’s “natural” and “beautiful.” I felt bewildered, and the look on my face must have revealed my confusion. The counselor asked if I thought procreation was natural and beautiful. “Well, of course,” I stammered. Then she asked if there was anything I wanted to talk about. We left it with her lending me some books.
It’s not that I don’t think sex is wonderful, natural and beautiful. It’s just that there’s so much more to it, it’s so emotionally complex, and such a weird process to convey to an almost-four-year-old. So, still seeking a Grace-worthy explanation, my next expert was Grace’s teacher. I told her about Grace’s query, and about how the Internet had failed me. She laughed. We both laughed. I felt better. She told me that her ex-husband had told their son about sex when he was eight because, though he hadn’t asked, the ex-husband thought it was the “manly” thing to do. Their son was nonplussed, but their four-year-old daughter had a slew of questions that the ex-husband wasn’t prepared for.
Her advice was that I stick to biological explanations for now. The subject, she assured me, will come up again many times through the years. Meanwhile, she suggested, if I sensed that Grace was unsatisfied with the answers I’d given so far, I should create an opening for her to bring it up again, because I want her to feel like she can ask me anything. Then Grace’s teacher went beyond the call of duty and let me rehearse in front of her. I practiced saying the words “penis” and “vagina,” and she corrected my faulty biology when I said, “The seed is kept in the man’s penis.”
Later, as Grace was eating her after-school snack, I said, “Remember when you asked me last night about how babies get into their mommies’ bellies? Well, I want to make sure that I did a good job answering all your questions.”
“You did, Mama. I just have one more. How do mommies and daddies do that special cuddling that gets the pieces out?”
I took a deep breath and said, “A man has a seed that’s kept in a sack behind his penis near his bottom. A woman has an egg that’s kept inside her belly --” Grace stopped me right there.
“No,” she said, giggling. “Like the eggs we eat at breakfast?”
“A very tiny egg,” I went on. “And when the egg and seed get together they make a baby."
“But how do they get together?” she asked.
“A man puts his penis inside a woman's vagina,” I said. Grace’s face had a look of shock, disbelief, and amusement, as if I’d just told her about the giant in “Jack and the Beanstalk.” “If you have any other questions about anything at all,” I said, “just ask.”
I felt good about the exchange and told my husband. He thought I did a good job, too, and, giddy with relief at not having had to explain sex to our daughter, he said he would field the next tough question.
That night at dinner Grace held up a piece of chicken. “Isn’t it funny,” she said, “that this is called chicken and those cute little birds we see at Easter time are called chicken, too?”
I shot my husband a look. “Honey?” I said.
Bookplates make me think of my Dad. I first saw a bookplate when I took a book down from his shelf, opened it, and there it was. The plate had dark brown tones,a torch emitting light, and, beneath the torch, his name.
Your essay helped me recall those long dormant images--thank you.
And good job parenting. That's one precocious child!