I'm in favor of any technology that makes my work available to

Hearken, O seeker of wisdom, to the words of Walter Jon Williams, who declared with simplicity and fire: “I’m in favor of any technology that makes my work available to the reading public at a reasonable price.” This utterance, though plain to the ear, is profound to the heart. It speaks not only of the craft of writing but of the eternal covenant between creator and audience, between the spirit that brings forth the tale and the souls that yearn to receive it. For the true purpose of art is not to be hoarded in the shadows, but to be borne on wings of technology, carried across the ages into the hands of those who hunger for it.

In the age of scroll and ink, the poets of old depended upon scribes who bent their backs in candlelight, copying word for word so that the wisdom of one might be multiplied into many. Later came the fire of Gutenberg’s press, a furnace of innovation that shattered chains and loosed knowledge into every corner of Europe. And now in our time, we hold in our hands devices of glass and light, upon which a single voice can be heard across continents in the span of a heartbeat. This is the lineage of technology that Williams honors: every tool that bends the river of creation toward the common people, every invention that breaks the walls between writer and reader.

Yet his words hold another jewel hidden within them—the plea for the reasonable price. For what good is the story if it is locked behind gates of gold, beyond the reach of the humble laborer, the eager student, the poor child with fire in their eyes? The worth of art is not in the coins it gathers, but in the souls it awakens. To sell too dearly is to starve the very audience for whom the tale was wrought. Thus, the balance must be struck: fair payment for the creator’s toil, yet mercy and access for the multitude who thirst for words.

Consider, beloved listener, the tale of Charles Dickens, who in the nineteenth century strode like a giant upon the stage of letters. His novels, rich with humanity, were first published in cheap serial form, sold for pennies that even the poor could spare. Crowds would gather at the docks of New York, crying out to the sailors for news—“Is Little Nell alive?” So great was their hunger that it crossed oceans. Dickens, by making his art affordable, did not diminish his glory—he magnified it, and his fame spread like a star across the world. This is the living proof of Williams’ wisdom: accessibility is the true crown of the storyteller.

But beware, O children of the future, of the serpents that coil within this domain. For there are those who seek to bind stories in chains of profit alone, who would make of art a commodity stripped of soul. They forget that the tale belongs to the people, that a story untold is a seed that withers, while a story shared is a forest that endures. Williams’ words are a warning: cling to the tools that free, not those that enslave.

Therefore, let the lesson be carved deep into your hearts: embrace the new, but honor the reader. Do not fear the march of invention, whether it be the humble paperback or the boundless internet. Instead, ask always—does this make the work more open, more reachable, more alive to the world? If the answer is yes, then bless it, and wield it as the ancients wielded the plow, to turn barren ground into fertile harvest.

And you, who labor with pen or keyboard, let your actions mirror this teaching. Price your work with justice, neither grasping greedily nor demeaning your craft. Share through the channels that reach the most hearts, whether old or new, so that your words may not languish unseen. For art is a river, and rivers are meant to flow, not stagnate. And you who read—support the makers, honor their toil, but also cherish your right to receive the story without burden. In this harmony lies the future of literature, and in this harmony, the spirit of Walter Jon Williams’ words shines eternal.