In 1939, Simon & Schuster revolutionized the American publishing industry with the launch of Pocket Books, a line of diminutive volumes (measuring 4 by 6 inches) that cost only a quarter; a significant discount at a time when a typical hardcover book would ​set you back​ between $2.50 and $3.00.

To make the economics of this new model work, Simon & Schuster had to move a huge volume of units. “[They] sold books where they had never been available before–grocery stores, drugstores and airport terminals,” explains Clive Thompson in ​a fascinating 2013 article​ about the Pocket Books phenomenon. “Within two years, [they’d] sold 17 million.” Thompson quotes the historian Kenneth C. Davis, who explains that these new paperbacks had “tapped into a huge reservoir of Americans who nobody realized wanted to read.”

This demand, however, created a problem: there weren’t enough books to sell. In 1939, the book market was relatively small. (Thompson estimates that around this time, America had only 500 bookstores, almost exclusively clustered around a dozen major cities.) To make money on paperbacks, the pipeline of new titles released each year would need to increase drastically. This, in turn, required a significant loosening of the standards for what was worthy of publication, leading, among other changes, to the sudden prioritization of genre fiction writers who could churn out serviceable potboilers at a rapid clip.

(Interestingly, this new class of writers included a young Michael Crichton, who, during his years as a medical student at Harvard in the 1960s, published preposterous paperback adventure novels under pseudonyms, which he finished by working at “​a furious pace​” on weekends and vacations. I’ve read some of ​these early works​, and they’re mainly mediocre. But that wasn’t a problem, as the goal for many such paperbacks was simply to provide disposable distraction.)

Predictably, the new prominence of these lower-quality genres concerned the elite class. Thompson quotes the social critic Harvey Swados, who described the paperback revolution as ushering in a “flood of trash” that would “debase farther the popular taste.” There was a fear that the mass appeal of these cheap books would eventually lead to the elimination of the more serious hardcover titles that had long defined publishing.

Here we find a parallel to our current moment. As the platforms of the digital attention economy transition from social network models to providing maximally distracting short-form videos, more of the content available online is devolving toward that paragon of low-quality forgettability, commonly referred to as slop. Who will listen to a podcast or read a long essay, many now fret, when Sora can offer countless videos of historical figures dancing and X can deliver an endless sequence of nudity and bar fights?

If we return to the paperback example, however, we might find a small sliver of hope. Ultimately, the explosion of these cheaper, often lower-quality books didn’t lead to the elimination of more serious titles. In fact, the opposite happened. Vastly more hardcover titles are published today than they were before the Pocket Books revolution began.

A closer look reveals that by vastly increasing the market for the published word, paperbacks also vastly increased the opportunities to make a living writing serious books (which, for the sake of this discussion, I’ll define as books that require at least a year to write and are published in hardcover). There was, to be sure, a lot of trash put out during the heyday of the paperback, but this reconfigured publishing model also generated a lucrative secondary market for more traditional writers.

Stephen King, for example, sold the hardcover rights to his first novel, Carrie, for around $2,500 in 1973 ($18,000 in today’s dollars). This was a nice bonus, but hardly enough to live on. The paperback rights for Carrie, by contrast, sold for $400,000 (almost $3,000,000 in today’s dollars), allowing King to quit his day job and become a full-time writer.

King wasn’t alone; other acclaimed authors, from Ursula K. Le Guin to Ray Bradbury, to Agatha Christie, also would have never risen to such prominence without the opportunities provided by the paperback world. As for Crichton, we know what happened next. The nine, mostly cheesy paperbacks, he wrote using pseudonyms, helped him polish his craft. His first hardcover book, The Andromeda Strain, was a massive bestseller and initiated the beginning of a career as one of the most influential writers of his generation.

As you know, I strongly dislike much of the current digital attention economy, and I believe that most people should be spending vastly less time engaging with these products. But in the spirit of trying to end 2025 on an optimistic note, I find some solace in the story of paperback books. Just because a certain type of low-quality media becomes immensely popular doesn’t necessarily mean that the deeper alternatives will suffer. Over one billion TikTok videos will be viewed today, and yet, you’re still here, reading a speculative essay about media economics. I don’t take that for granted.