Been noticing a surplus of blogs written by self proclaimed ‘indie’ writers, all hailing the imminent death of the formal publishing industry. There’s an edge of gleeful hysteria to most of the writing, akin to watching a fat boy on the ground encircled by bullies taking turns at kicking him. Being me, I refuse to join a mob that would have someone like me as a member – so when anyone writes something and turns to me for what is essentially approval for their misguided point of view, my instinctive response is ‘f*ck off.’
I find it hard to take much of the self published books seriously. I think its something to do with the absence of good grammar, the typos, the exuberant zeal of marketing that’s reminiscent of pimply girl scouts and cookies, and worst of all, that constant sensation of faces in the mob turning to me for approval as the hordes scream themselves hoarse over ‘how they’d never take a formal publishing deal.’ Right. I’m sure Random House wants a turgid wankfest of romance novels filled with lip-biting, sighs, historical inaccuracies, redundancies on every page and plot lines so thin the author probably worked them out on a napkin at a fast food place.
I have to keep reminding myself of the basic statistics. The average US person watches 150 hours of television a month. There’s only 19% of the population who operate at a high literacy rate. Over 50% of the population ‘don’t believe in Evolution,’ preferring to pin their hopes on an old book they believe to be imbued with magic powers, written by a gargantuan Sky Fairy with an obsessive interest in everything they do. No, don’t laugh – this is what the majority believe. Forget science, technology, modernity. Its a zealous belief in magic, incantations (called ‘prayers’) and a woeful incomprehension of the difference between ‘theory’ and ‘scientific theory.’
That’s the majority reading audience encapsulated. You have to wonder if Ernest Hemingway saw it coming and decided to suck the barrel of that shotgun rather than stick around to wander in the literary wasteland of the illiterate, who think a firm grasp of politics is conveyed by parroting ‘they envy us our freedoms.’
I’ve seen ducks with a firmer grasp of reality.
Nonetheless, the blogs continue being scribbled by the self published, each doing their version of trying to rally the mob to the barricades. The enemy, naturally, are the so-called gatekeepers of formal publishing – who (according to the ‘indies’) lack the ability to spot the raw talent of books about sparkly vampires, killers, sci-fi soap operas, secret agents going after terrorists, and of course, the ever-nauseating Christian ‘thrillers.’ I have to admit that at times I feel like a character from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, looking around bemusedly at the group of inmates as Nurse Ratshit conducts a therapy session. Kill me if I ever use a LOL, please. And especially if I offer strangers virtual hugs.
In other news, I’m 100 pages into a new work, my Agent is sitting with a twin-novella, and editing is, at long last, continuing on the monstrous 1200 page saga I wrote last year.
Time to get to work. I’m not sure why you’re reading this. The only insight you’ll get from me is that I’m sophisticated-yet-cranky, and brutally unforgiving of the mediocre. If you’re a reader, then rest assured, I’m probably on your side – as I’m trying hard not to write anything approaching the shit I see around me.
Until the next time…
