There are certain classic novels which we all know, because they’re still widely read today. But what would they look like if they were being published for the first time this year? Would Jane Eyre fit the Domestic Noir genre profile? Would the numerous plot strands of Bleak House be dumbed down? Who would supply the perfect cover quote for Robinson Crusoe? And who would dare to pigeon hole Ulysses? I would, that’s who.
Being a book blogger is a tough gig, which is why I’m glad I’m technically not a book blogger, because I don’t do reviews. But because I spend so much time shouting and roaring all over the interweb about booky stuff, people often ask me for recommendations. It never ends well. Once it ended up in tears, recriminations, and a mud-wrestling pit. Who knew bookish types were so volatile? Well, actual book reviewers, for a start. And they’ve known for a while.
Oh, dear. There you are, minding your own business, when along comes another needy whiny blog post asking for support. Do you want to vote for me? It’s doesn’t really matter, because I’m asking you to do it anyway. Which is only logical. Also, Donald Trump naked on the toilet. It’s true. It’s the truth.
When customers want things, they want things now. They don’t want to wait for things to be manufactured or delivered or tested or marketed. If the fashion industry is now managing to get from catwalk to customer in six weeks, why does it take a year for a book which has already been written to get on the market? Also, naked men. Honest.
Holiday reading lists are ridiculous. They are lists of books people haven’t read yet, and therefore are full of the sort of books which people won’t ever actually read. Authors are particular culprits, promoting their own books by lying about their intentions to read those written by other people. But are the rest of us mortal folk missing out on a trick? Not being quoted in newspapers doesn’t mean we can’t also go around lying about what we’re reading this summer. Why should authors have all the fun?