Romantic heroes. Sigh. All that tortured power in a designer shirt. So much angst and wealth. So little practicality, and mental health. Because they’ve been hurt before – y’know? But you would never do that. It’s different with you.
But what really happens after ‘The End’? When dietary fibre and la vie quotidienne get in the way? What would it really be like to LIVE with a tortured romantic hero?
Where did pieces of glorious human creativity go, before the internet? Where were the cat pictures, the listicles and the punny prose, before they appeared on our Facebook news feeds? The internet has had a lot to do with the way we consume our entertainment – but it’s done even more for how we produce it.
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 reviewer is a tough gig, which is why I’m glad don’t do reviews on this blog. 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.
I’m always banging on about book marketing and book sales, the good and the bad, the glaringly obvious and the borderline insane. But if this blog were a book, how would I sell it? Would I be able to sell it at all? Of course I wouldn’t. In other news, the blog gets new pants.
And now, ladies and gentle man: in the grand old tradition of Lazy Summer Journalism, I present to you a list of potential blog posts I didn’t write this week, followed in some cases by a half-assed explanation for why I didn’t write them, and sometimes no explanation at all.
You’re welcome.
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.
What makes a comedy black? And why are black comedies so black these days? Is life itself a black comedy? Is there any comedy left in black comedy? Is this excerpt getting too repetitive? Am I asking too many questions? Don’t expect any answers, but you might get a (slightly choked) laugh.
Dear Mister Publisher, I have written the best book. My book will be bigger than the bible. It will make cynics laugh, optimists cry, and toast. Before he died, David Bowie said he wished he had written it. Anyone who does not want to read my book is a potential terrorist.
Tara Sparling writes 