How in Blog’s name is anyone supposed to sell a book nowadays, when 33,000 other books will be released on the same day as yours? The answer is to look for patterns. Unfortunately, this has global consequences… much like reading this blog on an empty stomach.
If you want to determine the state of humanity, just look at popular fiction, because we’re reading the opposite of what we’re living. Right now the people demand uplifting tales of generosity, kindness, and collaborative triumph over adversity. With that in mind, I’m predicting what we’ll be reading next, linked to whichever fresh disaster befalls the world this week. You’re welcome.
We all have something in common. We were once terrible writers. Perhaps you’re a terrible writer now. Perhaps you’ve never even tried. Perhaps you were a terrible writer last week, but have been something approaching genius since last Thursday. Most of us never find out. We should, though, because there’s a lot of value in bad writing.
It is a little-known fact that the old trope of a piano falling on someone’s head was inspired by every Irish person ever who felt proud of themselves for even five minutes. In this post I deal with misplaced pride, indie publishing scams, bogus bestsellers, my difficult childhood, and why if you want to be original, you should never read anything written by anyone else. Ever.
It’s time you stopped blaming that book you wrote or recommended for the fact I didn’t like it. It’s time you started blaming me instead. With a little help from quantum physics, I explain why loving any book is a miracle, why my bad mood became your problem, and why writing a book is like putting an unseen cat in a poisonous box.