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.
Having spent most of this year looking for who is to blame for the state of today’s book market and the lamentable fate of authors, nobody was more surprised than me to find out that I was at least partly responsible. Still, thankfully you can’t prove anything these days, least of all my arguments.
What does a bookshop do which nobody else can? And what has it got to do with why my bad memory can make even the hardiest, most optimistic author’s heart sink, and whether or not my family ever read this blog?
You’re on every book cover. You’re the same woman, with different hair. But I cannot relate to you, and neither can anyone else. You are annoying me. And so I write this open letter to you, 20-year-old faceless girl who does not represent either me or the characters who speak beneath your covers.
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.
Amazon have been accused of gaming the system – or perhaps the algorithm – in favour of books published by their own imprints. But are they really as bad as we fear? I know they’re huge. I know they’re watching us. But how scared should we be? And is there ever a case for a benevolent dictator?
Tara Sparling writes 