It's been a little while, hasn't it? Not quite as long as before, but I've been quiet for the better part of a month. Not that you'd notice.
Why? Well because none of your fucking business, nosy bastard.
I've been waiting for something to strike me just the right way to say something about it. I've also been holding back on something that will come in time. Oh, my yes, I got me a big bag of bile right here on that score.
So, this little bit of fuckwaddery was brought to my attention. Read it and let it sink in, right under your skin, that burning itch is normal. One Direction fan fiction given a huge advance and now being adapted into a film. This isn't a precedent, because a previous fan fiction bod got a book deal out of her work. Loving the Band was rushed to e-book, without much said about the advance. Actually I noticed the Independent was curiously reticent about giving any kind of details on the deal, kinda weird, doncha think?
The new one seems even worse, because there's this suggestion that there hasn't even been an editing process. Ahem, what? Are you fucking kididing me? This blog led me to this blog. Our erstwhile writer in the second blog is, understandably, bemused. I'm fucking furious.
As she points out, we writers* are told when we start out on the long, frustrating, painful road that we have to be at our fucking best. Hone our shit to a razor-sharp edge and then, maybe, a publisher might arch an eyebrow in interest. Once we've been allowed in by the erstwhile gatekeepers we are sent to editing boot camp. I know a few professional writers who go through the wringer with edits to get their work in what is considered publishable shape.
Yet, we see this girl get her work fast-tracked by the publisher. Not her fault. I'm not angry at her, there's no point, she's probably delighted to have her work in print and getting a fat cheque for it and let her enjoy it. As Jenny Trout points out, there's always a chance Anna Todd might mature into a good writer. Although looking at Emily Baker, that might not hold. The people my ire is aimed at are the publishers.
This will probably mean I'll never see my work in print, but, fuck it, the more people who point this shit out, the better.
This kind of thing is part of the same horrible decline that's happening with the film and music industries: risk-averse bullshit where the blandest shit is shoved at us in pretty packaging. New things are to be shunned if they don't instantly have millions of people clamouring for it. Anything that makes even a wee bit of money is jumped on and aped, without understanding why it's popular. So publishing has followed suit, getting quick-fix crap on the shelves and paying the often vacuous cardboard cut-outs we call celebrities wads of money for ghost-written drivel.
It feels like the industry is kicking sand in the face of people like myself, hungry for a break, but told we're not quite good enough or what we're writing isn't quite right. When poorly-written shit** is packaged and thrown out for public consumption like it's the pinnacle of writing achievement, we the mass of writers, who feel like we are kept out by this shit, we have to look askance at the big publishers and ask if they know what the fuck they're doing†.
I don't know where to go with this now. My anger's played itself out. Impotent, impotent anger. I'm going to lie down. Really we should expect better from the big publishers, shouldn't we?
* I'm a fucking writer. I might not have success, wealth, fame or even earn a living, but I do the work. That's how it works.
** Let's not mention that fucking shit-monger E.L. James who hit on the genius idea of shittily re-writing shit fiction. That's so fucking expired it might cause me a stroke.
† Don't get me started on self-publishing, though. The advice for that makes you like a needy arsehole. Nope, not for me.
Will
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