The thing that truly does amaze and infuriate me, though, is that there seems to be no rhyme nor reason to what ends up getting published. I'm not talking about mainstream bestsellers or literary fiction, or even genre series, all of which are difficult in the extreme to break into. But there seems to be an undercurrent of publishing where, truly, anything goes.
Case in point. I was a member of an on-line writers' group a couple of years ago, one of those forums where you got your work critiqued in exchange for critiquing others. Nice people, serious about what they were trying to do, not many of them could write their way out of a paper bag, however.
Shortly after I joined, another fellow signed up who was an instant hit with the "ladies" of the group. He was a smooth operator, in a "Southern Gentleman" way, and seemed to enjoy all the flirting and double entendre that went on. He posted a couple of things about his childhood (his mother was Native American) that were very moving and quite good. We were all delighted to hear that he'd sold his first novel and that it was soon to be published.
I pre-ordered his book from Amazon.com, not just to be supportive, but because I was really looking forward to reading it.
All I can say is it was one of the worst pieces of crap I have ever laid eyes on...bordering on paedophilia. The protagonist was a 14-year-old "bayou" girl who had come up the hard way, and learned that she could get pretty much whatever she wanted out of a man if she teased him in just the right way, without ever putting out, if she could help it.
Now, on that basis, there's nothing to say that it couldn't have been a bestseller, but the writing itself was atrocious. The characters were one-dimensional, the dialogue stiff and inconsistent, and the plot basically non-existent; just one titillating vignette after another. It read like a series of short stories in a men's magazine from the 50s.
Nevertheless, this fellow's friends and family had read his manuscript and told him it was great; he'd found an agent who read the manuscript and agreed to represent him; and that agent found a publisher who purchased the manuscript and actually published it. And now it's buried somewhere in a pile beside my bed, about 1/4 read, and destined to be thrown out, because I would never dream of giving it to anyone else to read.
I don't know what all this proves, except that maybe life isn't fair? This guy has now got all kinds of encouragement to go on creating this dreck, while other, far more worthy authors, seem to toil in vain, and in anonymity.
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branchandroot
no subject
Date: 2007-06-08 03:37 am (UTC)Case in point. I was a member of an on-line writers' group a couple of years ago, one of those forums where you got your work critiqued in exchange for critiquing others. Nice people, serious about what they were trying to do, not many of them could write their way out of a paper bag, however.
Shortly after I joined, another fellow signed up who was an instant hit with the "ladies" of the group. He was a smooth operator, in a "Southern Gentleman" way, and seemed to enjoy all the flirting and double entendre that went on. He posted a couple of things about his childhood (his mother was Native American) that were very moving and quite good. We were all delighted to hear that he'd sold his first novel and that it was soon to be published.
I pre-ordered his book from Amazon.com, not just to be supportive, but because I was really looking forward to reading it.
All I can say is it was one of the worst pieces of crap I have ever laid eyes on...bordering on paedophilia. The protagonist was a 14-year-old "bayou" girl who had come up the hard way, and learned that she could get pretty much whatever she wanted out of a man if she teased him in just the right way, without ever putting out, if she could help it.
Now, on that basis, there's nothing to say that it couldn't have been a bestseller, but the writing itself was atrocious. The characters were one-dimensional, the dialogue stiff and inconsistent, and the plot basically non-existent; just one titillating vignette after another. It read like a series of short stories in a men's magazine from the 50s.
Nevertheless, this fellow's friends and family had read his manuscript and told him it was great; he'd found an agent who read the manuscript and agreed to represent him; and that agent found a publisher who purchased the manuscript and actually published it. And now it's buried somewhere in a pile beside my bed, about 1/4 read, and destined to be thrown out, because I would never dream of giving it to anyone else to read.
I don't know what all this proves, except that maybe life isn't fair? This guy has now got all kinds of encouragement to go on creating this dreck, while other, far more worthy authors, seem to toil in vain, and in anonymity.
Go figure.
:o\