Why
Writing is a self-flagellating way to torture your ambition. The doubts are limitless the reward only a distant legend and the affirmation as rare as an angel’s blessing. Why do it?
Faith in the vision the ability and the originality of the story and world created are part of it. No one else has been there yet, has not seen it, has not heard it, has not met the people. The writer’s understanding is profound, the screening reader is shallow and full of more recent and contemporary stories and settings and will not have the time to indulge and understand. Just one of the many barriers faced.
The lack of a genre in an agent’s mind raises the risk. There is no certainty of an audience, of appreciation, certainly no expectation. Their risk aversion keeps the publishers firmly on the known tracks. No on wants to derail and have a crash.
But they all want to be successful, small beer often, known names. Pandering to a tabloid familiarity. I often wonder if the claim to be ‘literary agents’ is a false claim, misleading advertising, to entice and then deceive. Favourites not longshots. Self-fulfilling marketing, circular behaviour stuck in the same place doing the same things pretending to be original, smart and ‘in-tune’ whilst a rote robot in a larger production line.
Looking through the windows of the factory reveals some of the truths, there will be many more, carefully shrouded to ‘protect the interests’ of some shady capital providing the impetus to turn the meat grinder. The glitz and glamour are dressing not content or purpose but are sold as such to those hungry for short serotonin boosts to keep them watching, waiting for more.
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