There comes a time in life when you have to be mature. Your twenties are fine for pissing about or fucking about or drinking Sambuca out of a sixteen year old’s bellybutton or shitting in a policeman’s mouth or drink driving through a car park full of deaf kids or eating ice cream with a fork. But one day you just have to say ‘stop!’ and become an actual adult. I’m thirty four, and I plan to grow up any day now. I’m just waiting for the whole ‘tall’ thing to kick in first.
Why doesn’t everyone write books? Is it because they haven’t got the talent? Is it because all the good stories have already been told? Is it because they are fucking imbeciles who write like Christy Brown taking shorthand dictation from a Stephen Hawking with the batteries in upside down? It’s probably all of these, and yet if you were to visit goodreads.com and have a look around, you’d realise that there are people writing books who have all of those things against them. And more. Bertrand Russell said that the problem with the world is that the stupid are cocksure, whereas the intelligent are full of doubt. No more is this true than in the world of novel writing.
When I was an idealistic teen, I believed that there were two types of people in the word: the ones who read for pleasure, and the ones who did not read at all. I mistakenly thought that the first lot were the exclusively clever ones. As I grew up, I realised that this was bollocks. Sure, the majority of people who do not read at all are mouthbreathing cretins. It’s perfectly possibly to be incredibly educated via TV and the internet, but let’s face it: 99% of people who don’t read, tend to watch the sort of TV that involves people in leisure suits screaming at each other on a stage in front of a bemused man with nice hair, or the daughters of a dead American lawyer getting spray tans and cuntwaxes.
The people who do read, however, need to be split up again into more groups. There’s the I Only Read Non-Fiction people. They can be clever, although if the non-fiction is mainly sports books and celebrity biographies, you can can safely throw those people in the Fucktard Bin. People who read fiction are the next group, and I’d easily wager that about 85% of them are drooling spatchcocks who would read the back of a Tampax box if you told them that there was a sexy vampire in it. These are the people who give 5 star reviews to books called ‘Kindred 4: Lust For A Batwolf’. Books where I can’t even get through the poorly worded blurb without having to bitchslap my netbook with a pillowcase full of snooker balls.
That leaves a tiny percentage of people who actually appreciate good writing. That’s the market you’re aiming for, and that’s why you’re likely to make $17 a year, before tax. No, rewind a little. Go back to the 85%. Those are the cash cows, and their udders can take a hell of a tugging. Go rewrite your book blurb and take out anything that even hints at originality or skill. Just make it about some secretary who meets a gorgeous doctor who seems like an asshole at first, but she changes him and they have babies. In Transylvania.