... books

Caveat:

There are writers who make sense.

Mercifully, I am not one of them.

　

There was a time when it meant something to be a writer.

Not the kind you find now, the ones who write serials; trilogies; cycles; …. blah, blah, blah. Ones who write with other writers, etc. There are so many writers nowadays that we’d be hard-pressed to know all their names. I scan Book Blogs on a daily basis. I love to read the reviews and discover new ‘friends’ (the ones in a book, not the ones in reality. Oh, God no. Not the ones in reality). So, as I was saying, Book Blogs. Every day I come across books by authors I’ve never even heard of before. And the bloggers talk about these people like they were best buds or something. I’ve tried reading some of these newbies. Tried, being the operative word here. A couple were five-star performances whom I will be reading again, but, for the most part, well that’s just it isn’t it?  "…the most part". There isn't one.

Cookie-cutter houses all in a row …..

Am I so old that I’m starting to live in the past? Have I turned into my parents? The ones who cringed and couldn’t, for the life of them, understand why I loved to listen to the ‘screeches’, emitted out into the ether, by four very ugly British boys. Am I that old? 

I can not believe that I am the only one who’s noticed that we are drowning in the floods of mass-market publication. What the heck is going on here? Are we all so shallow that we’ve had to lower-the-bar just to be able to pocket a profit? What happened to the great writers who are actually great writers? The struggling masses? The ones who live to write, not the ones who write to live (cliché. I know, but it fits). Every so often one will slip through into that frightful thoroughfare known as ‘Mainstream’. But I rarely read the ‘buzz’ about their tomes. Is it just a matter of preference? Or is something more sinister going on? Well?

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