Self-Publishing

This just in: Established writers of the Rich Tribe do not meet every year to coordinate strategies for sabotaging the careers of poor writers. I’m talking about writers, whose parents couldn’t or wouldn’t pay for a college degree in the sketchy realms of the liberal arts where there is little bang for the buck. But Writers, who do not have the correct degree, are confronted by the prejudices of the Rich, and members of Other Tribes. (Dear, Auntie Agatha, is that an ax I hear grinding?)

The Rich Tribe often mingles with the Academia Tribe, whose showy teepees are clustered among the affluent, but shallow-flowing banks of the Literati. All warrior-writers of the Academia Tribe have at least one degree from a reputable university. Should a writer lack a reputable degree, said writer is driven down a gauntlet of snark-ism, followed by an eternity of oblivion.

But like the cavalry in a B Western, the internet is charging forth to challenge customary biases. (Cue self-publishing to the rescue!) And while it’s true that the internet publishes overlooked, courageous, and wrongly-shat-upon voices, it also provides a platform for the undeserving,. Vapid, publish-me-now zombies who lurch forth from their word processors onto the world wide web. Swarms of the mediocre and worse wave their lurid book covers like flags. Wanton nymphs in skimpy attire, and chunky, right-now studs—mannequins with a heartbeat—strike a pose. Many models come with a gun. But Uzi's and OOW249 rifles are small potatoes compared to those sexy lumps and bumps. (Meaning that it’s six packs, cleavage, and junk galore time. Say hello to kiss-kiss, bang-bang fiction, and as they proclaim in New York City and points west: If it sells, who cares if it smells?

Academia certainly doesn’t mind Zombies will be zombies, and the NYLE (the New York Literary Establishment—unanimously sanctioned by gatekeepers (with a literary degree, of course) publishes its annual quota of zombie books. The NYLE also sells sex books (hard and soft covers). And anything else that makes a buck.

Books that focus on porno, zombies, or some other career path, qualify as genre fiction. Academia rarely get its hackles up over genre fiction, unless a member of the Riff-Raff Tribe forgets his or her place by trying to “commit literature.” Or any grouping of words that portends to be—whisper now, me hearties—important and good. Because nothing can possess virtue, without the blessings of a college degree. (As Academia and the Rich Tribe claim in private.) For a degree is where those kudos are, and praise is especially esteemed by Academia, (and you and me.) 

(I am one of those weirdos, who believes solely in merit—-with, or without kudos.)

By the by, a dyed-in-the diphthongs accent and four distinct syllables are required to enunciate the word, literature, properly, Old Sport. After all, literature, designates the holy grail of a writer’s aspirations, and—as previously noted—writers without the proper credentials need not apply. (Exceptions made on a mascot basis, with all mascots vetted for political correctness.)

Once upon a time, writers were the curators of culture,. For when the ethics didn’t measure up, writers blew the proverbial whistle. But contemporary writers are mostly yes-men and yes-women, and if they want to make money, they endorse the way things are. There is no quicker way for a writer to be successful than to compose unofficial PR pieces for the powers that be. Thus, successful writers become the doormats of the wealthy..

Gatekeepers complete the loop by overseeing the publishing process. Hence, gatekeepers function as the watch dogs of Big Money. Big money promotes talent, If that talent aligns itself “correctly.” In other words, does a particular talent show a profit? (Lawyers and writers and other mouthpieces sometimes require an attitude adjustment—-or so Big money believes.)

Modern gatekeepers feel that they alone are qualified to judge a writer’s work. In lieu of creativity, they flaunt a degree and an ability to count pages. They believe that size matters. Some critics actually weigh novels—in essence, critiquing fiction by the pound.

Gatekeepers and critics don’t seem to realize that thick novels encourage thick writing. They can’t seem to comprehend that compression may require as much or more skill than expansion. That working without a net requires focus and gravitas. That breadth does not equal depth. That the true worth of a book should be measured by its clarity, poetry and precision—in short, by its words.           

But gatekeepers and critics continue to be preoccupied with counting. They are practitioners of arithmetic. Also, critics and gatekeepers are trained to spot crucial letters that—like a flashy tail—may trail after a name, letters like PhD, or M.A. But If the letters are removed, merit comes into focus. However, it is the credo of gatekeepers everywhere, to ignore merit that does not issue from that tired and dying (?) horse,: the college degree.

Legend has it, that a century ago, writers, of whatever ilk, were nurtured by the NYLE. Sounds like fiction, sure enough..Today the NYLE is fed by the tributaries of the Forked Genre. Tributaries that are directed to flow amongst the money trees in the gardens of Academia where the fields of the Upper Echelon are watered. For it is only here that literature is sown—according to the critics and gatekeepers. (Although talent is rare in the Upper Echelon, a Master’s Degree from Prestigious U. is a requirement.)

Today, nurturing is extinct along the banks of the NYLE. Art doesn’t sell like hotcakes, and business is business. Today, as always, publishing is a cutthroat endeavor, and literature, once cherished, is now just another commodity adrift on the stream of commerce.

Extending this watery metaphor, here’s hoping that potential book reviews of  “PARACHUTES NOT INCLUDED” go swimmingly. (Swim, baby guppy, swim. Swim upstream, against the current.)