As in, it’s so bad it makes me go eeeeee!
Some writer friends and I have been looking at the world of self-publishing. It is the future of the industry, and as I’ve said before, all books will be published this way first and BM publishers (that’s bricks and mortar, oh ye of dirty minds) will peruse the sales figures and look to acquire the rights to already successful works.
But do we want to be associated with this self-pub world? I took a look this morning at the fare on Smashwords. Here are excerpts from two randomly selected books. They are both free downloads, selected from the “Literary” category. Free, because I am cheap.
The first is from The Night Walk Men, A Short Story by Jason McIntyre:
This is going to be painful.
This is going to be a bowling ball dropped from waist height on your toes. A dentist’s chair plus a drill plus small talk. This is going to be coming down from on high. Or finding your spouse in bed with another. Or murder-suicide. Or heavy metal from the neighbour at three in the morning. This is going to be the doctor telling you it’s inoperable. Or a chemical burn on flesh. Or pepper spray and a wrongful conviction. This is going to be a fire eating your life’s work. This is going to be Your First Time. Or Your Last Time. This is going to be twelve fresh body bags going under the yellow tape and into the house at the end of Sheppard Street. This is going to be malevolent eyes in the dark staring down into a crib at a screaming baby. This is going to be painful.
Jason, it is painful. Bring this trash to my writers group and we would roast you so bad you might never defile a keyboard again.
Our next contestant is NFH Walker. This is from Ambition, part one:
…and I had always known it was going to be this way. There’s a growing disaffection in me as she sits on my face and I eat her out. I’m making slight growling noises like I’m a dog or something, like I’m a big bear, and she’s wriggling and giggling; she’s squirming as I make sloppy work over it…
My name? My name is not important. What is important is that I am a writer. I am twenty-four years old and only recently published, a fact I am constantly amazed by; daily I have to pinch myself to check I’m not dreaming. For this has always been my dream, to succeed through creativity is my life’s ambition.
Like everyone, I want to make money, I want to be famous, I want to go down in history as being important, but I want to achieve all that through writing, to be a famous novelist.
My problem is that now I am published, now that I am considered a novelist in my own full standing, an achievement I would have given anything for a year ago, I’m not satisfied; I want more.
I want less. What self-indulgent, useless dribble. Literary? It’s not even good porn. By the way, I jumped ahead to page 30—the writer and the girl are still going at it in the bedroom.
Next time I may pry a couple of bucks from my wallet and see if the writing in the pay e-books is any better. But I can’t help wondering if my writer friends and I really want to join this writing mob.
Of course, if my prediction comes to pass, we’ll have no choice, so might as well get in early. And as we all know, the writing these days is secondary to sales.