I read the words.
I read them again.
And every time I am amazed that the words I read are not the words of a published author. I read them everywhere. They pop up on blogs, in journals, poetry sites, short stories and in half-formed manuscripts.
Some words are good, rich, thick with meaning that leaves a pleasantly cloying aftertaste. Others are light, feather-like, tickling my fancy, making me laugh and smile at their cleverness. All are good and worthy of a lasting paper memoir. And yet most of these writers are on the verge of giving up, or gave up years ago, drowning under an avalanche of rejection slips handed out by an agent/publisher who has just experienced his first 'bestseller' orgasm.
Don't get me wrong, books should be not be elitist. Everyone is entitled to read, and my own shelves sag under the weight of the good, the bad and the downright ugly. But tell me, when are publishers going to get their bravery back? When are they going to stop this madness that makes them reject the gold, in favour of hard cash and glory? Isn't it about time that we went back to the values that made a book a 'keeper'?