Bad books

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I want to read bad books. I’m sick of coming up against five-star extravaganzas. I want poor plots and painful prose, especially in debut novels. I want to feel like my writing has a chance. I want to be able to compete.

It’s my own fault. A lot of the new reading I give myself is because I see hype on Twitter and I think I’ll give that author a shot. I should know that, if it’s hyped, it’ll probably be of a decent standard. At least it’ll be technically accurate. Oh! for a debut that consistently misjudges commas or over-purples the prose.

Why do I want this? Because every good book I read makes me feel like I’m less of a writer myself. Established, successful writers can be as good as they like; that doesn’t bother me. It’s the newbies that get me; seeing my stable-mate, a debutante like me, getting starred reviews in the press (or getting press in the first place) – I can’t compete with that!

I’m being silly. I’d never wish anything less than success on my partners-in-writing. And I love to be thrilled and transported by novels both old and new.

But my insecurities, and the void into which my writing has fallen, pull at me. Every single novel I read at the moment seems to excellent – more than that, they seem to be ‘special’, that undefinable quality that one agent told me, mid-rejection, that new novels have to be nowadays.

I say again, I can’t compete with that.

So it’d be nice to pick up, just once, a new and hyped book and think ‘how the hell did this get published?’ To think ‘oh, well of course I’d never make such a silly mistake.’ Or even ‘pah! At least I can use ellipses properly…’

But no. They’re all great.

Damn you, publishers and agents, for doing your jobs!

sad book